The Delta Chain (23 page)

‘I’d say so. And potentially a very big
story.’

‘But where’s the point in sending just a page
of incomplete data to a whole bunch of other organisations?’

‘This saboteur doesn’t seem interested in
revealing the full data, or maybe they’re not yet able to do so.
But they’re certainly sending a message that the Institute has a
problem, an in-house leak.’

‘Which could seriously affect both its
reputation and funding.’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you contacted this Westmeyer yet?’

‘That’s my next move, once I’ve confirmed
with the other numbers on this transmission report that they’ve
received the fax.’

Maxwell cupped his chin in his hands, gazing
momentarily at the ceiling. ‘I’ll phone this Westmeyer, get his
initial comments and get him to agree to speaking with you, on
site. It will be in his own best interests to have us on side, to
lead the reporting in his favour. You hop a plane to this
place…’

‘Northern Rocks.’

‘Right. There’s a reporter there, a Melanie
Cail, who’s under consideration for a position with us. She can
fill you in on local colour, that sort of thing. But if we’re
really going to make this a big story, we need some dirt on why
this Institute’s got a saboteur problem.’

‘Looking forward to it,’ Coltrane said with a
grin.

Walter knew this was the last time he would
venture into the Marrakai flood plains. Even here, before the
Adelaide River had reached into that steamy heart of the northern
wilderness, the surroundings were charging his memory, filling his
mind with images of Greg’s horrific death. For Walter, that
landscape – the dense mangroves, water holes and pockets of creek
dotting the flat marshes; the humidity; the vibrant wall of bird
chatter from distant trees – would forever be a place of
nightmares.

One last time. For my friend
…

They had been hiking all day. Walter was
impressed by Kate’s stamina and her determination to keep going,
but on a few occasions they’d stopped for up to twenty minutes
while Kate lay panting, catching breath, gulping down water. Sweat
covered her lithe body like a liquid stocking, drenching her hair
and matting it to her scalp. But she would not give up, or
complain, and Walter saw in her the stubborn tomboy Greg had once
described.

Late afternoon. From a vantage point that
gave him a long view of the river Walter scanned the horizon with
powerful binoculars. Against the sky a flock of birds formed a
moving pattern over twisting columns of cloud. There was nothing to
suggest even the existence of the human race. And yet it was out
here that Walter had witnessed the worst possible example of Man’s
inhumanity to Man and the menacing images filled his mind once
again.

Westmeyer was seething as he stormed into the
boardroom, slamming the door behind him. ‘I’ve just got off the
phone to the editor of the Brisbane City Chronicle,’ he said to the
gathering of Donnelly, Hunter and Collosimo. ‘His science reporter
will be here in the morning and they’re pressing me to meet with
him and discuss our information leak. And I’ve got a message to
call that damn woman reporter on the local Express.’

At the mention of that, Jackson Donnelly
flashed a dark look at Stephen Hunter.

‘What’s this all about, William?’ Hunter
asked.

‘It’s about this!’ Westmeyer slapped his copy
of the fax down on the shiny mahogany table. ‘I’ve had calls this
morning from the CSIRO and the Uni of Sydney, as well as the media.
More than twenty major companies or institutions nationally
received this yesterday, sent from various public fax machines in
Brisbane.’

Hunter picked up the fax, his eyes widening
as he recognised the data.

‘Someone is playing industrial saboteur,’
Westmeyer said. ‘Apparently with the simple intention of making us
look like damn fools to the outside world.’

Collosimo screwed up his face in total
bewilderment. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a thing.
Where’s the gain for someone in doing that?’

‘One possibility,’ Westmeyer answered, ‘is
that someone from Stephen’s lab has some reason to hold a
grudge-’

‘No one in my lab has a grudge,’ Hunter
countered, ‘and besides, this could have been done by anyone in the
Institute that’s devious enough to access the data. Perhaps this
Reardon guy from A.B.C.S. can help us find out how they did
it.’

‘We’ve had an odd history with A.B.C.S.,’
Collosimo pointed out. ‘The first freelance consultant from there
dies on us, the second has to run off suddenly when her brother
dies, we’ve had this ongoing virus that can’t be fixed, now their
boss is here troubleshooting just as we get a ridiculous act of
sabotage. Maybe we should be taking a good hard look at
A.B.C.S.’

