Mrs Parsons looked puzzled. ‘What about Jesus?’ she said.
‘He’s coming back,’ said Agent Niland. ‘Here. Have a
Watchtower.
’
‘Keep watching the skies,’ said Agent Coleborne.
Leaving Mrs Parsons on her front porch with an old
Watchtower
, the three agents hurried back through the crowd. They stopped round the corner, where Agent Moharic took out his cellphone and stabbed at the buttons.
‘Sierota,’ came a dull voice at the other end.
‘We’ve struck pay dirt. Come and pick us up.’
‘Where are you?’
‘On the corner of Fenton Avenue,’ said Agent Moharic.
‘I’ll be there in ten.’
A hundred metres from Bible Bungalow, Officers Ryman and Cozens were parked in the white Commodore, casually dressed and sipping on cartons of fruit juice with Cozens behind the wheel. After an easy drive up from Sydney, they’d booked into their motel, now with their weapons and a change of clothes in the boot, they were waiting for Sierota and his away team to make an appearance.
‘Good old Zimmer Sierota,’ said Craig Cozens. ‘Remember his last brilliant effort? He thought he’d uncovered an Al Qaeda kingpin. And the bloke turned out to be a Maltese greengrocer.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Officer Ryman. ‘If Blessing hadn’t put his head in, the poor bastard would still be in Guantanamo Bay.’
‘And when’s he going to wake up that we’re onto his Mormon caper? Running round with their briefcases in their short-sleeved shirts. They look like a bunch of Bulgarian insurance salesmen.’
‘Easy-to-spot insurance salesmen,’ said Kerrie.
‘Yeah. That’s one good thing,’ chuckled Craig.
Kerrie looked thoughtful and nodded to the car radio. ‘You know, Craig, I’ve been thinking. That car getting blown up last night. It might only be a coincidence. But Sierota’s team arrives in town and that happens. What do you reckon?’
‘Yes. It’s a thought, all right,’ agreed Officer Cozens. He suddenly stiffened. ‘Shit! Here they are.’
Zimmer Sierota swung the Cherokee into the driveway and the agents drove into the garage. The door swung down behind them and the away team quickly followed Sierota into the loungeroom, where Agent Niland took the camera from his briefcase and plugged it into the computer. Before long the agents were grouped around, each studying a copy of Mick and Jesse’s photo.
‘So that’s what the sonofabitch looks like,’ scowled Sierota.
‘His girl’s got a nice tight little ass,’ said Agent Coleborne. ‘But she sure ain’t the prom queen.’
‘I dig the old Buick,’ said Agent Niland.
‘If that’s what they’re driving to Muswellbrook in,’ said Agent Moharic, ‘they shouldn’t be hard to find.’ He turned to Sierota. ‘Okay, Zim. What do you want us to do?’
‘Take the wagon and get moving ASAP. I’m going to stay here. When you find Vincent, pick a
quiet spot and shoot both him and his girl. Then rob them and vandalise the vehicle. Make it look like some nutter did it out of spite. As soon as you’ve done that, get back here pronto. Then you’re flying straight back to DC.’
‘Zim,’ hesitated Agent Niland. ‘I don’t want to sound out of line here, but why don’t you want us to follow Vincent and find this thing he’s looking for? If he is looking for it…whatever it is?’
‘Yeah. I have to admit, boss,’ said Agent Coleborne, ‘I’m kinda curious too.’
Sierota’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘Now listen up, all of you. No one knows for sure what this thing is or what it can do. So the powers that be want it left where it is and forgotten. And that’s all I’m saying on the matter. Okay?’
‘If you say so, boss,’ shrugged Agent Niland.
‘All right, gentlemen,’ said Sierota, clapping his hands together. ‘Get going. Agent Moharic, you can drive.’
Never wanting to push the old Buick too much at the best of times, Mick was cruising along well within the speed limit and enjoying the drive. Now and again he’d get stuck behind a horse trailer or a road train. But he was quite happy just to sit there returning the smiles from the passing
cars till he’d get a decent chance to overtake. Sitting in the back, either studying Tesla’s diary or reading about him, Jesse was enjoying the trip, too. It was a beautiful day outside, she was extremely comfortable, Mick was playing their favourite CDs and she’d made a pact with him to keep their mobile phones off so they could concentrate on the job ahead. Every now and again Jesse would look up, catch Mick’s eye in the rear-vision mirror, and read him something new she’d discovered about Nikola Tesla.
