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Prologue

The hinges on the front door squeaked and I froze, listening. You could hardly hear it but I almost felt the tiny click when it closed. Damn it! Getting caught was the last thing I needed.

As quietly as humanly possible I shut the vault door and listened with frustration to the too-loud electronic beeping as the lock reset itself. In the morning the security system might show it had been opened but, until then, no one should know. I shoved the handful of stolen papers securely up under my shirt and moved slowly away from the vault, trying to pinpoint whoever was approaching.

Heart thumping, I sidled around the office towards my desk, circling several waste-paper bins and working my way carefully past the photocopier, avoiding the pale blue glow of its touch-screen display. I couldn't hear the intruder any more, but saw the overhead fluorescent lights flicker as they warmed up. He must still have been near the bank of switches by the door.

It seemed like hours but was really only seconds until I'd made it to my own office space and sank quietly into my chair. Even the soft hiss of its pneumatics sounded too loud.

My little office wasn't very private as three of the walls were mostly glass but, during the day when the main office was bustling, I could at least use the phone without being overheard and couldn't have anyone walk up behind me or read over my shoulder.

I turned on my own overhead light as the main lights steadied and took care to appear busy. It was rare for someone else to be in the office at this time of night.

Jack Harris sauntered into view, not expecting anyone to be here. His office, vastly more luxurious than mine, was further down the hall and he'd have to walk right past me.

"Jack," I called. The confidence drained swiftly from his face, the swagger suddenly gone.

"Tracey! You startled me!" He glanced guiltily at his watch. "You're working late?"

"Oh, you know how it is...I can get twice as much done in an hour now as during the day."

"That's true. Thought I'd do the same thing myself." I didn't believe him. Since when did he do any unpaid overtime?

"Well, um, isn't it time you were off then, Tracey? You've had a huge day. Go on. You really should go home. You work too hard,"

Yeah right, I thought, but answered him sweetly enough, "You're right. It is getting late. I'll just shut the computer down."

It blinked and clicked a couple of times and while I waited I tidied away a few papers that were scattered randomly across my desk, clipping some together and popping them in my briefcase. He practically herded me from the office, his hand on my back propelling me swiftly out the front door.

"See you tomorrow, then."

"Yeah, see ya," and he'd turned away before the elevator doors had even closed.

I rode down only one floor then bolted back up the fire stairs. Two flights later and I had the door open a fraction and was peering into the lift foyer outside the office. I didn't have to wait long before the lift doors slid open and a woman stepped out. She was quite good-looking but her features were hard, her make-up was heavy and her black vinyl pants appeared to have been spray-painted on.

I closed the door quietly and retreated down the stairs, brushing irritably at a strand of hair that fell across my eyes. And I thought he'd been suspicious of me...

I didn't bother with the elevator now, but continued down the stairs to the basement and left by the side door. The outside air was pleasantly cool on my skin, especially after the stale, end-of-day atmosphere of the old building. The air-conditioning was hopeless and I'd be glad to phone in my resignation first thing in the morning. Now I had the papers, there was no more reason for me to stay. I walked quickly away, fading into the evening, impatient to return to Chifley Tower. I couldn't wait to ditch the blonde wig I'd had to wear for the past three weeks.

Chapter One

We sat around the large desk in Lawrence Low's Sydney office and looked at a series of graphs and photographs. Tonight was a fairly simple briefing, just an overview of an organization I knew little about--the AFM.

Lawrence looked almost the same as he had when I'd first met him--tall and thin with neat brown hair that was starting to go a little grey. Without even trying, he could blend in to any crowd of businessmen, look totally at home on a racecourse, or merge into a mountain-climbers convention. I could too, but I was a bit newer to the game. He'd been doing it for years. Still, he continually told me I was one of the best of his agents. I'd never been caught.

The other man at the desk was a stranger. He wasn't much older than me and was quite pleasant looking, but there was that certain indefinable 'something' that told me he was an agent too. Maybe it was the way he was so relaxed, and so obviously at home in Lawrence's office. He'd been introduced as David Knight but had promptly told me to call him Dave.

I dragged my attention back to the diagrams. Between the various papers, there was quite a lot of information about the AFM, not that we actually knew what the letters stood for. Occasionally they sent press releases signed that way and, several years ago, there'd been all too many ransom demands received from them. They'd also been suspected of several large thefts. The reason we were about to become involved again was because new intelligence was indicating the crimes may have been a fund-raiser for their current political activities. We wanted to know exactly where all the money they'd made was being directed. According to Lawrence, the biggest problem now was that we were pretty sure we had an informer in our midst but we had no idea who he was.

Dave leaned back comfortably against his chair. "So what exactly are we going to do about the AFM mole then, Lawrence? I assume you've had a couple of reasonable ideas or you wouldn't have brought me back from Perth so suddenly."

I ignored him and continued to stare at Lawrence.

"Is that why you got me to break into the vault last week? To finish off quickly?"

"Well, yes, I have had a couple of ideas and we do need to get cracking." Lawrence glanced at his watch. "It's getting late and I think we've done enough for tonight. Why don't you two go and have dinner together and we can meet back here at, say, nine a.m. tomorrow."

"Why?"

"Why what?" He seemed baffled.

"Don't be obtuse. All of a sudden you've got this sheepish look pasted all over your face. Why do you want us to go to dinner?" I directed a gaze at Lawrence that made him wriggle uncomfortably. He probably thought he should have got used to the direct stare by now.

"I think it's quite a good idea," David said mildly.

Lawrence was relieved. "Good. Then it's all arranged. I'll see you tomorrow."

I turned to David, "What do you know that I don't?"

"Absolutely nothing, but it's been a long time since I've had dinner with someone as attractive as you."

"Liar."

He smiled at me benignly and I had to admit, even if only to myself, that it wouldn't be any hardship to spend an evening with him. It was his smile that did it to me: a little-boy grin so charming I just couldn't help smiling back. And he seemed like a genuinely nice guy. Lawrence had vouched for him, so what more could I ask for?

Without really thinking about it, I'd expected it to be the normal multi-media pre-assignment run-through in the little operations briefing room, so it was a surprise the next morning to be waved through to the door marked 'Executive Suite--Press Button For Entry'. A buzzer sounded in the distance, a discreetly obvious camera focused on my face, and the door swung ponderously inwards. The door, I noticed, was at least five inches thick.

"Soundproofed, dear," Lawrence rose to greet me. "David's just arrived too." He gestured to a side alcove with an urn and assorted tins of tea and coffee. "Drink? No? Then if you'd like to take a seat we'll get straight into it."

The executive suite was set up as a lounge-room with a few sofas, an armchair and a couple of coffee tables scattered throughout. Considering it was part of a government office block, it was almost tasteful. The windows were screened with heavy curtains and there was an unobtrusive TV cabinet in one corner. Except for the prosaic tea and coffee-making facilities, it could have been in someone's home.

Lawrence had already sunk back into the single high-backed armchair so, while Dave glanced around to find a chair with a handy side-table for his coffee, I curled myself into a comfortable-looking sofa.

Today there was to be no mucking around. While we waited, Lawrence shuffled through his notes then laid them aside.

"Right, to business. We're putting together a new operational team and we want you two to be a part of it."

"Oh?"

Lawrence smiled slightly. "You look disappointed."

"I guess I was expecting something a bit more radical." David's voice mirrored his face.

"And you, Sonya?"

I just looked at Lawrence, amused. "You're not telling us everything. What're the details, and what's it got to do with the AFM?"

Lawrence's smile increased slightly. "Quite right, my dear."

"For god's sake Lawrence, my name is Sonya."

"Oh, sorry." He looked bemusedly towards his notes before starting to speak again. He didn't even know what he'd just apologized for, I thought with exasperation. Off to the side, David was trying not to laugh.

Several dozen photographs, diagrams and flow charts later, we were still going round in simplistic circles.

"Okay, so as I understand it, there's a new, highly secret active team being set up, and we'll be based at the Flinders Military Center in central Australia. The team will have about half a dozen members, including us, and will provide a variety of services--not necessarily involving just our own, um, skills." I started absently ticking items off on my fingers. "Then, there's the AFM and their operation down here. And the link is..."

"...one of the potential team members." David filled in the gap.

"And you," I continued, "just to make things more complicated, don't actually know which of the others has the link with the AFM."

Lawrence nodded. "But we do know from fairly circumstantial evidence that it is one of them."

"So," David took up the summary neatly, ignoring Lawrence's interjection, "you're going to run a complicated sting operation to catch the odd man out. Sonya's the bait, and I'm her insurance policy."

"Exactly." Lawrence was pleased. "That's why it really is important that you two are comfortable working together."

"And you're telling us that after this first active assignment we relocate to Flinders, brush up on our training with the others, and be available for assignments whenever required." I'm sure I sounded skeptical--it was too neat--but Lawrence ignored it totally.

