Death is Forever

The real purpose of his visit would take only a few minutes, but he expected it to be no more pleasant than his tour of Argyle had been. Given a choice, he would never have taken the chance of being seen with Jason Street.
    But van Luik hadn’t been given a choice.
    Part of the reason was that the letter he carried was too important to be entrusted to any ordinary courier. The more pressing issue was that van Luik’s employers were unhappy with his handling of Abelard Windsor’s legacy. Being dispatched as an errand boy without company planes and executive luxury was a sign of just how deep ConMin’s displeasure went.
    The message between the lines was quite simple: If the matter of the mine wasn’t resolved to ConMin’s satisfaction, Hugo van Luik was as expendable as Jason Street.
    The Dutchman felt a damp chill as he walked into the heavily air-conditioned building. The change in temperature was welcome, but it caused an explosion of pain behind his eyes that loosened his knees. There were a half-dozen people in front of the Ansett airlines ticket counter—two barefoot Aborigines in jackaroo hats and denim pants, and an outback wife with a screaming baby and two shrill, quarrelsome children.
    Van Luik headed for the louvered swinging doors beneath the sign that said pub . The interior was mercifully dim. Jason Street sat on one of the five stools that lined the zinc bar, talking to the dumpy woman who was the bartender. Unhappily van Luik eyed the big man in his dusty khakis and unpolished boots. A broad-brimmed hat with a snakeskin band was pushed back on Street’s head, revealing a sharp demarcation between his weathered face and the pale skin normally covered by the hat.
    “Now there’s a weary tourist if ever there was,” Street said cheerily to him. “Hey, mate, might you be interested in an outback tour?”
    Van Luik forced himself to smile. “Not at this time, but I’ll be bringing my wife on my next trip. Perhaps we could work out an itinerary that would not be too strenuous?”
    Street smiled and turned to the barmaid. “Two ales, luv, and one for yourself too.”
    The woman produced two cans of Castlemain ale, pulled the metal tabs on them, and slid them across the bar. Street picked both up and led van Luik to a small table in the darkest corner of the little pub. Behind him the barmaid pulled the tab on a third can and retreated to a chair behind the cash register.
    “Here you go, mate,” Street said.
    “I am not your mate,” van Luik said in a vicious tone that went no further than Street’s ears.
    Street slouched in a chair, took a pull from his drink, and grinned. “Bit irritable, aren’t we? Heat getting us down?”
    The Dutchman turned his back on the rest of the room so he couldn’t be overheard. “Speak softly, foutre .”
    Street knew enough French to know he’d been insulted. He smiled more widely. “What are you going to do, mate, fire me?”
    “There are dozens of security consultants in the world,” van Luik said. “Are you certain I haven’t already hired your replacement?”
    Street’s smile turned cold. “Send him on. I’ll even give him the first shot. But he’d better be good, because he won’t get another. When I’ve cut him up for the flies, I’ll come for you. You understand, mate? ”
    They glared at one another for a long moment. Finally van Luik broke off the contact, picked up the can, and drank. The ale was lukewarm and bitter.
    “What progress have you made?” van Luik asked.
    “No progress to make until I get on the station, and you bloody well know it.”
    “I assume you have something more effective and deniable than a car smash in mind.”
    Street smiled. “I do, mate. I do.”
    The pain in van Luik’s head was so great that his fingers tingled. He flexed his hands but didn’t lift a finger to pinch the flesh at the bridge of his nose.
    “Where are the subjects now?” van Luik demanded softly.
    “At the station—where else? They’ve made some short recon trips while information is being collated.”
    “And?”
    “The only shiny stuff they found was their own sweat.”
    “You’re certain?”
    “They have rotten radio security,” Street said easily. “The scrambler on the satellite uplink is identical to one in my Darwin office. I’ve read every piece of mail they’ve sent.”
    Van Luik took another small sip of ale, wondering why he had the uneasy feeling that Street was lying.
    “How is the woman standing up to the