Defender(84)

"Here we go," said Morgan. "I have visual on Cornell."

As Morgan watched, Cornell walked to a point at the far corner of the Lake of Reflection and stopped. He then sat down alone on a bench, from where he could observe the area around him. "He's in position on a bench at the northwest corner of the lake. In a straight line up from the obelisk at the Elizabeth and Bathurst Street intersection."

"Roger that, Alex," came Sutherland's reply.

Now they were all there: Morgan, Cornell and four invisible police officers, all waiting for the storm to hit, and waiting, hopefully, for Lundt to appear. The police had all but disappeared into the background, where they would watch and report on anybody fitting Lundt's description, and anything or anyone else looking vaguely connected to the play.

As Morgan shifted his gaze across the park, his attention was distracted by a young boy, Chinese and only about seven years old, immersed in a wild contest with the elements. A brightly coloured kite, swooping and peaking high above the treetops was battling not to be torn from the boy's line; the blackened, angry sky, taunted him to let go with every gust. With detached amusement, Morgan could see that the kid still had a lot of fight left yet, and was unlikely to give in. But he was about to do battle on another front: his parents were closing in fast, struggling with cameras, hats and bags, and unimpressed that the boy had ignored their remonstrations. Good luck, mate!

Near the boy, Morgan saw an older man standing at the lake's edge. He was wearing a battered baseball cap, pulled down tight over dark brows, talking into a phone. Grey hair was just visible and his free hand was thrust into the pocket of a lightweight, windproof jacket. Well prepared for the unexpected weather, Morgan thought, and seemingly unperturbed by its proximity. With a practised economy of habit, the man withdrew the hand from his pocket and absently pulled a pipe from his teeth. He, too, was looking on cheerfully, laughing as the kid fought against the conflicting forces of nature and disobedience, enjoying the innocence of the boy's games.

The kid's parents reached him. Game over. Despite admiring the kid's tenacity, Morgan was glad they were leaving. For, although this part of the operation was essentially surveillance, there was always a chance of something going wrong. You never knew.

The parents and boy bustled away and the old guy went back to minding his own business.

Morgan resumed his scan beyond the far end of the lake. He scanned from right-to-left first, then from left-to-right, a tactic he'd been trained to use to counter his western brain's default setting to read from left-to-right. The right-to-left search forced the brain to address its observations in a more precise manner.

No sign of anything untoward.

He restudied the immediate surrounds. Cornell had moved off the bench and was now pacing up and down beside the lake, agitated, 20 feet from the old man with the pipe. A smattering of people still hung around. Morgan's radio earpiece crackled to life. It was the police team leader, Stojakovic, call-sign 'Five'. "Heads up. Coming infrom the North. African. Solidly built. Short hair cut. Dark, short-sleeved shirt. There's another at ten, and another at 20 feet behind him, following up. Both younger than the lead guy.

They look like Malfajirians - can't be sure, but they look interested in our show."

"Copy that, Five," answered Morgan. Damn it! He thought. Not Lundt.

Morgan looked back across to Cornell. Something wasn't right. Then he saw Cornell looking in the general direction of the old man. Was there something familiar about that old guy? Cornell was agitated. Looking around, squirming like a restless child, not sure if he should put his hand up and ask to be excused. Had he seen something?

The penny dropped.





CHAPTER 57





Victor Lundt moved toward Cornell with the self-assuredness that comes when real experience confronts a real pretender. Like some indeterminable mutating contagion, Lundt dropped one host for another; the old man guise discarded and the real persona resumed. He sidled furtively along until he reached the very edge of the Lake of Reflection, three feet from Cornell.

Looking on, Morgan instantly recalled his confrontation with Lundt in the ruins of Cullentown. He now recognised his profile and build, his arrogant manner, sauntering towards the unsuspecting civil servant. Lundt hadn't bothered to mask those things. This, he saw, was to be a show of strength - some Neolithic chest beating to show off who had the biggest stones.

It was definitely Lundt.

Alex Morgan pulled the collar of his black jacket up around his face. While there was more than enough distance between him and Lundt, there was no point in tempting fate. Anyway, it was doubtful Lundt even knew Morgan was still alive. That was Morgan's trump card.