"You've got it." He beamed.

David spoke up mildly. "I think I'd like some time to talk to Sonya about it . Just us."

I nodded. "Good idea."

For a few moments after Lawrence left it was very quiet. There was the vague hum of air-conditioning but none of the other sounds you'd usually associate with an office. No faxes or photocopiers and, most obviously, no people talking. The room may have been soundproof, but I would have put money on it that it was at least wired for sound, if not for pictures too.

I was first to break the silence. "Lawrence didn't argue much, did he?"

"Nah." David switched subject. "Nice conference room they've got here. Bet it was expensive." He tilted his head slightly to indicate the ceiling. Raising my eyebrows slightly I suggested it was time to find some decent coffee.

Just a couple of streets away from Chifley Square are the Royal Botanical Gardens. Even at this time on a Tuesday morning there were plenty of people around. A couple of joggers ran past and there was a group of harried mothers with children running wild near the entrance. There were even a couple of awkward-looking men in suits. Possibly solicitors escaping from the nearby Phillip Street courthouse looking for a few minutes peace or, then again, Lawrence may have been checking up on us. So long as they were far enough away not to hear, it didn't really matter. I certainly wasn't planning on going anywhere, and he probably wouldn't be using listening devices when we'd specifically asked for privacy.

The gardens were studded throughout with huge Moreton Bay Figs. They were ancient with dark, thick green leaves, and giant buttressed roots fanning out over the rocky harbour-side soils. They were shady and they were comfortable, and I leaned my shoulders back against one of the larger ones. Beside me Dave sprawled on his side, looking out across the water. Small sailboats darted past the more dignified ferries with an occasional hooting protest as a little yacht came too close. I wondered where all those people came from. Didn't they have jobs to get to? Sydney Harbour was always a picture postcard, but especially when it was as blue as today.

I understood now why Lawrence had wanted me to spend some time with David last night. We'd had a pleasant evening and had already fallen into the habit of being relatively relaxed in each other's company. I couldn't remember ever feeling as comfortable with someone--especially a man--quite this quickly. That made it easy to get straight to business.

"So, what do you think?"

David thoughtfully crumpled his Styrofoam cup and tossed it in a nearby bin before replying. "I'm interested. But I'm a bit wary." I agreed! For what was possibly the first time since dinner he looked directly at me and held eye contact. "How long have you worked for Lawrence Low?"

I wasn't going to break his stare but, inside, I squirmed. It was hard to be honest--so against everything I was used to. But, if there was going to be any chance of this working, then Dave and I were going to have to trust each other.

"Seven years. He's always been my operations controller."

"And what have you been doing?" He still wasn't breaking that eye contact and it was all I could do to not look away.

"Um..." This was really hard. "Covert stuff. Mostly infiltration. What about you?"

"Mainly protective stuff. Bodyguard and so on but usually in the background. I've also done a bit of hostage negotiation."

"What? When you've failed on the protection side of things?"

A slight grimace turned into a cheerful grin. "No one's perfect."

"Mmm."

"So, tell me more about exactly what you do."

I paused, wondering how much to tell him. Any kind of trust at all was damn difficult in this business. "What is this? An inquisition?" I asked lightly. "I pick a persona, enter an organization, find out what I need to know, and leave again with no one the wiser. I'll occasionally steal a document or something, like last week, but not often. There's too much risk of getting caught. It's much easier to enter as an employee or contractor and leave again."

"So you're into the acting then?"

"If that's what you like to call it, I am. And I'm good at it." That was something I could be quite definite about. I'd never been caught.

I trusted Lawrence but...the very fact I was actually saying "but" made me wonder. If Dave was the best in his field, and I was the best in mine, I wondered which fields the other team members were the best in? And how were they picked? It was fairly obvious where I came from since I already worked for Lawrence and the new project was under his control. But Dave? And the others?

I tried to take control of the conversation, "So, what got you into the trade?"

Dave stretched lazily. "You first."

I mock-grumbled, "When do I get to ask any questions?"

"Go on," he coaxed, "tell me."

"I met Lawrence about eight years ago, in Singapore, of all places...I'd had no idea what I wanted to do with my life so I'd finished university with a very general Bachelor of Arts, then spent two years of sheer boredom in an uninteresting office job. Everything had changed on a plane to Singapore where I'd sat beside a middle-aged man who'd seemed very nice. We'd chatted about everything from his kids, to the climate, to the various wars going on around the world at that moment. His name was Lawrence Low. At Changi Airport we'd said our farewells and I left, whisked towards the center of Singapore by an overly talkative taxi driver. I'd only just stepped into my hotel room, and was still standing directly under an air conditioning vent, enjoying the cool air, when the phone on the bedside table rang. A man's voice said, 'Hi Sonya. Lawrence Low here. Are you enjoying Singapore yet?' Less than five minutes later I'd accepted his invitation to dinner. It was hard not to like him and it was better than room service. I wondered vaguely how he'd known where I was staying, but assumed I must have mentioned it when we were talking on the plane.

As the sun went down, the city became busier. Lights started to blink on and shopping started in earnest. Orchard Road was the main street for retail, and the busiest. My hotel was at the far end of it, but there was still plenty to look out at from the restaurant downstairs, and the Sidewalk Cafe was exactly what the name suggested. It spilled out of the hotel and over the footpath. Pedestrians picked their way amongst the diners. Bright green plants were placed in awkward spots, and busy murals on the inside walls made the whole restaurant seem to buzz with activity.

Lawrence said, "So how do you afford to travel as much as you do? Not that I'm being nosy or anything. I don't think you make a great deal of money in the tourism industry, do you?" He smiled again to lower the offence of the query.

I said, "I'm single. And I have to do something interesting with my holidays. You can have no idea how boring I find office work!"

He shrugged and pulled a face. "There are some of us who don't have any choice."

"I don't believe it, especially coming from you. What is it exactly that you do? You sounded pretty enthusiastic about it on the plane."

He'd told me, with surprising honesty. He was, effectively, a spy.

I'd laughed. "Sure. And I'm Lauren Bacall. It's a good story though.

Lawrence sighed. "Why don't you come and see me tomorrow. I've got an office in the Australian consulate. Could you pop in at about, say, eleven am?"

"Why?" All of sudden I'd started to take him seriously.

"Because I'd like to talk to you. I didn't put in all the effort of finding your hotel and then asking you to dinner for my health's sake!"

My eyes widened ever so slightly and I continued to gaze at him--quite impassively, I thought, for someone who'd just been told she was talking to a spy, had been followed that afternoon, and didn't have the faintest idea why. I was actually trying for the sort of patient look that told him I thought I was talking to a madman and just had to humor him a little bit longer before the men in white coats appeared.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have raised my voice and your company is lovely..."

I continued to look patient.

Then he said, "Look, would you just come visit me tomorrow? What can happen to you in the Australian consulate, for goodness sake? And stop looking at me like the only place you'll be visiting me is in a mental hospital!" He cursed quietly and I smiled, amused at his frustration despite the oddness of the situation.

"Thank you for dinner, Mr. Low." I guess he'd wondered if he'd ever see me again.

Curiosity, of course, overcame me and I went along to the consulate purely, I told myself, to prove I was right about him. But I was only half-surprised when I was greeted by name by the guard at the gate, and then again at reception. It was the hardest apology I'd had to make when I was admitted to a spacious office with a great view over the tropical gardens.

I'd given up my regular job in Sydney within a month of meeting Lawrence, and had started training intensively. Most people thought I'd gone to England for a year's break, but I was actually working for Lawrence Low.

He was the person I always worked for, whether it was a simple little job like photographing someone, or something a bit more difficult like getting access to a secure factory to 'borrow' papers or 'accidentally' break a vital piece of machinery. I've always known exactly who I worked for--but no one else did. Not even my parents.

A coffee-cruise slowed as it passed close by us, dozens of tourists leaning on the rails, snapping off rolls of film and waving enthusiastically.

"Odd, isn't it, how people still wave at total strangers when they're on boats but wouldn't even consider looking at each other in the street?"

"Yeah," David agreed, and waved back at a particularly persistent woman with a very loud hat.

His history was almost the opposite to mine, and much more normal. He'd started off in the regular army, joined the SAS, and then been recruited from there. That had been nearly ten years ago and in that time, like me, he'd worked in a handful of countries but always protecting someone. "Babysitting," he called it, with a self-depreciating grunt.

Dave shifted position slightly, moving the sun from his eyes.

I asked him what sort of people he'd looked after, assuming it was mainly politicians. But there was more variety than that, he told me. Politicians, scientists, a teenage heiress who'd received a kidnap threat, even a greengrocer's wife. He'd smiled at that one. "Everyone thought she was mad at first, but it turned out she really was being followed by the KGB. She looked amazingly like the daughter of one of their presidents."

