They were coming from the corridor, down near Thaddeus’s office.
‘ – those useless gorillas of yours left the place in a shambles!’ Dr Deal was saying. ‘And I want to know why!’
‘You’re saying you don’t know?’ It was Adolf who answered. Cadel worked this out when, having crossed the foyer from the fire stairs, he poked his head cautiously around a corner. There, in the corridor, were Thaddeus, Dr Deal and a short, wiry man with a grey crew-cut wearing battle fatigues. Cadel recognised this man from a photograph in the Axis Institute handbook. It was Adolf.
In the handbook, of course, he hadn’t been wearing camouflage colours.
‘No, I do not!’ cried Dr Deal. ‘I do not know why I’m being persecuted!’
‘You expect us to believe that?’ said Adolf.
‘Now, gentleman.’ As Thaddeus began to speak, Cadel pulled back. He didn’t want to risk being seen. Edging away from the corner, he heard Thaddeus plead for calm. ‘There’s no need to shout.’
‘No need?’ exclaimed Dr Deal. ‘I came here to find out why this mercenary moronic thinks it necessary to subject me to his clumsy attentions –’
‘I will tell you why!’ the Fuhrer interrupted. ‘I came here to tell Dr Roth, I’ll tell you too!’
‘Gentleman, please.’ Thaddeus spoke sharply. ‘If you want to discuss this, do it in my office. Not out here.’
‘Yes!’ said the Fuhrer. ‘We should discuss this envelope! We should discuss Tracey Lane!’
‘Adolf. I told you. Not out here.’
Cadel shuddered. He had never heard that note in Thaddeus’s voice before, and never wanted to hear it again. When the door of the psychologist’s office slammed shut, he toyed with the idea of pressing his ear against it, before finally deciding not to. Taking a risk like that was unjustified. He knew what would be said in Thaddeus’s office. Adolf would accuse Dr Deal of asking Tracey to deliver the envelope. Dr Deal would deny having done so. Thaddeus might want to know why Dr Deal hadn’t simply come to him with his suspicions about Terry; had the recording of Terry’s phone call been acquired through questionable means? Through a police phone-tapping operation, for example? Dr Deal, if so accused, would repeat angrily that he had nothing to do with the recording. He didn’t know where the envelope had come from. He didn’t know what Tracey was up to.
Cadel doubted that Adolf would believe Dr Deal. The meeting would come to nothing, he was sure. And whatever Dr Deal did next, Cadel would know about it from the Fuhrer’s surveillance reports. If, that is, Dr Vee ever shifted his enormous bulk out of Hardware Heaven. Cadel was beginning to worry that he would be there all day.
But Cadel’s worries were unfounded. Upon returning to his computer, he discovered that Dr Vee had gone. Only Com remained in Hardware Heaven, tap-tap-tapping away. It was a great relief. Cadel was at last able to jump on board the spy sweep, and jump off again when it reached Adolf’s files. He scanned them feverishly, anxious to see the surveillance reports.
So far, they were pretty uninteresting. Brendan’s condition was unchanged. Terry had stayed with him all night. Tracey had gone out to a party the previous evening and come home at three a.m; she was still in bed. Cadel had been a good boy, and was now at the institute. Luther was currently engaged in making an inventory of the Yarramundi ammunition stocks.
It was among Adolf’s emails that Cadel found more rewarding material. Luther had emailed the Fuhrer, demanding an explanation for the ‘flies on his tail’. Clearly, he had worked out that something was going on. So what would happen when Adolf left Thaddeus’s office? Would he return to Yarramundi and confront the enraged Luther there? It was possible. It was even probable. But when Cadel tried to calculate the exact probability, he found himself hampered by his own lack of data. He didn’t really know enough about any of these people: Adolf, Luther, Dr Deal. He knew Thaddeus well enough to conclude that he would very likely refuse to give Adolf authorisation for a campus-wide yellow alert. But the others? With them, he was plucking numbers from a deep, black void, wearing a blindfold.
