Chapter 40

Harry parked his car, climbed out and looked down on the Queen Street Mall, packed with Christmas shoppers. He checked the time – thirty minutes to go – then called Bec, perching on the bonnet of his car while the phone rang. This wouldn’t take long.

‘Hello?’

‘Bec?’

‘Harry?’ A pause. ‘How are you?’

‘Yeah. I’m…I’m getting there.’

He could hear noise at her end in the background. Plates, cutlery. He imagined Paul, cleaning up after Sunday lunch. He pushed the thought away.

‘Bec. There’s something I need to say to you.’

‘Harry, you don’t need to…’

‘Yeah. I do. Bec, I still love you. Don’t interrupt me because I need to say this. I don’t care if you can’t love me. That doesn’t change the way I feel. I love you. I’ll always love you.’

‘Harry…’

‘Do you remember when we came back from overseas? We were scrounging around, trying to find bits and pieces for our house. We bought that dodgy kettle?’

‘Yeah. Of course.’

‘That cup of tea. It tasted like shit, but you were right. You said, “This is the life”. And you were right.’

‘Oh, Harry…’

‘I’ve got to go. I’ll…I’ll catch you later.’

He hung up. Stared at his phone. He wanted to call Christine, just to hear her voice one last time. But if he called her, he’d blab. And if he blabbed, she’d talk him out of going through with it.

There was a note for Jess, in with the documents he’d emailed to Jim.

Harry slipped the phone into his pocket and got ready.

***

Queen Street Mall was packed with sweaty election campaigners and Christmas shoppers, ducking in and out of the speciality shops, talking with friends, looking at their phones. Harry was dressed in Sunshine Air Conditioning-branded overalls and cap, with a Sunshine Air Conditioning identification card, belonging to Mr Hugh Bird. Chook, at no added charge, had given him a couple of matching stickers to plaster onto the M82’s case

Harry let himself slip back, allowed Rob take over. This had to be done. There was no alternative.

The sign on the hoarding outside the shell of the Regent Cinema promised an ‘exciting new residential development’. But the posters were faded, and there were no sounds of work coming from inside. At the bottom of the sign was a small Swenson Constructions logo.

The crowd thickened as Harry neared the intersection of Queen and Albert Streets – for some reason, despite all the landmarks in Brisbane, the Hungry Jack’s there had become the place for young people to meet. There were two police officers leaning on a low wall, sunglasses hiding their eyes. As the crowd parted, Harry saw protesters, holding banners demanding more rights for asylum seekers. A woman with dreadlocks and a lip piercing thrust a copy of Green Left at him. Harry ignored her.

He kept walking, waiting to be stopped by the cops. He imagined doing what Dave wanted him to do – handing the whole sorry mess over to the police. If he threw enough mud, some of it might stick. It would only take one or two journalists to get curious, and God knows there were enough at The Australian looking for a chink in Andrew Cardinal’s armour. What a coup! To stop dead the Cardinal juggernaut before election day!

Harry broke stride, almost stopped. His glance slipped side­ways, down Albert Street to King George Square, where the giant Christmas tree stood. In his mind’s eye he turned around, went back to the car. Drove to work and finished the article. Then he remembered sitting in the Vice Chancellor’s office, wondering if he was going to be sued. Rob surfaced again. Rob couldn’t force him to do anything, Harry thought. Not yet anyway. But ignoring him now was like ignoring a powerful itch. It felt better just to give in to it.

You print that story and it will pan out exactly as Vessel says it would. You’ll be marked a crazy man, you’ll be watched. It’s now or never.

He started walking again. Slowly at first, then picking up pace. He fished out his phone and dialled. After eight rings it went to messagebank. Challis Architects can’t take your call right now…Perfect.

Up by the casino, a Salvation Army band was playing a festive tune Harry couldn’t quite place even though he’d heard it a thousand times. There was a small table set up nearby, red bunting and signs for the local Labor candidate. Most of the signs featured Andrew Cardinal. A young woman wearing a too-big ALP t-shirt offered him a flyer.

Harry shook his head, kept walking. There was no way he was going to get away with this. The mission might be a success, but Harry was going down for it. The girl handing out the Green Left would probably remember him, as would the ALP volunteer. His progress up Queen Street was being monitored by numerous security cameras. After the event, it would all be so obvious that something was wrong with this man. People would ask why. And they would never understand, even if Harry tried to explain it to them.

