Private Oz (Private 7)

“Oh!” she said. “A man of mystery …”

Chapter 25

WE WALKED DOWN Macquarie Street close to Circular Quay. Straight ahead of us stood the Opera House, the tiers of wide steps leading to its massive windows just a couple of dozen yards away. People were sitting on the steps drinking Slurpees, coffee, Coke. We turned onto the Quay and I pointed out the sights to Justine. She was quiet, taking it all in, but not “oohing” and “ahhing” as some tourists might. I liked that.

We walked in the shade, an arcade of shops to our left. An aboriginal man was playing a didgeridoo over a hip-hop beat spilling from an iPod plugged into a big speaker.

“Very post-modern!” Justine observed. “So where exactly are you taking me?”

“Don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

We came to a bar, tables and umbrellas outside, families eating late breakfast. A big flat screen on the wall inside was showing a soccer game from the English Premier League, Chelsea vs. Tottenham. I led the way through the bar and up a flight of stairs. On the wall was a small sign. It said: ICE BAR.

“What’s this?” Justine asked and spun round, puzzled.

I stepped up to the counter. A few other customers milled about. Sixty seconds later, I had two tickets in my hand and guided Justine around a corner. An immaculately tanned blonde was waiting for us by a rack of fur coats.

Justine turned to me again.

“Okay, this is the deal,” I said. “You want to cool down? The Ice Bar is set to minus twenty Fahrenheit. Everything is made from ice including the cocktail glasses. We stay in for a drink – twenty minutes. You’ll feel a lot cooler by the end of it.”

I had to laugh as Justine pulled on a nerdy fur-lined anorak and mittens. It wasn’t really her. But she seemed to be loving it all. We went into the antechamber to acclimatize. Here, it was just 18oF. From there we went into the Prep Room, temperature, five degrees. Then the door to the bar swished open and we were inside. The digital thermometer on the wall told us it was minus 20oF … and it felt it, even through the thick socks, the boots, the fur-lined anorak and the mittens.

The floor was covered with ice. The chairs around the walls were made of ice, the bar was ice. Everything backlit electric blue.

“This is fantastic, Craig!” Justine beamed, her breath steamy and fragrant. She sipped at the cocktail and I glimpsed the side of her face as the light from the bar caught it. “I could look at that face and never grow weary of it,” I thought to myself.

Chapter 26

THE HO MANSION was in Mosman, a few hundred yards from Taronga Zoo. It was new and vulgar and stuck out like a sore thumb among the genteel old-money houses built at the turn of the nineteenth century.

Buzzed in through an electrically operated gate, Mary and I strode up a gravel path that passed over a pond filled with koi. A Malaysian maid met us at the front door and showed us into a grandiose circular hall. A young Chinese guy in a blue tailored suit appeared in an archway to the right of the hall. He

had an earpiece in place, a wire disappearing into his shirt collar. I noticed the bulge of a firearm under his jacket.

I showed him my ID.

“You’re early,” he said and indicated we should follow him along a corridor leading away under the arch. We hung a right, then a left. I glimpsed huge rooms – a gym, a home theater, a couple of living areas, each with the floor space of an average apartment.

We reached a door on the right. Another guard, identical uniform, identical earpiece and jacket bulge, was standing on the nearside of the door. He stiffened as we came round the corner.

The first guy walked off without a word. I flashed my ID again. The second guard opened the door and nodded us in.

It was another impressively proportioned room, high ceiling, sumptuous sofas, a desk, ancient-looking framed Chinese silk prints on dark walls. No sign of Ho.

Halfway into the room, I heard a faint sound from the far corner. There was a door into another room. I noticed a flickering light coming from beyond the doorway but couldn’t make out the sound.

I turned to Mary and put a finger to my lips. Stopping a yard from the door, I pulled to the wall, peered in, Mary right next to me.

There was a wide flat screen on the far wall. A sofa.

On the screen a small boy played with a toy train. He lifted his head and beamed a beatific smile. Then the scene changed. The boy was a little older, maybe seven, eight. He was flying a kite on the beach. The camera panned back and I saw Bathers’ Pavilion, the landmark café on Balmoral Beach a mile from here.

Ho Meng sat in half-profile staring ahead, transfixed. A line of tears running down his cheek, his body shaking.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to come face-to-face with the dead kid.

Chapter 27