14. Security Measures

Jeremy’s job wasn’t all meetings, but it sure felt like it sometimes. This morning he was caught up talking to the AFP over the Baron issue. Most of his first week in the Security hot seat seemed to have been spent like this, nodding and scratching his chin while some drab non-entity prattled ceaselessly on. What was this lady’s name again? Lyncoln Rose, here in hologram.

“At any rate, we have come to an accommodation with Ms Baron,” the AFP Superintendent said, “so we do not think it necessary for your Security bureau to intervene directly.” Her face shimmered from a brief moment of distortion before coming into sharp focus again.

“What does that mean, an accommodation?” he asked. “Are you saying you’ve paid her off?”

“Not exactly.” A pause. “Sylvia has been asked to perform a covert role for the AFP. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that this matter is highly confidential.”

He waved his hand in irritation. “Of course. I’m sure that you’ve been briefed that Ms Baron used to work for me here in Advertising?”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Lyncoln Rose said. “We’ve asked Sylvia to actively seek out the Misanthropos cell operating in the Quindalup region north of Perth. This group seems relatively peaceful thus far, but we must be ready to intervene should their intentions turn violent.”

“Why not arrest the lot of them now?” he asked. “Forget about Sylvia; she simply isn’t reliable. I doubt a jail stint will have cured her of that.”

Lyncoln Rose frowned. “I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple. The situation is fast becoming political and there are State and Federal elections due in the coming year. If we clamp down on this cell, we run the risk of inflaming the broader situation. The Prime Minister’s office has made it clear that that would be an undesirable outcome, to say the least.”

“So you’re sitting on your hands and asking me to deal with it,” he said. “That’s what I’m hearing.”

“Far from it,” the Superintendent said. “It may well be that Misanthropos is planning some kind of retaliation to coincide with David Baron’s sentencing, and with Ms Baron working for us, willingly or otherwise, we’re well placed to respond.”

“What have you done to her? Installed some kind of coercive device?”

“Let’s just say that henceforth Sylvia will be the enemy of those she intends to befriend. I’m not at liberty to be more specific.”

A tracking device then. “I’m disappointed that a greater level of trust does not yet exist between our organisations,” he said. “But now I have a small favour to ask, if you’ll indulge me. I need some information on the whereabouts of a certain individual. Naturally, we’ve made enquiries through the official channels, but so far without success. I thought perhaps you could assist me.”

“What’s the individual’s name?”

“His name is Rion: spelled R I O N. We don’t have a surname listed. He was in Yellowcake Springs during the June First attack, but we lost track of him in the aftermath. My understanding is that he managed to get himself a job in Perth.”

“Mr Peters, that was more than three years ago. You’ll have to give me a little more than a first name if you want my assistance.”

“Rion claimed to be from the Restricted Zone in the Wheatbelt,” he said. “We actually implanted and conferred provisional citizenship status on him, but the device seems to have malfunctioned.”

“I’ll make some enquiries and let you know.”

“Fine. Has an execution date been set for David, by the way? Beijing is keen for the matter to be brought to a swift conclusion.”

“We’re still waiting on a date for the appeal, but I expect it’ll be over within a year, perhaps two at the outside.”

Two years? By that time, David Baron would have been in custody for more than five years altogether. “And yet Patrick Crews and Clyde Owen are to walk free within three years themselves?” he added.

“I’m afraid so.”

“I’ll let my superiors know,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I do believe I have another meeting.”

“Thanks for giving up some of your precious time, Mr Peters.”

“It’s been my pleasure. Oh, and do let me know if you make any progress into discovering Rion’s whereabouts. I’d be much obliged if he could be rounded up when found.”

“Very well,” Lyncoln Rose said, a little stiffly. “Please send my regards to Mr Yang and his family; my thoughts are with them at this difficult time.”

He nodded and turned her off.

Silence at last.

He hadn’t been lying to Lyncoln Rose about his next scheduled meeting, but it wasn’t one he planned on attending. No, it was high time for a long lunch and then an early knock off for the weekend. He had a headache that only a stiff drink could fix. Now that he was between mistresses and on his best behaviour, temporarily at least, he thought he might take Hui out to dinner and a movie later tonight. She hadn’t been happy with him lately and they hadn’t had sex in a while, so it might be an idea to put in a shift there as well. Maybe even drop the hint that he knew what she and her Australian paramour were up to.

There was something else he had to do before lunch, though; a nagging sense that he’d forgotten to tick a box somewhere. Got it: the Fearless Six fiancée. Another loose end. He put through a call to the CIQ Sinocorp bureau in Beijing. A smooth faced mandarin with a beetle brow appeared before him. Jeremy was ranked way higher than this guy, whose name was Lin, so he could afford to be brusque, and he felt brusque on account of his headache.

“I need someone transferred out here, special order,” he said. “Name’s Lui Ping. I can’t be bothered with looking up her number, but she’s the wife or fiancée of Jiang Wei. You might have heard of him.”

“Ah yes, Mr Peters. I’ll just look her up now.” Lin scrambled under Jeremy’s glare. “Yes, she resides in Chongqing with her daughter, in the seventh district –”

“ – I don’t care where she lives! Just grab her and put her on a plane!”

