The Worm King Page 31

  ‘Listen!’ said Astrid. ‘You hear that?’ She got up, leant over the table and turned the lantern out, plunging the room into pitch darkness. A car rumbled towards them, from the north. If no other lights were showing in the rest of the house, perhaps it’d drive straight past? Headlights appeared, two hundred meters up the road. Nobody at the table said a word. Hang on, it wasn’t a car . . . it had the throaty growl of a heavier engine. A truck? Thirty seconds later their table was bathed in light as an ancient school bus ground to a halt on the gravel in front of the tearooms.

  A burly Polynesian jumped off, followed by a much older Caucasian male with a beard and overcoat. Then a tall skinny individual in a digger’s slouch hat, waving a bottle. The dwarf let out a whoop and ran for the door.

  ‘What on earth . . . ’ frowned Astrid.

  The bus headlights went off but several of those disembarking held torches.

  Forsyth rose, and slipped into the background to appraise the arrivals. It appeared a number were drunk. This might solve the transport problem and security concerns in one foul swoop, although he certainly wasn’t instilled with confidence by their general demeanor.

  Thirty-one got off the bus. At first glance the only ones definitely sober were a couple of kids, the driver, and a dog. The way the dog was bolting around there could be questions over that as well.

  The dwarf reached up to slap the man in the hat on the back. ‘Things were touch and go until ’ole Sgt Kevin . . . where is he?’ He pushed up his brim to expose a bony bushman’s face, late-twenties, and bloodshot eyes, possibly from the amount he’d drunk. ‘There you are!’ Then the arms were up, waving like he were at a rock concert. ‘Woo-whooo! Go Kev!’

  Others hoarsely chorused ‘Go Kev!’ and punched up arms in unison. Kevin looked abashed; perhaps less drunk than most. As the crowd settled, Forsyth realized quite a few weren’t actually drunk, just rowdy. He was introduced to Wiremu, the Māori who’d jumped off first and he’d thought to be Polynesian, and now no longer seemed intoxicated in the least.

  Sgt Kevin of the Rotary had procured an enormous stash of food (and grog) from a house in Peak Hill. Batteries and fuel too. The considerate owner who’d gathered it all together—they thought from a supermarket in nearby Dubbo going by the labels—appeared to have quietly expired of a heart attack in his bed soon after.

  Nathan put the new guests up in his boatshed around the back and asked the driver, Jerry, to re-park the bus off the road. Wiremu assigned two men to watch the vehicle and food at all times, which Forsyth thought a smart move.

  Montabelli had returned. He pulled up in an old stationwagon and Francesco parked alongside in the red 4WD acquired from Snow. The pair arrived precisely two hours after the bus. This rang an alarm bell when Nathan noted that’s about how long it might take someone to ride a pushbike into town then drive straight back out here. Probably just coincidence. They didn’t have the Mayor with them, which could’ve inclined Forsyth toward anger, but fortunately he’d just finished his best chow in weeks so was in an excellent disposition.

  Nathan ushered them into the cafe and Francesco immediately got off on the right foot by apologizing for taking the 4WD that long. Both wore loose-fitting charcoal suits over white shirts, Scottish woollen waistcoats and tan leather shoes. They sat politely at one end of the big table while Nathan’s wife made tea, which she now had courtesy of the bus although preparing it over the pot-belly in the kitchen was still an operation in itself. She had to remain with the stove virtually all the time because if there was a fire, they’d have no way of dousing it.

  The old man with the beard, straggly hair and grubby overcoat was asleep at the far end of the table, face resting flat on the wood. Strangely, Montabelli knew him, saying solemnly, ‘Lord Brown, good afternoon,’ at which the old boy woke, grunted hello and called out some numbers that didn’t make sense, then went straight back to sleep.

  Forsyth sat next to Wiremu, his daughter and Astrid, facing the road. Sgt Kevin, his son, Jerry and Ken took the other side, with their backs to the window. The rest of the bus crowd were asleep in the boatshed except for Azziz, the dwarf and the man in the slouch hat who’d all passed out on the floor of Nathan’s lounge in various states of inebriation and gluttony.

