Headhunters

Chapter Thirty

Milton’s sleep had been fitful. He had been unable to relax, still afraid that they had been followed and that, at any moment, the door would be kicked open and armed katsas would appear to take them both. It was an irrational fear, given life by his fatigue and the state of restless torpor that would not quite allow him to slide all the way into sleep. His mind raced with thoughts and images: murderous bloodlust on Avi Bachman’s face, the sight of Matilda lying unconscious in the front room of the house in Adelaide, and, as he was just about to cross the margin into sleep, the memory of what had happened that day in Iraq, a replay of a personal movie that had driven him to the bottle in order to forget.

He awoke with the dawn. He was in the chair, his legs stretched out before him. He didn’t feel particularly refreshed, and, as he came all the way around, he became aware of the throbbing from the injuries that Bachman had inflicted on him and he remembered the full scope of the predicament that he was in.

Matilda was still asleep.

He went to the vending machine outside the office and bought a packet of cigarettes. He went back to the room, checked that Matilda was still asleep, and then went back outside to watch the sunrise and smoke. He needed to think.

He had made his plans the night before. He knew that his best option was to run. He could slip back into obscurity again and stay out of sight. He was trained to do that and, if he determined that it was the best course of action, he was confident that he could make himself invisible to Bachman regardless of all the help that he had somehow managed to summon. He would go to Africa or South America, just as he had when he had fled from Control and Group Fifteen, and simply erase himself so that he was impossible to find. He could live out a life in Durban or Rio or Buenos Aires and never have to think about Avi Bachman again.

He could do that.

But Matilda could not.

How could he ask her to exchange her life for one spent watching shadows? A life where she had no choice but to abandon her brother and her friends and accept that she could never see any of them again? She had done nothing wrong. This was nothing to do with her. Her involvement was because she had been unfortunate enough to have crossed his path, just as others had been unfortunate in the past. And some of those people were dead.

Milton swore to himself that that was not going to happen to her.

Thinking of Matilda had crystallised his thinking. He couldn’t keep playing defence. At some point, he was going to have to bring the fight to Bachman. The only way he could guarantee her safety was if Bachman was gone.

But to do that, they would need to travel.

The sun’s rays were already strong and he took off his shirt and hung it on the door handle. He looked out at the vast Australian landscape and the buildings in the far distance that marked the edge of the city. He thought of David and Paul Hughes and all the other sayanim that the Mossad could call upon to find him. He thought of Bachman and the agents with him.

Where were they?

He stretched, smoked the last of the cigarette and ground the butt beneath his shoe. He wished that he still had his copy of the Big Book, but it was still in his pack at Boolanga, most probably lost forever. He would have liked to read a few of his favourite passages, but he would have to do without it. He closed his eyes and meditated, reciting the Twelve Steps to himself and allowing himself a moment of reflection. He needed the peace and tranquillity that it brought; he knew that there would be no other opportunity for that today.

He went into the room, collected the pistol and slid it into the waistband of his jeans. Matilda had shifted position so that she was on her side, her face angled toward him. The anaesthetic had knocked her out all day and all night. She had stirred, once, at three in the morning and let out a sudden fearsome shriek that shocked Milton awake, but the moment had passed and she had quickly fallen back into the grip of her drugged slumber. Milton had rearranged the covers over her and returned to the chair.

He would have liked to let her sleep off the remnants of the drug, but they had to get moving.

“Matilda, wake up.”

She shifted, her legs sliding down the bed, her eyes opening for a moment and then closing again.

He knelt beside her and rested a hand on her brow.

“Matilda, wake up. It’s John.”

She mumbled something that he couldn’t understand, but he could see that she was starting to come around. He had left a glass of water by the bed for her, but she hadn’t touched it. He took it into the bathroom and refreshed it. When he came back into the bedroom, she was awake, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Where are we?”

“In a motel. Just outside Adelaide.”

She didn’t answer, lying there quietly for a moment, but then the memory of what had happened came back to her and her eyes went wide with fright. She pressed down with her legs, shoving her body all the way up the bed until her back clattered into the headboard.

Milton reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. “Relax. It’s fine.”

“They drugged me.”

“I know.”

“They were at the station. They took me. They… What happened?”

“I saw what happened. I followed them.”

“Where are they? I–I…”

“It doesn’t matter.”

She looked at him and, for one heart-breaking moment, he saw that he was the cause of the fear in her eyes. “What happened to them?”

“One of them is dead.”

She remained where she was, the colour leaching from her cheeks, but then, with a suddenness that took Milton by surprise, she surged out of bed and staggered into the bathroom. He saw her fall to her knees, her head over the open toilet, and heard as she retched.

He wanted to go and help her, but he stayed where he was. She vomited again and again, eventually standing and closing the door behind her. He heard the tap run and the splash of water and, when she re-emerged, her face was wet.

“Matilda,” he said, “I had no choice. They would have killed you.”

She didn’t respond. Instead, she sat on the edge of the bed, saw the glass of water, and drank it down.

“We need to talk.”

She replaced the empty glass on the table.

“Matilda, we need to leave the country.”

That brought her around. “What?”

“It’s not safe.”

“I’m not—”

Milton cut her off. “Listen to me. Please, for once, just listen to me.”

Fresh blood coloured her cheeks and her eyes flashed, but she stopped.

“You saw what happened. It’ll keep happening until I’m dead. They’ll come for both of us.”

“This is a big country.”

“Yes, it is. But there are a lot of them, and they have backup. Until they’re satisfied, you won’t be able to go back home. You won’t be able to see Harry. You are leverage, Matty. They know that if they have you, they’ll have my attention. They know I’ll come for you.”

Her voice was ragged. “Why did you do this to me?”

“I’m sorry. I should never have come.”

She paused, biting her lip. The fight drained out of her and, for a moment, he thought that she was going to cry. “So what do we do?”

“We leave.”

“To where?”

“Tokyo.”

“What? Why?”

“I have a friend there. Someone who can help us.”

“Tokyo,” she mumbled.

“I know I don’t deserve your trust. I’d understand if you never wanted to talk to me again. None of what has happened to you is fair. But you know I care for you, Matty. I won’t let anything happen to you. I swear it to you on my life. I’m going to fix this.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“We’re going to stop running. We’re going to fight back.”

“But we are running. You want to go to Japan.”

“We’re not running. There’s a man there who can help us. Someone I worked with before.”

She bit her lip. She looked washed out and weak, the bloom of indignation that had suffused her cheeks quickly dissipating again. The vigour and pep that Milton liked about her so much was gone now, and she looked young and vulnerable. Milton hated himself. He was the cause of the change.

Eventually, she gave a small nod. “Okay,” she said uncertainly.

“You’ll come with me?”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, but she nodded.

He was relieved: he had anticipated that it would be more difficult to persuade her. But securing her assent was just the first obstacle to clear.

“How do we get there? I don’t have a passport.”

“I know a man. We need to get to Perth.”

“How are we going to do that? Drive?”

“No. I don’t think that would be safe.”

“How, then? I can’t fly. I’ve got no money.”

“No,” Milton said. “I have an idea.”