"So, it's you and me, hey? Do you think you can look out for me?" I teased.

He was suddenly serious. "Are you really sure you want to do this? You're the one who'll be taking most of the risks."

I fiddled with a fallen leaf. He was right, it was a much greater risk than normal. Usually, no one was even aware of my existence. This time I was purposely going to be the center of attention, trying to lure a spy out into the open. "I'm putting my head straight into the lions mouth, do you think?"

He nodded fervently. "And then some."

"If you were me, would you do it?"

"I don't think so." He looked up at me. "But you're going to, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

It was very hard to explain: patriotism and duty and all that bumf always sounded so false. It was partly that, I guess, but mostly my sense of pride. Or maybe even arrogance? Lawrence was always telling me that I was the best, and I knew damn well Lawrence had pushed all the right buttons to get me to this point. Instead I just said lightly, "Someone has to do it."

"Mmm hmm." He sounded unconvinced. " I keep hearing you're brilliant at what you do. That you're different because you can sustain a role indefinitely, without going mad. Most of us find it difficult to do that for even a single day." He looked away, towards a couple strolling hand-in-hand through the park. "Don't you miss being normal?"

He was being honest, really asking for information, maybe trying to make up his own mind about whether he wanted to work with me.

"Sometimes, I guess. But I actually enjoy my job, and how many people can say that in this world? I think...I think I'm good at it because I don't let it take over my life. I can turn a switch on and off, if you like. I've seen the people too, who try and do this job and are totally psyched out by it."

I paused, wondering how to explain. No matter how deep the cover, no matter how immersed in a character I might appear to be, there was always a part of me, somewhere deep down, looking out at the world objectively, making rational decisions. I could always rely on that. I knew I could rely on myself, but how to explain it to someone else, someone who hardly knew me?

"This is going to be hard for me too," I continued, "because I've never had to depend on someone else. And now, I'll be putting myself in your hands. I have to rely on you."

Dave stood up abruptly, brushing dust off his trousers, and looked down at me. "All right," he said, "If you're in, I'm in."

I'm a pretty ordinary-looking person--a bit taller than average, brown hair, brown eyes and an average figure. Totally unremarkable in the real world, I'd stand out like a sore thumb in the glamorous world of spies you see on TV. And, at a glance, David was pretty much the same. He looked fit, like he worked out fairly regularly, but nothing obviously out of the ordinary until you looked a bit more closely at the movement of the muscles hidden by his tidy city suit. He seemed more toned than the average gym junkie--like he actually used his muscles for something other than weight machines--with nice shoulders and a taut butt, but he was also of similar height and coloring to me. And this pair of very average people were expected to achieve great things! But, as Dave had said, we were better off being ordinary. James Bond was always so obvious he'd never actually manage to do anything--he was too good looking by far.

"So which one are you?" I asked laughing, "Pierce Brosnan or Roger Moore?"

We were still smiling as we walked back into the office. Lawrence looked up immediately, obviously pleased to see us and guessing, rightly, what our answer was going to be. He was happy, he was enthusiastic, he was so altogether relieved that I started to worry. What had we gotten ourselves into?

Chapter Two

It was late by the time I finally left the office, and dark, despite daylight saving time. The city's different at night. It seems bigger in the darkness with the advertising lights dozens of stories up, an incomprehensible distance away, and the flashes of headlights and neon signs blur into strings of light that swirl and blink if you look too hard. Towards the end of summer especially, you can smell the salt from the harbour in the evening, and the air, heavy with humidity, seems to cling and waft as you push your way through it. During the day the streets are always full of seagulls. At night, their squabbling is replaced with the high-pitched calls of thousands of fruit bats swooping around the lights, their wings beating slowly, like a heartbeat, their dark shapes ominous, prehistoric, in the quiet city. Yet they were beautiful too. Nature reclaimed the concrete when the humans went home.

My bus was nearly deserted, the bored driver barely glancing at my ticket, and only a handful of people got on or off on the short ride from the office. At midday it could take half an hour to get out of the city. At this time of night it was only a few minutes until the bus had left the skyscrapers behind.

Within twenty minutes I was unlocking the door to my Annandale unit. It's a few streets back from Johnston Street, which is busy, but has a much less bohemian café-set than the seriously trendy suburbs a fraction closer to the city. There were still plenty of restaurants and cafés to choose from, but they were a hell of a lot less alternate than nearby Newtown. I loved the vibrancy there, and the amazing pace, but I wouldn't have been able to live with it every day.

It was great to finally kick off my shoes and stretch out properly on the lounge, muscles almost creaking with the relief as I relaxed. I'd planned to chill out with a glass of wine, maybe watching a bit of TV before going to bed, as we'd planned an early start for tomorrow. But my mind was humming and I just couldn't stay still.

We'd spent a few hours going over the big picture, then gone into more detail after lunch. The basic plan was to lure the infiltrator into action by setting up a scenario where my character would be known to have information that was potentially dangerous to the AFM. The new team would simply think they had a mission to get the information from me with total discretion--no one else could know. Hopefully, the AFM person would try and do something to stop them getting that information, pointing the finger at himself, and Lawrence would also be watching to see how well everyone worked together as a team.

"Except you, of course," Lawrence had qualified, "since none of them other than David know who you are. You're not really in the team this time."

I guess I'd looked a bit doubtful because Dave had picked up on it straight away. I was surprised by how well he could read me already. I'd known Lawrence for years and he couldn't see the problem.

"You'll be right afterwards, you know, they'll understand," Dave said.

"Well I wouldn't! I'd be totally unhappy about it." I was adamant and he left it at that. I felt deceitful, I couldn't help it.

Actually, the more I heard about Lawrence's plan, the more I wondered why I'd agreed. I was just like the proverbial Judas goat--everyone around me kept assuring me I'd be okay and that the only one I was luring into a trap was someone who totally deserved it. But I still had to lead everyone into the 'slaughter-house', never really knowing for sure...I could only hope I'd picked my metaphor badly!

After a while I gave up on the telly and wandered into my bedroom to check out the contents of my wardrobe. If I didn't have anything suitable to my character for this assignment, then work could shout me a shopping trip. Besides, I wasn't going to have any of my own gear ruined. Adding that to my mental 'to-do' list for the next week, I got myself organized for bed.

I drove into the Blue Mountains a couple of weeks later on yet another fine, sunny day. The eucalyptus haze was as perfectly blue as it ever was and I almost wished for a convertible rather than today's SUV. On the other hand, the wind would have made a horrible birds-nest of my hair. I envied, very suspiciously, the movie stars of the sixties who could drive a sporty car along a winding ocean road then gaily pull up, whipping off a tiny scarf to reveal a hairstyle as flawless as if they'd just stepped out of a salon.

This vehicle, as always, was a rental. I'd picked it up only two hours before, proffering my very new drivers license and only slightly-used credit card. The name on both was Portia Evans. No matter which identity I'd used, I'd never once been queried. The props we were given were always good and usually legitimate. This time the license was fake because it was British. Portia Evans worked at the British consulate and had diplomatic immunity. Well, at least she would have had it if she'd really existed.

So, I'd been handed the car keys, shown to a dark green 4WD and headed out of town. It would take about two hours to get to Katoomba towards the top of the mountains with the first hour and a bit passing through dull suburban sprawl and freeways. The M4 crossed the Nepean River just at the base of the mountains. By Australian standards the Nepean's fairly broad, but it's muddy and uninspiring. Within minutes of crossing it, the freeway had ended, I'd risen a couple of hundred meters and the scenery was much better. The road was mostly framed by gum trees but it occasionally burst out onto a ridge with spectacular views into the valleys to either side.

According to the brochure, the Mountain Heritage was perched on the edge of one of these ridges, the picture windows of the lounge and restaurant looking out over the Jamison Valley. I'd been there before and knew that, in winter, there were days when you could barely see the rose bushes in the garden outside because the fog was so thick; other days, like today, and you could see for miles. Even though it looked out onto relative wilderness, it was also right in the heart of Katoomba and was only a few minutes walk to the main street where antique shops and cafes tumbled down the hill.

Shortly after leaving the highway I was through the scattered traffic, maneuvering up the tight driveway of the guesthouse and into the small carpark behind it. From the rear it was nothing special. A sign pointed the way down a narrow corridor and past a worn games room with an ancient pool table. It passed an even narrower staircase, a couple of uninformative hotel room doors, then led into reception. From there, you could see The View that had had people returning for nearly a century.

The hotel had been renovated several times, and the bar and the lounges were currently stately with dark wood paneling, heavy furniture, and red plush finishes. There were also two huge fireplaces that seemed way too big for the long, narrow room. They hadn't been lit today but I imagined they'd give out a serious amount of heat in winter. The bar sparkled and the view was absolutely vast. It wasn't a view, it was a vista.

