Left Luggage Read online

  Left Luggage

  Andrew Christie

  Contents

  The Next John Lawrence Novel

  Prologue

  1. Photojournalist of the Year

  2. Welcome Home

  3. Rules

  4. No One Gets Out Alive

  5. Prepaid Only

  6. Large

  7. An Extraordinary Australian

  8. Mileage

  9. 402

  10. Pike

  11. A Bit Famous

  12. We Didn’t Talk About it Much

  13. OP

  14. Business

  15. Is This Normal?

  16. Pure Home Grown

  17. Blue Shoes

  18. Tough Man

  19. Smokey

  Epilogue

  Untitled

  Untitled

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The Next John Lawrence Novel

  Be sure to check out Tunnel Vision, the next book in the John Lawrence series. Just tap the image above.

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  For Strop

  who always has the best lines

  * * *

  Prologue

  Paris, August 1975

  Rashid jammed the battered blue Deux Chevaux into gear and sent the car lurching out into the traffic on Avenue de Flandre. The Portuguese had rung him that morning, whining like a little dog about his woman, la pute Australienne.

  “You have to take the suitcase away. I can’t have it here anymore,” he said.

  So now Rashid had to find somewhere new to keep the guns and the money until the Germans were ready. All Jorge had to do was look after the suitcase for a couple of weeks, till Gunther’s team could move. It was nothing difficult, nothing dangerous, just hold the suitcase. But Jorge had shown he was just another bourgeois coward, more worried about keeping his woman happy than doing anything useful. All these intellectuals were the same. They made lots of noise, talking about standing up against imperialism, but none of them were doing anything. Apparently looking after a suitcase for two weeks was too much trouble.

  A taxi stopped suddenly in front of him to avoid a dog that had run into the road. Rashid braked hard, making the old 2CV wallow on its soft suspension. “Merde. Qu’est-ce que tu fous?” he muttered as he swung out into the next lane, working the gear stick and the accelerator to get the underpowered car back up to speed again. It was a hot day and Rashid was sweating underneath the black leather coat he wore to cover his shoulder holster. He wished he had taken the time to roll back the cloth roof of the car before he had left– the little fold-up windows didn’t let enough air in to cool the car.

  None of it would have been a problem if the Germans had known what they were doing. Rashid had expected that they would be serious operators, professionals. After all, the Syrian himself had chosen them. “They have an important job for us, give them what they want,” he had said when Rashid had last been in Marseilles. It turned out that what they wanted was money and automatic weapons.

  Well, these Germans might know how to shoot, but they didn’t know how to plan. Rashid had done his part, bringing the guns and the money to Paris, only to find they weren’t ready.

  “What are you waiting for?” Rashid said. “I thought it is a big urgency, that the timing was critical.”

  “It’s Lutz,” the leader, Gunther, had said. “He is gone for his holiday, to Bordeaux. We only now found out that he goes every year to Bassin d’Arcachon. He won’t return to Paris until two weeks. We must wait, there is no point if he is not there.”

  “What am I supposed to do with the guns till then?”

  “It is just two weeks. When Lutz is back we will go to work. It is a better time anyway, after the holidays. People will take more notice.”

  If you kill the ambassador, Rashid had thought, people are going to notice.

  So the raid was delayed, and Rashid had asked Jorge to hold the suitcase for him. But now he had changed his mind, and Rashid had to find somewhere else to store it until Lutz returned, and the Germans gave the go ahead.

  The Île de la Cité was packed with tourists and the little Citroën got stuck behind a sightseeing bus that seemed to be intent on travelling as slowly as possible. A moto came past on the left, weaving through the traffic. The girl on the back was blonde; long hair and sunglasses with blue circular lenses. She took a long look down at Rashid, a big smile showing her perfect teeth when he turned and looked back at her. He saw her fingers tap lightly on the shoulders of the man in front of her before they accelerated away, disappearing up the side of the bus.

  On Rue Saint-Jacques there were still plenty of tourists on the pavements, but the traffic began to move a bit more freely. Behind him a blue van turned off into a laneway, revealing the taxi he had swerved around before, two cars back. Rashid checked the other cars. There were none that he recognised, none that looked suspicious. He checked his mirror again. Two men were in the taxi, the passenger sitting in the front beside the driver. He made a right onto Rue du Sommerard, driving a slow loop around the Jardin Médiéval. When he came back out onto Rue Saint-Jacques there was no sign of the taxi.

  He was glad of the weight of the Makarov beneath his arm. The taxi was probably nothing, but you could never be sure. He had vowed at the start that he would not let himself be captured. Not like Baader and Meins. If it came to it, he would take as many of the pigs as he could, then use the gun on himself. Rashid had no fear of death.

  He turned on the radio, listening and singing along when his favourite song came on, a French version of Del Shannon’s “Runaway”, while his eyes flicked back and forth from the road in front to the mirrors. Still nothing.

