REDBACK
by
LINDY CAMERON
Dedicated to:
Chele Cooper
My all, my one, my love, my forever moo.
Kerry Greenwood
My friend and mentor.
A universe of thanks to my precious family, and family of precious friends:
Mum, Fin and Steve - wish you were still around the corner.
Chele Cooper - my split-apart, who makes everything possible.
The Bittern Writers - Kerri, Kylie, Mandy, Gaile & Emma.
My Special Girls - Sally, Tricia, Jen, Rob, Jay, Kay, Kim, Trish, Jac,Marg, Jill, Kerry & Ivy.
The incredible Sisters in Crime Australia - Carmel, Sue, Cathy, Faye,Viv, Tanya, Phyllis, Robin, Sylvia, Jacqui, Ann and Rose.
The Clan Destineers - Vikki, Cecilia, Leslie, Mandy, Kylie, Jac, Lizzie, Karen, Demet, Alison, Emelie, Morgan, Liz, Kim, Moss & Christine.
Helen Cooper - for company, cake and coffee.
My Warrior Kids - Max, Gabby, Bridey, Heath, Jayke, Asher & Bonnie
Our furry kids - Xena, Gabby, Emmett, Ares & Tess.
Special Redback thanks to:
Ran Valerhon for the totally awesome cover illustration.
Helen, my proofing first line of defence; Sue, my first-draft reader; Paul for on-the-spot research in Japan; Demet for the Turkish and Greek; David for the helicopters; Rae for the cover type; Penny for the first edition; & Catharine for the green roof et al.
In memory of Bill Cooper: a most remarkable man.
Only one who is thoroughly acquainted with the evils of war,
can thoroughly understand the profitable way of carrying it on.
The Art of War Sun Tsu 544-496 BC
It is forbidden to kill,
therefore all murderers are punished
unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets.
Voltaire 1694-1778
All warfare is based on deception.
The Art of War Sun Tsu 544-496 BC
Prologue
Warwick Club, London
Three weeks ago
It was the last good night of Lord James McQuade: he'd been wined, dined and royally screwed. Truffles, a vintage red and sweet Miss Jones. Sixty-six years old tomorrow and not destined to outlive his wolfhound.
Dargo looked down at the sad old drunk, dribbling and asleep in a dining chair with his pants around his ankles. A peer of the realm who thought cheating on his wife with a tart from Chelsea was a manly way to ring in his next year.
Lulu had been a birthday gift from a supposedly trusted colleague, but Dargo's presence was the price, for Lord James McQuade was an irritation, a sacrifice, a pawn.
Dargo clenched his fist and flexed his wrist. An eight-inch blade of the finest Toledo steel flashed from its cradle and across the back of Dargo's hand, the sound of its unsheathing more thrilling to him than any of the noises Lulu had made to tease and please her lord.
But a man should only die of old age in his sleep. Any other death, he should see coming. Dargo kicked his quarry in the foot.
'Make yourself nice, Lord Jim.'
McQuade stirred, opened bleary eyes and took a moment to focus on his fate. Lulu was gone and a stranger stood over him with… What was that, a sword? His horror was matched by his disbelief.
'You've got ten seconds to put your oldfeller away.'
McQuade automatically reached for his trousers. It was pointless yelling for help. The private dining room was soundproof. The intercom was over by the door.
'What do you want?' he asked.
'Shh,' Dargo pressed his finger to his lips. He waited until McQuade was presentable.
'If it's money you want,' McQuade offered.
'I apologise your Lordship,' Dargo said, rolling his blade-hand before him, elegantly tracing the symbol for eternity, 'but you have a part to play in something far bigger than both of us.'
'I don't understand…'
The speed with which Dargo now wielded his blade was remarkable. McQuade had but a moment to be impressed by the action before he realised his throat and chest had been sliced in an X, from each ear diagonally down across his pectorals.
Blood splashed across the remains of his last supper, bleeding into the white linen tablecloth.
Lord James McQuade: 65 years old tonight. And that's the end of it.
Dargo left the way he'd come: quietly, and with a key.
QF 30 to Melbourne
12 days ago
Scott Dreher waved his pen over the box marked 'occupation' and for the hundredth time in a decade decided not to write 'journalist'. He knew the Australian authorities wouldn't care that he was a reporter but, as so many countries did, it was easier just to put 'writer'. That way, if anyone official asked, he could blather on about writing photocopier manuals, sci-fi, or the great American novel.
The one time he had revealed his true identity, he'd spent 72 hours in a windowless backroom of Tangier airport giving any number of possible reasons for an American reporter to be visiting Morocco. In some countries, journalist equalled troublemaker, activist or even spy. And when Algerian militants have just skipped across the border to blow up a French cruise ship in Tangier Bay, then American journalist obviously equalled CIA.
Scott realised the young guy from the window seat was on his way back from the bathroom, so he stood up in the plane's aisle to let him in. He slipped the Immigration card back into his money belt and arched his back to get the kinks out before sitting again. He'd had the two business class seats to himself all the way from London, until Mark the New Zealander had boarded in Dubai half an hour ago.
Scott opened his laptop to have another go at the game. So far he'd died 16 times, lost three squads in the jungle and was responsible for his entire platoon being blown sky higher when his Hercules exploded over the Marianas Trench - twice.
WarP was infuriating, ingenious and damn hard but then that was the point. It began life as a recruiting tool for the Australian Defence Force, but its combat scenarios and authentic military tactics had infiltrated the ranks of hard-core gamers. Always looking for sophisticated play they were drawn to the game's hyper-realistic graphics and smooth action. WarP had gone mainstream, big time, and made a truckload of money for its designers. The original online version, like the ADF's equally popular AttackSub and the US military's America's Army, now had nearly 10 million registered users worldwide.
Gamers literally got to design their own strike team instead of choosing characters from a bank of generic animated steroid hunks. Scott had started in the program's Identikit Bank where he created his soldiers from thousands of possible features, choosing everything from hair and eye colour to height, weight, age and sex. He named his comrades, devised their personal histories, families, even love lives and, most importantly, assigned their military training and combat skills. One of the raves, to which Scott could now attest, was that the sense of losing comrades-in-arms was almost palpable.
They were his team now and damn it if he didn't