Then training was over and the journos went onto the pitch to talk to a small selection of players who were carefully stage-managed through a boring process of scripted questions and answers, although Ronny seemed to have special status and chatted happily with FENG 9 for a few minutes before Feng went down the tunnel.
Ronny started to follow but Conan grabbed his shoulder. He was quite large, up close, and dressed entirely in black silk.
‘G’day,’ said Conan. ‘Ronny Kwai?’
‘Yes.’
‘Agent Conan Tooley … AFP. I’m investigating the Fong, Wing Ho murders.’
‘Who?’
‘Bruce Fong and Michael Wing Ho … about a week ago.’
‘I don’t know them.’
Once again, Conan felt his antennae tingling as he studied the expressionless face, half hidden by large sunglasses.
‘Okay … must’ve been a wrong number,’ he said.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘The last number called by Michael Wing Ho was your number.’
‘Show me the number on his phone account,’ said Ronny. It was a comment that would only be made by someone operating an illegal cryp number, and immediately Conan knew Ronny was hiding something.
‘I suppose you do know,’ said Conan, ‘that it is possible to trace a cryp account … just a pain in the arse. But we’ve already linked Wing Ho’s account to yours so the hard work’s been done.’
‘I don’t know anyone called Michael Wing Ho,’ insisted Ronny, ‘… although many people use an alias in this town. Perhaps I knew this caller by a different name?’
Conan sighed. That also was a statement typically made by cryp users, and journalists in particular were notorious for having cryps to protect their sources.
Ronny smiled, as though perceiving he had the advantage, and said,‘Let’s just say, for the point of hypothetical conversation, that I really do have a cryp number – which I don’t, because I endorse the state’s right to scrutinise metadata for the purpose of security – but if I did, I wouldn’t link to an individual by name. I would use a code number.’
‘The metadata from your phone and Wing Ho’s phone are reciprocal and identical,’ said Conan. ‘You spoke with him for two hundred and forty-two seconds at 6.39pm on the 9th of January … approximately half an hour before he was killed.’
Ronny shrugged.
‘What can I tell you, Agent Tooley? I’m a journalist. I get calls all the time … often from people with urgent messages about breaking news. I suppose it’s possible that I did speak with a person at that time … but I don’t know any Michael Wing Ho and I don’t know anything about a murder.’
At that moment the sound of a roaring crowd came from Ronny’s pocket, and he grinned as he pulled out his phone.
‘Do you know the Feng Song?’ asked Ronny, peering at the screen. ‘Ah … excuse me.’
He walked onto the pitch to answer his phone. ‘Good morning, Major!’
Conan couldn’t hear anything further but strained his ears, wondering how many majors there were in Ord City.
Ronny seemed to stiffen and get slightly more animated, half glancing back in Conan’s direction. Then he walked further onto the pitch which was abandoned by all players and coaching staff, and spoke for another couple of minutes as Conan tried not to take too obvious an interest in him. The stadium was very impressive – built to the exact specifications of the Emirates Stadium in London, according to a plaque above the players’ tunnel – although mainly decked out in yellow as opposed to the Emirates’ red.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Ronny, his conversation over and suddenly much more friendly.
‘Where were we?’ asked Conan.
‘I was explaining that I couldn’t help your investigation,’ said Ronny, ‘but tell me Agent Tooley … ’
‘Tools.’
‘Tools,’ repeated Ronny with a grin. ‘Are you a football fan?’
‘Not really.’
‘You should be. Why don’t you come to the game tomorrow night … as my guest?’
Conan stared at the grinning Chinese, wondering what had changed in the last few minutes, his antennae sparking like Tesla tubes.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Conan. ‘I’d be happy to come.’
‘Good. I’ll be hosting drinks and dinner first, so come to Gate C at 5.30 and ask for Ronny Kwai’s private suite. I’ll have someone look after you.’
• • •
‘Absolutely not.’
Conan had finally bitten the bullet and called Kenny Cook.
‘Kenny … there is something very weird going on up here. I seriously think it needs looking into. We may regret it if we don’t.’
‘Regret what?’
‘I can’t say … but the murders are the tip of the iceberg. I’m certain of it.’
‘You’re certain … and yet you’ve made exactly zero progress on the Fong, Wing Ho case. How can you be certain of anything?’
‘I’m certain there are some pretty weird questions to be answered,’ said Conan. ‘Like, why was the flat emptied without me checking it out properly? Why is an AFP colleague being so obstructive? Who’s chasing me? What the fuck is the Epistola Clementis and why were Fong and Wing Ho so interested in it? And what is the Army of God and Ronny Kwai hiding?’
‘The only question you need to answer,’ said Kenny, ‘… is this one: will you be at your desk in Sydney on Monday morning … or will I be looking for a new agent?’
It was Friday afternoon and Conan felt a wave of bureaucratic inertia swamping his resolve.
‘See you Monday, Kenny.’
• • •
‘There’s not much about it on the net. I had to go dark.’
‘Really?’
Lucia was at her sister’s place and had asked him to call her back from a public phone – which he’d located in a bar near his hotel. The call could still be traced and transcribed but it was far less likely than if they spoke on their own phones.
‘Did you know there’s actually a Vatican Dark Web?’
‘Dark Web for everything,’ said Conan. ‘Pretty spooky was it?’
‘Let’s just say there are some weird people who want to do seriously perverted shit to each other. That’s all you get on Vatican Dark … pervy weirdos … but they knew about Epistola Clementis … or said they did.’
‘Well?’
‘Well, as far as I can tell, the Epistola Clementis means the Letter of Clement … one of the early popes.’
‘Right.’
‘It’s all about the pope’s authority … where he gets his power from.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Conan … you’re not taking it seriously!’
‘Yes, I am,’ he said. ‘I’m just waiting for you to get to the important bit.’
‘Back in the first century,’ she said, her voice singing with sarcasm, ‘the pope’s authority was pretty