3 June 2005

"It will be all right, sweetheart," Trish told him, reaching across the table to gently cover his hand with her own. "You'll see."

Nick smiled at her, a wan, tired little smile he knew never reached his eyes, a smile they both knew was not sincere in the least. It warmed his heart, her kindness, her reassurances, her efforts to keep them both from spiralling off into an anxiety-induced madness, but he could not shake the nerves that settled low at the base of his spine, left him restless and unsteady. For her sake he would have to be calm, nonchalant the way Wesley was always supposed to be, no matter how much his own heart cried out in fear and rage.

It was three weeks to the day since the shooting at Frank and Marcy's, since Nick had tackled Trish to the ground and held her tight against his chest while their friends died on the grass and his arm screamed out in pain. He wasn't wearing a sling, any more, and the stitches had come out, but he still couldn't raise his left arm above his head, couldn't lift anything with that hand. The doctor said his mobility would improve with time, but it wasn't the use of his arm that had Nick worried; it was the fact that they had come so damnably close to dying themselves, that more lives had been lost for the sake of the work they did, that the danger around them was only increasing, and he wasn't sure how much longer he would be able to keep Trish safe. For months that had been his first priority, protecting her, and now he felt himself utterly useless in that regard.

To make matters worse, Hartono was at that very moment on his way to a meeting at the Claybournes' home. It was a boon SIS had not looked for, that Hartono would willingly walk into a room they'd already bugged. There was no need to worry about whether or not he was surveilling the house in advance of his arrival; the cameras and mics had been planted months before, and if he had people watching all they would see was Trish and Wesley, going to work, going to the shops, visiting their acquaintances, lying around the garden. There was nothing in the Claybournes' day-to-day that would give him cause for alarm, and when he turned up SIS would be able to hear every word he said.

If indeed he meant to speak at all, if he weren't just sending Mr. Prakoso round to take out Trish and Wesley the same as he'd done Frank and Marcy. Nick was certain Prakoso had been behind the attack; he was the one who'd stood idly by while the SIS agents were gunned down, the one who had taken Hartono's place to ensure the deed was done. A man like Hartono didn't do the dirty work himself, he needed a strong second to carry out the violence and keep Hartono's hands clean.

"He needs us," Trish said when Nick had been quiet too long.

"You're right." Now that Frank was out of the picture there was only one company left to handle all of Hartono's work; Claybourne shipping had been doing big business lately, taking over the majority of Frank's accounts, legal and illegal both. As far as Nick knew Hartono wasn't working with anyone else, and he didn't seem the type to act rashly. He'd bring in a second company before he killed the Claybournes, surely; at least, that's what Nick tried to tell himself.

A sudden, sharp knock on the door sucked the breath from Nick's lungs; he spared a glance at Trish, and found her wide eyed and worried, but she nodded resolutely when he caught her gaze. No going back, he thought.

And so he heaved himself out of his chair, and Trish rose, too, her hand slipping slowly away from his as he crossed the house on leaden feet, plastering an easy smile on his face before opening the door.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said, stepping aside to allow Hartono and Prakoso room to pass by him and into the house. "Come on inside, Trish just put the kettle on."

"Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Claybourne," Hartono said. As Nick closed the door behind the men Hartono lingered, his eyes roving across the entryway, taking in the details of the house while Prakoso moved on, heading towards the kitchen as if he knew the layout already. Maybe he did.

"An interesting piece," Hartono said, gesturing towards the painting on the wall by the front door. "A local artist?"

The painting in question was an abstract sort of landscape, trees and a stream in hues of deep browns and greens.

"That, mate, is a Trish Claybourne original," Nick told him, and he did not have to fake the pride that suffused his voice. She had surprised him with that, her skill in painting, and that particular piece was among his favorites. He'd be sorry to lose it when the job ended.

"A woman of many talents," Hartono said, but his tone was disinterested, and so Nick did not belabor the point.

"That she is," he said. "Shall we?" He gestured for Hartono to follow him down the corridor.

In the kitchen Prakoso was already sitting at the table, and Trish was busy with the kettle, pouring out four cups of tea.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Claybourne," Hartono said courteously. Nick indicated that he should sit, and so the gentlemen settled themselves around the table while Trish finished her work at the counter.

"Good afternoon," Trish answered. "Welcome to our home."

"I was sorry to hear about the unfortunate attack on Frank Holland," Hartono said. He sat ramrod straight in his chair, and he did not smile when Trish placed a cup of tea in front of him. There was sugar already on the table, but he did not reach for it; instead he remained still, and calm, and cold, and just the sight of him left Nick feeling vaguely nauseous.

"So were we," Nick said, adding, "thank you, sweetheart," softly as Trish handed him his cup of tea. With the three gentlemen served she settled into a seat at Nick's left hand, holding her cup and watching the conversation silently, the way Hartono expected her to.

"I read about it in the newspaper," Hartono said, a bold-faced lie. "I was shocked. As I'm sure you were when you found out."

