CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next morning, after breakfast, Gary went downstairs and climbed into his battered white van, which had been modified for surveillance. The back window was one-way glass. Inside was a stack of fake magnetic signs for different businesses and a rack of clothes, so he could quickly change his appearance. In a metal trunk was state-of-the-art surveillance equipment: parabolic mikes, cameras, binoculars, video cameras and a two-way radio. There was also a low-tech plastic bottle, in case nature called.
Today, the sign on the side said: 'Tip-Top Electrical Repairs'. He drove south and reached Pastor McKenzie's home just before seven o'clock. After parking about a hundred metres away, he climbed into the back and sat on a plastic chair, watching the home through the back window. A luffing sea breeze gave the air a salty tang.
At about eight o'clock, the garage door rolled up and a Honda hatchback drove out. The driver was a woman in her mid-thirties with straight blonde hair. A boy aged about ten and a girl a little younger, both in school uniforms, sat in the back.
The car drove past Gary and disappeared. He waited for the Pastor to leave in his SUV. However, to his surprise, about half-an-hour later, a small Lexus drove up the road and turned into the driveway. Gary lifted his binoculars and saw a young woman in her early twenties behind the wheel. Definitely, the bob-haired singer he saw prancing up and down on the stage during the Sunday service. She used a remote control to raise the roller door and drove into the garage. The door closed behind her.
"Well, well, well," Gary said to himself. Maybe she turned up at the Pastor's house, soon after his wife left, for voice coaching or spiritual guidance. Or maybe not.
While waiting, Gary turned on the radio and listened to a shock-jock spend half an hour screaming about the decline in civility because someone cut him off in the traffic that morning. He was in such a bad mood that he insulted all his callers, even those who agreed with him.
After an hour, the singer drove out of the garage. As she did, Gary used a camera with a big telephoto lens to photograph her with the house in the background. If necessary, he would use the photos to blackmail the Pastor into revealing where Patrick Arnott was hiding. They would make him sing like a bird.
The singer drove back the way she came. Fifteen minutes later, the Pastor's SUV emerged from the garage and headed in the same direction. Gary got behind the wheel of his van, turned on the laptop to confirm the tracker was still operating and followed at a discreet distance.
The Pastor drove back towards the city centre. However, to Gary's surprise, after about ten kilometres, he veered west and entered the suburb of Alexandria, just north of the airport. After turning several times, the Pastor drove into a wide street lined with workman's cottages and parked about half-way along. He got out, strolled up to the front door of a semi-detached cottage and knocked on the front door. Gary drove past, hoping the occupant would open the door before he was out of eyeshot. No such luck.
He parked about fifty metres down the road and climbed into the back of the van, where he sat on the plastic seat and peered through the rear window with binoculars. The Pastor had disappeared into the house. Who was he visiting? A sick member of his congregation? Another mistress? Patrick Arnott?
Gary doubted it was Arnott. He couldn't be that lucky. So he got a big surprise when, ten minutes later, the Pastor left the house with a tall guy in a T-shirt and jeans who looked a lot like Patrick Arnott. Holy shit. He was Patrick Arnott. My God.
The Pastor and Arnott strolled down to the front gate and shook hands. After slapping Arnott on the back, the Pastor returned to his SUV and drove off.
Arnott went back inside the cottage and closed the door. Gary got out of his van and approached the dwelling, which had the shabby look of a rental property. The front yard had a small patch of mangy grass and a dark lane ran down the side. He was tempted to slip around the back. Instead, he knocked on the front door and listened closely for any sounds from inside the house. Instead of hearing footsteps move towards the front door, they moved away.
Hell. Gary dashed down the side lane, ploughing through cobwebs and branches, and reached the small backyard just as Arnott sprinted out of the cottage towards an open rear gate. Gary played plenty of rugby league in his younger days and had no trouble tackling a slow-moving and lightly built accountant. He quickly rolled Arnott onto his back, sat on his chest and grabbed his neck.
Instead of resisting, Arnott looked up, terrified. "Don't hurt me, please don't hurt me."
The guy was obviously a sheep, not a goat. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you."
"You're not?"
