Page 8

‘I sometimes wonder how you attained such a position of responsibility.’

Panos gulped but didn’t reply. If it hadn’t been for Fairweather’s payoffs and generous ‘donations’, he would never have been elected to parliament in the first place.

‘Since you have called me from your office, I want you to sit at your desk and make some calls. Pull out the phone book and ring fifty of your constituents and tell them what a wonderful representative you are.’

‘I’m sorry, but –’

‘Bury this call, Panos. Fifty. Now. And don’t ring me from this number again. You have a phone. Use it.’

‘Yes. I will. All right.’ Panos pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow.

‘Now. Right now.’

The call ended and Panos turned to the window and stared at the view in front of him. Was it too late to back out? Maybe he could resign. Just walk off the place. That might work. But where would he go? It would have to be the farm. That was where the problem had started, and now it had come full circle. He’d been a fool. A greedy fool. And now Fairweather had him by the balls.

The phone rang again before he could make his first call.

‘Yes?’

‘Panos, there’s an Ellie Porter on the line for you. Shall I put her through? She said it was important.’

Panos covered his eyes with his free hand and took a deep breath. He swallowed the bile that burned in his throat. ‘Take her number please, Ellen. I’ll call her back in a while.’

*

The driver sitting in the silver Mercedes in the short stay car park at Darwin Airport turned the key in the ignition. The rumble of the powerful engine muted the sound of the traffic on the Stuart Highway as they turned south onto the busy road. In the back seat, Russell Fairweather slipped his gold iPhone into the inside pocket of his jacket.

‘Where to?’ Mick flicked him a glance in the rear-vision mirror.

Russell stared through the window, thinking; Panos’ call had blackened his mood. ‘Take me to Parliament House.’

Without a word, Mick took a right at the next set of traffic lights and turned back towards the city. The traffic was heavy as they drove along the beaches east of the CBD. Five minutes later, he turned onto Mitchell Drive heading for State Square.

‘Take the car back to the apartment and wait for me to call. Organise one of the others to drive me around for the rest of the week. I need you down at Kakadu to deal with some issues.’

Mick gave him a slow nod, his eyes cold and empty. He was a tall, good-looking man, with short-cropped blond hair. Mick had worked for him for several years now and was tasked with handling the ‘small’ problems that occasionally plagued his business dealings. Russell didn’t know whether Mick’s cool disregard for human life came from his military experiences, or whether he had genuine psychopathic tendencies, but he had proved a loyal employee, and followed orders without asking questions. Personality wasn’t a prerequisite.

When they pulled up, Russell climbed out of the car and strode across the square to Parliament House without a backward glance.

As he entered the main door, his mood was eased somewhat by the deferential nods and greetings directed his way. Once the changes were approved, it wouldn’t matter what that meddling Porter bitch saw. The mine was going to be lucrative for the Territory, and that was the card he would continue to play with this idealistic man. If he was difficult to persuade, then less subtle means of persuasion may be necessary.

David Johnson, Chief Minister of the Northern Territory, was waiting in the foyer. As soon as he saw Fairweather striding across the marble, he excused himself from the group of men he was talking to. They shook hands and then headed for the elevator.

‘Russell, an unexpected pleasure.’

They emerged from the lift at the rooftop bar, which was beginning to fill with politicians and staffers as the day drew to a close.

‘What will you have to drink?’ Johnson nodded to a couple of men as they pushed their way through the crowd.

‘Glenfiddich. No ice.’ Curious glances were being directed their way.

When their drinks arrived, Russell lifted his glass and observed the honourable member. Johnson’s usually impeccable white shirt was creased and his tie was slightly askew. His hair was tousled and his six o’clock shadow gave him an unkempt look. In contrast, Fairweather shaved twice a day. The whisky warmed his throat and he leaned back into his chair. He brushed his hand down the immaculate crease in his Armani trousers.

‘So, Russell, what was so urgent that you had to meet with me tonight?’ Johnson said, putting his glass on the table.

‘I wanted to bring you up to date on stock market trends.’

Johnson looked at him curiously.