On the rare occasions that he'd resorted to disguise, Lundt used masks based on lifelike disfigurement. They induced sympathy and disinclination toward protracted scrutiny of his facial features when viewed alongside the accompanying image within one of a number of false passports. Of course, having access to a movie effects specialist like Cheng, and a selection of corresponding face and passport choices was gold.
Lundt had been through the rigmarole of sitting for plaster casts that Cheng used to make moulds of his face. They had spent days viewing photographs of real facial injuries and disfigurements before settling upon two options. Cheng made up the masks, and by way of rehearsal, Lundt had walked to a number of different places in full make-up to have the passport photos taken. Then it was just a simple matter of giving the photos and two alternative identities to Phil, his long-standing contact at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, and the passports were done. It was an expensive business, he thought, as he turned off the steaming water but, it had kept him well clear of the stupid plods.
Lundt walked into the bedroom, turned his phone back on, and stretched out naked upon the bare mattress. Now safely in Australia, his priority was to get back in the game. It had been a day since he last spoke to Cornell. A lot can happen in 24 hours.
As if on cue, his phone buzzed, heralding a stream of messages. The first, a message from Johnson. He read it and let out a deep groan, as if he didn't have enough to deal with already.
He had agreed to take care of Cornell but there was more. Johnson had arranged for the girl to shadow Cornell. She'd be in Sydney, too, and now he wanted her sorted out. It was getting far too complicated. Johnson was treating him like nothing more than hired muscle. Lundt didn't like it. His instinct told him to be on guard.
He read the message again.
As lights from passing cars danced through the blinds and across the walls of the bedroom, a cowl of menace fell upon Lundt's face.
Well, if it meant clearing up loose ends, then so be it. But if Johnson was setting him up . . . well, it was time the gloves came off.
He'd rest tomorrow, make some calls and, importantly, make sure his Sydney crew was ready when he arrived. You never could tell. Back-up would be wise. He'd take a domestic flight to Sydney tomorrow night.
Ina moment, Victor Lundt was sound asleep.
CHAPTER 50
Sydney, Australia
Alex Morgan entered the four-digit PIN provided by Sutherland into the security keypad, easing his hire car off Castlereagh Street and through the roller door into the car park. He negotiated the tight, descending spiral of the garage before finding a spot.
Morgan was tired from the flight but exhilarated at the promise of areturn to the chase. He could feel Lundt under his skin. At least now, he mused, they were both in the same hemisphere. Or were they? Simultaneously, his musings closed in on Arena. She was, he knew for certain, closer still. But there his exhilaration left him. What sort of reception could he expect from her? He'd received nothing until the distress flare email a couple of days ago which he'cl opened back in Davenport's office. Morgan felt the familiar hand of melancholy reaching up for him and shut it down. There was no point. He'd remain professional, just as he told himself during the flight, when his thoughts and dreams were consumed by her. A few minutes later he entered the Hyde Park Regency reception area, stepping out from the elevator. Dave Sutherland was waiting for him.
"Where is she?" Morgan asked, setting down his bag and attache case. "Don't I even get a hug?"
"Piss off, Dave. We said hello on the phone," Morgan replied warmly.
They shook hands. "So, where is she?"
"Upstairs pining for you," the former US Navy SEAL winked. "Of course she is."
"You wish," Sutherland laughed. "She's locked herself inside pretty much the entire time since she arrived yesterday. Just reading, online, listening to music. We've had a couple of brief chats, to give her a heads-up on the latest. She's avoiding the phone, but seemed fine when I dropped in to check on her. She's holding it together. Occasionally gets some air out on the sundeck. She's drop-dead gorgeous, you lucky bastard!"
"I know. Jesus, it's bloody hot!"
"You said it. 38 degrees Celsius. That's 100 degrees in the old currency.
Been like this for days, but they say a storm's coming."
"That'll help with the bushfires," Morgan said. He released his tie and stretched, gazing around the immediate surrounds. For a moment, he was thrown back in time as he saw the ANZAC War Memorial across Elizabeth Street in Hyde Park. The Art Deco memorial housed arguably the most moving tribute to fallen soldiers Morgan had ever seen, Hoff's incredibly confronting bronze sculpture of a dead young soldier, held aloft upon a shield by three women: mother, sister and wife. He hadn't seen it in years. "Anyway, I'm not sure about the lucky bit, mate. That remains to be seen. I better check in. How's your knee, by the way? Boss mentioned you'd had surgery."