8.30 am. A colour-brushed brittle September morning in Melbourne, Australia. The man in the camel-coloured overcoat paused for a moment outside the tea house on his right, where rosewood-ochre circles cut out like circuitry boards were framed innocuously against the charcoal of the wall. Check. On his left, a small oasis of a courtyard lay inviting and green in front of two charming umbrella shaped like pagodas.
A momentary flicker of amusement crossed the man’s mouth.
He turned briskly into the narrow brick-cobbled lane on the corner of the Excelsior. McKillop St., said the street sign. Quaint. In Cairo, the smaller streets were never so clearly identified; a stranger could lose himself in ever-decreasing circles in the seedier areas of town while dark-eyed children would greet you, “ahlan beek fe masr”, and then offer – for a consideration – to “show you the right way back to your hotel”. He had deliberately stumbled over a few tourist phrases in Arabic, allowed himself to appear lost and alone.
It had taken him half the day to shake off the man tailing him, in a manner that suggested it had happened quite accidentally, quite innocently.
Here, in Australia, he felt a sudden prickle between his shoulder blades. Without hesitation, he turned into a building on his right. Blue-grey door. His eyes had already spotted another way out. He smiled at the receptionist, a brief abstracted smile. Everything about him declared that he had a right to be there. He strode past her too swiftly for her slight puzzlement to erase her smile. Through the doors on the left. Wood panelling. Toilet. Frosted glass. On down the corridor. Steel door – there it was.
He pushed against the door. Locked. He’d seen no key. No time to waste. His right hand emerged from his pocket, small 9mm Glock concealed by his body and hand. Silencer already attached. He shot at the lock, thrust the pistol back into hiding, and opened the door without pause. No observers, but had there been any, they would have seen nothing amiss.
He emerged into the alley lined with rubbish bins. A quick glance left showed him McKillop Street; in front of him rose the dark walls of a famous jeweller’s. The front door of the jeweller’s faced onto Bourke Street, according to the map he’d studied. Barred door, barred windows... He made a quick choice. The windows looked easier of access, and he leapt onto one of the bins directly beneath the nearest window, steadying himself by holding onto a thick pipe on his left.
It was a matter of seconds to pull himself up, smash the window with his coat-wrapped fist, climb through it, and drop down into the workroom below. Empty – no need to explain himself. He clenched his fingers once or twice; no damage. Swiftly, without looking around, he exited from the workroom and made his way without any sign of hesitation down the corridor. The door leading to the shop proper was closed – no code needed to exit. The man thought briefly about how lax the security was before dismissing it from his mind.
He’d been compromised – unless that prickling feeling of being watched was all his imagination. But his instincts had saved him too many times in the past for him to risk questioning them now. He ignored the startled, “What are –” by the tall grey-haired man in the dark suit – probably the owner himself – and walked without obvious haste out into Bourke Street.
As soon as he did, he heard screams from the lane behind him. A gunshot rang out. His instincts had not misled him. He was already smoothly removing his coat and turning it inside-out to reveal a stained and tattered felt reverse side, and removing the hat to reveal a shock of dark matted hair. He now had the appearance of one of the homeless men which intel had told him begged on the city streets. He moved to give himself the best angle for a careless view of the lane.
Two men, one in a red shirt with blue jacket, and another in a yellow suit with green tie, were firing shots into the air. The receptionist from the building whose door he’d shot open was sagging against one of the men, his arm tight around her neck. “Where is he?” shouted the second man. “Tell me right now, or I’ll shoot you right through the head.”
A babble of voices, “I’m calling 000”, “Look, man...”, others screaming, some silent but for their frightened faces, arose in McKillop Street, hardly louder than the usual morning bustle save for the gunshots like dry cracks splitting the air. The man couldn’t see his contact. Safe?
And then a quiet voice next to him said, “’A supplier and a manufacturer guarantee that goods are of acceptable quality.’”
Without turning, the man responded equally quietly, “’Consumers cannot surrender their rights by agreeing that the consumer guarantees do not apply.’ Why did you choose such long code phrases, Konsumervich?”
“They serve their purpose. Ah, Vayovich, we must get out of here. I was followed.”
Vayovich casually turned and began walking up Bourke Street, away from the chaos. His hands were thrust in his pockets. He could see his contact from the corner of his eye; his breath was laboured, and a trickle of sweat poured down one side of his face. “Konsumervich, how did they spot you?”
“I was betrayed.” Konsumervich put out a hand. “A little slower; I was hit.” A grim smile crossed his pale face. “One of their agents tried to get the product identifier from me in Hong Kong. Pretended to be one of ours. I was on to her as soon as she said she’d been working with Perchoski – you know?”
“I know.” Perchoski’s body had been found two days ago, by the strangest of coincidences. No doubt the other side had expected his body to disappear completely. “What did you do?”
“I gave her an invalid product identifier”, replied Konsumervich. “But I realised later that she put a bug on me. This way – I need to stop the bleeding.”
“One moment.” Vayovich paused, hand on the door of the Thai Massage parlour, one of their safe houses. “If they were following you and shot you, how did you get away? And how can we be sure they’re not still on to us?”
“I ran into an eye clinic and activated the eBay search algorithm for “dead as a dodo” account. They can’t see me any longer unless they break the algorithm. I walked out in plain sight without the blink of an eye. My old IT training... it came in handy, yes?” Konsumervich laughed, but was clearly in some pain. His body was hunched over, his right hand clutching the side of his body.
Vayovich nodded, and opened the door. “We can’t let them get hold of the product identifier. In you go; someone inside will staunch the bleeding, and then we have to make plans.” His face was expressionless. “It’s a long cold war... and they have the bigger guns. All we have is intelligence... and patience...”