Cadel turned to the Maestro’s files. He saw that Max had closed all of his accounts, but found nothing to indicate what his next move might be: no emails to Thaddeus, no official complaints about Art lodged with the Fuhrer. Cadel did find an alert circulated by one of the Maestro’s banks, on its internal network. The bank was informing its staff that ‘a fraud had been committed’ against at least one customer. The perpetrator was described as being about sixty years old and one hundred and seventy centimetres in height, very short-sighted, with a slim build, grey hair, crooked teeth and ‘an educated way of speaking’.
So Art must have removed the money in person. A risky procedure, to be sure, but necessary for someone without much expertise in the field of computers.
Reading the description of the man who had passed himself off as Max, Cadel was convinced that the Maestro must now know exactly who had stolen his money. Who else could the mysterious thief be, if not Art? Even his crooked teeth had been mentioned.
It seemed strange that Max hadn’t informed Thaddeus of this latest development. Unless he had used his phone, instead of his email? That was possible. Cadel decided to see if he could dig up some of Max’s phone records, but first he returned to the Fuhrer’s surveillance reports. It had been at least ninety minutes since he’d last checked them.
URGENT, he read. Subject IJ2n tracked from work to house of subject IM3r. On site approx. 1 hour. At 10.52 a.m. left site alone, highly agitated. Is now at DARLINGHURST POLICE STATION. New orders required ASAP. Please respond. URGENT.
Cadel swallowed.
What on earth was going on?
FORTY-FOUR
Subject IJ2n was the code name for Dr Deal. Subject IM3r was the code name for Tracey. Dr Deal had gone to Tracey’s house, stayed an hour, then rushed off to Darlinghurst police station.
Why?
Numbly, Cadel considered the possibility that Dr Deal was about to spill the beans about everything: Thaddeus, Dr Darkkon, the Axis Institute . . . everything. Perhaps the lawyer was scared. Scared because his house had been searched. Scared because someone was following him. Scared of being ‘sorted out’ by Luther Lasco. (An unexpected heart attack, perhaps? An unfortunate accident in his own spa bath?) Nothing that the police might do to Dr Deal could ever be as bad as a Luther Lasco solution.
While Cadel tried to work out what was happening, he kept checking the surveillance reports. There was no news after ten minutes. No news after fifteen, or twenty-five. Another hour passed before the next message came through from the team following Tracey.
Re: Subject IM3r. Police have arrived at house with ambulance. Crime scene tapes erected. Query: Further directions? Looks bad.
A little later came another message.
URGENT. Subject IJ2n still on site. Police team dispatched. Please advise.
Cadel was doing frantic calculations in his head, but it was pointless; he didn’t have enough data to work with. Obviously, Dr Deal had gone straight to Tracey’s house because the Fuhrer believed that she had delivered the envelope. Any man in Dr Deal’s position would have wanted to know what the hell she was up to. Unless there was another reason? It suddenly occurred to Cadel that Dr Deal might not have known about Tracey’s relationship with Terry. Other people had known (Carla, for example), so Cadel had assumed – he had assumed, like an idiot! – that the lawyer would know too. Especially since Terry knew all about Dr Deal.
But Cadel had never laid eyes on any written proof that Dr Deal did know about Tracey and Terry. What if he hadn’t? What if he had been told about Terry, for the first time, in Thaddeus’s office? What if he had gone to Tracey’s house with rage in his heart, discovered the truth, and decided to seek revenge by spilling his guts to the police?
Cadel considered this scenario from every angle, but he wasn’t convinced. He couldn’t imagine Dr Deal doing any such thing. And the numbers certainly made no sense, when he was trying to calculate probabilitie
s. On the other hand, if Dr Deal feared that he was being framed by Luther and Thaddeus and Adolf – wouldn’t that be enough to send him running for help?
Finally, after two more hours, a report was filed that removed all doubt.
Re: Subject IM3r. Corpse removed from subject’s house in body bag. Forensic activity. Media attending. Subject IM3r deceased?
Tracey was dead.
Cadel squeaked, and covered his mouth with his hand. Com looked up. He directed an inquiring glance at Cadel.
‘I – I’ve got a headache,’ Cadel stammered. This seemed to satisfy Com, who returned to his program. Cadel, however, couldn’t face his computer again.
He shut the whole thing down, with trembling fingers. Then he headed blindly for the door. He had to get out. He had to – to –
To what?