  At L’institut Océanographique he turned left onto Rue Gay-Lussac and found a parking place opposite Jorge’s apartment building. It was one of a row of seven-storey buildings that opened directly onto the street. Rashid sat in the car for a couple of minutes, watching. The street was quiet. There was nothing that looked out of place.

  The Portuguese must have been watching the street too, because he opened the door before Rashid had a chance to press the buzzer. Jorge was a tall man but soft. Today he looked unhappy.

  “I’m sorry, Rashid.”

  “Fermés la gueule. I thought you were a friend. I thought I could rely on you.”

  “I am a friend. You know that. But you didn’t tell me it was guns.”

  “You opened the suitcase?”

  “Yes, but ... What the hell are you doing with guns?”

  “What do people usually do with guns? Do you think we are playing games?”

  “No, of course ...”

  “Where is it?”

  “Upstairs.” Jorge held the door open.

  Rashid turned to check the street again before he went inside. The taxi was there, double parked. The driver and the passenger were getting out, looking at across at Rashid and Jorge. “Traître,” Rashid said under his breath, his hand sliding beneath his coat. He turned and shot Jorge in the face.

  There was a shout from across the street. The men were running now, drawing weapons. Rashid stood his ground and fired. The first man went down, hit in the chest. The second man took cover behind a blue Renault as Rashid’s shots shattered its windows. A large black sedan skidded to a stop in the middle of the street. The back doors flew open and two men came out holding automatic weapons. Rashid fired at them, then made a dash towards the taxi. The man behind the Renault stood and fired but missed. Rashid shot back as he ran. He missed too, but he kept going, kept running. He had his hand on the door of the taxi when the GIGN anti-terrorist team from the second car opened
up with their MP5s. Two bursts of automatic fire slammed into Rashid’s chest. The Makarov dropped from his hand as he fell against the taxi and slumped face down on the pavement.

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  Photojournalist of the Year

  John Lawrence closed the sliding door and adjusted the vertical blinds, narrowing the slices of late-afternoon sun that cut across the pale carpet, reducing the light in the room to a soft glow. He had spent all day moving the furniture in, arranging and then rearranging it, getting ready for his mother’s arrival in the morning. Looking around the small sitting room now though, the pieces of furniture he had chosen sat awkwardly with each other, like strangers in a doctor’s waiting room. Well, it was too late to change; his mother was certain to have her own ideas anyway, and he could move things around however she liked. They could even swap the furniture for some of the other stuff in storage – there was more than enough there. Hell, they could buy all new furniture if she wanted. It was up to her.

  The apartment was on the ground floor, a ‘courtyard apartment’, in the Forest Court Retirement Community. He had chosen the retirement village in Glebe so his mother would be close to him: it was two kilometres from his house, a distance that he thought should provide enough separation, allowing them to have their own lives, but close enough that they would still be in easy contact with each other when they wanted. There were other, newer, retirement villages with bigger apartments and better facilities, but they were all much further away, out in the suburbs. He knew his mother would want to be in the city, close to things.

  The furniture was what he thought were his mother’s favourite things. The two old armchairs that had been in the living room of her apartment in Montparnasse he had eventually put against the end wall. An oak dresser, the old kitchen table and a couple of bookcases didn’t leave room for any other furniture. The long wall opposite the window was now covered with framed photographs. To one end were a group of awards. Betty Lawrence - Photojournalist of the Year, 1972. A couple of Time magazine covers too, Vietnam and Lebanon. His mother in her heyday, when it wasn’t really a war until Betty Lawrence photographed it. Who had said that? One of her journalist mates, he thought. The photographs and awards had been on her walls in Paris. They were the first things he unpacked in her new apartment.

  The photos of his mother showed her as a small woman with intense pale eyes, blonde in the older photographs. John took after her in his face and especially his eyes, but his size came from his father’s side. That was what she always said. John had only seen his father in photos, a big, dark, unknowable man. John’s hair was light like his mother’s, but more brown, and clipped short. On the side of his neck was an angry red mesh of scar tissue that was all his own. It disappeared beneath the neck of his white T-shirt, reappearing on his right arm, and extending all the way down to his wrist, ending abruptly where his combat glove had protected his hand from the flames in the cab of the Bushmaster.

  His mother owned a lot of books. They had filled the bookshelves lining the hallway of her old apartment. There wasn’t room for them all here, so John had made a random selection, just enough to fill the two low bookshelves. Some of the novels he recognised, but most of them he’d never heard of. There were books on fashion and art too, even some on Aboriginal art. The art books were all in French, but some of the novels were in English.

  In the kitchen he washed up the mug and plate he had used for lunch, and put a new liner in the bin. He took one last look around the sitting room, trying to see it the way his mother would in the morning. It would have to do, she was going to have to make it her own.

