Gladiatrix (8 page)

‘So …' my neighbour continued, ‘they must have very wealthy members?' He rubbed the fingers and thumb of one hand together.

‘Well,' the driver shot him a dismissive look, ‘the Mayor is one, and half the billionaires in Silicon Valley
bless the name of Isis.' He nodded down at the computer bag, ‘Including that one.'

My neighbour looked down at the white company logo on his purple computer bag and wrinkled his nose in distaste.

The Mayor of San Francisco? Where had I read about …? That StopWatch site had an article talking about how he wanted to get rid of the NTA.

The woman across from me spluttered, ‘I don't care what anyone says. That thung is ugly!'

The traffic was still jammed around us so the driver tried to respond with courtesy. ‘Well, ma'am, there are more traditional temples around San Francisco you could see. Like the Bright Lady Iseum in Sausalito …'

‘Bright Lady?' The woman across from me poked the driver. ‘What does that mean?'

The driver answered with a sigh, ‘There are two main branches in Isiac worship, just like there are Protestants and Catholics. There are those who worship Bright Isis and those who worship her Dark aspect. Here, they worship both. The bright face of the loving mother goddess, and the dark face of the powerful queen.'

Ta Ta Tut Ta. A syncopated blast from a trumpet swung our attention back to the Iseum.

Then I noticed, while I'd been listening to the driver's explanation the number of pedestrians had thinned considerably. There was hardly anyone between the Iseum and us any more. I looked around the Square. In fact there was hardly anyone on our side of the street at all …

A line of white-robed people began pouring out of the front of the Iseum. They formed a line right around the base of the pyramid and linked arms, a human chain. A group of women wearing long, green robes
came out next. They walked around the line of people, throwing green palm fronds onto the ground in front of them. The green created a bright circle against the dark grey ash. The line of people in white robes began singing. A simple tune, just four notes with the same four recurring words, ‘Peace. Love. Honour. Truth'.

I leant forward to whisper to the driver, ‘What's going on here?'

As I spoke, a line of police wearing full combat gear, helmets, body armour and shields, jogged from behind the bus to stand on the pavement outside the crater wall. They faced outwards, forming a protective line between the Iseum and the rest of the street traffic. It looked like they were ready to prevent an attack on the Isiacs.

The driver replied, ‘They must be going ahead with the ritual.'

Someone behind us groaned, ‘That's just asking for trouble!'

‘What is it?' I asked.

‘A week ago the Iseum said they were going to hold a special service to purify California of ill will,' said the driver. ‘They asked all people of good intent, Christian or otherwise, to pray with them for peace and unity.'

The man next to me sniffed. ‘Idiots. Why they are looking outside the West for such things, I can't understand. Look how far worshipping Isis has taken Egypt. It's one of the poorest countries in the world, in the middle of the most dangerous part of the world.'

‘Where do you think Christianity started — asshole? Wisconsin?' barked a male voice from the very back.

‘Stop them now! Stop them now!' The last word was screamed from somewhere over the other side of the Square.

We all swung round to look at the park. A large crowd
chanting slogans and carrying placards had begun jogging towards us. Fast. They hadn't been there a minute ago. They must have come up Stockton Street. They were led by a tall, white-haired man in a white suit. It was the leader of the Moral Legion, White Gregson.

This was not good.

The police line remained stationary, resolutely watching the oncoming protesters. They lowered their visors and raised their batons. The Isiacs continued with their ceremony, pouring water on the green palm fronds, their hymn singers striving to compete with the chanting protesters closing in on us.

‘Damn!' The driver continued in a rush, ‘The Moral Legion's been trying to get the purification ritual banned.'

Boom.

I twisted around. A placard had hit the window behind me as the protesters surged around the bus. It said, ‘If your right eye causeth you to offend God then pluck it out. Matthew 18:9.'

The woman next to me grabbed my hand hard, screaming, ‘We have to get off the bus! We have to get out of here!'

This was escalating too fast and we were stuck right in the middle of it. But we couldn't get out. The protesters were packed in around us like sardines. I watched the police, wondering what their strategy was. They knew this was coming, what were they going to do? Would they start making arrests soon?

When the first of the Christian protesters reached the police line Gregson lifted his megaphone, ‘Stop them before God strikes us all down.' His voice barked over the top of the Isiacs' singing, ‘Do not think to test the Lord thy God and live. He will not be mocked and He is full of wrath.'