Reception was behind all of this, and the receptionist didn't seem in the least distracted by the scenery out front. He was efficient and I'd checked in within minutes. He pointed out the restaurant up a sweeping flight of stairs at the front of the building, much grander than those I'd seen on my way in, and confirmed my dinner booking.

"Would you like a window seat?" he enquired. "I still have some tables with a view available tonight. Most people up for the weekend don't arrive until after tea."

"I wanted to make the most of my weekend," I explained. "It seems such a shame to arrive after dark and miss all this." I gestured to the windows. He smiled politely, obviously having heard the same thing a thousand times before.

But, inane as it was, that was the comment Portia Evans would have made. I'd probably been watched by the team from the moment I'd pulled into the carpark. For all I knew, one of them was sitting in the bar behind us and listening to our conversation. It was unlikely, but I wasn't going to take any chances.

Besides, I did have another reason. I'd wanted to get my bearings in daylight. Nothing was supposed to happen until tomorrow night but, if the plans had to change, there was no easy way for Lawrence or David to contact me without risking my cover. I pretty well just had to go with the flow until we had a result.

That night it was suspiciously quiet. I ate dinner by myself with only a few politely curious stares from the other diners, but I was mostly too preoccupied to notice. The view was better than the food and I watched, fascinated, as the valley below faded gradually into the dusk. Darkness finally fell like a velvet curtain, causing a long, thin line of lights to spring up to the west along Katoomba Street.

My room was upstairs near the narrow staircase. Possibly very handy for the team, I'd noted wryly. I heard a few doors opening and closing in the hall outside but there didn't seem to be many people staying in my wing. The room itself was large, the bed queen-sized and luscious with masses of pillows and bolsters. It was also comfortable and I slept soundly, knowing I wouldn't get much sleep the following night. Slightly maliciously, I hoped it was a long night for the watchers outside.

I had all day Saturday to fill in, and Lawrence had decided I should act like a regular tourist and, besides, it was a good opportunity for the team to practice surveillance in the real world. The only down side was that I'd be leaving myself very open, and I was worried the AFM infiltrator would find it easier to get rid of Portia today, than waiting until tonight. I had to trust that Dave was watching my back, but it wasn't easy.

So, I ambled my way through a late breakfast, surprised at how busy the dining room was--the receptionist had been right about the late arrivals--before leafing through the brochures the hotel provided and deciding on my itinerary for the day. Wherever I went, there'd be safety in numbers.

I started with the main street where the tourists were already out in force, mingling with them in a few antique shops but not seeing anything worth spending money on. A lot of the stuff displayed as genuine collectables was nothing but junk, and the few real antiques were horrendously expensive and way out of my price range.

A little bit further on there was a very old-fashioned coffee-shop which advertised hand-made chocolates. The Paragon, it was called. I spent some time peering into the window, then even longer looking at the displays inside. The chocolate was good there, but so was the mirror above the counter that reflected the street outside. I had an advantage over the team in that I knew what they looked like, and I knew they were there, whereas they assumed I was oblivious to them. Even so, Michael Jefferson was easy to spot, lounging far too long at the window without actually looking down at the displays. Careful not to let him see he'd been caught, I bought a very small, very expensive, box of chocolates before heading back towards the hotel to pick up my car.

Just down the hill from Katoomba is the village of Leura. It plays to the tourist trade, its pretty main street full of cafés where the waitress doesn't blink when you order a half-strength skinny soy decaf latte. Personally, I prefer an espresso--if you're going to have coffee you may as well have a real one.

There were also a couple of smallish art galleries with narrow front windows but lots of rooms rambling out the back all higgledy-piggledy. One was full of woodwork I couldn't help but touch, the soft curves and smooth finishes wonderfully sensual. It smelled gorgeous too, vaguely woody but mostly of good-quality furniture polish. It was too small for them to lose me, all the galleries were, but plenty big enough to keep me occupied for a full half-hour while, I assume, someone watched the door from the street. When I finally did emerge I was carrying a package wrapped in brown paper. I'd given in to temptation and bought myself a small box hand-carved from a piece of red cedar. It was expensive, but it was too beautiful to stay on the shelf.

I kept wandering, taking my pace from the tourists around me, and after a little while I picked a table on the pavement of a café and settled down to read the newspaper they provided. The news was even older than usual--it was yesterday's paper--so I sipped my coffee instead, idly watching the tourists pass by. I hadn't spotted anyone since this morning but was sure they were there. They were supposed to be 'the best' after all, and I'd actually been a bit surprised to spot Michael so easily. That worried me. Was he really so bad at tailing, or was it a momentary lapse? Either way it wasn't good, but there was nothing to be done about it right now. Coffee finished, I headed on to the next item on the tourism agenda--the Three Sisters.

A local legend has it that these three sandstone pinnacles on the edge of the valley were what remained of three young Aboriginal children who stood on the edge of the cliff, throwing down rocks. They'd been warned not to in case they hit the bunyip who was sleeping below but, children being children, they'd continued. The monster had come after them and, to save them, their father, who also happened to be the local medicine man, turned them to stone, meaning to change them back when the bunyip had gone. To escape, he turned himself into a lyre bird but dropped his magic stick and was unable to return anyone to their human form. The lyre bird, it's said, still roams the valley floors searching for the stick.

I learned that story in primary school and it's something I've always remembered. I like it. It's much more interesting than dry old theories about wind erosion and the relative softness of the surrounding strata.

There were always hoards of tourists coming and going at Echo Point, the best spot to photograph the Three Sisters, and the carpark was dismally small. I finally parked after going three laps around the block and then had to push my way through to the viewing areas. A bus-load of Japanese tourists had just arrived and were taking it in turns to have their photo taken in front of the landmark. I took photos for several couples who enthusiastically offered me the same favor. So, forcing myself to smile happily, I handed over the camera and had my photo taken there too.

Like a flock of rosellas taking wing, the tourists were suddenly gone, their diminutive guide harassing them back onto the bus, and I was left nearly alone. Katoomba's well-known for its changeable weather and, true to form, the sky was starting to grey. In all the bustling color of the crowd I hadn't even noticed, and now it was starting to drizzle. I passed only a single person on the way back to the car--a young man obviously out-fitted by Paddy Palin. He smiled as I passed and said "Hello," in a fairly thick European accent. I smiled back, as I would to anyone, and kept going. Just two tourists exchanging pleasantries as they passed, except I knew his name was Archer Chapman and that he was an expert in explosives and sabotage. Portia didn't pay him any attention and I mentally ticked him off the list. He was much better at playing this game than Michael; he was much more comfortable about being seen by his target.

I beetled a couple of kilometers along the scenic Cliff Drive, hugging the edge of the cliff and always looking out to the view. There was one other obligatory stop for tourists and that was the Scenic Railway, an old mining counter-weight railway-turned-tourist attraction that went almost vertically a third of the way down the cliff. At the end of the railway was an easy walking track that took you either into a small patch of very damp rainforest-like bush, or around the base of an old landslide and past the entrance of several claustrophobic little mines that had long been disused.

The driver, really more of a brakeman, rode on an open seat at the back while the tourists had the comfort of a wide-meshed cage surrounding them should they happen to fall out of their seats. There's a little tunnel right near the top and my mum had told me when I was a kid, that there was always an old man driving it when she was young and that, just as the train went over the edge and dipped into the tunnel, he'd start reciting the Lord's Prayer in a loud, sepulchral voice. She'd shivered with half-fear, half-delight when she'd told me, so it had obviously worked for her. I'd never seen the old bloke and didn't find it nearly that thrilling.

But I bought my ticket and took a place at the front with all the more daring tourists and glanced back incuriously, absently wondering when we'd leave. Almost by accident I spotted Stuart Kent sitting a couple of rows back with Archer. I looked away as smoothly as I could, trying not to let them know they'd been seen.

With a sigh from the brakes the train rattled over the edge, the sounds magnified through the tunnel. There were only a couple of dozen people aboard and only a few half-hearted screams as the floor of the valley suddenly appeared right in front of us. A rivulet of cold water landed on my face as we came into the open, plastering my fringe onto my forehead, and I was still wiping the occasional drip from my eyes when we leveled out and creaked to a stop at the spindly station.

The floor was steel mesh so it wouldn't disturb the natural flow of water, and the tops of the trees could be seen a long way below. I was always amused at how many people would ride the train, suspended only by a cable, then be highly uncomfortable standing on a see-through floor.

I followed the other passengers up the few steps to the path and turned left towards the landslide. The scenery was more open on that side and I found the land slip interesting. Archer and Stuart, getting off the train a few paces behind me, turned that way too and nearly bumped into me when I stopped, ostensibly to take a photograph of the train below.