‘I’ve known Reardon for years,’ Westmeyer
said, ‘and I’ve always found him to be a straight shooter. Besides,
we’re
his
clients. He’s nothing to gain from a pathetic act
like this.’

‘There is another possibility.’ Jackson
Donnelly, silent until now, spoke up from the far end of the table.
The others turned to him expectantly. ‘It strikes me this makes a
pretty good story for the local media. This reporter that left a
message, William, I presume it was Melanie Cail?’

‘Of course it was.’

Donnelly noticed Hunter stiffen at the
mention of Melanie’s name.

‘I heard the mayor was being hassled by the
very same Ms. Cail, about the local drowning victim, last week. She
published an article this morning suggesting a link between that
and another case. No wonder the mayor was agitated, with the
tourist trade and the upcoming festival at risk of being affected
by a media-induced panic.’

‘Where are you headed with this, Jackson?’
Hunter’s question revealed his irritation.

‘Seems she’s one for stirring up juicy
stories. Could she be the culprit, creating a sensational news
story for herself?’

‘How would this Melanie Cail have access to
our data?’ Westmeyer wanted to know.

‘Haven’t I mentioned to you that Stephen has
been seeing Ms. Cail socially, that she often stays over at his
apartment-’

‘You’re way out of line on this, Jackson,’
Hunter cut in.

‘You take your laptop to and from the lab,
don’t you? And you’d have printouts at your apartment?’

‘I’m the senior researcher with this
facility, the team leader on Delta, of course I work from home.
We’re not nine to fivers -’

‘I’m not suggesting you are.’

‘And my private life, who I see, who I screw,
is my business and my business alone-’

‘Not when it conflicts with Institute
security!’ Donnelly shouted him down, his contempt obvious.

‘That’s enough from the both of you,’
Westmeyer said, remaining calm. ‘Stephen, I understand this isn’t
easy for you, particularly if you have strong feelings for this
young woman, but let’s look at this quietly and logically. She’s a
journalist, and an ambitious one. Is it possible she’s been able to
get hold of this information from your apartment without your
knowledge?’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Hunter lied. He’d no sooner
answered the question before rearing on Donnelly again, stabbing at
the air, voice raised. ‘And what gives you the right, you pervert,
to go spying on me in my own time?’

‘Grow up, Stephen. This is an internationally
renowned centre with blue chip clients, working on highly sensitive
experiments. We don’t have spiky topped steel fences or armed
sentries, we’re low-key in that regard because we keep quiet and
we’re in quiet surroundings. But Tony and his team keep an eagle
eye on everything. As a matter of routine we conduct random watches
on all staff, management included, and their associations with
others.’

Collosimo squirmed as Hunter glared at him.
‘Tony, you’re in on this?’

‘It’s nothing like you’re imagining,’
Collosimo replied. ‘We conduct occasional, random surveillance on
what our staff do, where they go, whom they meet, just to keep
abreast of anything out-of-the-ordinary. And to date, all’s been
fine.’

Still fuming, Hunter turned to Westmeyer.
‘What the hell, William, this is no way to run a scientific
research venture, this is how the C.I. fucking A. go about
things…’

‘Don’t overreact, I don’t want you getting
upset any further. This isn’t about you, it isn’t personal. We
simply need to find out how and why this massive leak occurred. Let
me remind everyone, this will be reported overseas, focusing
unwanted attention on us and our work here, not to mention sending
alarm signals to investors. And the last thing any of us wants is
Logan Asquith on the scene, breathing down our necks.’

Hunter’s right forefinger stabbed the air,
again in the direction of Donnelly. ‘I don’t like his
attitude.’

‘I know you two rub each other the wrong way.
But, Stephen, Jackson’s looking out for
all
our
interests-’

‘I don’t need you to speak for me, William.’
It was uncharacteristic for Donnelly’s tone to be icy with his
employer. They
were
an unlikely duo, Hunter thought,
recalling that Kate Kovacs had made that observation during the
brief period she and Hunter dated.

‘Perhaps we should all retreat to our
corners, simmer down and reconvene later,’ Collosimo suggested.

‘We’ll meet here again at eight sharp
tomorrow morning,’ Westmeyer ordered, ‘Jackson, Tony, I want you
both to come equipped with suggestions on how we contain the
situation and expose our mole, if I may borrow such a term.’ There
was no laughter. ‘Stephen, I’d like you to think about whether
there’s any way, intentional or otherwise, one of the lab teams
could have compromised access to our data.’