  Montabelli got down to business. ‘Captain, we must apologize again that the Mayor could not make it. His wife is very ill and not expected to last any more than . . . well, you understand, I’m sure. However we have spoken of your situation at length, and the Mayor has instructed me to ask you for assistance, if you possibly could.’ He paused waiting for Forsyth to reply, but he didn’t, so Montabelli continued. ‘We cannot make contact with, well, virtually nobody in Canberra who is in position to help us. When we first send people, they do not return except for one man, but perhaps this was for some other reason.’ He waved his pudgy hand at the window and the darkness beyond. ‘There is much going on out there, so who knows?

  ‘Then we think, we go right to the top and speak to the Prime Minister. She is still at the Hyatt Hotel, the man who come back tell us, even though he was not able to meet her.’

  ‘The twins are there too!’ said Astrid. ‘We have to get them back.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ soothed Montabelli. ‘We can do this!’ Forsyth smelt a deal on the horizon and those alarm bells started dinging again.

  Francesco took up the line. ‘This is what happen. We send three men to see what can be done and two of them speak with a minister at the Hyatt, we believe, but they no come back.’ He shrugged. ‘So then I go to the same place, with Astrid and my other little friend who is . . . ’ He looked around quizzically.

  Astrid pointed out back and shook her head.

  Francesco smiled, then tapped the table with his finger and the smile vanished. ‘So I go to Hyatt, to help see these twins are alright, and to speak to this Snow, and we nearly all no come back either. There is link, perhaps. Snow, he take twins in the first place, we know this for sure, so he is link.

  ‘This is what we do now. I go back to Hyatt and I will ask for the girls again. This time, with me will be ten others.’

  Montabelli cut in. ‘We could spare maybe fifteen men, but that’s a logistical issue for the Captain . . . ’ he trailed off, giving Forsyth a questioning stare. Clever strategy, getting his buy-in with the mechanics so he was committed before agreeing to squat. However Montabelli was right: fifteen men, armed (and sober) who knew what they were doing could probably waltz right through that place. It wouldn’t be pretty though. He gave a non-committal shrug.

  Francesco continued. ‘Listen, this man Snow when we ask him, he has only three option. He can give us the twins and say all was mistake, but this he will not do because he could have done before and he did not. So why would he now? The second option is he say no, you can go to blazes. This we think he will not do either, because he will know that we have the men there and it will be bad for everyone, which mean bad for him too. Last option is he say, “Yes, I give you twin, but you give me something.” He will want to trade. This is what we think he will do.’

  ‘And if he does accept this,’ said Montabelli eagerly, ‘it confirms he is . . . problem, and we can arrest him! You can arrest him, can you not Captain?’

  Possibly. Forsyth liked the simplicity of it, and the potential for zero bloodshed. He also liked his own general lack of involvement until the end, when hopefully the case of guilt was essentially proven. What he didn’t like was it smelt dirty, and dirty plans have a way of coming apart at their dirty, rotten seams. It was a box. They were pinning him in a corner then blasting him as soon as he reached up for the carrot. Forsyth remembered the way Snow had laughed with that maniac friend of his while watching rats burn alive at the hotel, and all he could think was:

  That man won’t go down easy.

  ‘What have you got, to get him away from the hotel and arrest him without any trouble?

  ‘We’ve got a tanker that’s half-full of petrol,’ replied Francesco. ‘Ne
arly five thousand liters, at a truck depot. Then if he wants to send someone first and check, it’ll actually be there and all look legit and above board. When Snow comes to take it, we arrest him.’

  ‘Where’s the depot?’

  ‘It’s in Yass.’

  Jerry agreed to ferry Francesco and his “assistants” to Canberra in exchange for half the petrol in the tanker at Yass. Montabelli would then swap the petrol for diesel from the council reserves, liter for liter, so Jerry could use in his bus. The council wanted the petrol more, and Jerry wanted the diesel more, so it was a beneficial arrangement. After this, Jerry intended to have a quick drive past his sisters in Katoomba then he’d cart everyone back to Griffith. Personally, it sounded like he just enjoyed driving around. Forsyth’s job was to deliver Snow to Duntroon to face the medicine, but he suspected in all probability, it’d be him getting the dose not Snow.

