Pike's Pyramid. Michael Tatlow

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      ‘Now!’ she demanded.

      He tumbled from the bed, heading for the locked cabinet where he stored his .22 Remington magnum hunting rifle, with a ’scope. And the Purdy shotgun, a prized inheritance from his father.

      Pike stopped and turned to his wife. ‘The rifle or the shot gun? We’re out of armalites, Kalashnikovs and bazookas at the moment, madam.’

      ‘Don’t be a smart arse. The shotgun.’

      His wife was right, the gun was the better weapon for close-quarters combat. Like a naked butler, he loaded the gun, broke the breach and placed it on the floor on his side of the bed beside a box of 12-bore cartridges.

      He saw tears in Alex’s eyes. He embraced her. ‘They can’t hurt us, my darling. I love you so much.’

      ‘I love you so much—you big, scarred hero—so much that it hurts,’ Alex replied; calmer now. ‘That gun stays there at the ready. Get the rifle.’

      He loaded the semi-automatic, which he propped on Alex’s side of the bed. His habit of composing headlines struck again: Hotshot Housewife Massacres Mafiosi.

      If ever they were threatened here, he swore to himself, he would attack, maybe kill, the attackers with practised efficiency. With or without a gun. He knew a lot more now about close combat than when he was a kid in the boxing ring. More than Alex would ever know, he hoped.

      Blarney returned to the bed, to be joined soon after by the cats. He had, he thought, a flash of timely inspiration. He pressed her head to his neck, no longer having to contend with her inquisitorial eyes. Alex purred, and he pounced.

      ‘Now hear me out, darling. There are a lot of good reasons for you to go away from Stanley for a while. If the thugs fear exposure, they’d have to get both of us. And two targets, in different places, are harder than one. I’d have more peace of mind, too. School can wait… I know you’ll want to ignore this bit, but you, my love, would be safe.’

      He removed a strand of her hair which had caught on his tongue. ‘Take Magda and Josef to the East Coast. I know you’re dying to see Wineglass Bay.’ He paused for breath. ‘Please say yes, love.’

      ‘Finished?’ said a gentle voice from under his chin. He nodded. ‘Absobloodylutely, no,’ she said. ‘Forget it. No way.’

      ‘Well, think about it.’

      Alex kissed his neck. ‘I have. I don’t want to discuss that any more.’

      Pike lay in dashed silence.

      By unspoken agreement, they talked no more about the robbery. Alex had smelled cigarettes and the gentle stench of rum from his pores. She assumed he had had a few drinks at Ross. She knew fearfully that her husband’s demon, Ned, was always lurking. Sometimes Blarn would groan in his sleep and rant like a drunk, then quieten in her arms. She was proud that he was trying hard to kick the demon drink. His hands no longer trembled in the mornings.

      Their Argo business was his achievement and focus through which he had his best chance of forgiving himself and beating relentless Ned. Fear of her husband being at home alone and stressed, and retreating to the bottle, ensured she would not go away to hide.

      Pike phoned Pru and Peter in Sydney. He bathed in the joy of talking with his children again. Pru, turning twelve soon, was born in Sydney two months after Pike’s twenty-first birthday. Peter was nine last month. Peter said he was ‘going terrific’ now on the surf board Pike and Alex had bought him for his birthday. Terrific ally, Pike laughingly corrected. No, they had not yet received the parcel of gifts Alex had mailed from Petrov on Christmas Eve. He asked Pru to let her mum know a cheque was in the parcel.

      ‘Must be a big parcel, Dad,’ she said. ‘Do they let you mail away Czech people like that?’

      Blarney chuckled. ‘No more than I can mail myself in a box to get to you in Sydney!’

      Alex would wrap more gifts tomorrow, ready for mailing on Monday. A few jazz, rock and light classical CDs each, bought in Prague, a camera they knew Pru wanted, a leather wallet for Peter.

      Blarney’s long guilt gnawed anew. He knew about growing up without a father.

      The cellphone in his pocket rang. It was Bond. ‘I rang Prague’s Inspector Gelber directly. He rang me back, to make sure it was definitely me he was talking to. He was jolted to find out about the airport attack, the theft of your book, the theft of the papers at Palmovka, the robbery here.

      ‘Gelber said you two might be in danger. He reckons there’s something dodgy about Argo in Prague. Interpol’s notifying the FBI.’

      CHAPTER 9

      Pike strolled with Tasman to the old wharf, Stanley’s original boat shelter, where he had learned to swim. Nodding in a swell there was his green and white motor sailer Pelorus. Four car-tyres fended her port beam from the wharf.

      He continued to the main wharf. The few boats in the fishermen’s dock below the Nut’s sheer eastern face did not include Otto’s Callisto. The prickly old bugger was out fishing, just when his counsel was needed.

      Nearing home, he sat on a big lump of flat basalt that had fallen generations ago from the top of the Nut. The receding tide at the beach below had carved the sand into fillets. The sun setting over the Green Hills was turning the fillets pink.

      He gazed fondly at a pair of peregrine falcons hovering on a breeze high above. This had been the exclusive beat for years for the jet fighters of the bird world.

      A robin, its blood-red vest glowing in the fading light under an ebony jacket, landed on a tiny wattle a few metres away. ‘Tengower.’ He softly called the bird’s Aboriginal name.

      ‘Moo-nut-re-ker,’ he whispered. It was his ancestors’ name for this monolith of magic. White pioneers had shortened its name to the Nut. The joy of being home surged in Pike’s arteries.

      Back at his desk in the study, Pike tackled three months’ mail. It was mainly about money going to and from Argo. An invoice required payment of $2,820 to De Groote for ‘tools’—instructional leaflets, CDs, copies of the Argo Life magazine—for the Pikes to sell on to and give to their team.

      He rang De Groote. ‘A big turn-up’s likely at Irishtown. No, we won’t forget the SWOT analysis, Richard. No, the police have no idea of who broke in here. Yes, a heap of Argo files is gone, plus the computer backup disks. Yep, the tickets for Burnie are selling like crazy.’

      Dick Street, De Groote said, had not and would not tell anyone about the unfortunate Sussoms’ death. Pike did not pursue the prickly topic.

      ‘Proud of you guys,’ said Richard.

      Dick Street answered on the first ring. His nasal Aussie burst from the phone in Burnie. ‘The whole of Irishtown’s in uproar!’ he blurted. ‘We’re bloody stuck in the middle of the whole amazing mess. You СКАЧАТЬ