‘Hey Mick. Did you know that in 1898, Tesla tested an electromechanical oscillator in his New York loft at 46 East Houston Street? It was no bigger than a chocolate box. But the vibrations travelled down an iron pillar in his loft and he shook and shattered windows all over Manhattan. People started running out onto the streets thinking it was an earthquake.’
‘Fair dinkum.’
‘The police came and he had to smash it with a sledgehammer. He told reporters that if he wanted to he could destroy the Brooklyn Bridge in minutes.’
‘Shit.’
More music played and they were on the other side of Branxton.
‘Hey Mick. You know that Tunguska explosion I told you about?’
‘Yeah.’
‘A scientist named Oliver Nichelson said, “Historical facts point to the possibility that this event was caused by the test firing of Tesla’s energy weapon.” Tesla alluded to this in his diary. So it looks like it was him all right.’
‘Bloody hell!’
The kilometres went by and they were through Singleton.
‘Hey Mick. Did you know, Gustav Hertz, the Nobel prize-winner and the man units of frequency are named after, reckoned electromagnetic waves propagated in straight lines and would be limited by the curvature of the earth. But Tesla discovered the earth was a good conductor and was literally alive with electrical vibrations and he could send messages anywhere. Including Mars. And he intended to.’
‘Mars?’
‘Yeah. There’s this weird connection between Marconi, Tesla and Mars. There’s a train of thought believes they went there in some spacecraft they collaborated on.’
‘Crikey!’
‘There’s another train of thought believes Tesla
invented a time machine, faked his own death, and disappeared into the future. He was often referred to as a man out of time.’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ said Mick.
Gretchen Wilson and a chorus of a hundred women screaming ‘Hell Yeah!’ had just finished blasting through ‘Red Neck Woman’ and Singleton was well behind them as they cruised along the highway.
‘Hey Mick. What about this?’ said Jesse. ‘In 1916 Tesla invented a small mechanical oscillator which compressed air into liquid oxygen. And he said if magnets were attached to the oscillating pistons, it was a power system vastly superior and infinitely more environmentally friendly than gasoline engines. He took a patent out and it was never heard of again.’
Mick caught Jesse’s eye in the rear-vision mirror. ‘Oz. Do I detect another conspiracy theory raising its head here?’
‘Conspiracy theory? Are you kidding? Exxon Mobil made a profit of forty-eight point nine billion dollars this year. That’s billion, Mick. Not bloody million. In one year. Hey. How much did it cost you to fill the tank last time?’
Mick shook his head. ‘Don’t ask me that, Oz. It still hurts.’
‘Yeah. So do you think the oil companies would want to see Tesla’s mechanical oscillator on the market?’
‘Probably not.’
‘And that dopey fat Sydney columnist still says the Yanks didn’t invade Iraq because it’s got a third of the world’s oil,’ scoffed Jesse. ‘You reckon good ol’ Dubya would have invaded Iraq if Saddam Hussein was sitting on a third of the world’s orange juice? Piss off.’
‘Yeah. Well, you know what the fat heap’s like,’ said Mick. ‘He even sided with the Japanese whaling industry against Greenpeace.’
Mick went silent. So did Jesse. Then she came to life again.
‘Shit, Mick. In 1894 Tesla took out a patent—US Patent 514,170—for an electro-dynamic induction lamp. A light bulb far in advance of anything currently available. And it’s still not in use. In 1896 he took out US Patent 568,177 for an ozone generator. Ozone generators are banned for medical use in the US. Yet doctors all round the world claim ozone therapy can cure cancer and AIDS. And in 1916 Tesla took out US Patent 1,329,559 for a bladeless turbine that can power speed boats, hovercrafts, water pumps, whatever. It’s said to be the world’s most efficient engine.
Twenty times more efficient than a conventional turbine. And it’s still not in use.’
‘Tesla patented all these things?’ said Mick.
‘Yeah. And the rest.’ Jesse threw her hands up in the air. ‘Honestly. I don’t believe it.’
Jesse put down her research on Nikola Tesla and picked up his diary. Mick motored leisurely on, listening to the stereo. Before long, they’d gone past Lake Liddell on the right and the huge power stations on the left. Mick was watching the clouds of steam rising from the power stations, blending against the clouds drifting over the surrounding ranges, when a sign came into view on the side of the road.
MUSWELLBROOK. BURSTING WITH POWER.
Further along, houses, car dealers and the ubiquitous McDonald’s appeared. Mick went right at a set of lights back from a Workers Club and just as the Warren Brothers finished funkifying the old ZZ Top song ‘Cheap Sunglasses,’ Mick drove under the railway bridge at the start of Muswellbrook’s main street.
