The man took out the wads of money, did a rough count, and hid it inside his voluminous clothing. Careful not to snag the catch on the side of the bag, Yuusuf lowered the box into it. He dipped his head in silent conclusion, and walked to the doorway. The youth moved aside, and Yuusuf walked out into heat and smells and bodies and noise with mounting exhilaration. He looked back only once as he hurried away. The youth was standing near the doorway, watching him, and Yuusuf wondered if he had touched the contents of the box. If he had, he would soon need more help than his many-armed statues could bring him.
Hours later Yuusuf drove slowly through dark streets to a dilapidated wharf. Old timber buildings huddled together like scared children, and a solitary streetlight cast dim yellow patches between their shadows. Vessels, large and small, but uniform in their decrepitude, crowded the wooden pylons topped by ancient timber.
Yuusuf stopped the car at the beginning of the wharf, turned off the lights, and waited. An hour later he was still waiting. But waiting had long been part of his life and his patience was strong enough to curb the excitement that swirled in his gut.
A few minutes later a tap on the car roof jerked his head around. The barrel of a gun pressed against the window. Yuusuf slowly wound down the glass.
He muttered the same word that had secured him the box now taped securely and wrapped in the bag. The man holding the gun lowered it slightly and Yuusuf handed him the bag. 'The transfer is arranged,' Yuusuf said. 'Half the money will be in your account tonight. The rest will follow when your mission is accomplished. Your contact in Australia will give you all the information you will need to carry out the plan. But he is not to find out …' a half-smile parted Yuusuf's furrowed lips as he nodded towards the bag, 'about our little extra surprise.'
Teeth flashed white in the darkness, and the man melted back into the shadows.
Yuusuf waited a few minutes, then drove away.
CHAPTER THREE
Ruth Bellamy adjusted her sunglasses and tilted her plain black hat to cast more shadow on her face. From her position at the back of the crowd she could only catch glimpses of the ceremony unfolding at the front, but she didn't need to see it to know the procedure.
The minister was no longer extolling the virtues of the man whose coffin was slowly being lowered into the earth, and the soft whir of the motorised rollers was broken only by the sobbing of a young woman leaning heavily on the man by her side.
Ruth shifted her position slightly. An older woman, similar in slim stature and fair colouring, patted the arm of the young woman, but it was a mechanical, almost absent-minded gesture. She stood, straight-backed, seemingly oblivious to the hand of support curving around her other arm. Ruth recognised her as Gordon Talbert's widow, Claire, and thought the younger woman must be her daughter, Susan.
She tried to see more of the man who seemed so protective of Claire, but the crowd moved gently forward and closed ranks. Frustrated, she walked around to the right, then realised that members of the crowd were stepping forward to take a rose from a basket held by one of the funeral attendants and toss it onto the coffin.
A smile teased at Ruth's lips. It would be so fitting, so appropriate; but there might be some in the crowd who could recognise her. For a moment she hesitated, then decided to take the risk. Beneath her wide-brimmed hat her light brown hair fell in thick waves over her shoulders, and her conservative navy suit would not draw attention. She was just another mourner. The thought pleased her, and she slipped into the flow of bodies moving towards the graveside.
As the rose dropped from her fingers onto the polished timber of the coffin, a feeling of savage triumph washed over her, and she bowed her head. Let them think I am mourning, she reasoned, and moulded her features accordingly.
She walked away, head still lowered, but a quick upward glance was enough to confirm that the man giving his support to Gordon Talbert's widow was the dead man's son, Mark. The resemblance was unmistakable. Same brown hair, solid build, unremarkable features. The eyes, though, seemed different. Ruth wasn't sure exactly how they were different, she wasn't close enough to discern their colour, but perhaps it was the watchfulness in the man's face, the scrutiny he gave each mourner.
As the minister intoned a closing prayer and invited the mourners to attend a small repast at a nearby restaurant, Ruth eased her way out of the crowd. At the top of a small rise she turned and looked back as the people dispersed. A figure caught her eye, and she watched as Julie Evans made her way to where Mark Talbert and his stepmother, Claire, now stood, slightly apart from the few remaining mourners.
Ruth sighed. How fitting, she thought, that the children of the damned should be meeting at the funeral.
Tears misted Julie's eyes as Claire drew her into a warm embrace.
'Julie, I'm so glad to see you. It's been too long, too long. Your mother, how is she?'
'She's fine, Claire. And she said to tell you how sorry she is that she couldn't be here today. Derek's taken her on a holiday to New Zealand.' Julie felt a rush of affection for Claire as she remembered the other woman's support during her parents' divorce. She took Claire's cold hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. Then she turned towards Mark.
It had taken only a second for Mark to realise that the dark-haired woman clasping his stepmother's hand was Julie Evans. He hadn't seen her since she was pregnant thirteen years ago, and the soft, almost-plump curves had disappeared. Her face had lost its angelic roundness but the high, broad cheekbones still accentuated the pale green of her eyes. Eyes that now told him she understood the depth of his loss.
When he took her hand in his he held it for longer than courtesy decreed, but the flood of memories that rushed at him was too great to stop and he needed the delay and the words of sympathy she offered.
'It's good to see you, Mark. I'm so sorry about your father.' Her voice held genuine warmth, and after the numerous platitudes he'd just heard from his father's political colleagues and some old friends who'd attended through duty rather than affection, it touched him more than he would have thought.
'Thank you for coming, Julie. It, it means a lot.' He was surprised to realise how much he meant that. So many of the people attending the funeral had been strangers to him, and it had brought home to him, almost painfully, how much he'd grown away from his family. His life in Canberra was another world. A world to which he wasn't sure he wanted to return. His thoughts were interrupted by a voice calling, 'Mum, we should go now.'
Julie turned as a young woman walked towards them, and smiled in recognition. Susan might be Mark's half-sister, but the solid Talbert gene had passed her by. Slim and fair like her mother, Claire, she possessed the same delicate bone structure and soft vocal tone. Now she looked at Julie as though seeing her for the first time.
'Julie? Julie Evans?' She gave Julie a hug. 'It's so good of you to come. Dad…' her voice faltered and she brushed away tears. 'Dad was always very fond of you.'
'And I felt the same about him, Susan.'
'Please join us at the restaurant. I'm sure you and Mark must want to catch up.'
Julie shook her head. 'I caught the bus here, so I'm sorry I won't be…'
'Mark can drive you,' Claire interjected, 'I'll go with Susan and Tom.' She placed her hand on Julie's arm. 'Please, Julie.'
'Thank you. It would be nice to catch up with you all.'
The air-conditioning soon alleviated the heat that had built up in Mark's Falcon. As he followed his brother-in-law's car to the restaurant, he was acutely aware of Julie as she sat in the passenger seat, the skirt of her green short-sleeved suit riding higher as she crossed one ankle over the other. With an effort he directed his gaze back to the traffic.
'I was sorry to hear about your divorce,' he commented.
'Don't