"Hello again." Archer smiled. "It looks like we're seeing the same things today." I wondered how long he could keep up the accent.

"Hi," I replied. "Guess so. Are you here on holiday?"

"Yeah." They nodded and we started to walk together. "You?"

"Nah. I work in Sydney at the moment. Just thought I should see some of the sights before I'm transferred."

"It's pretty, isn't it?" Stuart gestured to the view.

"It is. Odd weather but. Almost reminds me of home." I grinned.

"England, by the accent?" It was Archer's turn again.

I smiled agreement. "Yes. And you two?"

"I'm just up from Melbourne. Archer here's from Germany."

"Oh?" I hoped there was just the slightest hint of a question in my voice. I was wondering where we were going from here--making contact at this point certainly wasn't what I'd expected. To the best of my knowledge it should have been happening sometime tonight.

We kept walking until the track plunged dramatically out of the trees and started to wind its way through the rocky debris of the land slide. I stopped to get some more photos; after all, Portia hadn't seen any of this before. So far it had been fairly easy to slip into character. If I'd been here by myself I'd have quite happily wandered along chatting to a couple of good-looking male tourists. There were people dotted about us, climbing through the scree, so I didn't feel in the least bit threatened. Odd, really, I thought, especially considering that one of them might be plotting to kill me, and I knew they were definitely planning on kidnapping me! But they were good looking. Archer was tall and well-muscled, with shoulders to die for. I could all too easily imagine being wrapped in those arms, curled up in front of a roaring fireplace...He was thirty-something and ruggedly handsome in a vaguely Sean Connery-like way. Stuart was quietly confident, but wasn't as out-going as Archer.

It slowly came out that Stuart and Archer had met at the hostel in Sydney where they happened to share a room. They'd got on well and decided to travel up here together ("Helps keep the costs down a bit."). Archer was back-packing in Australia for twelve months and Stuart was on a couple of weeks holiday from his job in Melbourne.

"Pretty boring office-stuff, really," he'd answered my query. "What do you do?"

"Just some general admin stuff," I'd replied cautiously. We gradually got to the point where I'd told them I worked for the British consulate and was going to a post back in England in a few weeks. Without being too obvious, they'd confirmed Portia's identity and got a bit of information about the future, most importantly, that this weekend might be their only chance.

The rain was little more than a light mist, but it had made the evening come in quickly. We headed companionably back towards the bottom station talking about general stuff. My mind, however, was racing. What should I do now? I wasn't going to make things too easy for them, but I had to do what Portia would do. I hoped they didn't expect me to offer them a lift back to their motel--that would be just too obvious. In the end, everything was easy; they asked me out to dinner.

"There's an interesting café up the end of Katoomba Street, right near your hotel. I've heard it's pretty good. Would you like to have dinner with us tonight?"

"Thanks. That'd be nice."

It was that simple. We arranged to meet there at eight o'clock.

The café was called "The Green Bean" and was pretty off-beat. There were old LP's instead of place-mats, the kitchen was quite visible from the tables, things like lentils and pesto featured prominently on the menu, and there was the heavy, sweet smell of weed being smoked somewhere out the back. Despite that, it was quirky rather than sleazy, and I liked it.

I'd dressed carefully that evening, choosing comfortable trousers, a loose, long-sleeved cotton blouse that seemed to float in the slightest breeze, and a soft pashmina-like shawl. With my hair down I felt suitably feminine but relatively modest. God only knew what would happen later than night but I didn't think a plunging neckline and short skirt would be all that suitable. I'd been ready early so had stopped at the busy hotel bar for a drink, eventually finding a vacant armchair. I'd leaned back and relaxed, slowly sipping a Kahlua. There wasn't much view as it was already dark and even the lights I'd watched last night were slowly disappearing into fog.

It had been eerie outside with the mist swirling around and distorting the light, and it made me nervous. I'd half-expected to be grabbed as I walked the single block to the café and thought it would have been too bad if I really was mugged as I passed the dimly-lit children's park that clung to the side of the road. But I'd reached the café, and nothing had happened, and I'd felt foolish for my jumpiness. Relax, I told myself, whatever will be will be.

Archer was already there and had chosen a table against the wall.

"Hello." He stood up politely as I came in, and took my shawl. There was even a coat stand near the door, a very good idea considering how often you had to wear heavy jackets and hats up here. I didn't worry about hiding my surprise that he was alone, and he had the grace to look a bit awkward and fidget with his placemat as I sat down.

"Um," he even managed to blush slightly, "Stuart has a headache and thought he'd get an early night."

"Of course." Very polite. "I hope he gets better soon." I played out the charade in all seriousness.

"Ah, actually, it will be nice to have some time together by ourselves..."

I let him off the hook, "Diplomatic headache, was it?" and smiled. Relieved, he smiled back.

"Yes."

It was almost too easy to forget why I was here, and certainly no hardship to be romanced, in an alternate sort of way, by Archer. Staying in character wasn't difficult--I'd done it for months on end before--and I appreciated his sense of humor. He was a good conversationalist too, not to mention that he was also very easy on the eye. A tiny voice in the background of my mind piped in, wondering what sort of human being could be so callous as to lure me into a trap this way. But the louder voice at the front didn't care in the slightest.

The stubby candle on the stand between us gradually burned lower until it finally drowned itself with a stubborn hiss. I'd lost all track of time and was startled to find it nearly eleven o'clock. The café was almost empty, a single waitress lethargically resetting tables accompanied by an occasional clang of washing up from the kitchen.

"Would you look at the time!"

"Do you turn into a pumpkin at midnight?" he teased.

"No, but I was planning a fairly big day tomorrow. I thought I'd go horse-riding down in the Megalong Valley, then maybe have a wander around Leura again."

"Had you booked yet?" He qualified, "It sounds like fun."

"No I haven't. Do you want to come along?" I was totally innocent.

"I'd like that. Thank you. Now, can I take you for a drink to wash down dinner?"

I hesitated. "I would, but I really should be getting back. I need the sleep. I've been too busy recently, too much going on in my life..." Would he jump on this hint of information to come?

"Well, in that case, the only thing I can do to see a bit more of you is to walk you home."

I laughed. "I'm a big girl. I'll be alright."

"Oh I know but, hey, just humor me. Besides I really don't think you should be walking around at this time of night by yourself."

I gave him that special smile women reserve for men who think we're all fragile. "Come on then."

I collected my shawl on the way out and wrapped it around myself. It was surprisingly cool now. The fog was thicker than ever, cars and streetlights oozing out of it, then as quickly melting away. Maybe he was right--I could easily believe in ghosts on a night like this, and said as much. In reply, Archer just took my hand and held it gently, a little unsure of himself. I didn't pull it back again so he held it more tightly, comforting in the darkness.

We walked slowly, unwilling, it seemed, to reach the hotel too quickly. Passing the park, he slowed, turned towards me and wrapped his arms carefully around me, pressing me to him. The first embrace with anyone, I've always felt like a gawky teenager and tonight was no different. I leaned in to him, hearing his heartbeat racing as I rested my ear against his chest. I was trembling, and was sure he could feel my heart striving to outdo his. The trees leaned down over the footpath here and I relaxed in their privacy, lifting my head naturally up towards him, expecting the kiss. He was clumsy, and smiled at himself, before bending down more confidently and placing his mouth firmly on mine. It was wonderful, and I kissed him back, wanting it to last. A car drove quietly past us, the swish of its tires on the wet road nearly the only sound. When it stopped nearby, Archer drew back, looking enquiringly towards it.

"I'm sorry Portia," he breathed.

"What for?" I smiled up at him. "I didn't mind at all."

"No," he said gently, softly, and reached down to me again. This time he was firmer, and when I tried to back away, he wouldn't let go. Instead, he held me more tightly and pushed me towards the car.

"What are you doing?" I put every ounce of strength I could summon into my voice. It was hoarse, and sounded strangely lonely in the silence around us.

"I'm sorry," he said again and he suddenly let go of me, heaving me violently the last few feet towards the car.

Its doors were open now and I landed, breathless, on my hands and knees beside it. Two more men loomed out of the darkness of the park and grabbed me, rough fingers dug into my arms and legs, and I was shoved unceremoniously into the back seat. It was over before I had a chance to take a breath, let alone even think about calling for help. Still holding me, they slid themselves into the car. Archer was already in the front seat. Then we were driving through the deserted streets, light flashing rhythmically through the car as we passed each lamp-post. I found myself thrust down onto the floor, my face grinding into the carpet and someone's boots placed firmly on my back. One of them grabbed my arms, throwing me even further off balance, and twisted them up somewhere behind me, holding my wrists together as I struggled uselessly. Something was wrapped around my arms and I gradually lost feeling in them to the tightness. I couldn't move, I was more uncomfortable than I would have imagined possible, and bits of me were starting to hurt viciously where I'd been scraped along the pavement and bumped into the door of the car. To make it even worse, one of them leaned down to me and pinched my ear so hard that I twisted without thinking, trying to get away, effectively making it hurt even more. He hissed at me that I should lie still and be quiet, or else, before letting go.