On the last word he raised a clenched fist to the crowd who responded by shouting, ‘Send the devil worshippers to the Devil,' and tried to push their way through the police.

As soon as the police began pushing back, one of the protesters threw a canister over their heads and into the Isiacs. When it hit the ground white gas poured out. Everyone near it started coughing and then people ran in all directions. The police line broke as the Isiacs struggled to get out and the Moral Legion shoved to get in.

I stood, threw my bag more firmly over my shoulder, and pulled the release on the bus door. ‘Whatever that gas is — we have to get out of here, now. Don't worry about your heavy luggage. Just get off the bus.'

They all stared at me unsure, so I started the stampede by grabbing the woman next to me and hauling her out the door. We ran for the park and the rest followed.

‘What a complete mess,' I said, to no-one in particular. The police, now wearing gas masks, were chasing the protesters around the Iseum. The protesters had cans of spray paint and were drawing red crosses on anybody and anything they could reach.

The driver shook his head. ‘Why does this have to happen? Why can't we let each other alone?'

Swoop. Swoop. Swoop.

Overhead a helicopter marked with a blue-and-green TV logo hovered, its blades churning up the clouds of white gas. The media had arrived.

I didn't have any more time to waste so I just patted the driver's shoulder, saying, ‘Good luck.'

He nodded. ‘Thanks.' He looked back at the Iseum, white smoke swirling, red crosses everywhere. ‘But I think we're going to need more than that.'

There was a crowd on the pavement outside the NTA, mainly camera crews elbowing each other for better shots of the swirling chaos across the road. Inside, the foyer was empty except for two guards standing behind the security barrier halting access to the rest of the building. They were both medium height with the serious weightlifters' physique and posture. Dark uniforms, earpieces, too-tidy hair. Holstered side arms, but I couldn't identify the model from this angle.

They'd been watching the camera crews and the riot police with bored expressions, but once I triggered the automatic glass doors on my way in, they'd changed their gaze to me. Now they weren't bored, they were tense.

‘Is it always like this?' I nodded over my shoulder. I had to find a way to talk myself inside the building.

The male guard answered, ‘Yeah. Sometimes.' He was politely neutral. He didn't seem particularly shocked, or impressed by the riot, and he wasn't interested in talking about it.

Okay. Try again. I'd hoped a focus on an outside drama could help me engage with them, but maybe that was not the hook I needed. Often people will only treat you like a human being when you make them see you as one, otherwise you're just a part of a job description. And I knew that their job was to get rid of people just like me.

My eyes dropped to his nametag. Todd. I wouldn't use his name because that would be too smarmy for words. Plus there is nothing like using the first name from a badge to remind that person of their position, and I didn't want him thinking like a security guard now.

Todd had stopped perusing me and was back to checking out the police operation over at the Iseum. I turned so I was watching it with him. Maybe some professional banter would work. It was certainly an eyeful. Screaming protesters hanging onto the edge of the crater wall while helmeted officers prised their fingers open; Isiacs in dirty white robes slashed with red paint, being carried out on stretchers with oxygen masks over their faces.

‘The San Francisco police look like they know how to handle the situation,' I commented, ‘they got the gas masks out pretty quickly and they're evacuating the area. What do you reckon?' Security personnel always have a position on the local police. Sometimes they're friendly, more often they're not. The feeling is usually mutual.

He scoffed. ‘They should, they've practised it often enough. This is the third time this month they've had to do this.'

Third time this month? I kept watching across the road, but silently wondered why, given that, there weren't more security staff on duty here. Just these two
and the security system itself looked old. Just the barrier and a metal-detector gate? Wollongong Family Law Court was better guarded than this!

It was just a short walk across the road from the demonstrators, and what if they decided to hole-up in here? Maybe the NTA had other strategies in place. I stopped myself from looking up and around for surveillance cameras. The two guards wouldn't take it as a friendly move.

Now that I'd had time to take everything in I realised that something else wasn't right. The foyer itself was run-down, nothing like what I'd expected in such a world-famous facility. The floor was expensive marble but it was chipped in places and the guards' chairs, behind the barrier, were hardened plastic.

The NTA building must date back roughly to the middle of the last century but somewhere between then and now they'd fallen on hard times. What could have happened?

Then I realised the female guard, Sara, was staring at me. Hard. She'd put herself in my peripheral vision and was waiting for me to notice. As I met her glare she tilted her head to one side and crossed her arms.