"No, I'm not."
"T-t-then, w-w-what do you want?"
"You mother asked me to find you."
Arnott's chest heaved under Gary's thighs and his Adam's apple corkscrewed under Gary's hand. "M-m-my mother?"
"Yes. She's worried about you."
"W-w-why's she worried?"
"Because you quit your job and disappeared into thin air."
"H-h-ow do I know my mother send you?"
Gary reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the photograph of Patrick Arnott that Madeline Arnott gave him. "Recognise this photo? I got it from your mother."
Relief flooded across his face. "Yeah, yeah, that's a photo she took. So you're not going to hurt me?"
"Definitely not. In fact, I'll let you go if you promise you won't run away."
"I won't, I promise."
"Good."
Gary released his grip and they slowly stood up, dusting themselves off.
"How'd you find me?"
"I've been following Pastor McKenzie."
"Shit. Why?"
"You phoned him several times on Friday and Saturday."
"You mean, you got my phone records?'
"Yep, wasn't hard."
"I didn't think about that."
Gary sensed there was a lot this guy didn't think about. That was a scruffy habit when on the run. "Who owns this place?"
"The Mission - the Sunrise Mission. It's a rental property. The Pastor said I can stay here while we sort everything out."
"Sort what out?"
"The trouble I'm in."
"What trouble is that?"
A puzzled expression. "You don't know?"
"Nope. Your mother has no idea why you disappeared. But I have found out there are some seriously evil dudes chasing after you."
"How did you find that out?"
Gary shook his head. "First you've got to tell me why you're on the run."
A shrug. "Alright, alright - let's go inside."
Arnott led Gary back inside the cottage, past a small laundry into a dank kitchen with warped cupboards and peeling benches. Beyond the kitchen was a living room. Then a narrow hallway ran along the side of the house, past two bedrooms, to the front door.
They sat at the kitchen table and Gary said: "Now tell me, why are you on the run?"
Arnott had worry lines etched all over his face and heavy bags under his eyes. The life of a fugitive obviously did not agree with him. He put shaking hands on the table. "Because I stole a client file."
"You mean, from Merton & Co?"
"Yes."
"Who's file?"
A long pause and a whisper. "Angus Trewaley's."
"The Opposition Leader?"
"Yes."
"Shit, you're kidding?"
Arnott nervously cleared his throat. "No. He's been a client - a top client - of Merton & Co for about fifteen years."
"What's in his file?"
"Dynamite. Enough dirt to destroy his career and any chance of winning the election."
"You're kidding?"
"No."
"Why's it so bad?"
Arnott hunched his shoulders and crossed his arms. "To begin with, you've got to understand that Merton & Co only acts for high net-worth individuals. Unless you're worth at least $10 million, you won't get through the door. But, if you do become a client, the firm will structure your
financial affairs to shield you from tax. It does that by setting up trusts and corporations in tax havens to hold assets and receive income."
"That's what the firm did for Trewaley?"
"Yes. It set up his off-shore structures soon after he became a client."
"Are those structures illegal?"
"Not by themselves. But Australian residents are supposed to pay tax on all income earned overseas. So, if Trewaley didn't disclose his overseas assets and income to the Tax Office, he committed a big offence."
"Did he disclosure them?"
"Of course not. His file shows he's got millions stashed away overseas that he didn't declare to the Tax Office or put on the parliamentary register of pecuniary interests. The file also has copies of his last five tax returns. They show that, during those years, his taxable income was always less than $100,000 and he's never paid more than $20,000 in tax."
Australian politicians like Trewaley didn't usually release their tax returns. So Gary had never heard this information before and was profoundly shocked. "You're joking? He was a big - and I mean, big - property developer before he entered parliament; he owns a mansion in Vaucluse and a huge yacht; the news media keeps saying he's loaded."
"He is loaded, and one reason is that he pays almost no tax. So, if that file became public, it would ruin his career and stuff his party's chances of winning the election."
"Jesus. Is that why you took the file - to ruin him?"
