Jay sunk into the leather seats of Carter’s vehicle. The Maori passenger turned in his seat, pistol pointed at Jay. No need for him to say anything. Neutral eyes, comfortable position – methodical. Never any doubt that the trigger would have been pulled if Jay had done anything untoward. Perhaps some conversation instead, he thought.
He turned towards Carter and said, ‘A little inconvenient with the hands tied behind. Makes it hard to do the seatbelt up.’
‘Why? Worried we might crash and you go flying through the windscreen?’
‘Not really. I’m sure the good citizens up front are very careful.’ Jay eyed the Maori with the gun pointed at him. ‘Law abiding and knowledgeable about when to do the right thing.’
As the car reversed out of the shed, Carter said, ‘Don’t be fooled by their calm demeanour, Mr. Ryan. They make my dearly departed associate look like a choirboy.’
Although he knew he was pushing it, Jay couldn’t help himself. ‘I guess that’s why you were so upset at Sergeant. You thought of your assassin as a choirboy. Must make you the priest who enjoys such company.’
The right button had been pushed as the smile quickly evaporated from Carter and was replaced with a scowl. He gave the Maori a slight nod.
In the right circumstances, a jab to the face could break the nose. Leaning forward over a seat and with very little room to move, a left-handed jab that is fairly well ‘advertised’ would be lucky to draw blood. Unless, of course, it’s thrown by a quick-moving Maori with about one hundred and twenty kilos of mostly muscle behind the momentum. Jay was quick enough, but with nowhere to move and no way to defend, his nose cracked under the Maori’s fist.
With his vision blurred and blood running from his nose, Jay ducked his head to his chest to take the next jab on the top of his head. It didn’t come. There wasn’t any follow-up. No need, he supposed. He was left in no doubt as to how well his questioning technique had gone down with Carter.
‘Let’s count that as somewhat of a preamble of what’s to come for you, Mr. Ryan.’
So many things were on the tip of Jay’s tongue, but he maintained control and remained silent.
‘Well, that’s a change,’ Carter said. ‘Normally you can’t help yourself mouthing off to try to correct a perceived wrong. Remember East Timor? Just a few unwarranted words from your big mouth that effectively ruined my career.’
Straight to the obvious heart of the matter between the two of them, Jay thought. He blew out a blob of blood onto his shirt and lifted his head to face Carter. ‘You were conducting illegal interrogations of prisoners. Somebody had to stop you.’
‘I got results.’
‘No. You got false confessions. You couldn’t see the forest for the trees.’
‘You morally crusade for prisoners who rape after they kill innocent men, women or children. You wanted to treat them with food, water and shelter while most of the population went without one or all of those. You were the one who couldn’t see the forest.’
‘I acquired accurate information from prisoners by following the rules.’
‘There are no rules in war!’ Carter boomed.
‘You’re wrong, Carter. A long time ago people a lot smarter than you or I got together and came up with some rules of war. In particular, the Geneva Conventions. We’re signatories to those conventions. What you were doing was in breach of those rules.’
‘Times change and those so-called rules haven’t. While the bad guys’ tactics have evolved and they do what they like, we don’t get an even playing field. You think you know everything, Ryan. Tell me then, how can that be fair?’
‘We have the best trained army in the world. Qualified interrogators go through a rigorous selection process and spend countless hours honing their skills. Methods and techniques studied, ploys researched and practised until they are second nature. Interrogation isn’t for everyone. You need skill, patience, tolerance and discipline to avoid doing exactly what you did.’
Carter gritted his teeth. ‘You think you are the world’s best interrogator, don’t you, Ryan?’
‘No. Never claimed to be. But from experience I can safely say that with your arrogance and out-of-control ego, you wouldn’t have made it through week one of an interrogation course.’
Carter appeared ready to strangle Jay. But probably remembered what he was wearing and the fact he had a couple of goons to do the dirty work for him. He clenched harder at his jaw and gave another slight nod to his hired help.
Jay was better prepared this time. He lowered his head, tightened his neck muscles and took the Maori’s jab on the top of his skull. The hit sent him back in the chair, blurred his vision and sent an instant shot of pain down his spine. Despite this, the sound of breaking knuckles brought a slight grin.
The Maori yelped and Jay braced for an onslaught. Again it didn’t happen. Jay had once broken a knuckle himself, boxing, and knew the pain the Maori must be feeling, yet he was amazed at the hired rock-ape’s discipline.
With his head still lowered Jay peeked across at Carter, who was now looking out of his window across the Brisbane River at the edge of the city.
Jay left it at that and, avoiding eye contact with the Maori, moved his gaze towards his window, noticing the lights of the city looming.
Lost in a trance of the light rain shimmering against the city lights, Jay barely noticed them coming to a halt outside Brisbane’s Lyric Theatre. As he stared at an oversized title screaming the show’s name, Jay commented, ‘Sounds like an Italian restaurant.’
Carter gave a huff and said, ‘Typical ignorance of a non-commissioned officer. No respect for the arts, or understanding of the pure beauty and invigorating experience a night at the opera can give.’
Jay turned. ‘Rigoletto. A tale of betrayal and revenge. Common type of premise: some violence and sex, masculine – if not bizarre – baritone and gorgeous soprano. Three acts running for a few hours. Quite an enjoyable opera from arguably one of the most influential composers of the nineteenth century, Giuseppe Verdi.’
A slightly shocked look turned into a grin from Carter. ‘Impressive. It’s rare to come across someone of a lesser class who enjoys the opera.’
Fuck you and your lesser class comments, Jay thought. ‘An enjoyment for the arts cannot, and should not, be defined by heritage or social standing. You don’t need to be born with a silver spoon sticking out of your arse to enjoy the opera, ballet, literary works or fine art. I’ll bet you’ll find the person who prints your opera programs, wipes down your seats, or pours your chardonnay knows quite a bit more about the opera than you.’
Carter gave a slight shake of his head. ‘I doubt it. But hold on to your fantasies.’
Jay quickly changed the subject. ‘Something I’ve been pondering. Why did you try to kill me at the licensing centre?’
Carter checked his watch before saying, ‘That, Mr. Ryan, will have to wait until after the performance.’ The Maori driver had scooted around the vehicle and had been waiting until Carter had finished before opening the door. He did so and Carter stepped out.
Before the door closed, Jay said, ‘Just one more quick thing.’
Carter ducked his head back inside the car. He looked agitated. ‘What?’
Jay leaned back in his seat and indicated towards the front of the theatre with his head. ‘See that poster just there?’
Carter looked past Jay and nodded.
‘On your way in, have a closer look.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ll see.’
Carter walked around the vehicle and up a couple of steps. The poster wasn’t too far from the vehicle. Carter gave a quick read, probably only the parts in bold type: the ones Jay had read through as they pulled up. Jay figured out fairly quickly the look he received from Carter was that of rage: the sudden realisation that Jay knew nothing about the opera. All the information had come from the poster.
A finger crept across Carter’s throat before he turned and walked into the theatre.