A helicopter thundered overhead. Harry looked up, shielding his eyes with his free hand. Harry had no idea what it was, but Rob did. Eurocopter Tiger with a 30mm cannon on the nose and a bunch of missiles, depending on how it was configured. Whatever it had, it would be bad news if they got wind of what Harry was up to.

At the end of the mall Victoria Bridge carried traffic over the river. Harry got his first sight of the Cultural Centre. The wind picked up, stirring the hot air, carrying the smell of mud and decay. He turned left, following George Street, parallel to the river.

Past the Land Administration Building, another sandstone relic of Queensland’s colonial past. And then, right next to it, a bland concrete-and-glass office block, a remnant of the building boom in the ’70s.

Harry welcomed the cold blast of air-conditioning as he strode through the automatic doors. There was a guard on duty, but Harry ignored him and headed straight for the lifts. Only people who weren’t meant to be there asked permission. The guard didn’t even look up from his book. Harry thumbed the lift button.

As he waited, he dropped down deep inside himself, preparing for the mission. Harry had done a story on the Challis brothers earlier that year. Chermside boys who’d started their own architectural firm, and then made it big (by Chermside standards) and moved into an office with river views. Harry had interviewed them there, and marvelled at the views of the Cultural Centre across the river.

The elevator arrived. Harry pressed the number ten, and the doors closed. Plenty of elevation. Great field of fire. Old locks. No visible security systems. Staff unlikely to be working weekends. Another plus: the glass windows facing the hallway had blinds.

The lift doors opened. Harry looked up and down the hallway to make sure it was clear, then moved to the office door. He pulled the lock picks out of his pocket. The lock was easy. Not easy for Harry, but easy for Rob. He knew how to pick a lock, although there’d been scant use for such skills in Afghanistan, where a boot or a shotgun would do the job just fine.

Harry shut the door behind him, closed the blinds on the windows that looked out to the hallway. The office was small. Two desks, dominated by high-end Macs with big screens. Every inch of wall space was occupied by bookcases or printouts of technical drawings. On the far side of the room: the window. Harry set his case down and walked over. He opened the blinds to the outside.

The brown mass of the river stretched out below. On its other side, the blocky structure of the Performing Arts Centre. Harry saw people gathering at the side doors, where Cardinal would make his entrance. There was already a large crowd. Young people, families, children running around, red balloons bobbing along behind them. Possible collateral damage.

The thought sparked a vision of a woman lying on a bloody concrete floor. Her legs were spread. Her robes pulled up over her head.

Harry hefted a huge computer monitor off the desk, and set it on the floor. He dragged the desk and a chair over to the window. It was inevitable that the police would discover that this room was where the shot came from. But depending on the security systems in the building, that discovery may not be made until Monday morning. And by then it would all be over anyway.

Harry opened the case, assembled the M82. He checked that the mag was full. If Harry missed on the first shot, he could potentially still get Cardinal. The politician would be covered with security personnel, but from this range the rounds would easily penetrate a human shield.

Human shield? Innocent lives.

Harry suppressed the thought.

The windows didn’t open, which meant that he’d have to cut a hole.

From his pocket he pulled out the glass cutter, also courtesy of Sunshine Air Conditioning, scratched a small circle on the window, then tapped the glass until it fell to the abandoned courtyard below. He put the cutter away, and lowered the blind halfway.

He sat on the chair, pulled the stock of the big gun to his shoulder, looked through the reticle. About four hundred metres. He looked at the people down below. How their clothing moved. How the balloons bobbed. A slight breeze came in off the river; nothing to get worried about. The M82 was good up to fifteen hundred metres. This should be a piece of piss.

Except for the civs everywhere. And the fact that Harry wasn’t Rob. True, Rob was occupying his body, but it wasn’t the same. That didn’t make him Rob, or Rob him.

Harry pulled out his iPhone, opened his web browser. Streamed ABC News 24.

‘And as you can see, the crowd is gathering here at the Cultural Centre in Brisbane, waiting for Andrew Cardinal’s arrival. There’s a real sense of occasion…’

Harry scanned the crowd through his scope and found the reporter doing her piece to camera. Picked out Cardinal’s security detail. Six that he could see; there would be more out of sight. And more still would arrive with Cardinal. The gunship thundered overhead.

He checked the time on the phone. He scratched his arms through the shirt sleeves. His tattoos were itching. He reached around, rubbing the skin on his back. It flared like fire at his touch.

On the screen of his phone, footage of Andrew Cardinal’s motor­cade approaching. Harry grabbed the M82 and lifted the stock to his shoulder, keeping his finger outside the trigger guard for now.