‘Hey Oz,’ said Mick. ‘Here we are, mate. Beautiful downtown Muswellbrook.’
Jesse looked up from what she was reading. ‘Hello. We are too.’ She caught Mick’s eye in the rear-vision mirror. ‘Are you going to do a victory
lap, and let them know Mick Vincent and his throbbing yellow straight eight’s in town?’
Mick grinned back at Jesse. ‘What do you reckon?’
For a Friday, traffic and pedestrians were light. Mick stopped at a roundabout near a brightly painted hotel on the left, before following Bridge Street as it rose past a Chinese restaurant and various other shops set back from trees spaced along the footpath. They went through a set of lights and as they drove past a car dealership, Jesse tapped Mick on the shoulder.
‘Hey, Mick. There’s the library.’
Mick noticed a brick and glass building with a courtyard full of trees sitting next to an old two-storey sandstone building. ‘Looks nice,’ he said as it went by.
They cruised past more shops and buildings and a statue of a blue heeler dog, then after roughly a kilometre the road ended at a view over the plains and the surrounding mountain ranges. Mick did a U-turn at a sign pointing to Manning Street, then came back down the opposite side of the road.
There was another car dealership, a bikie clubhouse, the RSL with the mandatory artillery piece out the front, then a couple of motels
followed by shops all the way down to the post office, courthouse and the local art gallery. Another road went left at the roundabout, past a war memorial and a small park adjacent to the railway station. Mick pulled up near the art gallery.
‘Well. What do you reckon, Oz?’ he said.
‘Wow,’ said Jesse. ‘Rome, Paris, New York. Muswellbrook. This place has got it all.’
‘Yep. It’s a metropolis all right.’
‘Where are we going to stay? Those motels looked all right.’
Mick shook his head. ‘No. I stayed there once. They’re all right. But the trucks going past at night get a bit punishing.’ He pointed to the left. ‘There’s a pub round the corner. I know the manager and it’ll be a lot quieter. We’ll book in there.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ smiled Jesse. ‘Lead the way, oh light of my life.’
Around the corner, the road split up on the left to a small hotel called the Criterion. Mick kept going, past a chiropractor on a corner, the police station, ambulance and fire station, before he pulled up outside the Cosmopolitan Hotel, opposite the railway station.
Set behind a row of trees, the Cosmopolitan was a typical old whitewashed country hotel with an upstairs verandah. Darkened plate-glass
windows faced the street and a glass door with the pub’s rules written on it led inside. Chalked on the bistro signboard was the name of the band appearing on Saturday night: Powersnake. A sign across the hotel awning read:
ACCOMMODATION.
‘Looks all right, I suppose,’ remarked Jesse.
‘I’m sure it is. Come on. Let’s see if we can find Og.’
‘Og?’
‘Yeah, Peter O’Grady. The manager. His family knew my Aunt Nina.’
They got out of the Buick and walked across the footpath. Mick pushed the hotel door open and they stepped into a large bar area scattered with stools and tables sitting on a well-worn blue carpet. On the left was a room full of pool tables and poker machines and away to the right was a dancefloor. The bar faced both the street and a TV hanging from the ceiling, beneath which half-a-dozen punters were hunched over their beers watching the races through lingering clouds of cigarette smoke. A solid man in a dark blue polo shirt with spiky dark hair and a flattened nose was standing behind the bar writing something in a ledger. He looked up when the door opened and a pleasant smile spread across his beefy face.
‘Mick Vincent,’ he said. ‘How are you, mate?’
‘I’m all right, Og,’ replied Mick, walking up to the bar and shaking the publican’s hand. ‘How’s yourself?’
‘Good.’ The publican nodded to the door. ‘I see you’ve still got the old Buick.’
‘I sure have,’ smiled Mick. He turned to Jesse. ‘Pete. This is my girlfriend, Jesse.’
‘Hello, Jesse.’ Pete shook Jesse’s hand and exchanged pleasantries before returning to Mick. ‘So what brings you to Muswellbrook, Mick?’
‘What brings me to Muswellbrook?’ Mick turned to Jesse. ‘You tell him, Oz.’
Jesse looked at the publican for a second. ‘I’m here…researching a book,’ she said.
‘Fair dinkum?’ said the publican. ‘What about?’
‘About…miners. Back in the old days.’
‘What about putting me in it?’ smiled the publican. ‘I used to be a miner. But it wasn’t back in the old days.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ smiled Jesse, giving Mick the nod to change the subject.
‘Og. Can we get a room for the night?’ asked Mick. ‘Maybe two or three nights. Depending how we go.’