44

Ruth McArthur lit her second cigarette of the night. Exhaling a puff of acrid smoke, she watched it rise to the grime-stained ceiling of the pedestrian underpass running beneath Manning Road on the University of Sydney campus. The fluorescent strip lights, naked and harsh, cast a sickly glow onto the colorful scene surrounding her. The walls, the ceiling, and even the floor were infected with a profusion of graffiti and tags, as if the tunnel itself were bleeding paint. Cutting through the smog of her cigarette, the lingering fumes from aerosol cans filled Ruth’s nostrils and made her slightly nauseated.

Yet as editor in chief of Sterling’s flagship paper, Australian Daily, she’d experienced her fair share of war zones, drug dens and slums. This particular location didn’t spook her at all. Not that this meant she was naive. She kept a firm grip on her car keys in one hand, a tip she’d learned from self-defense lessons. The protruding metal points made an effective improvised weapon if the situation demanded it.

The tunnel was deserted, the silence almost echoing in on itself. In these late hours of the night, the only life passing through would be the occasional tagger or graffiti artist wanting to make their mark.

Ruth glanced at her watch, beginning to wonder if her contact from the government’s Department of Resources and Energy would show. Acquiring information on the Harry Gibb case had been like getting blood from a stone. No one seemed to want to pursue any other line of inquiry than death by natural causes. Case closed. But her inside contact claimed to have proof otherwise.

Stamping out her cigarette, Ruth reached into her bag for her phone. Her contact might have left a message. She thumbed in her password, but there were no missed calls, and her inbox was empty. One of the strip lights flickered and buzzed overhead, dimming the passageway momentarily. She glanced up and had to stifle a scream in her throat. Where there had been just shadow now stood a man in a gray suit. She had not heard or seen his approach, and it was as if the man had materialized straight out of the graffiti, leaching all color in the process.

“Ruth McArthur?” the man said, his voice dry and somehow soulless.

“Yes,” she said, unclenching the keys in her fist. This must be her contact. “And you are . . . James?”

The man was older than Ruth expected, yet at the same time strangely ageless. Like a well-preserved corpse, she thought, before shuddering away the unsettling image in her mind.

“You want to know about Harry Gibb?” he said.

Ruth nodded.

The man glanced up and down the tunnel. “You’re not an undercover cop or federal agent, are you?”

“No, of course not.” Ruth produced her press ID.

He studied her photo and credentials. “Press passes can easily be faked.”

Ruth appreciated the reason for her contact’s wariness. The fallout from Harry Gibb’s corrupt dealings was catastrophic for the current government. Many in power had been glad of the politician’s death and were hoping the scandal would be buried along with him. But Ruth had caught the scent of a bigger story, a far wider and more sinister conspiracy, and she wanted to know the truth. She sensed this might be the journalistic scoop of her career.

“Well, how about I tell you what I think happened? Then you can just confirm or deny it,” she suggested.

The man neither nodded nor shook his head, so she continued, “My theory is that Harry Gibb was murdered. Or to put it more accurately, assassinated.”

There was a barely perceptible twitch of his eyebrow. “You have proof of this?”

“No, nothing concrete,” admitted Ruth. “I was hoping you could provide that.”

“How did you come to this conclusion about Harry when the cops didn’t?”

“I’m a journalist. I always look more deeply than the police. I get the sense that something’s missing. Literally, in this case. Harry had known heart problems. When I spoke with his secretary, she told me that he always kept a bottle of beta-blockers in his desk drawer. But there was no bottle there or anywhere at the scene. That I consider suspicious.”

The man nodded. “Suspicious, but not conclusive. What else have you discovered?”

Ruth didn’t usually give so much away during an interview with a contact, but she needed to win his trust. “Well, his PC’s hard drive was secure-wiped to a zero state. The accepted truth was that Harry did that to cover his tracks. But a malware virus, linked to his computer, infiltrated the rest of the office network. The IT technician said he’d seen nothing like it. The virus was highly advanced, targeting specific keywords and files and leaving holes throughout their system, despite multiple firewalls and antivirus software. In his opinion, it smacked of governmental espionage. Then there’s the missing physical file from the archives.”

The man took a step closer. “You know about the missing file?”

Ruth nodded. She was definitely onto something. “It took me a while to discover it. On that day, the building security camera malfunctioned. Yet a digital record showed that Harry had accessed the archive room ten minutes before his death. A folder labeled MINING RIGHTS, GOLDFIELDS, WA, was logged in the filing system but wasn’t there when I looked. However, I did find this at the bottom of the cabinet.”

Ruth produced a slip of crumpled paper from her bag. “It lists investment amounts and sources, although I’m not sure how useful it is, since a number of the companies don’t actually exist—”

“Have you made a copy of that?” interrupted her contact.

“No . . .” began Ruth, frowning. “Look, it should be me asking you the questions. I was led to believe you had evidence relating to Harry’s murder.”

A flicker of a smile registered on her contact’s lean face, almost too fast and certainly too cold to pass off as a real smile. “That I do. You’re right on all counts. Harry was assassinated.”

Ruth’s eyes lit up. She had her story. “By whom?”

“One of his investors.”

“Which one? As I said, most of the ones listed here were shell companies. Unless you mean”—she held up the piece of paper and smiled slyly—“the organization behind them?”

The man’s eyes became glacial. “What information do you have on this organization?”

Ruth suddenly felt uneasy in his presence. She tightened her grip on her car keys.

“Tell me,” said the man, seizing her arm and preventing Ruth from using her “weapon.”

“Let me go!” demanded Ruth.

“No, not until you tell me.”

The man’s fingers dug deep into her flesh, finding a nerve point and sending a spasm of pain through her.

“Not much,” Ruth admitted through teeth clenched in agony. “There were only ghost trails from the false companies. I know it goes by the name of Equilibrium and has interests in everything from oil to water to mining. But for what purpose I can’t quite fathom. The company isn’t registered on any stock exchange.”

“Who else have you told?” He tightened his grip on her arm.

“No one. I’ve only just discovered it for myself.”

He released her arm, the pain instantly subsiding. “Good. Equilibrium is a dangerous organization to know.”

Ruth rubbed her arm. Her contact was clearly paranoid as well as unpredictable. “Listen, if you’re worried for your own safety, then I know people who can help protect you.”

The man laughed, hollow and cruel. “No one is safe from Equilibrium.”

“Well then, if you have proof they’re connected to Harry’s murder, perhaps we can draw out this organization. Expose them.”

The man gave a long considered sigh. “Ruth, you certainly deserve your reputation for investigative journalism.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a fountain pen. “I have someone you should talk to. Who can explain everything,” he said, slowly removing the top of the pen. “Do you have a notepad? I’ll write his contact number down for you.”

“Yes, of course.” Ruth scrabbled inside her handbag. She wanted to end this meeting as quickly as possible.

Only as she was retrieving her notepad did she notice the peculiar shape of the pen. The tip itself was a long sharp needle, far too thin for writing. In the split second that she registered this oddity, the point sank into the soft flesh of her neck. A liquid fire coursed through her veins, the agonizing shock smothering all attempts to cry out. The lurid graffiti of the tunnel swirled rapidly into blackness and she slumped to the floor, followed by the soft jangle of keys.