Chapter 48
At the apartment doorway, Lon, without a word, sidestepped and ushered his best friend into the unit.
The mess. On the breakfast bar, a cheap straw hat, a longhaired black wig, designer sunglasses, a shoulder bag and a brown leather briefcase. On the floor, a suitcase. On the couch, facing the police station, a person with short black hair.
Lon, his face still impartial, waved his friend on towards the window.
Before they reached the couch, the seated person turned and faced them.
“Zeya,” gasped Ewen.
“Surrrrprise,” said Lon sarcastically. “Ghost rider,” he added. “Marvellous song. On The Crow soundtrack. A Suicide original if I’m not mistaken.”
Ewen shot his mate a look.
“Oh excuse me,” said Lon. “I’m a bit disoriented. An ASIC suspect walks into my house, while a ghost, who no doubt is a fugitive from heaven, makes himself comfortable on my sofa. Not the best for business.”
“With the low-quality blow you sell,” said Zeya, “it’s a wonder you have clients.”
“Not a pleasant passing over I’m assuming. And how do you know about my sideline?”
“I know a lot. Where you live for a start.”
“Why—”
“Lon, shut up!” Ewen stepped between Hogmyre’s son and the cop station and stared at the supposed dead person. “What the fuck is going on?”
“Francis dog shit Hogmyre. That’s what.” Zeya sank his face into his palms.
Ewen quizzed Lon. “Coffees?”
“No,” said his friend, “this is definitely beer o’clock.”
Ewen sat in a single seater.
Lon handed out Coronas. “What shall we salute to? Your resurrection?”
Zeya lifted his head from his hands “No. To my twin brother’s death.” And he guzzled half his beer while the others exchanged a glance.
Lon raised his drink. “To your brother and loss. And without further ado, you best shoot us back to the beginning.”
Hogmyre’s son stared at his beer for a moment. “A brother. I had no idea. I’d been told my entire family was dead. But I did have family. An identical twin.”
“How did you find out?” asked Ewen.
“He showed up at my house.”
“And how come you’re here and he’s dead?” asked Lon.
“He journeyed to my home in search of me. At first, I thought it was a prank. But as soon as I opened the door, I knew it was real. Although weird and wonderful at the same time. My father had groomed me, supposedly, to return to Myanmar. So I can speak fluent Burmese.” A faint smile appeared. “My brother and I chatted nonstop for an hour. Eventually, I gave him clean clothes and showed him to the shower. He looked half-starved. And that reminded me about an article on comforting refugees, which said make them meals common in their country, not McDonalds. I told my brother to wait, and I’d return in twenty minutes with take away noodles. I garage two cars, a Porsche and a Ferrari. I just picked the Porsche up from the panel beaters, so I took it for a burn.”
“Hang on a sec,” said Ewen. “Where actually had your brother travelled from?”
“Myanmar.”
“How?” asked Lon.
“On one of the Geraldton boats. One of many fleeing Thailand and, with the help of corrupt officials, county hopping through Malaysia and Indonesia to the Australian mainland, undetected.”
Ewen stood. Confusion floated him across the floorboards. “Who was your brother?”
“An ordinary worker who protested against the ruling military junta.”
“Who happens to wrangle boat passage to Australia, arrive undetected and travel four hundred ks to Perth, up to your doorstep.”
“My brother’s name, Htun, has the same meaning as mine—succeed. He’d brought a clean change of western-style clothes, a camera to put around his neck, and Australian money to buy a bus ticket to Perth. The moment the boat landed at Geraldton, he split.”
Ewen watched HQ across the road, its car park a used lot for police vehicles.
“It’s a stretch of the imagination,” said Lon.
“A dead guy in a wrecked car is not imagination. Six boats in the past two months reached the Australia mainland undetected.”
Ewen turned away from the view. “A person is dead. It’s your car. And you’re here when you shouldn’t be.”
“Have you ever lost someone?” asked Zeya. “Someone who is blood. I only knew my brother for an hour, but our time together was like living a hundred lives of bliss. I never knew such happiness existed. Then, in an instant, the person is gone.”
“I think we all have,” said Lon, glancing at his friend. “Even with your loss, we need to get the facts real straight on this.”
Ewen sat. “So what happened when you returned from the noodle shop?”
“I pulled into the garage. No Ferrari. I searched the house. No Htun. I replayed the CCTV hard drive. No Htun arriving, or me leaving: someone had erased the footage. Htun had never driven in his life. I already knew my life was in danger, as was yours,” he said, eyeing Ewen. “The Australian Border Force hadn’t grabbed him because there was no doubt the missing car pointed to me. I knew my house was no longer safe, but I needed to make sure Htun was not going to return. So, I stayed until dawn. When he didn’t return, I erased the CCTV of me returning, and turned it off, grabbed my backpack and disguise, took the bus into town and booked a room at a backpackers. I’d planned this escape for months. And now it’s real.”