Arnott had a feverish glint in his eye. "I decided someone has to tell the world he's a tax cheat. I mean, for most of my career, I've helped clients avoid tax. Then, about a year ago, a friend took me to a Sunrise Mission service and I heard Pastor McKenzie preach. He really opened my eyes. I felt as if God was talking, through him, to me. All of a sudden, I wanted to live an honest and righteous life. The Pastor likes to quote Paul in his letter to the Ephesians: "Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the Devil." That's what I did when I copied the file: I took a stand against the devil."
Gary stared at Arnott and wondered if he was mad. He had no religious convictions and did not understand why others did. He also wondered if Arnott was telling the whole truth about why he stole the file. Maybe he had selfish motives he had not disclosed to Gary, or maybe even himself. "So you copied Trewaley's file without permission?"
"Yes. Most of us worked on Trewaley's account at various times. But Merton was the only person who could access the complete file. He wasn't very good with computers and often got me to help him. I watched him when he logged in and saw he used a pretty simple password.
"Anyway, I used that password to log in and copy the file onto a flash drive, which I took home with me. I was going to leak the file to the Tax Office and maybe a journalist. But I didn't get a chance because, a couple of days later, Merton stormed into my office and accused me of copying it. He said the IT guy had proof I did it. I said that was a lie and was going home. When he tried to stop me, I shot down the fire escape."
"Did you go home?"
"Of course not. I was shit scared. I knew he'd come after me. He's an evil bastard. I decided to lie low and hope the whole mess would blow over. Stupid, I know, but I didn't know what else to do."
"Did you consider giving the file back?"
"Of course. But Merton would have assumed I kept a copy and got nasty anyway."
"And you've still got the file?"
"Of course."
"But why's he so desperate to protect Trewaley's reputation?"
"Because, if Trewaley gets destroyed, he will too."
"Why?"
"When the Tax Office catches a tax cheat, it always targets the cheat's accountant and its other clients. The T.O. would soon work out that Merton & Co is basically a criminal enterprise. It specialises in tax evasion, fraud and money-laundering. In fact, I'm pretty sure that several clients are big drug importers. Merton helps them shuffle money around overseas. So, if Trewaley got exposed, Merton and some of his other clients would probably end up in gaol."
"OK, I understand. So you laid low for a while. Then you went and saw the Pastor?"
"Not immediately. First, I tried to sneak home. But I saw a couple of guys lurking about and ran away again."
"Did they see you?"
"I don't think so."
"What did they look like?"
"One was big and bald, and the other kind of thin. They both looked scary."
Arnott was obviously describing the guys Gary later encountered in Arnott's apartment.
"Then you went and saw the Pastor?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you speak to your mother?"
A grimace. "If I told her how much trouble I was in, she'd have freaked out and blamed me. I couldn't bear that."
"She freaked out anyway. Why'd you see the Pastor?"
"I trusted him. We'd spoken about my problems before. In fact, he'd been giving me some life coaching."
"OK, and how did he react?"
"You know, I was a bit surprised: I thought he would be impressed, but he wasn't. Said I shouldn't have stolen someone else's property. But he said that, if I wanted to make the file public, he would help me."
Gary bet the Pastor was surprised - indeed, shocked - when one of his flock declared that he paid attention to his moralising and tried to apply it. "Help you, how?"
"He said he knew someone at the Tax Office and could arrange a meeting if I wanted."
"When was that?"
"A couple of days ago. He said that, in the meantime, I could stay here."
Gary now understood why the Pastor met with Trewaley's Chief of Staff, Bristow Oliver, in a park the day before. When Arnott revealed to the Pastor that he had stolen a file that could destroy Trewaley's career, the Pastor sniffed an opportunity. This was a heaven-sent chance to curry favour with a devout Christian expected to become the next Prime Minister of Australia. So he convinced Arnott to do nothing while he snuck off and warned Bristow that Arnott threatened Trewaley's career. He also said that, as a favour to Trewaley, he would persuade Arnott to keep quiet.
However, the Pastor was naïve, because the first thing Bristow would have done, after their meeting, was to get someone to follow the Pastor until he met with Arnott. Gary felt a jolt of fear. He didn't see anyone else follow the Pastor that morning, but wasn't looking. A big honking alarm went off in his head. His hand itched because it should be holding a pistol and wasn't.