  Straight after Montabelli left, they got to work covering the windows. The Māori teenager Āmiria said she wanted to join the army when she finished school and asked to help. Her friend Tim also volunteered although didn’t seem as keen. He muttered something about “grenades and shit,” and she punched him a beauty on the arm.

  It took three hours using corrugated iron off the chook house and there wasn’t enough to do the cafe windows, but they decided to leave these uncovered anyway, in order to keep an eye on the road.

  ‘Shouldn’t we turn the lantern off then?’ said Nathan. They were having their scheduled afternoon tea break. Seven sat around the cafe table: Wiremu and his daughter, Nathan, Winston, Tim, Lord Brown and Forsyth.

  ‘Can you leave it on till I’ve finished this?’ The dwarf held a broomstick and was using a breadknife from the kitchen to carve a sharp end on it.

  ‘Hey Winston,’ said Āmiria, ‘if you put the end in the fire from the lantern for a few seconds and char it, it’ll harden the tip considerably.’ Her father nodded approvingly and Forsyth wondered what sort of school she went to. Earlier, the man in the hat said she was a General in the Girl Guides. The dwarf did as instructed, then used the edge of the table to scuff the burnt surface away and hone the tip. Nathan frowned at the punishment his table was taking.

  ‘Thanks sweetheart.’ He stood and waved the stick with a menacing swish in the direction of the cash register. He’s a tough little sod, but likable, thought Forsyth, resolving to make an effort in future to also call him Winston instead of just “the dwarf”.

  ‘Will it work?’ Āmiria asked her father. ‘The plan to get them back? I don’t see why anyone would want some petrol so much.’

  ‘Me neither girl. What do you think Browny?’

  Lord Brown pondered. ‘Remember what we talked about in Tamworth? About everyone being a chemical soup? The two most precious things to that soup at this exact point in time, are water and fuel. Fuel for transport and fuel for light. I think Mr Snow might have plenty of water where he is, but fuel, that’ll be more tempting. It’ll work alright. The question is, how will he react to the bait?’ He turned to Forsyth. ‘Do you trust him?’

  ‘No.’

  Wiremu persisted. ‘Then should we even trust these blokes here, on the council? Why would they be any better than the ones in Tamworth, or even Dubbo.’

  ‘No reason at all but it’s as good a guess as any. They have a long-standing Italian community here with a well developed Mafia-based social structure already entrenched. It’s perfect for the current climate: a family-orientated, multi-layered, agrarian dictatorship. I’ve always liked their general philosophy and it does have an underlying tenet of honesty, so yes, I do trust them,’ said Lord Brown. ‘And on top of that, they dress well and enjoy a drink.’

  * * *

  Dick watched Francesco from the veranda of the Hyatt. He’d been watching for more than fifteen minutes with his head not far up above the edge of the railing, even though there were no lights on the veranda and the foyer lights had been switched off. He could see two of the guards from the gate waiting next to Francesco, while the third guard stood directly behind Dick on the veranda, in full view should some sniper have a nightscope but he didn’t care in the slightest about that. It was this guard who’d delivered the message, that Francesco wanted to speak with him urgently. There were eight men, perhaps nine, standing by the bus which was parked twenty meters behind the gate. All the men appeared to be armed. He couldn’t see Forsyth amongst them, although he may of course still be on the bus.

  ‘You think they’re shotguns?’

  ‘Yes Sir. I’m fairly sure they are.’ Dick was fairly sure the man would’ve hardly glanced at the weapons, rather scuttled back here as fast as his ratty little legs would carry him.

  It occurred to Dick that if they’d wanted to charge in, they would’ve done so without asking for any chit-chat. He could smell weakness a mile off. They must have something to offer. He decided to take the small risk and invite Francesco to come and speak with him on the veranda.