Instead of saying, ‘Get the fuck outta my building,' she said, ‘Can I help you?' But her tone made it the same sentence.

She was trying to get a rise out of me, so I went for concisely cool. ‘I'm here to see Chief Marshal Mertling.'

While Sara stood there eyeballing me, Todd trotted over to check a list on their desk computer. He said, ‘Name?'

I moved closer to the desk to focus on Todd. It was clear that of the two guards he was the one who was going to get me into the building.

‘Jarratt. Kannon Jarratt. But I don't have an appointment yet.'

Sara edged herself back into my eye line. ‘I don't care who you are, or why you're here. No appointment,' she gave me the stare, ‘you don't get past this floor.'

‘The stare' doesn't work on me. When I didn't respond in the desired way she uncrossed her arms, one hand dropping down, close to her holster. She even flexed her fingers like a gunfighter. The cliché was too much. I just managed to stop a smile reaching my lips, but she'd seen it hit my eyes. Now she really wanted to make me grovel. She reached for the snap on the holster.

Todd stepped in between us, giving his partner the ‘what are you doing?' face. She dropped her hand and stepped back, shaking her head as though to clear it.

I'd really spooked her. Usually I just had that effect on alpha men. Or rather, ones who thought they fitted that stereotype. Yuki said I emanated a single-minded determination that some men took as a challenge. Des said I'd grown into a wolf in lamb's clothing and sometimes the teeth showed through. When I'd questioned the lamb's clothing bit he'd just laughed and refused to answer.

While Sara struggled to pin a professional set to her expression, Todd started shuffling around in a desk drawer. After a minute he handed me a sheet of paper, saying, ‘We can't let you through if you don't have an appointment, but you can use this contact list to try and make one.'

Now Sara glared at him. He ignored her and tapped one of the bottom numbers. ‘Try this one first. Assistant to the Public Relations Manager. She'll help you if she can. If she can't, she'll pass you on to someone who will.'

I thanked him and once again pushed my way out and past the cameras blocking the pavement. There was a public phone in the next block. I'd spotted it on my way across the park. Once there, it took me ten minutes to get hold of the right person and another twenty minutes to convince her to at least get me an appointment with someone. Anyone. When pressed for a reason I said I was researching the connection between an Australian cold case and the kidnapping of Celeste Dupree. I didn't want to announce I was Victoria's long-lost daughter — I knew that wouldn't be taken seriously — but I also wanted to keep lying to a minimum. If I got in and then completely changed my story I'd lose all credibility.

She didn't sound that surprised and said they regularly received queries about Celeste from the media. She didn't even ask about the Australian case, just took it for granted that I'd be interested in a possible connection to a famous US kidnapping. Once it was clear to her that — yes, I understood I couldn't see Marshal Dupree at all. And — yes, I understood that it was virtually impossible to get in to see Chief Marshal Mertling, then, finally, she set up something with an office administrator. I could talk to him, and if he agreed, an appointment with Mertling would be arranged. Maybe later this year, or next, she wasn't sure. I was told to come up right away.

This time Todd beckoned me through the scanner, searched my bag and coat, then printed out a visitor's card to clip on my shirt collar. Then he called for a guard to come to the foyer and escort me upstairs. While this was going on, Sara stood there trying to pretend we'd never locked eyes before.

The second-floor receptionist's desk was just outside the lift. She politely asked me to take a seat
while she made a phone call. Inside, the NTA was just as disappointing as the foyer. The paint was discoloured and chipped in places, there were filing cabinets spilling into the reception area and everyone who passed looked hassled and harried. Not exactly the gleaming, sci-fi-style NTA I'd envisaged.

After a few minutes the receptionist took me through into a small office just down the hall from the lifts. Inside, a short, slim man in his early thirties sat behind a heavily laden desk. The room needed a paint job, there were obvious scuff marks on the carpet near the door and the fluorescent light above his head had one tube out. Dingy.

He looked stressed, but was still polite enough to give me a pleasant smile when he introduced himself. ‘Constan Valdestiou.' He pronounced it with, what I guess they call a mid-Atlantic accent. It was unmistakably American, but smooth, even. ‘Please take a seat.' He indicated the chair opposite.

I put out my hand. ‘Kannon Jarratt. Thank you very much for making time to see me.'

He had a good handshake: firm, professional. I sat.

