‘Don’t tell me he already works for Dexter.’
Jackson nodded. ‘Even though he’s my closest friend, if Dexter ordered him to kill me, there isn’t an insurance company in town that would take out a policy on my life. If you expect me to beat both of them, you’d better hope I haven’t gone rusty over the past eight months.’
The two men rose. ‘Goodbye, Mr Lloyd,’ said Jackson as they shook hands. ‘I’m sorry that this will be our first and last meeting.’
‘But I thought we agreed -‘ said Lloyd, looking anxiously at his new recruit.
‘To work together, Mr Lloyd, not to meet. You see, Dexter wouldn’t consider two meetings a coincidence.’
Lloyd nodded. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’
‘And Mr Lloyd,’ said Jackson, ‘don’t visit the National Gallery again, unless it’s for the sole purpose of seeing the paintings.’
Lloyd frowned. ‘Why not?’ he asked.
‘Because the half-asleep guard in Gallery 71 was planted there on the day of your appointment. It’s all in your file. You go there once a week. Is Hopper still your favourite artist?’
Lloyd’s mouth went dry. ‘Then Dexter already knows about this meeting?’
‘No,’ said Jackson. ‘You got lucky this time. It’s the guard’s day off.’
Although Connor had seen his daughter cry many times when she was younger, over a cut leg, a bruised ego or simply not getting her own way, this was quite different. While she clung to Stuart he pretended to be absorbed in a rack of bestselling books at the news-stand, and reflected on one of the most enjoyable holidays he could remember. He’d put on a couple of pounds and had managed to almost master the surfboard, although he had rarely experienced more pride before more falls. During the past fortnight he had come first to like, and later to respect Stuart. And Maggie had even stopped reminding him every morning that Tara hadn’t returned to her room the previous night. He took that to be his wife’s reluctant seal of approval.
Connor picked up the Sydney Morning Herald from the newsstand. He flicked over the pages, only taking in the headlines until he came to the section marked ‘International News’. He glanced towards Maggie, who was paying for some souvenirs that they would never display or even consider giving as presents, and which would undoubtedly end up in Father Graham’s Christmas sale.
Connor lowered his head again. ‘Landslide for Herrera in Colombia’ was the headline running across three columns at the foot of the page. He read about the new President’s one-sided victory over the National Party’s last-minute replacement for Ricardo Guzman. Herrera, the article went on to say, planned to visit America i
n the near future to discuss with President Lawrence the problems Colombia was currently facing. Among the subjects uppermost …
‘Do you think this would be all right for Joan?’
Connor glanced across at his wife, who was holding up a Ken Done print of Sydney Harbour.
‘A bit modern for her, I would have thought.’
‘Then we’ll have to get her something from duty free once we’re on the plane.’
‘This is the last call for United Airlines Flight 816 to Los Angeles,’ said a voice that echoed around the airport. ‘Will all those who have not yet boarded the aircraft please make their way immediately to Gate 27.’
Connor and Maggie began walking in the direction of the large departure sign, trying to stay a few paces in front of their daughter and Stuart, who were locked together as if they were in a three-legged race. Once they had gone through passport control, Connor hung back, while Maggie carried on towards the departure lounge to tell the gate agent that the last two passengers would be following shortly.
When Tara reluctantly appeared round the corner a few moments later, Connor placed an arm gently around her shoulders. ‘I know it’s not much of a consolation, but your mother and I think he’s …’ Connor hesitated.
‘I know,’ she said between sobs. ‘As soon as I get back to Stanford, I’m going to ask if they’ll allow me to complete my thesis at Sydney University.’ Connor spotted his wife talking to a stewardess by the gate to the aircraft.
‘Is she that afraid of flying?’ the stewardess whispered to Maggie when she saw the young woman sobbing.
‘No. She just had to leave something behind that they wouldn’t let her take through customs.’
Maggie slept almost the entire fourteen-hour flight from Sydney to Los Angeles. Tara always marvelled at how she managed it. She could never do more than doze during a flight, however many pills she took. She held her father’s hand firmly. He smiled at her but didn’t speak.
Tara returned his smile. For as long as she could remember, he had been the centre of her world. It never worried her that she might not meet a man who could take his place; more that when she did, he wouldn’t be able to accept it. Now that it had happened, she was relieved to discover just how supportive he was. If anything, it was her mother who was proving to be the problem.
Tara knew that if her mother had her way, she would still be a virgin, and probably still living at home. It wasn’t until the eleventh grade that she stopped believing that if you kissed a boy you’d become pregnant. That was when a classmate passed on to her a much-thumbed copy of The Joy of Sex. Each night, curled up under the sheets with a torch, Tara would turn the pages.
But it was only after her graduation from Stone Ridge that she lost her virginity - and if everyone else in her class had been telling the truth, she must have been the last. Tara had joined her parents for a long-promised visit to her great-grandfather’s birthplace. She fell in love with Ireland and its people within moments of landing at Dublin. Over dinner in their hotel on the first night, she told her father that she couldn’t understand why so many of the Irish were not content to remain in their homeland, but had to emigrate.
The young waiter who was serving them looked down at her and recited: