Maybe he could get this gook to see reason. Weve done business before, he told the tailor.
The man beamed, his glasses flashed and his sleek oiled hair caught the dim light. Funny how their hair was either dead straight or kind of fluffy.
Yes.
Buddha sticks, Lovell said. White rock. Pink rock.
Yes.
So you know my moneys good. So why cant you ship the guns now and Ill pay you in a few days time? This will be an ongoing thing, you know.
No problem. We see your money first.
Lovell flew out of Singapore at two oclock, a hundred thousand dollars poorer and his hatred for the place a notch or two tighter. He flicked restlessly through magazines, tried to doze. He was a pilot; he was no good at this kind of shit, smuggling, dealing, overseeing couriers.
When he eventually got to Brisbane airport that evening it was dark outside. He kept close to people. In the carpark he checked his car before getting in. On the freeway he changed lanes, hung back, spurted ahead. It had been a week since Nurse was robbed. Why the silence? he wondered.
Twenty-eight
On Sunday they set the incendiary devices.
Phelps was responsible for these. There were two devices and they consisted of plastic jugs half-full of petrol, a timer and battery, two contact points a whisker apart.
Half-full to allow fumes to build up, Phelps explained. At nine-fifteen tomorrow morning a spark will jump across the contact points and pow, instant fire.
Wyatt nodded encouragingly. He knew how the devices worked but he saw it as part of his job to drop praise here and there, encouragement, to keep Phelps and Riding efficient and calm.
They put the devices in place at five oclock, the hottest part of the day, when the city sprawled heat-dazed and inattentive under the sun. The first incendiary went at the bottom of a four-metre-high pile of used tyres in a yard several blocks east of the bank. Lots of smoke and drama, Phelps said.
They set the second in a dumpster of rubbish behind a nearby supermarket. Flattened cardboard, paper, plastic sheeting, plywood, styrofoam packaging: it would cause plenty of panic but no damage.
That night they stole the getaway cars.
They lifted both cars from the long-term carpark at the airport. Travelling separately to the airport by bus at half hour intervals, they met at a side entrance to the carpark. Wyatt arrived last. What have you got?
Riding spoke softly. A fawn Camira.
Parking ticket?
He nodded. On the dash above the steering wheel, stupid prick.
When?
A jet was taking off. The sound thundered around them, so Riding waited. An hour ago, soon after I got here.
That was good. The owner was not likely to be back for it before Monday afternoon. What they needed now was a second car much like the first. Witnesses at the university who saw the changeover were more likely to confuse two cars that were similar in size and shape.
Theres no guarantee well find a match with a ticket inside. You two keep an eye on new arrivals. Ill scout around.
Wyatt walked into the gloom. He didnt want to spend too long here. There were few people about and it was dark, but even one person could be one too many. His shoes were loud in the gravel. Two minutes later he saw a ticket poking up from an ashtray in a soft-top VW. He unsnapped the top, pocketed the ticket, snapped back the flap.
He rejoined the others. Riding pointed. Cream Commodore.
Stubby bushes screened them. They watched the Commodore shunt back and forth into a parking bay. An elderly man got out and walked to the bus-stop.
When the courtesy bus had picked him up, they moved again. This time they were after numberplates. Not any plates but plates with a prefix and digits similar to each of the getaway cars. They found the first on a Toyota van, the second on a new Mercedes, and switched them with the plates on the Camira and the Commodore. Wyatt was relying on the owners not noticing the slight difference in their plates immediately. Meanwhile, if anyone took down the number of the Camira and the Commodore and reported it, the police computer would show a Toyota van and a Mercedes. It was a smokescreen, extra insurance, all part of the job as far as Wyatt was concerned. He looked at his watch: 8.26. This time tomorrow morning theyd have Nurse in their hands.
Twenty-nine
Daddy!
It was a name she hadnt called him since she was nine years old. That, and the sheer panic in her voice, jerked Nurses attention away from the Weeties packet on the table in front of him.
His daughter was coming into the kitchen from the back porch, a shoe-cleaning brush in her hand, and there were three men with her. They were masked, they looked hard and competent, and his guts churned.
The first one pushed Mignon gently between the shoulder blades. She ran across the kitchen to Nurse and stood close to his shoulder, trembling. She was wearing her blue and gold uniform. Her hair was damp, uncombed; her feet were bare. Nurse put his arm around her, crushing her against him.
The first one spoke. He wore a cheap dark suit and his voice was low, mesmeric, uninflected. We dont want to hurt you or your family, Mr Nurse.
Nurse was to realise later that the man called him Mr Nurse throughout the whole ordeal.
Where is your wife, Mr Nurse?
Mignon chose that moment to do something stupid. Nurse felt warmth and flexing in her little body as she opened her mouth, drew in a breath, screeched, Mummy! Run!
She might have gone on screeching but the second man, small and quick and also dressed in a suit, came behind her and locked his forearm against her windpipe. The cry strangled in her throat and Nurse felt his bowels loosen. He started to get out of his chair but the first man said, Dont, very quietly.
He had a revolver to back it up. He said, Mr Nurse, your wife?
Shes asleep. She gets migraines. Dont disturb her.
Nurse could see the mans eyes, nothing else. They were brown, steady and unimpressed. I cant do that, Mr Nurse. He turned to the man behind him, nodded once.
Nurse was starting to take in more about them. The third man was bulkier than the other two and he wore jeans and a T-shirt. He went out and came back a moment later, pushing Joyce ahead of him. Her face was creased and swollen with sleep. She was wearing a scoop-necked nightgown and the freckled tops of her breasts showed. Nurse felt an obscure shame and disgust, as if she had bad morning breath. Danny? she said.
The leader said, his voice a soft, patient rasp: We dont mean you any harm, Mrs Nurse. Please sit down at the table with your husband and daughter.
Behind Nurse the small man eased Mignon away and into the kitchen chair at the end of the table. Joyce chose the chair opposite Nurse. They were like a family at breakfast, except who was hungry anymore?
Is it money? Joyce demanded. Danny, give them your wallet.
Nurse reached into his pocket automatically. He tossed the wallet onto the table among the crumbs and sugar grains and spilt jam. No-one moved to pick it up.
Then Joyce sneered at him. I bet its the horses. She turned to the man with the gun. Is that it? He cant pay what he owes you?
