~28~

AS IT WAS STILL VERY EARLY, Walter immediately found a spot when he turned off Queen and into Spicer Street, opposite an empty café with a For Lease sign in the window and an old faded poster for last year’s Sydney French Film Festival. As Walter parked the Mercedes, Jack thought of Monica Bellucci. Unfortunately the thought did not last for long. The street was the same one he had turned into last Friday in the Toyota, when the whole damn thing had started. Except now it was early morning instead of late afternoon. And the wheels were slightly more expensive. And this time, he was arriving at De Groot Galleries with the heist guys instead of meeting them there. And his cousin was in the boot of the car, too. It was like some Twilight Zone game of opposites. Hell, he even had ten thousand dollars in his pocket, instead of the three-twenty in change he had jingling around in there the week before.

He unclipped the seatbelt, took a deep breath. Life was strange and turned on a five-cent coin. That fact had always buoyed him in his darker moments: but right now it was more a cause for concern. Jack hoped it did not mean he was going to come out a little more cynical down the other end. Lois usually handled all that stuff, and more than well enough for the two of them.

‘He can stay where he is,’ said Kablunak to Walter, pointing with his thumb to the rear of the car. ‘Just wait here until we get back.’ He opened the door and stepped into the street.

The air was thick and wet, not the slightest edge of morning freshness to it. The sky was a bunched-up blanket of gloom. Jack, Kablunak and Pascal walked down Spicer Street, turned into Peaker Lane, walked a little further and then descended the concrete driveway into the car park beneath De Groot Galleries. A black BMW 120i was parked in one of the spaces.

‘Looks like somebody’s here,’ said Pascal, checking out the Beamer. ‘Might be better not to just waltz in.’

Kablunak nodded in agreement. ‘Gun,’ he said.

Pascal reached behind him and took out the .38 snubnose that was wedged in his belt. He flipped open the barrel, checked the chambers and gave them a spin. Just like in the movies. Jack pulled his bag further up his shoulder. As much as he did not like guns — or at least not those that were pointed at him — the precise, thick-sounding, cold metal click-clack of the weapon in Pascal’s hand was strangely satisfying. Reassuring. He almost asked if he could hold it for a moment. Or if maybe he could borrow it for the rest of the day.

They walked over to a scratched service door: there was a picture of a staircase on it.

‘After you, Mr Susko,’ said Viktor Kablunak.

‘What are we actually going to do up there?’

The Russian levelled his cold eyes at Jack. ‘We are going to stop all of this nonsense, Mr Susko.’

‘Oh, good.’

‘And then you will be in my debt.’

‘What about my book?’

‘From Russia with Love? I accept it as a small token of your gratitude.’

Pascal gave Jack a push. ‘In.’

Jack went through the door and started up the stairs. Pascal and the Russian followed. They climbed to the top, went through another door and entered a hallway. Jack remembered that the room he had been tied up in — the one with the safe in it — was on the left. The gallery was on the right. He went right, walked about ten metres, and then paused before the door that led into the smaller gallery room. He could hear voices. He strained his ears and listened for a moment. Larissa was talking: he could not understand exactly what she was saying, but she did not sound too distressed. Jack turned to Kablunak and Pascal, shrugged his shoulders and gave them a questioning look. Pascal put a finger to his lips, then pointed at the door with his gun. Silently mouthed: You go. Then he pointed to the other door in the hallway, the one that Jack remembered led to the kitchen. Pascal motioned with his head, indicating that he and Kablunak would go in there. Jack now gave them a perplexed look and held his hands up, to show that he was at a loss as to what they were on about, but Pascal and Viktor had already ducked away through the kitchen door and half closed it silently behind them.

He stared after them, now alone in the dark, empty corridor. That was their plan? They were going to hide in the kitchen? Jesus.

Behind him, the gallery door opened. Jack stood in a beam of light. It threw a very long shadow of him down the hallway: elongated legs slightly apart, ten-foot-long orangutan arms and hands by his sides, everything stretched up to a ridiculously compacted head and shoulders and torso. He stood there, staring at the image, like a black cut-out on the floor.

‘The fuck are you doing, Susko?’

Jack waited for Pascal to step back out into the hallway again with the .38 and start waving it around a little. After a couple of seconds, it was clear that this was not going to happen. He waited a few moments more, just in case. Nothing.

‘Susko,’ said Lewis behind him. ‘I thought I asked you to call. You shouldn’t sneak around like that, you know?’ He stepped forward out of the doorway and stuck a gun into Jack’s kidneys. ‘It’s a good way to get dead.’

Jack held his breath and put his hands up. He had no idea what Plan A was, so how the hell was he supposed to put Plan B into motion?