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was not clear. He had tried mightily to present the entire plan as one of his own
devising, but it had been clear to Doreen that there lingered in the background
a power that had not only put Kenny up to the whole thing but provided his
operational expenses. This he flatly denied, but then he would, wouldn t he?
Regardless of the plan s origins, Doreen had felt it flawed. Outside of the
concealment in the boomerang, there had been no further misdirection, no extra
false leads or red herrings. That is where she had shone. It was she who
introduced the secluded, but convenient to the Knudsons', locale for the
boomerang delivery. She who had given the goods a place to rest for a short
period of time before sending it on the next leg of its journey. And she who had
thought up the characters of Lorretta Scott and Francis Lewis of Canberra,
tourists taking an escorted tour of the beautiful countryside surrounding
Brisbane.
Now it was time for her and Amelia to drive downtown, position
themselves in front of the Sheraton and wait for the man from No Worries
Tours. Innocent tourists out to see the hills, rivers, and forests surrounding
Brisbane, ready to spend some cash on local crafts. She checked the Big Ben.
Quarter after six. So far no sign of life from Amelia. If they were going to
make it to their post on time they had better get moving.
She poked her head out her bedroom door and bellowed down the hall.
Amelia!
A photo of Prince Charles, dressed in full regimentals, astride a chestnut
mare-one of several small framed decorations hanging in the hall, all selected
by Amelia-tilted five degrees from true as Doreen's voice echoed down the
corridor.
In her room at the opposite end of the short hallway, Amelia, clad in a
denim blouse, thick cotton socks, and full-cut white nylon panties, was
kneeling in front of her dresser, rummaging desperately through two formerly
neat stacks of underwear. The other drawers had already been ransacked.
Where were her new molies? She already had on the coordinating blouse and
thick cotton socks, but the molies were nowhere to be found. It was the only
outfit she had that was appropriate for an excursion into the countryside and
she couldn't find her pants.
Amelia!
Prince Charlie s mount reared precipitously, but the rider held fast. Amelia
padded to her bedroom door feeling not a little frustrated and confused. Life
36
was so trying when one had only five hours of sleep. Four and a half if one
deducted several visits to the loo. She opened the door enough to poke her head
out. Woman and child, since she had acquired the necessary skills to dress
herself, she had never allowed anyone, sister included, to see her in even
partial undress.
Doreen, dear, I can't find my molies.
Doreen opened her own door wide and directed a withering look at what
was visible of her sister.
WHAT? YOU'RE NOT DRESSED YET?
Charles landed with an explosive shattering of glass, managing,
nevertheless, to retain the inimitable Windsor expression of unflappable
vacuity. The chestnut suffered a severed leg, and, later, when time allowed,
both horse and rider were subsequently destroyed.
We have to be there in less than an hour you know!
A framed cross-stitch scene of a country cottage skipped off the wall by
Doreen and landed on her left foot, bouncing harmlessly off her heavy boot.
Amelia stared at Doreen, or past her or under her or through her, but in any
case, Doreen didn't like it.
What are you looking at?
My molies, Amelia nodded at the neatly pressed and pleated slacks
Doreen was wearing. You're wearing my pants. She squinted a bit, trying to
compensate for advancing myopia. And my belt. You're wearing my clothes,
Doreen dear.
I'm wearing a costume meant to put me in the character of Mrs. Loretta
Scott. You've plenty of other clothes to choose from.
But that's what I had pressed and set out for this morning, especially. I
haven't anything else for such an outing.
Well, if you think I'm going to change clothes now you're mistaken. Get
yourself ready, or I'm off without you!
Five minutes later Amelia raced out the side door of the house, just in time
to collapse breathlessly in the passenger seat of their tired Cortina. She had on
a bright green wool skirt which she had grabbed in a panic as Doreen had
stomped down the hallway toward the front door. It had been years since she
had last worn it and it was, no denying, more a than a little on the snug side.
Her shoes were in her hands, a pair of fleece lined, over the ankle boots that
had been the first things to come to hand.
As Doreen pulled the Cortina out on to the street, Amelia leaned forward to
pull on the boots. There was a faint buzzing sound from the area of her right
37
hip. She sadly contemplated an eight inch gap where the zipper had separated,
revealing an expanse of contrasting white nylon peering through the bright
green wool.
Doreen directed a sideways glance at her sister as they motored down the
road. Would you zip up your skirt!
I m trying, Doreen dear. Amelia tugged at the zipper with no effect. I m
trying.
8
George Bush (the elder) Center for Intelligence
Langley, Virginia
Deputy Director Hank Berringer had a headache. A bad one. He was not
normally prone to headaches and had never been able to muster a whole lot of
sympathy for people who were regular sufferers. Now he knew what they were
talking about. He closed his eyes, put fingers to temples, and rubbed.
Having a vision, Hank? said Dennis Balderson, Associate Deputy
Director of Intelligence. Next to him was Anderson Shipe, Senior Researcher
for the CSI, short for Center for the Study of Intelligence. The three sat in a
tight circle in the middle of Berringer s office.
I m thinking, said Hank Berringer.
Yeah? said Balderson. I m thinking too. I m thinking this is the last time
I use an Aussie named Lush to make a delivery.
Brilliant hindsight, said Shipe.
Bite me, said Balderson.
This isn t helping, said Hank. He tried rubbing the crown of his head.
That was where the pain seemed to begin. When was the last time we heard
from him?
Sixteen-fifteen Brisbane local time, said Shipe. Our man, actually, she s
a woman, made telephone contact with him. They confirmed their next contact
time.
38
Which was to be?
Twenty-one-thirty, local time, said Balderson. That s like oh-one-thirty
our time, the day before, or something. Anyway, this guy s missed his contact
time by a good fifteen hours.
Do we know if he has been in contact with anybody else in the past, say,
two days?
Not a soul, said Balderson. Guy s a loner. A loser, a drunk and a loner.
We really know how to pick em.
Actually, said Shipe, he has been in pretty regular contact with his
mother and aunt.
Mother and aunt? That s it? What do we know about them?
Not much to tell, said Shipe. Couple of old ladies working at a bank.
Hank stopped rubbing. Wasn t helping, anyway. Well, if dear old mom and
auntie are all we ve got to go on, that s what we do. Where are they now?
Balderson and Shipe shrugged.
It might be a good idea if we found out.
9
Downtown Brisbane
Amelia spent the twenty minute drive into downtown Brisbane trying,
without success, to straighten herself out enough to work her zipper back
together. When they pulled up to the parking garage entrance she hastily
grabbed the owner's manual from the glovebox and held it over the gap while
the attendant handed Doreen their ticket and gave them directions to the
Sheraton.
Doreen raced the Cortina up three levels to the first available space. Amelia
checked to make certain there was no one about before she stepped out, sucked
it in, and closed the zipper with a sharp upward tug. She wondered if she would
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