The radio hummed eighties rock 'n' roll for the remainder of the trip to Brisbane. They arrived in the heart of the city just before the morning peak traffic. Sarah used her NSIS credit card to book three rooms at the Sofitel Hotel above Central train station. Jay lay low in the Monaro with Bill.
They waited in the carpark until the elevator was clear. Sarah held the elevator door for Jay to make the mad dash. He had tried to clean himself as best he could. But it would be obvious to a casual observer that something was amiss. He couldn't remove that much blood with paper towel.
They agreed to meet in Jay's room around ten, but then pushed the time back to twelve because they didn't have any luggage. Jay decided to hang back in the room, giving Bill a shopping list and his credit card.
Jay jumped straight into the shower to wash Bowen's blood from his skin. He held up his damaged wrist and watched the water cascade off the rose tattoo. No amount of soap or scrubbing would remove it. He punched the tiles when he realised his stupidity at even trying. Then he hung his head at the stupidity of punching the tiles.
Bright red flowed from his hair as he shampooed. The hot water soothed his injured body. He placed his head against the shower screen to allow the water to massage his back and wondered how one interrogation in Iraq had led to his father's kidnapping. Doubts lingered over whether he had done the right thing in sending in the interrogation report. A report that had already cost the lives of two people. He told himself Lazarau and Bowen only had themselves to blame. But he had to wear the burden of responsibility for his father's abduction. One night of lust, of insanity. He had slept with the wife of a psychopath. Primrose had always been strange; Jay had predicted he would hurt someone one day in an interrogation. Although he imagined it would be something like slapping a prisoner, not torture and murder. He wondered how being overlooked for an overseas deployment had led Primrose on a downward spiral of self-destruction, into self-righteous revenge.
He thought of the video of the interrogation in his safe deposit box and wondered why he had kept it. Told himself it was as insurance, but insurance for what? It wasn't just to prove that he'd spoken to a member of Iraq's infamous leadership team. The Iraqi general wasn't as notorious as some of the prisoners he'd interrogated in Afghanistan; nothing like the fervour and steadfastness of the Taliban butchers. Jay convinced himself he'd kept the tape because of its information value. Figured he didn't want it lost or forgotten. He'd accepted that the information had been acted upon at the time, but knew it might come back to haunt him if someone disputed the accuracy or the validity of the interrogation. He had never mentioned the tape to anyone, and made the decision not to mention it now. It seemed to him that if he spoke of its existence, it would somehow escalate his problems.
After noticing his hands had wrinkled, Jay turned off the shower. He towelled off, put on the provided robe and headed for the mini bar.
The urge to drown his troubles crept up on him, competing with the need for sleep. He decided against alcohol and proposed an imaginary toast to Major Bowen with a Coke. He wanted to think things through, but he fell asleep as soon as he lay his head on the pillow.
Blank faces visited him again in his dreams. All shapes and sizes without eyes, nose or mouth. But they still had their ears and hair. They turned their heads toward him as they passed by, some walking with rudimentary canes, some wearing traditional robes, some with a fashion sense stuck in the eighties. They were all going somewhere, yet it was as if they walked out of the scene and re-appeared from a different angle. Like extras in a movie, or a piece of luggage stuck on a conveyor belt. The setting changed in each dream. Always a village he had been through as a soldier. One village per dream played at random. The faces remained unchanged.
He wanted to read their faces to see what they thought of him, to use his skills in interpreting their body language. But they seemed so robotic. He tried to speak to them but they had no mouths to reply. He yelled at them and they scurried away over the rubble. He pleaded with them to communicate but they didn't.
The dream ended the same way every time, with the only face he ever saw. A girl, no older than five, with the smile of an angel. She walked to him, carrying a yellow flower. He always dropped down to one knee and stared into her dark eyes. She was a picture of beauty in a land of madness. Her eyes were empty; she had seen the destruction of her country, yet probably didn't understand. The eyes were pleasing because of their innocence. The eyes of an uncorrupted mind dealing with the hardship of sorrow for her country, and probably for her family.
He marvelled at how her long matted hair bounced off her tiny shoulders. The big knitted blue jumper never changed. He always spent too much time on her eyes and not enough on the bulge beneath her jumper. He held out his hand to take the flower, a symbol of peace, he always told himself. Then he noticed the single teardrop. She lowered her head to her stomach. She screamed and the bomb exploded.
He woke in a pool of sweat. Thinking of the girl and trying to understand the nightmare, he answered a knock at the door at a quarter to noon. He thanked Bill for the parcels, showered again, and pulled on the stiff new clothes. He ordered room service and had club sandwiches and Cokes waiting for Sarah and Bill when they came by.
'Did you see the news, boy?' Bill said.
'No. Why?'
'They've released a picture of you. Fortunately, it's dated. Says you're wanted for murder and that you're probably armed. Our goose of a premier was on the TV saying that every police officer available will be hunting you down. They're making a bigger deal than normal about it.'
Jay shrugged. He was glad he hadn't shaved. And the suit Bill got him would come in handy for a change of appearance.
'What is our next move?' Bill asked.
'Sarah?'
'We've got a lot to work through. I'll start with my main concern: NSIS,' she said. 'The Director put me on this case. I was pulled from another case to take this on. Then the Deputy Director contacts me and says I am to report to him only. Then there was the message from your dad about the director that doesn't make sense. I've been trying to reach him all morning but his PA says he's unavailable. On top of that, after getting a new battery for my mobile, I've had a dozen fairly nasty messages from the Deputy Director. Wants to know where I am and if you're with me.'
'Did you call him back?' Jay asked.
'Not yet. Something tells me not to.'
'You think he's Sub Rosa?'
'Don't know. Maybe. I've got the feeling that I've been fed information that is of limited use. Also, the time lag between requesting and receiving information is unusually drawn out. Something's not right. But not enough to conclude that he's a bad guy just yet. I suppose I'm buying a little more time to figure this out before I call him.'
'You know your dad never liked him, Jay.' Bill said.
Jay considered this a strange thing for Bill to say. He had assumed his dad hadn't mentioned his work to Bill. 'I knew they weren't best mates, but he never mentioned disliking him.'
'Yep. Your old man once told me that he had a beef with a bloke called Keith in his previous job. Said this bloke had competed with him work-wise for many years.'
'Hang on. Did Dad ever tell you that he was NSIS?'
'No. I always suspected, but after Sarah filled me in on everything last night it all fell into place.'
The hotel phone interrupted.
Jay answered. 'Speak.'
'What kind of way is that to answer a phone? Your dad taught you better than that, Jay.'
Jay looked at Bill. 'Uncle Pat. How did you know ...?'
'I'm on my way up.'
'Who was that?' Sarah asked as Jay put the phone down.
'Your boss.'
'Did you just call him Uncle Pat?' she asked.
'Habit. Always have. He's been like an uncle, even before Mum died.'
'And what did he want?'
'He's on his way up.'
'Shit,' she said. 'How the hell did he know we were here?'
'I'd guess it was the NSIS credit card you used to book the rooms.'
'Shit.'