"Oh, shit."
"What?"
"Pastor McKenzie met Trewaley's Chief of Staff yesterday morning and told him you stole a file that could destroy his boss. After that, the Chief of Staff probably had the Pastor followed. So, right now, you - we - are in huge danger."
A deep scowl. "The Pastor wouldn't betray me to Trewaley. I know him. He wouldn't do that."
"I'm afraid he has, and we've got to get out of here, fast."
Patrick Arnott shook his head. "Don't push me around. I don't know you. I need time to think."
Gary got to his feet. "You don't have time. Don't you get it? You're radioactive. You're a threat to Trewaley, Merton and Merton's clients. Lots of very powerful people want you stone-cold dead. Shit, just being near you makes me nervous." Gary realised he was yelling.
The accountant-on-the-run looked stunned. "It's that bad?"
"Of course it is. You're way out of your league. These guys play for keeps. Come with me or you'll be dead within five minutes."
Arnott's face turned to jelly and he lurched to his feet. "OK, but I've got to pack my stuff. I haven't got much."
"You've got one minute, exactly. No more."
"OK."
Arnott dashed up the narrow hallway and into the front bedroom.
As Gary followed him, there was a loud knock on the front door. Shit. He froze.
Arnott's stuck his frightened face out of the bedroom and whispered. "What do we do?"
Gary stepped into the bedroom beside Arnott and peeked between Venetian blinds at the front pat
io. He half-expected to see the two thugs from the apartment. However, there was a new thug on the scene - a big guy with bristles on his skull and a black jacket that probably hid a pistol. Bloody hell.
Arnott looked at the guy and whispered. "Who's he?"
"Dunno. He's not selling insurance."
"Maybe he'll go away."
"No, he knows you're here. If you don't open the door, he'll break it down."
Arnott's face quivered. "Let's go out the back way."
"Can't. That's what he wants you to do. There'll be someone waiting out there. You've got to open the door."
Huge eyes. "Open it? You're kidding?"
No, open it and run to the kitchen. I'll tackle the guy as he goes past."
"Christ, do you know what you're doing?"
Another rap on the door and the man outside tried to sound polite. "Anyone home?"
"Don't worry, I've done this before," Gary lied. "It's our only chance."
Arnott shook like a leaf. "OK."
He stepped out into the hallway and spoke in a reedy tone. "Hang on, I'm coming."
However, the man outside was tired of waiting and slammed his shoulder against the door, twice. The second time it splintered and swung inwards.
As Arnott turned to run, Gary hid just inside the bedroom.
The burly intruder yelled at Arnott. "Don't move."
Fat chance. Arnott screamed and sprinted towards the kitchen.
The intruder raced past Gary holding a pistol. Jesus. Gary took a couple of steps, jumped onto the guy's back and rode him into the ground. As he did, he used one arm to garrotte the guy and the other to grab the wrist holding the Beretta .32. The guy desperately tried to free the pistol. Dumb move. He should have concentrated on breaking the chokehold, which quickly stole his oxygen and energy. Too late, he let go of the pistol and tried to break the hold. Gary just squeezed harder until the guy went limp. Then he scooped up the pistol and lay on top of the guy for twenty seconds, gasping for breath. He rolled the guy onto his back and examined his swarthy features. They weren't pretty at the best of times. Now, his eyes were closed and drool slid from his mouth.
Gary heard a loud bang and a tearing noise. Someone was obviously bashing down the back door. Bloody hell.
A man yelled. "Don't move, you prick."
Instead of obeying, Patrick Arnott raced into the hallway and hurdled over Gary, heading for the front door.
Gary's heart-rate climbed again. What the fuck? After checking the safety catch on the pistol was off, he rose onto his knees and prayed the pistol was loaded. Surely, the swarthy guy was smart enough to do that.
A big, ginger-haired man wearing a grey sports jacket came around the corner toting a pistol. He saw Gary and started to raise his weapon.
Gary's borrowed pistol was loaded alright. It sounded like a cannon in the confined space. The first bullet missed the guy, but the second hit him somewhere. The guy spun around, involuntarily flinging his pistol away, and collapsed to the ground where he lay still.