Westmeyer was the first to stride out of the
boardroom, or the ‘war room’ as it was sometimes called. His anger
had subsided but in its place was a deep concern: there would be no
way of keeping this from Logan Asquith. He didn’t want Asquith
interfering with him again. He was determined to make sure that
didn’t happen.

Brian Markham had arranged to meet again with
Adam, later that afternoon, in Markham’s office.

‘I’ve given a lot of thought to the issue of
that boat’s ownership,’ Markham said. ‘No doubt you’ve done the
same?’

‘I have. But tell me your thoughts.’

‘In light of Westmeyer’s ownership of the
boat I thought back over your investigation, of that reporter
jumping on the bandwagon, and how the mayor called you and Kirby
in, obsessing about any news stories.’

‘Yes…’

‘The mayor was instrumental in persuading
Westmeyer to choose our town for his institute and has been buddies
with him ever since. If Westmeyer’s boat was somehow involved with
that drowning, what if Bingham knew? Could he have been the one
your anonymous caller overheard talking with Westmeyer?’

‘I had the same thought,’ said Adam.

A knowing smile crossed Markham’s tired
features. ‘I wondered whether my little theory was simply
outlandish. You’re not reacting as though it is.’

‘If there’s a connection between Westmeyer
and the drowning, then there’s no potential link that’s too far
fetched. And there’s possibly something else linking Bingham with
all this.’

‘Now you really have my attention.’

Adam told Markham about Kate’s intention to
obtain copies of the council approved plans for the Institute, the
same plans Rhonda Lagan had found suspicious. ‘I don’t know that
there’s anything weird about the plans, haven’t seen them, but
Bingham would’ve overseen their approval.’

‘True,’ said Markham. ‘In fact, I know that
he rushed them through. He saw it as a major coup for the town,
getting Westmeyer to choose us for the Institute site.’ He leaned
forward intensely. ‘We need to see those design plans.’

‘Kate had already organised to get a copy of
those plans.’

‘When is she back from Sydney?’

‘That’s just it. Kate left Sydney two days
ago and I haven’t been able to contact her. I don’t know where she
is, but I’m beginning to think…’ his eyes met Markham’s, and the
coroner saw the growing alarm there, ‘…that she’s up to
something.’

‘So what’s next?’

‘Some digging on Westmeyer and Bingham for
one thing. I’ve already filled O’Malley in on the anonymous call,
the boat’s ownership and the diary entry about the design plans.
It’s a task force matter now. O’Malley’s people are compiling a
profile on Westmeyer. I’d say we need to organise one on our mayor
as well.’

Harold Letterfield scanned his appointments
diary. The four ‘o’clock appointment, which he’d absently agreed to
at an earlier time, was a puzzling one. An American freelance
journalist, Hank Mendelsohn, and an American woman, Jean Farrow,
were visiting from Florida. Letterfield’s secretary led them into
the office and they settled in the visitor’s chairs as
introductions were made.

‘So how long have you been in Australia?’
Letterfield asked.

‘Arrived in Brisbane yesterday and in
Settler’s Gorge just a few hours ago,’ Hank said, ‘so if we’re
glaring at you with glazed expressions it’s just the jet lag.’

Letterfield smiled. ‘I understand.’

‘We’re tired and I’m sure you’re a busy man
so I’ll come straight to the point.’ Hank removed a series of
enlarged photographs from an envelope under his arm and placed them
on Letterfield’s desk. ‘The boat pictured here, matches the
descriptions you’ve been given of a crocodile poachers’ boat on the
Adelaide River.’

Letterfield studied the photographs. ‘Where
did you get these, Mr. Mendelsohn?’ He was intrigued but remained
cautious.

‘Please, the name’s Hank. These photos were
taken by Jean’s late son, Kevin Farrow. He was flying over the
Florida Everglades, investigating similar sightings to the ones
you’ve had here. I’m afraid Kevin was killed by these hunters in
the same fashion your ranger, Greg Kovacs, died. There’s no doubt
in my mind this is the same gang. They were operating in the
Everglades around two years ago. Media coverage and the intensive
search for them, seems to have forced them underground. I believe
they laid low for a while, then regrouped and restarted their
operation here. I might add this region would suit them much better
– it’s more remote, and heavily populated by the reptiles they’re
after.’