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Marcellus stares at him for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, I mustn’t have been clear: it wasn’t a request.’

  ‘Sounded like one to me.’

  ‘Actually, you’re right, it did, but then you said “no” so now it’s an order.’

  Claude is stunned. ‘Is this—are you joking?’

  Marcellus shakes his head. ‘You’ll thank me eventually. Now, if I can have the room, I need to see if I can organise the other part of this investigation.’ Marcellus picks up the phone and dials.

  The Frenchman turns and walks out, takes a seat at his desk. He’s extremely annoyed at the old German. But, he realises, he’s also a little excited at the prospect of getting back on the horse.

  ~ * ~

  Marcellus knows his old friend Dieter Wolfe is always looking for a new marketing angle. After all, marketing drives his business. When you make highly caffeinated fizzy sugar water for a living, and sell over two billion cans of it every year, you don’t spend much on research and development. It’s just highly caffeinated fizzy sugar water after all. There’s nothing to research and develop, and you certainly don’t screw with the formula. (New Coke anyone?) So what do you do with all that profit? You build the brand so you can sell three billion cans next year. And how do you build the brand? You market it to young men who drink more highly caffeinated fizzy sugar water than any other demographic. And how do you market it to young men? Well that’s easy. Ever since young men were young Neanderthals living in caves trying to impress the young lady Neanderthals by beating up the gang of uppity monkeys who kept turning up at the waterhole uninvited, they’ve wanted to be just one thing: cool.

  So how do you make a drink ‘cool’? One highly caffeinated fizzy sugar water is not inherently cooler than another highly caffeinated fizzy sugar water, it’s no cooler than lemonade or cola or even freshly squeezed orange juice, or, heaven forbid, plain old tap water, but if you market it just right, you can make it the very height of cool. So what does that entail? You plaster its name on the kinds of sport young men aspire to be involved with that feature ‘xtreme’ speed and danger: snowboarding and surfing and motorcross and mountain biking and aeroplane racing and skydiving from the edge of space, and the grand-daddy of them all: Formula One. The pinnacle of motorsport, the most watched televised sporting event on the planet after the football World Cup and the Olympics.

  Now Dieter’s highly caffeinated fizzy sugar water is named Iron Rhino and the company spends three hundred million dollars a year on Formula One. Three hundred million. A year. But still, they’re always searching for that next marketing opportunity, that special something that will make it even cooler to drink their highly caffeinated fizzy sugar water instead of the competition (which is named Red Bull and outsells Iron Rhino three to one).

  Dieter, who founded and runs Iron Rhino, and who Marcellus has known since they served on the board of a rare disease charity back in 2001, has recently branched out beyond the company’s usual extreme-sport marketing habitat into other areas, such as DJ battles and a music label, so what Marcellus has in mind just may work for him.

  The phone rings and rings, then is picked up. ‘Dieter?’

  ‘Marcellus, my good man.’ The delight in his voice is obvious. ‘How are you?’ They both speak German.

  ‘Fine, fine. And you? The family, everybody well?’

  ‘No complaints.’

  ‘I should damn well hope not.’ They share a knowing laugh. Dieter’s fortune is estimated at over one billion dollars and he is well known to be generous with family and friends.

  ‘And how’s that racing team of yours coming along?’

  ‘Slowly, which is not a word you want to hear in F1.’ The sixty-four-year-old German sounds pained saying it. After seven years in Formula One, Dieter’s Iron Rhino team has not yet won a race and is being handed its arse by Red Bull, which is not only its fierce competitor in the energy drink market but also on the track. Red Bull has won the F1 championship for the last four years running.

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Me too. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?’

  ‘I’ve had an idea you may find interesting. Do you have a minute?’

  ‘For you I have two.’

  ~ * ~

  Six minutes later Marcellus hangs up the phone and grins. That went exactly as hoped. Now all he has to do is make sure Billy Hotchkiss isn’t a crazy person and Marcellus can set this investigation in motion. He glances at the computer screen, finds the Australian’s mobile number and dials the phone.

  ~ * ~

  McDonald’s.

  Yep, whenever Billy’s feeling down in the dumps good old Micky D’s comes to the rescue. It’s always there, just over the hill or around the bend, the gleaming golden arches promising to soothe whatever ails him, in this case the shame of screwing up his second career.

  Unfortunately it’s too late for hotcakes, the breakfast menu is no longer being served, but he hoes into his second Double Choc Fudge McFlurry, which is almost as good, and wonders if it would be too much if he went back for a third. Why the hell not? Though he should probably visit a different cashier to avoid any embarrassment.

  Bzzz. His iPhone rattles on the table next to the first McFlurry container. It’s an overseas number. He picks up, expecting yet another robo-call telling him he’s won the chance to win a Caribbean vacation or a Lotus Elise. They’re the only international calls he ever seems to receive. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is this Billy Hotchkiss?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hello, this is Marcellus Jaspernik.’