“You bussed it to town and Htun bussed it all the bloody way to Perth to end up at your house the same night that killers came looking for you,” mocked Ewen towards the ceiling. He had to mock—it kept reality at bay. He slugged his beer. “He knew of you. Not you of him?”
“Only in passing,” said Zeya. “I travelled to Myanmar with Francis once. A formal affair after the democratic reforms. On our way to the presidential palace, I linked eyes with a man the same age as me in the roadside crowd. Only a glimpse, but the sensation it evoked in me was…liberating. Not sexual, nor desire, or awe. I had no idea at the time what happened because I moved through the crowd back into the deadened soul of politics. I now know I’d received my wake-up call, love finally overriding the brain, life kicking me into gear. While Htun, also realising the connection, researched me. Found photos on the internet and concluded we were too similar in appearance not to be related. So he pressured the orphanage who fostered him out and found they’d done wrong; they never told him he had an identical twin brother, me.”
“Let’s diverge for a minute,” said Ewen. “You emailed that my life was in danger. How?”
“Because you got too close.”
“To what?”
“To Francis and the truth regarding the family and political upheavals.”
“Your brothers and sisters involved in the Asian uprisings? And Kiet. He had something to do with the Thai coup?”
“Exactly.”
“What,” remarked Lon, “Francis has actually planted sleepers throughout Asia. Incredible. I’d love to read his company’s mission statement.”
Ewen drifted to the window. At the bus stop, a new movie poster, a tidal wave engulfing the Statue of Liberty. “You’re supposed to be dead. Your wrecked car had a body in it. You say Francis had a hand in Vietnam, Pakistan and Thailand. You also say my life’s in danger.” He turned back. “A hundred unanswered questions. But firstly, why would Francis grant me an interview? Why let me manoeuvre close to him? Why would he help me get rich? Not the old keep thy enemies closer routine?”
“He knew you were on the right path concerning the family’s activities, so yes, he did keep you close. Also, it became a fantastic opportunity to play you. Power is all consuming and leaves little time for amusement. He plays golf to cement deals and started surfing late in life to stay fit. Other than that his only enjoyment is fucking with people.”
“Like him?” questioned Lon, pointing to his friend.
“Exactly. He also loves reaming whole countries.”
“To get off?” asked Ewen.
Zeya nodded. “Along with financial gain.”
“And he sicced ASIC onto me?”
“I bet you it wasn’t ASIC; I bet you it was his men.”
“But Francis made me rich.”
“How?”
“Showed me how to trade. I’ve amassed a small fortune from his recommendations, especially the speculative penny dreadfuls.”
“On paper?”
Ewen nodded.
“So he hasn’t told you to sell yet. Has he advised you to pyramid in?”
Ewen nodded.
“He gets you into these one and two cent shares and starts promoting the companies by spinning the bullshit on the Terrace. He also buys the stock, which helps jack the price. He then sells. By liquidating, he may make a loss, but what’s a few grand to him when he can sell fast and smash you and anyone else still holding. Purely for fun. Or profit. Sometimes both.”
“He... showed me how to think money, how to appreciate it and watch it turn up.”
“How?”
“Um… a card game I sat in on. I won twenty grand.”
“Most likely every player at the table worked for him. They lost his money.”
“Bullshit.”
“Tell me something else.”
“I found a hundred-dollar note outside my apartment.”
“Planted. Any other money issues. Anything gone cunt-up in your life lately?”
Lon interrupted. “Celty.”
Ewen stared at his friend.
“Tell me,” said Zeya.
Ewen did.
“Definitely Francis’s doing,” huffed Zeya. “He has you sit facing the pretty girl on the pretence of giving the owners a river view. She comes onto you. You can’t remember leaving the restaurant. Did you go to the toilet while she sat at the bar?”
“I’d say so.”
“Micky in your drink. Simple.”
Ewen leant forward, struggled with the enormity. “That would mean her three friends were also plants.”
“A simple thing to organise,” remarked Zeya. “Ten thousand dollar a night prostitutes are nothing new. She spoke Mandarin. She probably charges Chinese businessmen twenty. Francis most likely paid her fifty. Were you expecting your girlfriend the next morning? Francis probably sent her a text using your number.”
“My number?” Ewen could’ve shelved some guilt, but the cheating became insignificant. He slumped back into his seat. Only for a second, a realisation edged him forward again. “Everyone at the office is holding thousands of dollars in penny dreadful stocks. I’ll tell them to sell.”
“You can’t tell anybody—”
“They’ll get slaughtered—”
“If they all sell at once, Hogmyre will suspect something. Let’s concentrate on murder, not greed.”
“Shit.” Ewen slapped his palm into his forehead.
“Nothing we can do,” added Lon.
“No,” said Ewen, “I remembered something else. A large FX trade today. I followed his trade plan.”
“How large is your margin?” asked Zeya.
“One hundred thousand Australian.”