“Sir, shall I have the daughter sent out also? She is a small child, sir.”

“You test my patience, Lin,” Jeremy said. “Send the child as well.”

“I can have them flown to Perth by Monday afternoon, if that is acceptable?”

“Okay. Don’t let anyone reassign her apartment while she’s over here.”

“Yes, sir.”

He ended the call. Did he want the daughter sent out too? Did they think he was a monster? He sat pondering whether he ought to make an appearance at that Emergency Services meeting after all. If only he had something to fortify him, he’d be able to sit through it, but he knew he was cranky today and thus no appearance was probably better than the appearance he was likely to make. Screw it.

“Natasha,” he said, bringing up his personal assistant’s face on the screen. Damn, she was good looking. He felt sure that Li had installed her as his PA as a kind of test, to see whether he’d try to fuck the first thing in a skirt that was put in front of him.

“Yes, Mr Peters?”

“Please offer my apologies for the Emergency Services meeting. I’m tied up this afternoon, but I’ll read the minutes as soon as they come out.”

“Certainly, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“That will be all, Natasha,” he said. “I’ve got a lunch appointment, so I’ll be out for a while.” He tapped the screen and it went black.

He rubbed his temples in a vain attempt at making the headache go away. No such luck. Then he grabbed his briefcase and made for the door. As he had learned long ago, 99% of getting away with doing what you wanted was in the art of appearing confident, and he was a confident man. He just barrelled straight for the lift and went down to the windswept Amber Zone street, nodding at a few people as he went. He intended to learn all their names within two weeks, but this was only the end of the first week in Security and he didn’t want to embarrass himself by making a mistake.

The streets of Yellowcake Springs soothed him; he liked living here among the rarefied towers and pedestrian-friendly concourses. Everyone in town had a job and they all shared the same employer. There was free universal healthcare, low rates of taxation and an abundance of amenities. It was a great place to bring up children. There were several schools and parks, even a cordoned beach which was hermetically sealed from the polluted ocean. There was no homelessness and very little in the way of violence, except for occasional instances of domestic violence. Yellowcake Springs was the place you moved to get away from tattered, crumbling Western civilisation. If you could afford it.

There were catches, of course. As Director of Advertising, he had spent years formulating ways of sugar-coating these few but often bitter pills. For a start, once you were in, CIQ Sinocorp more or less owned you. That tended not to go down well with Australians used to a laissez-faire style of governance, and thus Jeremy’s ‘vert makers had always been at pains to stress the law-and-order angle and to play to their fears of the big, dirty, seemingly lawless city. Other things that they tended not to like were the implants, the surveillance and the mandatory ‘national’ service. The ‘vert makers had always had their work cut out explaining that while Yellowcake Springs lay on Australian shores, it was in fact a sovereign nation of its own. It did tend to turn a certain kind of person away.

And that had been before the June First attacks. Jeremy and his underlings had worked themselves into a frenzy trying to sugar-coat that! In the months after the attack, caesium levels of up to two thousand times the legal limit had been found in fish caught off the coast of Yellowcake Springs. When news of that got out, immigration to the town had tailed off dramatically. People were terrified of radiation, even when it could be empirically proven that the leak had been completely contained. You didn’t eat fish caught here, that’s all. Back in ‘58, two-thirds of the town’s residents had been Australian nationals. Now the figure had fallen to under 50% and most of the new arrivals came from mainland China.

He chewed over these unwelcome facts as his feet propelled him to his usual lunchtime haunt on the Grand Parade. The Centaur was an upmarket kind of place, even by the standards of Yellowcake Springs, and the service and cuisine was unparalleled. You paid a little more for the privilege, but the prices kept the worker drones away.

“Ah, Mr Peters,” the maître d’ said as Jeremy stepped in off the street. “How delightful to see you again. Your usual table?”

Jeremy nodded. The Centaur was modest in size, tastefully decorated and entirely without the usual flourishes that signified pretensions of wealth. The light was a touch on the dim side and the music sonorous and ambient. Most of the booths were taken, but Philippe always kept a table aside for Jeremy at the back. He was an excellent customer.

“Perhaps sir would like a drink to begin with?” Philippe asked, bowing slightly.

“A whisky from the top shelf, please,” Jeremy replied. “My usual main and perhaps a small bruschetta for starters.”

“Sir.” The restaurateur withdrew, leaving Jeremy to his thoughts. His whisky wasn’t long in coming and it soon revived him. He didn’t know why he was in such a bad mood today; he supposed that it was because he was under a higher degree of pressure than normal. He’d worked longer and harder this week than in quite a while, but it’d soon pass.

The first whisky was gone before he knew it, but his glass had a way of magically refilling itself when his attention was diverted. He ate heartily and reminded himself of the good things in life. These things made a compelling argument for him to continue to go to work each day and to continue drawing his ever-expanding salary. If he could consolidate his position in Security over the coming months, which mainly involved sucking up to the Grand Director, then Yang Po wouldn’t get a look in even if he did get better. Jeremy was in the box seat now.