I doubt they could see me in the dark, but I closed my eyes, not wanting to see what was going to happen to me next. I could feel myself tensing every time the car slowed, wondering if we were stopping here, half wanting to get out, and half afraid of what would happen when we finally did. Dave wasn't in the car--I hoped like hell he'd be there, wherever that was. Because, right now, I was very, very helpless and felt totally alone.

Chapter Three

As soon as David and I had agreed to go along with Lawrence, things started happening quickly. He'd obviously expected our answer because the other team members were already flying in from whatever assignments they'd been on and all the general stuff had been planned. We spent a couple of days tossing around ideas, confirming the 'when, where and why', then I was basically excluded from all the other planning.

"Best if you don't know details," Lawrence had said, "It'll be easier for you. There'll be a bit of surprise then."

David was less positive about the benefit to me, but agreed anyway. So, from there I was pretty well on my own. I bumped into Dave a few times when he came to Chifley Square to report back to Lawrence but, other than that, he was out at the Richmond RAAF base with the rest of the team, planning and rehearsing.

For the rest of them there had to be a sensible reason why they were carrying out the operation. Sure, they had to get information from me but, as I'd said to Lawrence early on, if it was me I'd just arrest Portia Evans and, officially, make her comply. In reality, the information didn't matter in the least, it was finding out the identity of the mole that was important. So we came up with the idea that Portia would be a foreign citizen, working for a foreign government. The diplomatic immunity was neat because it meant they couldn't try and get information from her the easy way because they couldn't arrest her. And if Portia was led to assume that our team were the AFM, then there was no way she'd dare to report her abduction. It was also good from my point of view in that the team would have to use some restraint. If Portia was hurt at all, or if it was ever found out that this was a government operation, there would be a huge diplomatic stink. There were some things that you just could not get away with doing to your allies.

I'd spent the next week developing Portia's character and reading through the files on the rest of the team. It was a good group that had been assembled with a huge variety of experience. Between us we covered protection, infiltration, sabotage, weapons, technology, covert ops and combat. I did wonder, though, how we'd work together later on. We were pretty much all used to working with a lot of autonomy.

Normally, I'd have spent time with the various experts in the office, fine-tuning my cover story and practicing for any possible situation. When I'd first started I couldn't stand the role-playing and one trainer in particular, Sebastian Dupres, was forever completely exasperated with me.

"Darling!" he would screech, "who is ever going to believe in you? You are like a lump of clay. No energy, no life!" He'd throw his arms up with Gallic flamboyance, flinging himself dramatically around the room and muttering about my lack of acting talent.

"Ah, but I'm not an actor, you see," I'd protest. But he couldn't see it. He just couldn't see that I wasn't able to realistically act a scene over and over again. I'd have been totally hopeless in films, but I could do something once. And that was all that mattered. In the real world no one ever picked up on me and, when Sebastian eventually saw some video footage of me in action, he finally gave up on the dumb role-plays.

It was still good, though, to have someone run through possible scenarios with me because it made sure I'd thought of everything in my cover story. Sebastian was great for that because he could be totally realistic. Even though I knew exactly what he was doing, he was quite able to make me cry, to make me laugh, or to absolutely terrify me. I particularly wanted to work through all the possible interrogation questions and responses with him this time but, as so few people were allowed to know about the operation, it wasn't to be. I had to settle for a few snatched hours closeted with Lawrence in his office. But it wasn't the same, and I was nervous about this one. So nervous, that I would even have welcomed role-playing with Sebastian.

There was one other thing I had to study up on and it was totally revolting. I watched countless recordings of real interrogations and couldn't help being squeamish about it. What humans can do to one another is amazing and, all too often, just revolting. Nevertheless, I carefully observed the effects of all the drugs that were used since that was what the team was planning. Watching these real people, I wondered with dismay how I could even attempt to copy it. I'd never seen this stuff before and was horrified with the results. If Lawrence had shown me this footage earlier, I doubt that I'd have gone ahead with it. I positively pined for Sebastian's help.

I'd seen Dave for the last time on Thursday afternoon. He'd been in a hurry to get back to Richmond since they were moving out that evening, starting their part of the operation a day before me. I didn't want to ask too many questions and put him on the spot, but I was starting to seriously worry. He'd looked away, unable to meet my eyes. It wasn't helping my jitters.

"It's as we agreed. Saturday night. Portia'll be lifted, interrogated, and returned. It should only take a couple of hours."

A totally intense couple of hours for me, I thought.

"Just trust me. Really." He sounded earnest, but I was quite sure I saw him wince when he said it. I'd hoped talking to him would relieve a bit of the tension I was feeling. If anything, he'd made it worse.

So, I'd surprised myself by waking up on Friday morning, fresh, relaxed and ready to go. Once the assignment finally started I was fine. It was business as usual.

My knee had started to cramp already, jammed up somewhere underneath me and taking a lot of my weight, but when I tried to shift position to relieve it I was thumped, hard, in the small of my back. I decided it was time to start acting less like me and more like Portia. I cowered and gulped for breath, shaking with the exertion. After a little while, I let the shaking subside into sobs. I forced myself to look at the 'scene' from her point of view.

The fear I'd been suppressing welled up and, against all reason, I began to struggle, hitting and kicking like a fury. I was no longer sobbing but screaming, screaming at them to let me go, let me out, then just screaming as I lost sense of the words. From far away I heard urgent muttering but the voices seemed to fade even as I tried to listen. My panic slowed and I was vaguely aware of a stinging in my shoulder before the fog outside lunged in and swallowed me up.

I lay still, my breathing slowly easing back to normal. Above me, the voices were talking quietly, relaxed now that the supposed-sedative had taken effect. The pressure on my arms and back eased and I was allowed to fall limply as they leaned back and made themselves more comfortable. I couldn't hear much over the road noise but caught a few words here and there. I knew the drug would only last fifteen to twenty minutes and had no idea how I was going to judge the time until I heard them say we were about ten minutes out. That would be close enough and it would be reasonable to expect that moving me might disturb me early. It was good to rest a bit but I was still bloody uncomfortable and would be glad when we arrived.

Only a few moments later and the car was slowing to a stop by the side of the road. A rug of some kind was hastily tossed over me, suddenly blocking out the light. In other circumstances I would have laughed when I heard the serious voice at the driver's side.

"Good evening sir. We're random breath testing tonight. May I see your drivers license please?" A bit of rustling then...,

"Thank you sir. And are you still residing at 23 Govetts Leap Road? You are? And have you had anything to drink this evening?"

"No sir, I'm the designated driver."

"Good. Then if you wouldn't mind just blowing into this tube. Nice deep breath please. Thank you sir, you're fine to go. Have a nice evening."

And the car was moving again, pulling smoothly away from the curb. One of the men in the back seat said something unintelligible, and they all laughed. He adjusted his feet on me more comfortably and leaned back for the rest of the trip. I wished I could get more comfortable but knew it wouldn't be much longer until we stopped. Soon we were rumbling over a level crossing, before swooping down a steeply winding road then bumping off the sealed road and onto dirt. We hardly slowed so I guess it was in pretty good condition. I had a fair idea of where we were now, there weren't that many level crossings in the upper mountains, and approved of their choice. Ironically, we were in the Megalong Valley. It was time to start thinking like Portia again.

The fog gradually lifted but it took a while for everything to catch up with me. My head hurt and I didn't want to move. My eyes were heavy and it took a ridiculous amount of effort to force them open. Even then, it was dark, and I wondered dreamily if I was still asleep. Another wave of the fog rolled in, and I collapsed back into it.

The car slowed again and even before we stopped the blanket was being yanked off me. One of them had me under the arms and pulled me roughly upwards. I stirred, and half-attempted to move my head before letting myself fall limp again. Surprisingly gently, someone else scooped me up in their arms like a rag-doll and carried me across a small yard. I could smell Archer's aftershave so it must have been him. But, more faintly, there were also scents of outside. Slightly farm-like scents of dry grass, lucerne maybe, then a briefly damp, earthy smell before we were inside a building. The door closed behind us and the lights flicked on.

"What happened?" Dave's voice. Then, "Put her over there on the lounge for now. We'll see what she's like when she wakes up."

"Everything went fine." This time a voice I didn't know. "Archer took her right to the park, no problems."

"Went above and beyond the call of duty, he did." There was general laughter.

"And this..." I guess Dave gestured towards me.

"She was okay for a while, then she just fell totally to pieces. I gave her a single sedative--she was vicious." This was said with feeling, again by the voice I didn't know.