Hartono had just neatly lobbed a hand grenade into Nick's lap. The man had to have known that Trish and Wesley were present when the shooting took place, and he was, however indirectly, asking for confirmation of that fact. Nick could lie to him, say they read about it in the paper, too, but Hartono would know the lie for what it was, and might mistrust him for it. Though his wound was neatly covered by his horrid patterned shirt he would not be lifting his teacup with his left hand; perhaps Hartono would notice that, too. Lying would allow him to avoid the topic altogether, and would allow him to avoid discussing their lack of interaction with the police, but they need Hartono onside. Then again, if Nick confessed to having witnessed the crime, Hartono might feel the need to tie up loose ends by ensuring that Trish and Wesley Claybourne never told anyone what they saw. There was no time for Nick to debate the merits of his choices; Hartono was not a patient man, and every heartbeat that passed made Wesley look more and more suspicious.

"To tell you the truth, mate," Nick said, reaching out to take hold of Trish's hand where it rested on the table, "we were there when it happened. Never been so bloody scared in my life."

"You were there when Frank was killed?" Hartono asked. Perhaps he meant to feign surprise, but Nick saw through him at once.

"We were. Didn't see a damn thing, not the car, not the shooter, nothing. I was too worried about Trish to look around much. I have a friend in the local police, he's kept our name out of the papers. Not that we've been any good to them, considering we don't know a damn thing about it."

"We just want to put it behind us," Trish said quietly, and Nick squeezed her hand once to let her know how grateful he was for the earnest sincerity of her tone.

"How dreadful for you both," Hartono murmured. As they talked Prakoso watched them all with the dark, dead eyes of a shark, and his silence unnerved Nick. He couldn't shake the thought that perhaps Prakoso was armed, just waiting for a nod from Hartono before he murdered Trish and Wesley where they sat.

"I'm glad we didn't see the shooter," Nick said. "No reason for them to worry about us informing on them, since we don't know who they are. We're hoping that means they won't pay us a visit. We don't want any trouble."

Hartono wasn't the only who could play word games; Nick was trying, in his own way, to let Hartono know there was nothing he needed to fear from the Claybournes. They'd not seen anything, and they had no intention of reporting anything to the police, about the murder or Hartono's activities. Of course they were informing on Hartono to SIS, but it was just another lie in a sea of them.

"I am glad to hear that, for your sake," Hartono told him. "You are a valuable partner to me, and I would be disappointed to lose you."

Disappointed, that's all Hartono would be if Trish and Wesley ended up dead. Two more lives lost, and it would be nothing but a minor inconvenience to him. Christ, Nick hated this bastard. But Hartono had just confirmed that Nick's suspicions were correct, that he had not come here to kill the Claybournes but rather to do business with them. It was a thin victory, but a victory nonetheless.

"I do not wish to appear crass," Hartono continued then, "but I am afraid I have come to discuss business. Frank was a great help to me, and without him I find myself in need of further assistance."

"Whatever it is, we're happy to help," Nick said. He was still holding Trish's hand; somehow he couldn't quite bring himself to let go. She brought him peace when he needed it, kept him steady when every nerve in his body was screaming at him to run. This man had ordered the deaths of four people that Nick knew about, left Nick himself injured and weak, and sitting with him now filled Nick with an anger and a fear the likes of which he'd never known before. No homicide suspect had ever been as vicious or calculating as Muhammad Hartono, and Nick was beginning to worry that this was one criminal he couldn't outsmart. The conversation so far had been laced with innuendo, but none of it was any good to SIS. They needed details, specifics, evidence laid out in black and white. Until they got that, this charade would continue its deadly progress with nothing to show for the sacrifices Trish and Wesley had made so far.

"I am opening a new business," Hartono told him. "A chain of laundromats and dry cleaners. We'll start with two stores in Sydney, and then expand. We are shipping equipment in from Indonesia. The first containers will begin to arrive in a few weeks, Mr. Prakoso can give you the details. We will need you to move five boxes a week for us in the beginning, and then we will need your full attention for the entire month of September."

"That's a lot of cargo for two shops," Nick said before he could stop himself. His damn detective's mind had overriden the instincts he'd developed as a spook and he'd slipped into interrogation mode without even thinking about it. There was no way Hartono missed that, and he wasn't the sort of man who appreciated being questioned. Any good rapport Nick might have managed to build so far could easily be destroyed by that one simple slip-up; he sat still and steady, and waited to see how his quarry might react.

"Just two to begin with," Hartono said levelly, but there was a flash of something in his eyes that left Nick worried. "We plan to expand quickly."

"Whatever you need, we're happy to assist," Trish said. She did not look at Nick, did not flash a warning glance his way, but her fingers tightened against his ever so slightly. "We can handle the boxes, and we can clear out our September calendar for you, push other cargo to smaller business. We'll make it happen."

Nick had to give her credit; she'd smoothed over his misstep neatly, and given him a chance to reel himself back in. Dry cleaners were a not uncommon front for human traffickers; the people-runners would bring folks - girls, usually - into the country, house them in squalid conditions behind the front room of the cleaners, work them for a few months while they arranged transport to private buyers. If Hartono wanted Claybourne Shipping all to himself come September, it had to be because he was bringing in live cargo. The clock was ticking, now, an end in sight. Hartono had just confirmed he was the one calling the shots, and when that ship came in, Nick and Trish could take him out. SIS had proof, now, that Hartono was the one behind the shipments, and when those containers hit the docks there would be no other business on Claybourne Shipping's books to take the fall for them. All they had to do was wait, and come September they could bring Hartono down, not just for guns, not just for shady business practices and tax evasion, but for trafficking. He'd never take another breath as a free man for the rest of his life, and Trish and Wesley could finally finish this damn operation. A few more months, and they could put this whole thing behind them.

If they lived that long.