  Another bloody sales call, though at least this one isn’t automated.

  ‘Hello, Marcellus. And who are you when you’re at home?’

  ‘I don’t—what? I—I run the Criminal Investigation Department at Interpol and I would like to speak to you about a job.’

  So it’s not a sales call but a prank from one of his work mates who, by now, have heard about his forced resignation.

  ‘Yeah yeah, ha ha, rack off mate. I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘This call isn’t getting off to the best start, Mr Hotchkiss.’

  There’s something about the tone of the guy’s voice, or maybe it’s his clipped Euro accent that makes the Australian pause. ‘This a joke, right?’

  ‘Not at all. I need you on a plane. To France. Tonight. For a formal interview. Are you available?’

  ‘You’re seriously calling about a job?’

  ‘I’m certain I’ve already said that.’

  ‘And the job is with who?’

  ‘With whom, and it is Interpol. I’m certain I said that too. Now, are you available?’

  Billy’s starting to think this might be for real. ‘If you’re fair dinkum.’

  ‘Does that mean “yes”?’

  ‘Bloody oath.’

  ‘I don’t know what that means either.’

  ‘It means when does the flight leave?’

  ~ * ~

  Claude presses the button on the vending machine and a bottle drops into the receptacle. He now has to buy his own sparkling water. He remembers a time when there was a fridge full of Diet Coke and Perrier on every floor. Not anymore. Interpol’s budget is tight, barely seventy million euros a year, and they’re always looking for something to cut so complimentary beverages were bound to go. He just hopes they don’t start axing anything important, like support for agents in the field. Maybe if he can win Marcellus’s job he’ll have some meaningful influence over the budget. That’s certainly motivation to take up the old German’s offer. Since Marcellus dropped the bomb yesterday, Claude’s warmed to the idea of being in the field again. He even went for an hour-long run yesterday afternoon then powered through half an hour of calisthenics.

  No, the forty-eight-year-old’s fitness is not a concern. What he’s worried about, what kept him awake last night, is whether or not he still has ‘it’, that special something where, in the heat of the mom
ent, his instincts take over and he makes the right call. Those instincts served him well during his years in the French Foreign Legion, then as a gendarme in Paris, then as an investigator with Interpol.

  How rusty will they be now?

  He turns from the vending machine and glances over a banister at the Interpol headquarters lobby one floor below, all glass and steel and polished marble floors. The place is a hive of activity. He notices a guy with a slight limp move through the crowd of people. Claude doesn’t trust anyone with a limp. It’s like they’re trying to hide something, and doing a terrible job. Worse, the guy is wearing a hoodie. Claude is more than happy to profile him ‘on the fly’ and a limp plus a hoodie immediately throws a red flag. His instincts tell him he needs to check this guy out. He puts the drink down on the banister and descends the wide stairway to the lobby.

  The Frenchman circles around like a big cat—not an overweight house cat, but a jungle cat—stalking its prey through the undergrowth, which, in this case, is a crowd of people. He feels a tingle in his chest as he remembers how much he loves the hunt. It’s better than wine, or cheese, or his beloved Gitanes, which he’d recently been forced to give up by his doctor, or even women, whether it be Bridgette, his first ex-wife, or his ex-mistress who became his second ex-wife, also named Bridgette.

  Claude edges closer as the guy approaches the reception desk and touches something at the small of his back, under the hoodie.

  Does he have a weapon there?

  Claude’s eyes flick to the man’s face. He recognises it, but from where? The Frenchman has seen so many wanted posters over the years they have all blended together and now look the same.

  The guy’s hand stays at the small of his back. Is he trying to disengage the weapon’s safety? Claude glides closer, quick but silent, just like that big cat, not the overweight house cat but the one from the jungle. The guy is just three metres away now, his hand still at the small of his back.

  It moves.

  He’s drawing the weapon!

  Claude springs forward, snatches at the guy’s right hand as it emerges from under the hoodie and twists the pistol from his grip —

  It’s not a pistol.

  It’s an iPhone.

  He was scratching the small of his back with an iPhone, which is kind of gross but not yet a crime. Claude realises he’s made a terrible mistake. The answer to the question about whether his instincts are rusty is a resounding yes.

  The guy wearing the hoodie twists Claude’s right arm and wrenches it backwards, then drives his right leg out and strikes the Frenchman under his left knee. He is swept off his feet and hangs in the air for what seems like eons, then is yanked downward by the twisted arm —

  Whack. His back slaps the cool marble floor with a bone-jarring crack. A dull ache spreads across Claude’s shoulders as a X26c Taser is yanked from the shoulder holster under his jacket and the electroshock weapon’s twin probes jab into the skin under his chin. He looks up at the guy wearing the hoodie, whose surprised face seems even more familiar than before.