"Did poor diddums get a bruise then?" More laughter.

He pretended to be petulant. "Yes, and who's going to kiss it better?"

"Let's not go there, hey." Dave brought everything back to business and, as they started to move into their various positions, I stirred again.

Considering I barely knew Dave, the relief I'd felt when I heard his voice was almost unbelievable. Without consulting my brain, my body had automatically relaxed. I already knew I liked him, but I honestly hadn't realized how much I already trusted him. Amazing, really, for a woman who hadn't let herself get close to anyone in years. Of course I trusted Lawrence--I'd relied on him for too long not to--but this was different. David was different. And knowing he was here with me, that, for once, I wasn't alone in the field, made me surprisingly comfortable with the situation. I had to force myself to drag my mind away from him, and back to the job at hand.

Joe was sent out to act as a sentry but they didn't seem to think it was very likely that there'd be anyone around. By his voice I worked out he'd been the one who'd given me the sedative, and Michael was the other one in the back seat. He'd been the roughest and I wasn't happy when I heard him arranging the details of the interrogation with Dave. Stuart had been driving, and I assumed that he and Archer would be there to help with anything that was needed. Neil Roberts was probably off somewhere fiddling with his radios and whatever other gadgets he had with him today. That seemed to account for everyone.

There was movement near me now, and I felt someone pushing me over and pulling my arms behind my back once again. It wasn't so bad as before as Archer this time only snapped a pair of handcuffs around my wrists, the coldness of the steel making me wince. I struggled feebly, briefly, and he hastily lifted my head, wrapped a soft cloth around my eyes then gently let me fall back. I hate lying on my stomach and felt exposed. It was awful having absolutely no control over what was happening. I tensed, and showed signs of waking up fully.

The world came rushing back and, with a jolt, I remembered what had happened. It was dark but I could see a rim of light at the edge of my vision and I straightaway tried to reach up and move whatever was covering my eyes. My arms were stuck uncomfortably behind me and when I jerked them more urgently to try and free them I just hurt myself more.

A soft voice by my ear told me to lie quietly, to wait, but the very gentleness of the voice was all wrong. I started to tremble, more scared now than I'd been in the car. I struggled to turn over but got wedged on my side, a cushion preventing me from turning any further. A large pair of hands turned me the rest of the way onto my back and I cringed away. I didn't want to be touched. Now that I was more balanced I could swing my legs over the edge of the couch and pull myself into a sitting position but when I tried to stand the same hands pushed me firmly back down. I kicked out at him, stupid of them not to tie my legs, but connected with nothing other than air. They obviously thought they were mad too, since as soon as I slowed to draw breath my legs were grabbed and secured together. I was getting spooked--all this had happened in near-silence and it wasn't right.

"Who are you?" My voice sounded awful. Not nearly as confident as I'd hoped.

"Doesn't matter." The voice was cold, uncaring, and I didn't recognize it.

"Where's Archer?"

"Doesn't matter." Just toneless this time. "Now be quiet until you're asked to speak. Here, you will do what you're told."

I tried to be assertive again, but failed miserably. "Let me go."

Someone backhanded me across the face and I fell backwards.

"I told you to be quiet." He hit me again and I fell sideways this time, missing the edge of the lounge and landing on the hard floor with a painful thud. Tears streamed from my eyes and made the blindfold damp. Although they could probably hear me crying, I was defiantly glad they couldn't see the tears.

If this was discreet, then I would have hated to be on the receiving end of a full interrogation from these men. More bits of me were starting to hurt and I was sure to have some big bruises forming. It was my own fault for falling off the lounge though. I'd teetered on the edge for a second before deciding that falling off would be the most natural behavior. I hadn't realized the floor was stone-paved or else I'd have been more careful.

David finally spoke up and calmly told someone to pick me up again. I'm sure it wasn't Archer who had me because they grabbed me hard and shoved me violently into an upright chair. My arms were crushed behind me until he bent me forward, pushing me by the neck rather than the shoulders, pulled my arms out and, very quickly, unlocked the handcuffs then tied my arms behind the chair with a coarse rope. It was so tight my fingers were already starting to tingle.

"My hands," I moaned, very quietly. Thank goodness someone noticed and the rope was loosened a fraction. Fingers throbbing, the blood started to flow again. I tried to stretch them out behind me to flex my fingers, but found that when they'd been retied, my arms had been attached to the chair. Someone else was fiddling with the rope on my legs, making them immobile too. My stomach was churning in fear; I didn't have to act.

I couldn't help shaking now, and was crying openly. What did they want from me? It was hard to pay attention but now one of them was speaking to me. I was slapped again, but more gently this time.

"Listen to me." I sniffled, trying to control myself but it wasn't working.

"Listen. I'm not going to hurt you if you help me." I hated the damn blindfold. I wanted to see him, to look at his face when he was talking. He sounded genuine but it's easy to lie when no one's looking at you. I lifted my head and swiveled it in the direction of his voice.

"Who are you?"

Again, the same answer, but from a different voice. "Doesn't matter. Just answer some questions and we'll let you go."

I asked, "What about?" but I already knew. I tensed.

"You have some fairly...delicate...information about the AFM. You work for the British government and read a particular memo at the consulate. It didn't mean anything to anyone else but I believe that you have had access to other, um, facts. I want to know exactly what you know, and who else knows."

I was no longer trembling but shaking violently. Now he'd finally said it, my worst fear was realized. Even if I told them what they wanted to know, I doubted if they'd let me live.

With a bit of luck they would be watching every thought as it crossed my face. It was David asking the questions and that was making me feel so much better about everything--we may not have spent that much time together, but I already trusted him. For a minute there I'd actually been in danger of really being afraid. Acting fear was bad--you were so close to the true emotion it was easy to start feeling it in reality.

He started asking questions again.

"Tell me about the memo."

"What memo?"

"Don't make this hard on yourself. You will tell me about the memo, one way or another." His voice was no longer neutral, but threatening. "Now, tell me exactly what the memo said."

"No. You'll kill me once I tell you." There, I'd said it.

"You've been reading too many spy novels. If I wanted you dead, I'd have had you killed weeks ago. I want to know what you know."

"I don't believe you." Don't get hysterical, don't get hysterical!

He stepped closer; I could feel him not quite touching me, then he ripped the blindfold away from my eyes. I screwed my eyes shut not wanting to see him. If I see what he looks like, he'll definitely kill me!

"You're not sure, are you?" He was too close, and he sounded nastily amused. "If you were so sure we were going to kill you it wouldn't matter if you saw us or not. You don't want to look--just in case..." He was right and I kept my eyes tightly shut.

"Look at me."

"No."

He was more insistent. "Look at me."

"No!"

"All right." He stepped back. "We'll have to do this the hard way."

I was still trembling, and the fear was welling up again. His hand was on my arm and, feeling ashamed at the relief I felt, drifted away in a dead faint.

Really, I was just buying some time, giving myself a few minutes to work out what I should be doing next. Dave made it easy for me, walking away and talking softly to the others while they waited.

"I doubt she'll be out of it for long. Threatening obviously isn't going to get us anywhere. She's not coping real well."

"Yeah. I guess it shows she's not with MI6." The other voice laughed.

"God no! She'd be absolutely hopeless!" More laughter. A bit of me fumed, they were all so relaxed about the whole thing. I was the only one having a hard time of it. Well, maybe Archer too, I corrected myself. He was acting like maybe he felt a bit guilty.

"Anyway, I think we'll go straight for the hypnotic drugs when she comes around. It'll be quickest. We'll give her an extra dose of the medazaline later and, hopefully, we'll get her back to the hotel by sunrise and she won't remember a thing."

Thank you, David!

Now he'd managed to let me know what was happening and it wasn't as bad as it could have been. There was one particular interrogation drug that looked terrible. It was some kind of a psychotic and made the victim feel the most overwhelming fear, and put them in what looked to be horrible pain. The idea was that you'd tell the interviewer anything if only they'd take it away. I'd been terrified of having to imitate that.

I slowly lifted my head, blinking owlishly in the light. I tensed when I saw them and started to tremble once more. Dave walked back over to me and looked at me assessingly.

"Good to have you back with us, Ms Evans."

I looked away and started to cry again. I couldn't help myself. Now I'd seen them there was nothing I could do to take it back.

"Oh, for goodness sake, give over!" The one who'd been asking all the questions sounded exasperated. "I'm really not going to hurt you but if you won't co-operate I'm going to have to get the information another way. This is your last chance."

I still didn't look at him.

"Fine then. This--" he grabbed my chin and lifted my head, forcing me to see the syringe held in his hand, "--is a hypnotic drug. When I give you this you'll tell us everything we want to know. So why don't you save yourself the trouble and answer my questions."

I still didn't look at him.

"Okay. One of you come here and hold her arm for me."