  The conversation unfolded entirely as expected, and Francesco did indeed have something to offer: a substantial amount of petrol. To be honest, Dick didn’t give the blustering fool a chance, going in hard throwing a curveball by saying the girls weren’t even here, when in fact they were still in Room 237. Then he said Astrid had “broken faith” by running away, and he needed some “token” they were now genuine. The petrol would be fine, thank you. After this it didn’t take long to iron out the details. Dick also happened to mention Captain Forsyth had killed his chauffer and it was obvious Francesco hadn’t known. Dick enjoyed that. Then Francesco left.

  Back inside at the reception counter, he asked the concierge for a sheet of hotel stationary, drew his pen and wrote a note to Brigadier Hensley at Duntroon, inviting him to dinner. He gave the note to the ratty-legged guard still waiting on the veranda, telling him to deliver it immediately then return and confirm when this task had been completed. Now he had reading to do, so returned to his suite.

  Dick had only cast a cursory glance over the weather diary when Bob first gave it to him, but now went through it carefully, slowly, from cover to cover. Especially the parts where that filthy wog had told the twins not to trust him, after they’d found the hole in the wall. He clenched and unclenched his fists trying to work out the tension but it did little. He decided to go outside.

  The men were moping around, giving the place a thoroughly grim atmosphere. He didn’t know why they were so down in the dumps? They had it all here! Why, just yesterday, an elderly gent and his wife tried to sneak in through the fence and steal food, and the guards caught them, so for a show Dick organized Bob to do a live strangling in the ballroom, but that hadn’t bucked them up at all.

  What do you have to do!!

  Hensley looked distinctly nervous. Beads of moisture glistened on his puckered brow, always a dead giveaway. Dick lifted the bottle of Margaret River Pinot Noir and refilled the Brigadier’s glass. He’d arrived with a new adjutant who on this occasion had been made to wait in the car.

  ‘ . . . Anyway, therein lies the problem,’ droned Dick, placing the bottle down gently so as not to disturb the sediment. ‘If we can get this repeater station up, we’ll have a chance of getting a large chunk of the whole network back on.’ The Brigadier slurped greedily, understanding none of that technical mumbo-jumbo, but worried nevertheless. ‘I have to go there personally, tomorrow, and bring back a truck with fuel and some of the more sensitive station equipment, which a group in Yass appear to be unlawfully holding. They said they’d just give it to us but I’m expecting trouble, and I’ll have a contingent of the cabinet personal security team there with me. The thing is, we’ve heard your fellow Forsyth may be in with them, so I feel this is a slightly sensitive issue, if you know what I mean? The Brigadier froze. ‘I wondered if it’d be possible to have any extra resources from your end, which may be able to help out?’ He re-topped their glasses.

  ‘What a damn shame!’ Hensley shook his head sadly, although Dick got the feeling he’d expected the issue
to crop up, perhaps even thankful to get it on the table. Hensley reached for his glass. ‘Forsyth’s a bit unstable, I’m sorry to say.’ Glug, glug. ‘Just between you and me, we think he’s gone on the loose. Troppo. Haven’t heard from him for too long.’ Glug, glug. ‘Still, you never know with these special ops types, and with the damn weather out there like this . . . ’ The Brigadier waved his hand in the direction of the window. The curtain was closed and their discrete, private dining room moderately warm and well lit. Hensley lowered his voice a notch and Dick noticed the brow sweat had all but disappeared. ‘It happens sometimes with these chaps. In fact, Forsyth was one of those who came back from Afghanistan not quite right.’ Glug, glug. ‘Terrible shame, because he’d done some splendid work before that. Absolutely splendid. The thing is, there’ve been rumors of assault on women, drug use, that sort of carry-on. You know.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ lied Dick.

  ‘My guess is you’re right, we actually do have a responsibility to a degree, to assist with this matter,’ mulled the Brigadier, taking a smaller, more thoughtful swallow. Glug. ‘And this may help with another issue too.’ He lowered his voice again. ‘In fact, this keeps coming up in officer meetings, and we’re jolly worried about it. A lot of the chaps are . . . well, just too long in the mouth, frankly. No reason for it. They need a good wiz-up, so an exercise like this might be spot on. Yes.’

  The Brigadier undertook to send a squad of minimum eighteen men and provide two vehicles to ensure Dick and his chaps didn’t get into too much mischief.