‘Now, Ms Jarratt, I believe you just want to make an appointment …' He consulted the note the receptionist had handed him, ‘to see Chief Marshal Mertling?' He shot me a sharp look. ‘Can you tell me what it's concerning?' His tone indicated it wasn't going to happen soon, if at all.

‘Actually, I need to see either Chief Mertling, or Marshal Dupree.' I was guessing I'd have to see Mertling first, in order to get access to Victoria when she arrived tonight. From all I'd gathered so far, he was the one who really decided what happened, or didn't happen, here.

‘I can tell you now you certainly won't be able to see
Marshal Dupree.' He was losing patience fast. ‘But to make appointments to see either one of those people you still need to give me the details.'

‘All right.' This was the hard part. ‘I need to speak to them about the Celeste Dupree case.'

Valdestiou gazed at me blankly for a moment, then his expression snapped back into deep annoyance. ‘It's that news story, isn't it? They dredged up Celeste again. Every damned time the media runs the story, someone turns up and claims they're Celeste.'

I gulped. Just how many people must have come forward in the past?

He caught my stunned expression and said, ‘It's been a real problem for us.' He qualified that, ‘And for Marshal Dupree, of course.'

I tried to think, but couldn't. Was I one of those deluded people?

He considered me curiously. ‘Could you please explain exactly what is your interest in this case? You're a reporter, aren't you? Or was it a writer?' He searched the note again for more details.

How to answer? Did I go home with my tail between my legs, or tell him I was another one of the loonies he just mentioned?

‘No. I'm not a writer.' I swallowed my doubts and plunged in. ‘I'm here because there's a chance that Celeste's case is linked to my past.'

He didn't bother to hide his disbelief. ‘Oh, really?' He eyed the doorway, wanting me through it. ‘In what way?'

‘A detective who worked on my case believes I could be Celeste.'

‘Your case?' Valdestiou just managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes. ‘Look, Ms …' He stopped. That was a bad sign. He'd remembered my
name until he started to think I was just another idiot he had to deal with.

‘Jarratt. Kannon Jarratt.'

‘Look, Ms Jarratt. The Dupree case is closed. And anyway it's a police matter, not an NTA problem. You need to contact them. Our public relations office has a press kit on this, with our official statement in it, so I suggest you contact them.' He rose, indicating my time was up.

I leant back in my chair. ‘The Australian police are now in the process of contacting the San Francisco PD. And through them, Marshal Dupree.'

‘So now you're a police officer? And you're here on official business?' So much for politeness. Since I'd decided to push he was going to as well.

‘No.' I kept my reply polite. ‘Obviously not. But the Australian police will have to go through channels first, and it'll take some time. That is why I'm here, asking for myself.'

He started to edge towards the door. ‘I'm sorry but the NTA can't help you. As I said, it's a local police matter.'

I had to get him back in the chair, or he'd have me thrown out of the building and never admitted again. There was only one way to play this. I had to get him on my side as quickly as possible.

‘Do you know Marshal Dupree? Have you had much to do with her?' I asked, deadly earnest.

‘Of course.' He was affronted.

I leant in. ‘Well don't you care that her daughter, missing for twenty years, may have finally found a way home?'

Valdestiou grunted his disbelief, then took a closer look at my face. I was telling him my truth. He screwed up his forehead, as though trying to squeeze out a
burgeoning headache. ‘Okay,' he said, using a gentler tone. ‘I can see that you believe this is a real possibility, but you can't be her daughter.'

‘Why not? They never found her body.' I wanted specific reasons before he was going to get me out of this office chair. ‘Did they?'

He frowned. Then said with reluctance, ‘No. But there was no way that her kidnappers would've let Celeste live. Why would they? She could be used to identify them. To trace them.'

‘But if they never found her body …'

‘You're English, aren't you? What, you've lived there all your life?'

‘But …'

‘How could that possibly fit in?'

‘Look, I'm Australian, not English. And no, I don't know how it fits in. I'm here because I need some answers, too.' I rubbed my eyes, trying to push away the tiredness.

A flicker of real concern crossed his face.

‘At least listen to my story. I've come straight from the airport. And believe me, I wouldn't be here if I didn't think there was a good chance I'm right. Please. I need to know. If I'm wrong I'll leave, but hear my story first.'

He sighed faintly, checked his watch, and sat down again. ‘Okay, I can spare you five minutes. But that's it. I'm sorry but then you have to go.' He searched my face for compliance. ‘Agreed?'

‘Okay.' I was starting to like this man. He didn't have to give me his time — but he had anyway.