They were watching him. It was important to keep that in mind. He couldn’t do anything peculiar – anything that might alert Thaddeus. Not while he was under surveillance. Crying and moaning, wringing his hands – they were out of the question. If he didn’t control himself, swallow his sobs, blink away his tears, then Thaddeus would hear of it. Thaddeus would hear and wonder.
There must be a place, he thought despairingly, as he stepped into the lift. Somewhere I can hide . . .
And then he remembered.
He was shuffling across the lawn, making for the front gate, when someone called his name. ‘Cadel! Cadel!’ The voice rang out like a siren, but he kept going. He had to. Gazo was bound to say something stupid, and the electronic sensors were everywhere. Cadel picked up his pace as Gazo’s heavy steps began to close the gap between them. Thump, thump, thump! When Cadel swiped his key-card, the gates opened automatically. Wall-mounted cameras were trained on his small, hunched figure.
The gates were closing behind him when Gazo slipped through them, narrowly avoiding a nasty accident.
‘Gazo! For God’s sake!’
‘Didn’t you hear me?’
‘I heard you.’ Cadel darted across the street; he wanted to put as much space as possible between himself and the institute. Before Gazo opened his big mouth and ruined everything. ‘What is it?’
‘Wait! Cadel! I’m not allowed out here!’
Cadel stopped. His quick eye noted everything in the immediate area: the man staring from a shop doorway; the car with tinted windows parked under a plane tree; the black metal box attached to the institute wall, near the gates. When Gazo reached him, another car passed them both, so quickly that Cadel couldn’t see inside it.
‘Then why don’t you go back?’ he asked loudly, before lowering his voice and adding: ‘We can’t talk, Gazo, it’s not safe. No, don’t look around, just go back. Please.’
‘Can I give you a lift?’
‘What?’
‘Wherever you’re going, I can give you a lift.’
To Cadel’s horror, Gazo actually winked behind his headpiece. Cadel hoped that no one watching them had noticed this conspiratorial little gesture.
‘You mean in Abraham’s car?’ asked Cadel.
‘It’s a great car,’ Gazo replied. ‘I drove it all over the place yesterday.’
‘I can’t get in that car with you. Not if you’re driving.’
‘No, no! It’s all right!’ Gazo was beaming. ‘I can drive with me suit on! Headpiece and all!’
‘Really?’
‘Really. I already tried.’
Cadel hesitated. Perhaps, in Abraham’s car . . .
But no. It was probably bugged by now. The Grunts would have noticed that Cadel had got into it yesterday. He couldn’t take any risks.
‘No thanks, Gazo.’
‘But –’
‘Go back inside. You’re not allowed out here. You’re attracting attention.’
‘Cadel?’ Gazo was looking at him closely. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’ve got a headache,’ Cadel snapped, and turned away. He felt bad, but he couldn’t talk. He was about to crack. Hurrying towards the station, he put all his energy into controlling the muscles of his face. He tried to empty his mind, so that stray thoughts of Sonja or Tracey didn’t make him cry.
On the train, he read advertisements. He listened to a conversation about someone’s aunt, who had found romance in a nursing home while visiting her aged mother. When he finally reached his stop, he really did have a headache. It pounded away at his skull as if demanding to be released. Cadel wondered if all the tears trapped inside his head were beginning to split it open.
It was a twenty-five minute walk from the station to Cramp-ton College. Stumbling down the quiet, leafy suburban streets, Cadel kept his eyes peeled. Several cars passed him, as did an old man walking a dog. A plumber’s van drove up to someone’s house and parked. A woman pushed a stroller down one street, with a real baby inside.
Surely Adolf couldn’t be hiring real babies?
The school, when Cadel reached it, was deserted. On a Saturday afternoon there weren’t even any sports teams around. Cadel marched quickly across the empty playground. Using one of his Crampton keys, he entered the eastern block, then the science staffroom. He couldn’t risk the maths staffroom, because Mrs Brezeck frequented it, and Thaddeus might have bugged it as a result. But the science staffroom would be safe.
Having locked himself in, he crawled under a desk. Then he curled himself into a ball and began to cry.
He didn’t know what to do. Everything was out of control. Tracey was dead. Dead. Had Dr Deal actually killed her? There, in her house? Or had he found her like that? Perhaps he had found her like that and panicked. Perhaps he had gone to the police because he assumed that Luther had killed Tracey, and he was afraid that the same thing would happen to him.
