LITMIR.BIZ

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The man flipped out a notebook and pen. 'But I have a few questions, if you don't mind.'

      'Sure.'

      'In that photo you gave us yesterday, your niece was holding a small quilt. Can you tell me where she got it?'

      'The quilt? I made it for her when she was six months old.'

      'You didn't buy it?'

      'No. I made it. Hand-stitched it.' Apprehension almost curdled the coffee in her stomach. 'What's this about? Why are you asking about the quilt? Have you found it?'

      'No. We, ah, haven't.' The hesitation in the man's denial increased Kate's fear. She saw the way his gaze flicked away before focusing on her again. What was happening here? 'Have you heard from your sister-in-law?' he continued.

      Something was wrong. Kate could feel it in her gut. Could she trust him? She'd been warned that the Loving Hand had connections everywhere, even in the police force. She decided to play it wide-eyed and innocent. 'No. But a friend of hers said she joined the Loving Hand church so I'm going to make some enquiries there. I'm sure I'll find her. She's probably just so caught up in her new life she's forgotten to let me know where she is.'

      If scepticism was gold, the man would have been instantly wealthy. He flipped his notebook shut and pocketed it. 'Please make sure you keep in touch with us, Miss Maclaren.'

      'Oh, I will. I'll stay here until I hear from Melanie.' She watched him walk from the office before giving in to the trembling in her legs and collapsing onto a chair.

      CHAPTER 3

      'What were you thinking, taking Corey there?'

      Leon Thompson suppressed a shiver at the venom in the words hissing through the phone. Although he'd worked for this man for many years, he'd never overcome his fear of him. He wasn't going to admit to him that he could have made an error of judgement.

      'I didn't think there'd be a problem. I'd checked him out thoroughly, right back to when he went off the rails after leaving high school. And he doesn't know the details about the Duralinga project, only that it's bigger than anything I've been able to sell him so far.'

      'You thought with your dick. Like the stupid bastards who didn't realise the girl was pregnant. Disposing of her wasn't a problem, but the fucking client got all noble, wanted to give her a proper burial. Stupid prick thought he was in love with her.'

      Leon smiled at the disgust in the tone. 'What's going to happen to him?'

      'His suicide has already been arranged. But I'll close down operations in the south-east corner for a while. I don't need the cops sniffing around. And you'd better leave Brisbane. Come out here. I'll make the arrangements.'

      Before Leon could protest, the call disconnected. The country was the last place he wanted to go. He was a city dweller born and bred, with an inherent need to smell city smells and be comforted by the sound of constant traffic. The country was another world. Almost a foreign world. But it had been a close call the other night. He didn't need to have any sort of attention directed his way, particularly now.

      'What do you mean, you haven't sent the comfit image to Missing Persons? It's been nearly a week.' John felt like pounding Ian McSwain's desk.

      His boss's heavy-jowled face went ominously still.

      John took a deep breath. 'The girl wasn't even in her teens. She must have parents somewhere. Someone must know who she is.'

      'Probably a street kid who was selling herself for a quick fix or a feed.' McSwain's suit coat didn't move, but John was sure he'd shrugged his shoulders in dismissal of the subject. 'Have you made any further connections through Leon Thompson?' McSwain continued.

      Normally John would have switched his attention back to his assignment as quickly as McSwain had, but the girl's pale, thin face and the pathetic body of the foetus still haunted his thoughts. It had taken all his acting skills to go back to Room Six and pretend that having sex with Abagail was the only thing on his mind. Not that he'd been very successful. Luckily Abagail had believed his lie about a hangover.

      'Make up some story for Missing Persons,' he said. 'They don't have to know why we're looking for her.'

      'We risk compromising this whole operation if we start showing that image around. You should have kept your nose out of it. Just got your rocks off and stuck with Thompson.' One bristled eyebrow lowered further than the other, giving McSwain the look of a bulldog about to crunch on a bone. John suspected that he just might end up being that bone.

      'It's not our job to find out who she was.' With a note of finality, McSwain pushed a folder across the desk. 'This is the latest from Duralinga. Our agent there has informed us that the project is reaching the critical stage. If they succeed it won't be long before Thompson's boss will pounce.'

      John knew better than to ask who McSwain had placed undercover in the top secret facility. Since the discovery more than a year ago that one of their agents had been selling information, and intelligence services overseas had experienced similar leaks, McSwain had tightened security to the extent John suspected he'd even bugged the toilets in their cramped set of offices. Not that John would have done differently. Another of their agents, Mark Talbert, had nearly died after being shot by the traitor, Vaughan Waring, and suspicion still haunted the agency that Waring hadn't been the only one corrupted by the lure of big pay-offs. Talbert had left the agency earlier in the year, which meant no-one now was free from suspicion.

      McSwain's office was the only one in their Brisbane location that had comfortable furniture, and John was tempted to ease into one of the leather chairs and read the report, but the dismissive note in McSwain's voice stopped him. 'I want that back on my desk in twenty minutes, together with an update on your progress with Thompson.'

      John made himself a strong coffee before sitting at the desk allocated to him when he'd been brought up from Canberra. The office was in a building so old that it had been Heritage-listed, saving it from the demolition that John, and many of the others who worked in it, felt it deserved. Solid sandstone walls and extremely high ceilings made it an expensive proposition to heat; but as he gazed out the window across parkland to the meandering Brisbane River, John conceded that the peaceful surroundings and lack of traffic and exhaust fumes more than compensated for the lack of central heating he was used to in Canberra.

      Perhaps if their agency received the funding ASIO enjoyed, they would be working out of a modern building with plumbing that worked and elevators that didn't get stuck on one floor because someone forgot to close the doors.

      But they were a small group, allocated jobs on the Prime Minister's whim.

      Secret.

      And as far as the PM was concerned, expendable.

      John looked up as Craig Sharpie walked past to the alcove that held his own desk with its three computers. Craig dropped onto his chair and tossed his glasses onto a pile of paperwork near the photo of his family. He swivelled around and asked, 'How much longer will McSwain be here?'

      'Do you mean in the office or in Brisbane?'

      'Brisbane. When is he going back to Canberra?'

      John looked at the younger man and saw the tension in the stiff way he held his shoulders. 'Why?'

      Craig shrugged. 'He makes me nervous. He's always snooping around like he's expecting to find something wrong. He never paid us much attention up here, but since that terrorist scare months ago he's haunted us.'

      'There's a lot going on up here lately.'

      'Yeah. There is.' Craig turned back to his desk, shoved his glasses back on and began tapping at one of his computer keyboards with more force than was necessary.

      John stared at his colleague for a few more moments. Everything about Craig was average, from the light brown hair curled over his shirt collar to his sensible leather shoes and glasses that were practical rather than fashionable. Perhaps he simply didn't like his comfortable little niche being invaded by McSwain and other agents from

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