  Beside it appears an incredulous Marcellus. ‘What the hell are you doing, Claude?’

  ‘I thought he was—I was just...’ There is no adequate explanation so he doesn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘I’d like you to meet Billy Hotchkiss. He’s here about the job ... as your partner.’

  That’s how Claude knows this guy’s face: he watched video of him chase that armoured car in Melbourne.

  Billy Hotchkiss is clearly bewildered. ‘This clown’s going to be my partner? He just tried to steal my iPhone.’ He looks at Marcellus. ‘Is this part of the interview?’

  ‘No no, not at all.’ Marcellus glares at Claude then turns to the Australian. ‘Billy, this is Claude Michelle.’

  ~ * ~

  ‘Sorry everyone, just a misunderstanding. Please go about your business.’ Marcellus shoos away the gathered crowd as Billy helps Claude to his feet.

  ‘Two first names, huh? Well, that’s pretty cool. Sorry about calling you a clown.’ The Australian studies the pistol-shaped X26c Taser in his hand. ‘So you actually use this thing?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  Billy extends it, handgrip first, towards Claude. ‘You don’t carry another weapon?’

  ‘I prefer a non-lethal response.’

  ‘You’re not worried about bringing an electric cow prod to a gunfight?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Claude takes the weapon, slides it back into his holster, doesn’t clip it shut.

  ‘You might want to clip that. So it’s not so easy for someone to grab.’

  Claude nods but doesn’t do it.

  Billy takes it in, then speaks slow and loud: ‘I know English is your second language but did you not understand what I just said about the holster?’

  ‘I understood perfectly. And English is my fourth language.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you do it?’

  ‘I don’t need your advice. I have socks with more experience than you.’

  ‘But what if the next person who steals your cow prod isn’t as nice as me?’

  ‘It’ll never happen again —’

  Fast as light Billy plunges his right hand into Claude’s jacket, yanks the weapon from its unclipped holster and jabs the probes under the stunned Frenchman’s chin.

  They stare at each other for a long moment.

  ‘Clip the bloody holster, mate.’ Billy re-holsters the weapon, clips it shut, then turns to Marcellus. ‘Can I speak to you for a moment?’

  ~ * ~

  ‘What the hell?’ Billy turns to Marcellus, his voice echoing in the large, empty bathroom. ‘What kind of dickheads do you have working here? It doesn’t exactly instil me with confidence in your organisation.’

  ‘He’s one of our best agents.’

  ‘He’s a tool who’s going to get us all killed.’

  The old German nods. ‘Admittedly he can be a little ... brusque.’

  ‘Brusque? I’ve known the guy for three minutes and I already want to shoot him in the leg.’

  ‘He’s been doing this a long time. He knows what’s what.’

  ‘I took his taser away from him. Twice. Within the space of a minute. And I warned him before I did it the second time. And it’s a taser. Why isn’t he carrying a pistol?’

  ‘The taser is a perfectly adequate weapon and he was too proud to clip his holster in front of you. He’s French.’

  ‘That’s not an excuse.’

  ‘In some countries it is.’ Marcellus tries to lighten the tone with a grin but Billy’s not buying. The German takes a moment, then lowers his voice. ‘Look, I shouldn’t tell you this, and you can never repeat it, but have you ever been to the Tower of London?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The Statue of Liberty?’

  ‘This is my first time outside Oz, mate. What’s your point?’

  ‘The Opera House?’

  ‘I live in Melbourne and it’s in Sydney, but yes, I have. Once.’

  ‘Well, none of those landmarks would still exist if weren’t for that man.’

  Billy crinkles his face into an expression of disbelief. ‘And how’s that?’

  ‘Do you ever wonder why there hasn’t been another 9/11 since 9/11? Well, it’s because of him. He uncovered a plot that was one week away from destroying all three of those landmarks on the same day. Now it’s up to you, but you may want to cut him some slack. He just might have saved you from a bad night at the opera.’

  Billy takes in a deep breath, then nods. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Now, can we start the interview please?’

  ‘Sure.’ A moment passes. Billy looks around. ‘You don’t want to do it in here, do you?’

  Marcellus smiles. ‘No, I have an extremely nice office.’

  ~ * ~

  Billy looks out the panoramic window and takes in the countryside. ‘It is nice.’

  Marcellus nods. ‘Thank you.’ Beside the G
erman sits Claude, who doesn’t seem to be embarrassed by recent events at all.

  Billy turns to them. ‘So, why’d you bring me all the way over here?’

  Marcellus answers. ‘Because you got closer to the crew who pulled the Collins Street heist than anyone else, and we’ve been tracking them, or trying to, for the better part of eight months.’

  Billy’s clearly confused. ‘But I didn’t catch them. I ended up in a river with gravel rash and no job. I mean, I wouldn’t do it again.’