  It was a short drive from Glebe to where John lived in Camperdown, in an old mixed industrial and residential area. His house was jammed between a warehouse that had been converted to trendy loft apartments and a row of terrace houses. It was the odd one out, older than its neighbours, and set further back from the street. Despite the shiny new corrugated steel roofing, it looked dark and uncared for. Bigger than the terrace houses, it would have once had land all around it, but now the side yards had gone and the newer buildings were hard up against his walls. Still, he had a big backyard and a rear lane, and one day he’d have a garden too.

  When he had bought the house at auction, the word most frequently used by the agent was potential, because it was the only selling point. The house had been neglected for the last thirty years, owned by an old woman who had aged with the house, eventually dying in it; her life shrunken down till she was living in two rooms on the ground floor, leaving the rest of the house to decay around her. It was a fixer-upper’s dream, the agent said. Nightmare was more like it, but John did see potential. For him it was the chance to reshape his life, to build something solid. He ignored the smell of damp and the rotten floorboards.

  At the auction, the first wave of bidders were the romantics and the wishful thinkers who thought they might pick up a bargain. He waited till the serious bidders began to stir, leaving the optimists shaking their heads and muttering about the price of Sydney real estate. These were the ones with experience, semiprofessional renovators who bought old houses, fixed them up and resold them. They had a keen eye on the costs and on what they could realistically expect to get for the place in a year or two. John came on strong, raising the price by $10 000 with his first bid, then sat back and harassed them, raising every bid by $1000. Calm, tenacious, letting them know he wasn’t going away, he wasn’t worried about a bottom line. He needed somewhere to live, something to do. He was buying a life. One by one, they dropped out until John became the owner. That was when the real work started.

  John parked his battered Hilux ute in the street, emptied the letterbox and let himself inside. A bare bulb lit the dirty walls and worn floorboards of the hall with hard white light. The second thing he had done to the house, after putting a new roof on, had been to get an electrician in to completely rewire the house and put in new lights. The rotten insulation and bare wires had been a death trap.

  The old roof had let in so much water that the ceilings had collapsed in the upstairs bedrooms and the floors were dangerously rotten with gaping holes in some places. The house still smelled a bit of damp and mould, but it was getting less every day. He had the living room and kitchen in habitable condition, having completely stripped them back, rebuilt the floors and relined the walls. The rooms were bare, but they were dry and mostly clean. The laundry was serving as a temporary bathroom and his bed was in the living room: a mattress on the floor and a sleeping bag; basic but adequate. This was the base he would use to take on the rest of the house, room by room. That was the plan.

  John threw the mail onto the table in the kitchen and poured himself a glass of Bowmore. With the whisky warming his throat, he sorted the mail. There were a couple of pieces of junk mail, an electricity bill and a letter from France. It was from the notaire in Paris who had arranged Betty’s affairs for the move, something about furniture still in storage there. John dropped the letter back on the bench and pulled out his sketch book. He’d worry about Betty’s furniture once he had got her settled in. The sketch book was nearly full, the pages covered with neatly drawn plans, different versions of his future home. At the back there were lists of materials and contact numbers for plumbers, electricians and timber merchants. Last night he had been working on an idea to knock out the wall between the living room and the front bedroom, to make it all one big space, and bring a bit more light through into the middle of the house. The trouble was that the wall was load bearing. When he’d finished the whisky, the only conclusion he’d come to was that he needed to talk to an engineer.

  Large Phil Waters ordered a bourbon and Coke, and turned to take stock of the bar. He had a good view of the room and both doors from where he was, so he eased his buttocks onto a stool and took a sip of his drink. Whoever gave Large his nickname believed in stating the obvious. He was a big man, tall and wide, with sandy hair and a wide red face. It didn’t seem to matter what he wore, it w
as always a tight fit.

  It was a mid-town pub, on a busy corner between a burger joint and a city church; the sort of place where no one looks out of place. Unfashionable, but convenient for an after-work beer, no matter what time of day it was. Further north the pubs were full of suits, and women looking for suits. Here there was a mix of workers who hadn’t figured out how to go home yet, some in hi-vis, some in polyester, and even a few in lightweight charcoal wool mix. And backpackers at a corner table, laughing and showing off lots of sunburnt flesh, straight from a day at Bondi, learning to surf, but not learning to spot a rip. In the other corner, looking like out-of-work waiters, a table of men in cheap tuxedos, most with their clip-on bow ties in their pockets and their shirts unbuttoned. Probably kicking on after some cocktail hour function

  “I’ll find you,” was what the guy had said. Large couldn’t see anyone who looked particularly interested in him so he waited. Give it half an hour. He kept one eye on the room while he watched a twenty20 cricket match on one of the many screens fixed high on the walls. The game was all colour and movement, no subtlety. After it had become obvious that this form of the game wasn’t going to die a natural death, Large had found that he could bear to watch it as long as he thought of it as a completely different game from the test cricket he had grown up with. It was a pretty easy delusion to maintain. He finished his drink and ordered another.

  “Phil Waters?”

  One of the off-duty waiters had detached himself from his table and was standing next to Large at the bar. Not looking at him, watching the barman instead. Cautious. Large didn’t turn his head either. “You Dennis?”