‘…and you can see that people are actually lining the streets now to get a look at the man who is very likely to be Australia’s next prime minister…’

The scope was so good he could see their faces. People smiling, laughing. There were no protesters here. Probably their application to gather at Southbank had been refused, so they’d been relegated to the mall. Was he really going to end this? Could he really pull the trigger?

Harry’s back burned intensely now. He saw screaming refugees engulfed by a giant wave. He saw a hijab, blowing between two rows of poppies. He saw a lone ant, walking in circles across a dirt floor.

Push it away. No time to fuck around now.

‘…this is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like this…’

The motorcade stopped outside the Cultural Centre. Security climbed out first, scanning the crowd. The gunship hovered over Southbank. Shit. If it stayed there, he was in trouble. They’d be onto him in no time.

Andrew Cardinal climbed out of the car, followed by wife and kids. Waved to the crowd. The roar was so loud Harry heard it through the window, as well as on the video stream. Through the reticle he saw Cardinal’s head, bobbing forward as he shook hands with well-wishers.

Harry began his breathing cycle. He pushed away the intense pain in his back. It was happening to someone else. It was happening to Rob. He saw Rob lying on his front, Rabs bent over him. Outlining an avenging angel.

It didn’t matter now.

‘…the crowd’s engulfed him. They’re literally mobbing him now…’

Shit!

He couldn’t get a clear shot. Police moved in, trying to get Cardinal clear and move the people back. Andrew Cardinal was loving it. His family stood aside, letting the people have their moment with the next prime minister.

Through the reticle, Harry saw Andrew Cardinal’s head bob up. Then someone moved in front of him. Harry waited.

You’ll get the shot. Just wait.

When Cardinal moved towards the Cultural Centre doors, he’d be clear of the crowd. He’d turn and…bam.

As predicted, Cardinal stepped away from the crowd. Turned. Offered one final wave.

Now.

Harry blinked the sweat out of his eyes. It took all the strength he could muster to resist the urge to curl his finger. The finger tightened slightly. Halfway. A little more. An intense itching sensation, in the centre of his brain. And all he had to do was…

‘No!’

Harry pushed the gun away. The heavy stock clunked against the desk.

Rob surged; Harry lost control. His impulse was to return to the gun and fire every round in the magazine until it clicked empty, regardless of the target, regardless of how many innocents were killed in the process.

Instead, Harry tipped the other desk over, ripped books off the shelf, tore the drawings off the walls. On one side of the wall was a framed Wallabies jersey. Harry grabbed it and threw it at the window. Already weakened, the glass shattered, shards tumbling to the street below.

Harry punched the wall, ignoring the burst of pain up his arm. He kicked the bookshelf, sending design manuals tumbling across the floor. He came out of the fugue panting, leaning on the desk, looking at the gun as though he’d never seen it before. Outside, the gunship hovered, facing the office building. Had they seen the glass?

Harry disassembled the rifle, slotting the components back into the case quickly as the chopper buzzed across the river. His hand pulsed painfully. He ignored it, grabbing the case. The room was a disaster zone but there was nothing he could do about it. He ran for the elevator, pushed the button, then thought better of it and continued to the stairs. As he pushed through the door, he heard the lift pinging on his floor. He imagined the security guard, poking his nose in. How long before he figured out which office it was?

Halfway down the stairwell, Harry’s phone started ringing. He glanced at the screen. Fred. He’d call him back.

He took the steps three at a time, his shoulder hitting the concrete wall at each landing. He stopped at the ground floor, panting. Then decided to take the stairs down to the car park.

In the basement, Harry shrugged out of the overalls and shoved them in the bin. He pulled the Sunshine Air Conditioning stickers off the case and put them in the bin also. Then he walked towards the fire exit door, case banging against his leg. Pushed through out onto George Street, then back towards Queen Street Mall.

Dazed, Harry looked at the teenagers gathered outside Hungry Jack’s. Teenagers. Without a care in the world. He spotted some cops, but they were watching the teenagers, bored. The case suddenly felt incredibly heavy. Harry forced himself to continue until he was out of sight of the police, then found a spare bench and sat down, breathing heavily.

His phone rang again. Fred.

‘Fred. I can’t…’

‘It’s not Fred. It’s Bill.’

‘Bill?’

Harry felt sweat prickling his scalp.

‘Harry, you’d better get over here.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’

‘It’s Fred…’

Harry felt the world drop away. His peripheral vision disappeared. He felt as though he were staring down a long, dark tunnel.

‘…he’s been attacked.’

‘What? Where?’

‘The ambos just arrived. Get over here.’