One of them stepped forward, face neutral, and took hold of me by my shoulder and elbow. I tensed even more and struggled hopelessly to get away.

"If you relax, the needle won't hurt so much." His voice was gentle.

I ignored him and continued to struggle, forcing him to lean on me with all his strength. He could hold my arm fairly still but that was all. There were no options for me but I wasn't going to make it easy for them.

The things we do! I could have relaxed in an instant and I knew that by purposely keeping tense I was only hurting myself. It would be my own fault but, to stay in character, I had to do it. If I fainted again, they couldn't give it to me until I woke up, and that was the only time I could be relaxed. Catch 22.

Then the needle was in and I really couldn't help crying out in pain. David paused, looking at me, then started to depress the plunger. He and I knew it was only saline, but I looked at it aghast, still fighting against Stuart's restraining grip.

The tableau was interrupted by urgent beeping from a small radio on the sideboard. Almost simultaneously, a red light started to flash from another little box beside it.

The needle was withdrawn, its contents never administered, and I fell back sobbing as my arm was released. The adrenalin that had been racing through me suddenly disappeared and I was again fighting the faintness that threatened to envelope me. Vaguely, I heard a voice from the radio speaking quickly but calmly, there were police on their way, the voice had heard them on his scanner and they'd be here in minutes. The red light kept flashing, apparently an alert from the sentry for everyone to scatter.

"I guess we were seen lifting her?"

"Must have been. Wonder how they traced us to here so quickly?"

"Not important now."

As they talked, they were moving rapidly around the room, collecting things up and stuffing them into haversacks. The one who'd been asking me the questions started directing the others to get away into the night. I didn't care. They were so professional they wouldn't be caught. Tiredly, I wondered what they'd do with me.

"Do you want me to give her the medazaline?" one of them asked.

"No, it's too slow and won't have worked by the time the police get here. I'll just knock her out now. She's no threat to us." He was disparaging. "She'll never identify us."

I was so stressed I didn't even care what they were talking about. I didn't think I might actually get rescued--it was all just too hopeless.

I wondered about this but found out soon enough what Dave had meant. He walked quickly behind me, grabbed a section of skin at the base of my neck between his thumb and forefinger and twisted ruthlessly. I cried out again and fervently hoped that Dave was feeling very, very bad about this. To everyone else in the room it would have looked like he was blocking a section of my trachea, causing me to fall unconscious. It was a common enough skill for the SAS guys, but was deadly if they got it wrong. He made sure he twisted hard enough to give me a large bruise--there was nothing like authenticity--then let go. I slumped forward in my chair and felt him place the blindfold loosely over my eyes again. When Portia woke up she'd have a vile headache, be very disoriented, and have no idea of who was in the room with her.

I listened to them clear the last of their gadgets from the room, turning off the lights behind them. They left stealthily, singly and in different directions. It was quiet now, and I wondered how long the police would be. I was also a bit afraid because it had to have been one of the team who blew the whistle on us, you'd assume the mole, and I wondered if that was all he was planning. The interruption was effective in that the team never got the information about the AFM but, if it had been me, I'd have wanted something more permanent. I was horribly vulnerable again. I couldn't move and couldn't see and knew that I was at risk. I really hoped David was somewhere nearby. This was, for me, where he'd come into his own.

I was very still and was listening as closely as I ever have to every sound around me. Every tiny tick as the old building contracted in the coldness of the evening made me jump, so it was a relief to finally hear quiet footsteps in the next room. The stone floors weren't great for moving totally soundlessly. The person paused at the door and there were more small, unidentifiable sounds. Unfortunately my imagination was working overtime and it was all I could do to keep my breathing even. He was listening to me too. Then, a sound that I did know, a tiny metallic click as the safety was flicked off a handgun. Inwardly, I panicked. On the outside, I was still.

Please let Dave be here too, please let him, please let him...

He moved closer and I could feel his trousers brushing against mine. My heart, impossibly, raced even faster until surely he must hear it. Suddenly, there was a dull thunk, followed by a heavy thud as someone collapsed onto the floor and across my legs. Oh my goodness...

"Sonya?"

I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath and couldn't answer immediately. I pulled myself together and acknowledged Dave quietly.

"I've got him. It was Michael Jefferson. I've knocked him out, but I've got to hurry to get him out of here. The police won't be much longer. Will you be right?"

"Thank you." It was only a whisper but I put every ounce of gratitude into it that I could muster.

"No worries." I'm sure he smiled.

His fingers trailed fleetingly along my cheek, the soft touch sending a frisson of heat under my skin. Then the blindfold was tugged prosaically into place swiftly followed by the sound of him hefting the unconscious Jefferson onto his shoulder. His footfalls were quiet on the stone floor, even with the heavy load. Then the door was closed softly behind them, leaving me to wonder about his touch. Was it affection? Or was it simply the stress sending my imagination into overdrive? I shook my head, annoyed with myself, and settled back to wait for the police.

It took ages for them to actually get into the house. I finally heard several cars stopping softly in the driveway, and saw a single flash of blue from their lights at the edge of the blindfold. Even though I knew they had to assume the kidnappers they'd been told about were still here, I was impatient for them to arrive and get this over with.

Their sounds slowly moved closer to the house as they checked each area and, eventually, I heard the outside door open. I was still sitting slumped in the chair where Dave had left me, still apparently unconscious. The door opened and there was a sudden commotion. Torches probed, the overhead lights came on, and the room was in a relative uproar.

I slowly became aware that the lights were on around me and I was no longer tied into the horrible chair. My head hurt so badly I couldn't concentrate and I flinched when someone's hand gently brushed some hair off my face. There seemed to be people everywhere, touching me, and I didn't know why. I pushed them away, and kicked, but, this time, no one hit back. Soothing voices were talking at me, trying to tell me something ,but I couldn't understand. I opened my eyes, and looked up at several people in uniform. I was lying on the floor, my arms and legs were free and the blindfold was gone. Relief flooded over me when I realized who they were. Once again, tears flooded down my cheeks but this time I didn't mind at all.

The police had been the first into the room. They'd quickly checked that I was actually alive, confirmed that the room was safe, and then called the ambulance officers in. There was no point trying to fake unconsciousness because they would have known, so instead, I started to come around again. I took my time, listening to what was happening around me and checking through the details of my story.

I was adamant that I wasn't going to hospital but was overruled by the ambos. They were used to being quietly authoritative and it was easiest to give in. When they found out I was from the British consulate there was a brief furor. Apparently, their informant hadn't given them any details except that a kidnapping had happened, and where the victim was being held. When I asked that Lawrence Low be contacted via the consulate the police were quick to comply, calling him straight away. The consulate knew of the operation and would get on to Lawrence immediately. With a bit of luck, by the time the hospital was finished with me, he'd be there to collect me.

I politely refused the request to provide details of what had happened, knowing they couldn't insist due to my supposed diplomatic immunity. They were disappointed, but happier when they heard I couldn't tell them anything about my kidnappers as I told them I'd been blindfolded the whole time, and they had no way of knowing I'd been lured to the lift point by my dinner date. I was grateful to Dave's forward thinking in replacing the blindfold as it had taken a lot of pressure off me.

Katoomba hospital was small, and they didn't really know what to do with me. I told them about the few minor injuries but nothing needed treatment, not even the bruise on my neck that was already starting to turn interesting shades of blue and red. I was tired too, and it was getting difficult to stay in character. I was emotionally drained and it was hard to keep being jumpy and nervous, to vary wildly between relief and stress. They offered me counseling, which I refused, and were glad when a consular limousine pulled into the circular driveway in front of the emergency department.

With surprisingly little fuss, I was released from the ward and subsided thankfully into the back seat of the car. There was a divider between myself and the driver so there was none of the annoyingly aimless taxi-driver chit-chat that sometimes happened. That, I couldn't have coped with.

We stopped briefly at the Mountain Heritage where Lawrence was waiting out front, my luggage placed neatly beside him.

"Hope you didn't mind me packing your smalls," he commented as he slid in, "but I thought you might want to get straight on the road."

"Not at all, Lawrence." I yawned, then asked "Did you hear from David?"

"I did." He was very satisfied. "Our target is already in federal custody, and the others all got away and are heading back to Richmond as we speak. They'll debrief individually today and have a few hours off before a group session tomorrow."

"And me?"

"We'll go straight back to Chifley Tower and go through everything then." He looked warningly towards the driver. "You can spend the night in the guest suite, then we'll travel to the group session at Richmond together."

I wasn't looking forward to owning up to my duplicity tomorrow but, with the dawn just starting to flood the car with pink light, I was too tired to dwell on it. A few more inanities and I stretched luxuriously, curled up into the corner of the seat wrapped in my shawl, and quickly fell asleep, the leather pleasantly cool on my bruises.

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