Jay snapped out of his trance a moment before the Chevy scraped the concrete barrier. Sparks flew into his window and he heaved the black machine back into his lane.
The stench of grinding metal filled the interior of the car and he took the next off-ramp. He pulled into a service station and parked, turning his attention to his damaged wrist.
No bigger than a watch face, the rose tattoo glimmered under the glow of the outside lighting. Standard black outline, green stem with five red petals surrounding a white inner bud. He ran his fingers across it, feeling the ridges of the outline. The ruby red hypnotised him. The harder he stared, the more the rose seemed to grow out of his skin. The violation sent a shudder through him. He couldn't comprehend why he'd been tattooed. A permanent mark etched on his body for the rest of his life. A mark of the torture etched into his mind.
Again, he tried to call his father. Again, it rang out.
He quickly checked the damage to the Chevy. A busted headlight and some scraped paint. Thankful for choosing such a solid vehicle, he fired it up and headed for his father's house. He arrived less than thirty minutes later.
After locking the car, Jay paused in the driveway. Although he wanted to run up to the house, something told him to be cautious and he looked around. The lights were off in the two-storey house his father had purchased three years before, the day he'd retired from the National Secret Intelligence Service (NSIS), or the Agency, as it is known. Jay thought the house too big for one person and his father too young for retirement. Ed Ryan had explained that savvy financial investments would fund his retirement and the spy business was now a game for younger men to play. Although he admitted to still doing some freelancing for the Agency.
The rustling of leaves to his left caught Jay's attention and he turned. The noise came from beyond the wooden fence separating his father's from the adjacent property. Shadows skipped through the small gaps between the palings. Two sets of eyes glowed at him. He closed in and crouched in front of the shadows.
'Hey, Jersey, hey, Kuta,' he whispered. Both German shepherds replied with wags of their tails as Jay reached over the fence to give them a pat. The older one, Kuta, groaned softly.
The dogs' ears pricked up. They turned in unison at the sound of their master's door opening. In the early morning light, Jay made out an old man in a worn blue bathrobe walking along his balcony, coffee in one hand, cigar in the other. The German shepherds found a gap in the hedge and bolted up the stairs toward their master. They lay obediently at his feet. The old man leaned over the edge of his balcony and looked down at Jay. 'For a spy, you sure are noisy, Jay.'
It was easier to ignore the jovial comment than to explain to his father's neighbour that he wasn't a spy. Not really. 'Hi, Mr Hunter. Hope I didn't wake you. I know how much you need your beauty sleep.'
'Funny little bugger, aren't you? No, you didn't wake me. Girls have been running up and down the fence barking all night.' He indicated the fence that separated the properties, the smoke of his cigar curling into the dawn sky. 'This is the first time they've stopped. Don't suppose your dad went and got himself a cat, did he?'
Jay looked along his side of the fence. 'Doubt it. Not unless he got one just to shit-stir you.'
Mr Hunter chuckled but didn't respond.
'Did Dad make it to the game yesterday?'
'Nope, you both stood me up. I'm used to you having no manners and dropping out at the last minute. Not like your old man, though.'
'Yeah sorry, I was ... tied up with work. What about Dad? Did he say why he couldn't make it?'
William Hunter took a sip of his coffee and puffed on the cigar before replying. 'Nope. Inconsiderate too, I might add, given it was his turn to bring the beers. I threw a few things at his house but he didn't come out. Must be back in the spy game, hey?'
Jay moved along the fence line, closer to the neighbour's balcony. 'Look, Mr Hunter, how many times do I have to tell you that Dad wasn't a spy and I'm not one either?'
'Yeah, so you both keep telling me. I wasn't born yesterday, you know. And I do know a bit about the game.'
'I know, I know. As a dashing young agent, you were instrumental in securing the defection of Russian spy Vladimir Petrov and his wife to Australia. Operation Cabin 12, wasn't it?'
'You bet your arse I was instrumental. Practically ran the whole operation.'
It wasn't true. Jay's father had checked the story with the Agency as soon as he'd heard it. William Hunter was never an agent of any description and the closest he had come to the Petrovs was as a security guard at Sydney airport in 1954. The young Mr Hunter had been on duty when the plane taking Mrs Petrov back to Russia was swamped by a large crowd wanting to save her from likely execution upon return to her homeland. Fights broke out and mayhem erupted at the airport after the crowd crashed through the cordon of police and security personnel. Jay and his father guessed it was Mr Hunter's fifteen minutes of fame and allowed him his story.
'Fair enough. Don't suppose you actually came across to check on Dad today?'
'Nope. He's a big boy. Can look after himself.'
The worry escalated and Jay started moving for the steps. 'I gotta go. I'll speak with you later, Mr Hunter.'
'OK. You can tell your old man that I'm pissed off. And he can bring extra beer next week.'
Jay waved a reply with his good hand. His knees strained taking the steps two at a time. He unlocked the door and reached for the light switch. The wooden floorboards groaned as he stepped inside to disarm the alarm. It had already been turned off. A shot of adrenalin tensed his muscles. A throb registered in his injured hand. He looked around the lounge-room.
'Dad, you here?'
Nothing out of the ordinary, everything in its place just as his father liked it. He fixed his gaze on the study across the room. The light from the lounge-room stretched to the antique desk and the computer monitor illuminated the back of the study.
Jay dug into the umbrella-stand beside the door and withdrew a baseball bat. As he placed his left hand on the bat, a shot of pain ran up his arm. Bad idea. He changed the bat to his good hand and crept toward the study. The monitor flickered. A full-size wedding photo of his parents, the one his dad used as a screensaver, replaced what had been on the screen. Reaching the study door, he raised the bat above his head.
At the back of the house, the creaking of a floorboard under weight made him turn. He tightened his grip on the bat. He heard the familiar groan of the back door opening and bolted towards the noise. Heavy footsteps pounded down the back steps. Jay chased them, hoping it was Primrose.
He arrived at the steps in time to see a pair of camouflaged legs vaulting into Mr Hunter's backyard. Jersey and Kuta started barking and began the chase.
Bat held high, Jay bounded across the back lawn. He reached the fence as the two German shepherds raced for their catch. Kuta grab her man high on the back of the leg as the intruder climbed the opposite fence. He kicked out. The bitch came away with a mouthful of fabric.
Jay waited for the dogs to come bounding to him. He took the piece of fabric from Kuta's mouth and inspected a small patch of blood on it. Thinking better of putting his battered body through a chase, he hurried back into the house.
Jay checked all the rooms. Everything was in its place. Everything was there except his father. He sat at the antique desk in the study and flicked the computer mouse. The picture of his parents disappeared and a word document came up, its contents screaming out to him.
YOU WERE WARNED. THIS IS NOT A GAME.
Jay read it again and printed it out. He manoeuvred the mouse to conduct a search of the most recent documents on the computer. The register came up and the top two word documents caught his eye.
The first document was titled 'Lazarau'. The second one, 'Sub Rosa'.