But what if he really had killed her? A sudden, vivid picture leapt into Cadel’s head: a picture of Dr Deal punching him in the face. Had Dr Deal done the same thing to Tracey? Because he thought she was trying to frame him? Because he was jealous of Terry? Cadel didn’t know. He didn’t have the data. Dr Deal, Tracey, Brendan, Art – he didn’t know any of these people well enough to predict their actions, not really. He had misjudged some crucial conjunction, and made a complete mess of everything. Someone had been killed! Because of him! And now the whole scenario was collapsing. Events were playing out in a way that he had never anticipated.
He wiped his face, his chest heaving. What was he going to do? He had unleashed a tornado. Pressed a red button. He was frightened to look at the Axis network again in case he saw something or someone else disintegrating in front of his eyes. First Brendan. Now Tracey. Next Dr Deal would go – Luther would get him for sure. And Art? What about Art? What if Max did catch him? If that happened, Cadel would be responsible for yet another death. He wouldn’t have wanted it, but he would have caused it, as directly as he had caused Tracey’s.
He remembered rating the probability of Max catching Art. Breaking the probability down into a complex number. Measuring it against other numbers. Why had he never thought? Why had it never occurred to him that he would actually be killing someone? He was as bad as the rest of them. As bad as Luther. What would Sonja say? How could he tell her? How would he tell her? He wanted to talk to her so much, but he couldn’t; he didn’t dare.
‘What am I going to do?’ he sobbed. ‘What am I going to do? ’
He couldn’t escape – not yet. Brendan and Dr Deal might be out of the picture, but he couldn’t be sure about Art. As for Alias, he knew more about Cadel’s Ariel disguise than anyone. Cadel’s plan for Alias had already backfired, now that Dr Deal was in police custody. Cadel would have to think of something else. But how could he? How could he trust himself, after making so many terrible mistakes?
‘I don’t know what to do,’ he whimpered.
He felt so ashamed. So small and lonely and miserable. More than anything else, he wanted someone to hug him and tell him that he didn’t have to worry. Around him, the empty staffroom was quiet and sunlit. There were snapshots pinned on a bulletin board, along wi
th a duty roster, an ad for a sofa bed, a cartoon, a postcard from Surfers Paradise. The mugs beside the electric jug were covered in hand-painted flowers and funny slogans. A back pillow had been left propped on one chair, and a red cardigan was draped over another. Everywhere lay science textbooks, unmarked exams, broken laboratory equipment.
Gradually, these things began to affect Cadel. He began to calm down, soothed by the warm light, the happy photographs, the deeply ordinary quality of his surroundings. He realised how wonderful it was, to sit in a room that wasn’t bugged, scorched or oozing with strange liquids. At the institute, he realised, his nerves were always taut; there was never a moment when he didn’t run the risk of being spied on, or attacked, or taunted, or ambushed by some appalling sight or smell. Here, everything was peaceful. Nothing really bad, he decided, could ever happen in this room.
He got up and blew his nose. There was a mirror sitting on one of the desks; in it, he saw his face, which was smeared and blotchy. His eyes were bloodshot. His hair was a mess.
He couldn’t go out looking like this. The Grunts were bound to report it: Subject highly agitated. He would have to wash his face. Comb his hair. Wait until his eyes weren’t so puffy.
He found a comb in a drawer and water in the electric jug. He also found another photograph – a family shot. In it, Mr Jankovic was sitting in a rowboat with his family: a wife, two children and a golden retriever. They were all laughing, even the golden retriever. Cadel looked at it and caught his breath. He thought: I could have had that. I could have had that if my father hadn’t interfered. I could have had a proper family. Real parents.
Suddenly, he didn’t feel like crying any more. All the confusion, the fear, the despair – it all trickled away, leaving something cold and hard, like a stone, in his gut. He thought, resentfully: This is my father’s doing. I didn’t start it, but I’m going to end it. I’ll take the whole bloody lot down with me. Whatever happens, I’m going to make that bastard suffer for what he’s done.
And then he saw the mobile phone, half-hidden by a confiscated frisbee. It was sitting directly beneath the postcard on the bulletin board. Right beside a plastic-covered library book.