“And your trading account balance?”
“Eight hundred.”
“One eighth on one trade.”
“I’ve built up my trade size and executed some large ones lately. Always with a stop loss in place. And I’ve won big and lost smal—”
“Which pair?”
“Euro Swiss franc.”
“Long?”
Ewen nodded.
“Bad,” said Zeya. “The inside goss on the Swiss National Bank is that they will scrap its three-year-old peg of 1.20 Swiss francs per euro. If that gets announced the franc will rocket against the euro. And long the euro, you’re history.”
“But he told me to pull my stop in tight. And I’ve done it. Many times. The most I can lose is five grand.”
“Who do you trade through?”
“Lion’s Share.”
“Do you realise Francis owns the company? He could easily scrub your stop loss, leaving no trace you’d ever placed it.”
“What sort of loss are we looking at?” asked Lon.
“Possibly a ten per cent move. Ten times one hundred thousand equals one million. What’s your apartment worth?”
“Seven hundred but I owe five.”
“What’s your net worth?”
“With the trading account still holding the penny dreadfuls, roughly a mil.”
“Worst case scenario, broke.”
Ewen pulled his phone. “I’ll cancel it.”
The Lion’s Share web page slowly loaded its ads and eventually filled the screen. He entered his password. “What. Password denied.”
“Call them.”
Ewen speed dialled.
Ring tone.
Finally, a voice.
“I need to cancel an order but my password is being denied.” He told them his account number and date of birth. “Whatya mean it’s wrong? I know my birthday for—”
“Forget it,” said Zeya. “Francis’s doing. Jump in your car, grab your passport and front them at their office. Close the trade and close your account because in a few hours Europe will wake up.”
Ewen jumped to his feet. “Francis would need prior knowledge of the Swiss Bank decision?”
“Do you honestly believe governments and bankers are not corruptible? In the European community alone, corruption costs its economy one hundred and thirty billion euros a year. If a central banker lets out sensitive information before it becomes public, they’re safe. It’s too difficult to trace the leak back to them. They look after their own. Francis belongs to that family. Trust me; he knows exactly what the SNB will do. The profits are too large to not know.”
“Lon. I’ll grab Frank and come back.” Ewen ran for the door. Hand on the knob, he stared back at Zeya. “Tell me. Why is your life in danger?”
“Because I’d woken up and realised I’d had enough of Francis’s dealings. I wanted out, which is not acceptable in his world.”
“He’d hurt his son?”
“He’d hurt anyone.”
Ewen pictured a house of cards; he couldn’t stop staring at the bottom tier. For a man who searched for the truth, he so desperately wanted a retraction and the truth exposed as a lie. “Individuals can rig currency trading?”
“Look back at the former banker and the analyst from the Australian Bureau of Statistics. Sensitive information in the wrong hands and whammo, seven million in FX profits over an eight-month period. And they were amateurs. The botulism scare in New Zealand dairy products is another. China stops dairy imports and the Kiwi dollar drops two cents. Francis had prior warning of the ban.” Zeya clicked his fingers. “Thirty million dollars profit, overnight. Trust me, the world is rigged.”
In the visitors’ car park, Ewen gunned the Prado towards the exit. His Samsung. At the footpath crossover, he hit the brakes, and snatched up his phone. “Lon, our guest can’t stay in Perth.”
“Where then, the moon? The guy’s semi-famous.”
“Remember our farming friend?”
“The hay carter?”
“Her brother rents out an isolated farmhouse as a couples, writer, nature retreat.”
“No good. I didn’t hear the word fugitive, or hideout, or fortress.”
“I’ll organise it when I get back…”
On the footpath, in the distance, someone familiar, a girl, long, sandy hair, was loitering outside an office block, watching him. She about-faced and legged it away to a Mitsubishi SUV parked in the gutter, opened the door, threw a backward glance and hopped in. The car disappeared round the corner towards Adelaide Terrace.
“You there?” asked his friend.
“I saw someone. Hanging on the footpath. She jumped into a car and bailed. Beachy type. She was at the state library when I researched murders in Perth.”
“What did she want?”
“To introduce herself and say she liked my articles.”
“It may be coincidence. Cool it.”
“But when I noticed her now, before she piled into the car, she looked back and recognised me.”
“So?”
“She didn’t wave. At the library, she was all giggles and fits. Just then, she looked straight through me.”
Only anxiety bounced between the phones.
“Lon, something huge is going down?”
“Exactly. This library girl might be connected to the reason I rang. Here am I, hiding in my toilet, whispering because the guy in my lounge room may actually be working for his dad.”
“To do what?”
“I have no idea. To stop you getting too close to the truth?”
“The only truth at the moment is a dead body. And the only person making any sense is Zeya. Don’t let him step out the door.”
“He ain’t going nowhere. The library girl, who knows what the fuck she’s up to. What are your guardian angels saying?”
“Cancel this currency trade.”