There was a long silence while Gary and Arnott, ears ringing, digested what had just happened.
Arnott said: "S-s-shit, is he dead?"
"No idea."
Gary rose unsteadily, slipped the pistol behind his belt and went over to the second intruder. The guy lay on his back wearing a shocked expression. The large red wound on his right shoulder explained why he was groaning so loudly. His face looked like someone had patted it down with the back of a shovel. It was poorly designed for begging, but the guy gave it his best shot. "Help me, please, help me."
"Shut the fuck up."
The guy went quiet and Arnott said: "W-w-what are we going to do?"
This was no time to panic. Now, more than ever, Gary had to be calm and deliberate. He slowed his breathing and forced himself to consider his options.
He could call the police and explain that he shot the guy in self-defence. But that idea died a quick death. The cops would automatically charge him with attempted murder and make him convince a jury he acted in self-defence. Because he couldn't afford to hire his own barrister, he would have to accept whichever broken-down hack the Legal Aid Commission supplied. Then 12 people he didn't know and didn't trust would decide if he should spend the next 10 years in an iron motel. He lost his reverence for the jury system while a cop. It had not returned.
Fortunately, the two intruders didn't know his name. So, if he skedaddled now, there was a good chance he would avoid arrest. Yes, that was what he would do.
He turned to Arnott. "Finish packing. Grab your bag and anything that identifies you - fast. You've got two minutes. Then we're out of here."
Arnott said: "But what about these two guys. You going to call an ambulance?"
"Forget about them. Just do what I say."
"OK, OK."
Arnott rushed back into the front bedroom.
Gary looked down at the wounded guy. The shoulder wound looked bad, but not life threatening. He dropped to one knee. "You know, I must be getting old. I tried to put that one between your eyes."
The guy clutched his shoulder and groaned loudly. "Who the fuck're you?"
"You don't need to know. Now, tell me, who sent you?"
"Fuck off. I need an ambulance. Get me a doctor."
"Angus Trewaley sent you, didn't he?"
The thug glanced away, eloquently. "Don't know what you're talking about. Call an ambulance."
Where's your mobile?"
"Inside my jacket."
The thug winced as Gary reached inside his jacket, pulled out a mobile phone and put it on his chest.
Gary said: "You'll have to call an ambulance yourself or wait until your mate wakes up and get him to call one. But don't try until I'm gone."
The thug tried to look past his feet at his prone pal, but pain overwhelmed him. Eventually, he gasped: "Is Roger alive?"
"Roger's your pal?"
"Yes."
"Of course. He's just sleeping."
"How long's he gonna be out?"
"Don't know. I had to choke him. When he wakes up, he might have brain damage. So I guess you've got a lot to worry about."
"Shit. You can't leave me here."
"Yes, I can. You came at me waving a pistol, remember? I don't owe you anything. But, don't worry, you'll be fine, eventually."
The thug shifted slightly and groaned. "You cunt. I'll get you for this."
"You can try. But if I see you again, anywhere, I'll shoot you on sight, understand? And, next time, I'll shoot a lot straighter." Gary stood up. "Now, obviously, after you get patched up, the police will ask how you got shot in the shoulder. Tell them nothing and, if you ever find out my name, keep it to yourself. Otherwise, I'll hunt you down and kill you twice."
Patrick Arnott emerged from the bedroom wearing a Yankee's baseball cap. A small duffle bag was slung over his shoulder.
Gary said: "You've got all of your stuff?"
Arnott's eyes shone with fear and excitement. "I didn't have much to pack. What are you going to do about these guys?"
"We're going to leave them here."
"You sure?"
"Yes. In fact, the sooner we get out of here, the sooner this guy can call an ambulance. We'll be doing him a favour."
The thug looked at Arnott. "Please help me."
Gary said: "Shut the fuck up."
Arnott said: "What about the police?"
"If we contact them, you'll have to explain how you stole documents from Merton & Co. You don't want to do that, do you?"
"Of course not."
Gary headed towards the front door. "Good, then let's get out of here."