PROLOGUE

Although the sun was near the horizon, the heat rising off the red earth still shimmered the spiky outlines of the spinifex grass. The rocks of this ancient landscape, split by extremes of temperature and eroded by wind and occasional rain, lay tumbled and broken. Overhead a small flock of brilliant green budgerigars, chirruping, wheeled in dense formation, then plunged to settle on stunted trees.

Red-brown coats dusty, two dingoes, the female stretched in the shade of a twisted shrub, the male standing with ears pricked, watched the two humans prepare to break camp. The intruders had come into the wild dogs’ territory during the night, walking steadily under the silver of a full moon. At dawn they’d set up a small tarpaulin near the narrow cleft that held the only permanent water hole in the area, and had rested under its shade from the heat of the day.

With half-grown pups to feed, the dingoes had circled the camp in the early light, slipping in and out of the meager cover, sniffing the scent of the food cooking. One human, seeing them, had snatched up a rifle. The sharp crack of the gunshot had sent them running, but they had returned with stealth to watch and wait.

The female dingo’s ears twitched. Getting to her feet, she stared south at a plume of red dust, billowing like smoke. Soon the two humans heard the approaching roar of a vehicle. One clambered onto a large boulder and waved something white in wide circles. The other, hands on hips, yelled angry words.

The dogs shrank back as the noise grew louder. A truck, streaked with red dirt, bucked to a stop, its elongated shadow more substantial than any cover given by the scanty vegetation. The sudden silence swept like a balm over the desiccated land.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

A shot echoed and died in the cooling air. Then, after a while, the motor started again, and the vehicle, fat tires churning the dry dirt, made a wide circuit and went back the way it had come.

The sound had faded completely and a gentle evening breeze was blowing before the dingoes moved in to investigate. The body lay facedown, arms wide. The dogs waited, but there was no movement. Step by cautious step they approached until they could sniff the dark stain soaking the red earth around the head. The male pawed at an arm.

Made bold by the lack of response, the female dingo took a mouthful of shirt and, with one twist of her powerful neck, tore it away from the waiting flesh. She raised her head to give a short, sharp bark. It was time to call her pups to the kill.

CHAPTER ONE

The wide glass doors of the Hiddwing Institute hissed open, and a blast of cool air met the metallic heat of a Queensland summer day and my sweating face. A guard in a khaki uniform stationed just inside checked me over, but he clearly found my manner and demure blue dress acceptable, as he didn’t challenge me.

I walked past him with a murmured hello. He gave an infinitesimal nod in acknowledgment, then went back to examining his nails. That was slack. If I had been intending harm, I would have chosen to look as inoffensive as possible—in fact, just exactly the way I did.

Before me stretched an expansive lobby, severe in black and gray. THE HIDDWING INSTITUTE appeared in huge silver letters on the wall facing me, the characteristic winglike appendage at the top of each upright stroke of the H looking even more ridiculous than usual. Below the name was a stylized representation of a burning torch, tilted at an angle as though an invisible hand were brandishing it.

The founders of the Institute, Oliver and Clara Hiddwing, had designed the logo themselves, and nothing had been changed since they had disappeared seven years ago. Underneath the name and torch appeared in red script the maxim they had adopted for the organization: FROM THE PAST COMES THE FUTURE. It was one of those sayings that sound significant, yet don’t, when examined, make all that much sense.

I felt a thrill of excitement, balanced by a measure of anxiety. Months of patient preparation were paying off, presuming I didn’t do anything dumb. My sensible heels clicked what I intended to be a self-assured counterpoint as I walked over dark gray tiles toward a tall, black reception desk.

There were two people behind the protection of the black marble. The young man, seated, had a narrow head set on a disconcertingly thick neck and shoulders. If I’d been him, I would’ve styled my hair to at least give the illusion that my skull matched my body, but his thin, black hair was slicked back. Bending over him, apparently giving instructions about something, was a cool blonde woman in a pale green tailored jacket.

An acrylic sign in front of the young man read JEFFREY. “Good morning, Jeffrey,” I said, aiming for a cheerful, positive tone.

He gave me a look of professional welcome, but before he could speak, the woman straightened and blinked once at me. “And you are who?”

There was an almost indefinable accent, even in that short phrase. I knew it to be German—she had been born in Berlin thirty-three years ago. The photos I’d seen hadn’t caught her aura of decisive power, but the pale hair, pale eyes, and definite jawline were all familiar.

“Denise. Denise Brandt.” I said my name with confidence, as if it were really my own.

Her chilly expression immediately dissolved into a pleasant smile. “Excellent. You’re early. We like that. I’ll take you to Mr. Hiddwing’s office immediately.” She tapped Jeffrey sharply on the shoulder. “Have Elise join us there.”

“She’s not in yet.”

“I see.” An impatient click of her tongue conveyed her displeasure. “When she comes in, tell her I want to see her immediately.”

As she moved from behind the reception desk, I could see that the rest of her lean body matched the taut line of her jaw. She extended her hand to give mine a brief, hard shake. “Ilka Britten,” she said.

Ilka Britten looked supremely fit in a sinewy, no-nonsense way. Arms swinging, she walked off at a pace that had me almost trotting to keep up with her. I noted the green skirt of her suit was a decorous length, and that her shoes were flat. Her almost white hair was pulled back in a severe chignon. Her hair color was natural: mine a little less so. Normally dark blond, I’d had my hair expensively styled and streaked to fit my professional image.

Over her shoulder Ilka Britten said, “You’ve been in our Melbourne office for how long?”

“About six months.”

Actually, it’d been more like four and a half, but I was anxious to establish my credentials as a reliable, dedicated member of the Hiddwing team.

“Mr. Radon spoke very highly of your contributions on the Frick matter. We have expectations that you will do even more valuable work here with us.”

“I do hope so. I believe in everything that the Hiddwing Institute stands for, and I’d like to be part of the team.”

Hearing the warmth of sincerity in my voice, I had a moment’s worry that I was laying it on too thick, but Ilka was nodding her head, clearly pleased. “You will have every chance to fulfill that ambition, Denise. We are convinced you will not disappoint us. That is why we gave you the opportunity to join us here at the very nerve center of our organization.”

Nerve center? For a moment I thought she might be making a sly joke, but a close look at her expression convinced me that it was highly unlikely that Ilka Britten had even a shadow of humor in her.

“It’s an honor,” I said, “to be at the nerve center.”

At the end of the wide corridor was a heavy glass door. Beside it on the wall a sign admonished: RESTRICTED ENTRY. UNACCOMPANIED VISITORS PLEASE RETURN IMMEDIATELY TO RECEPTION.

Ilka Britten punched a code into the keypad below the sign so rapidly that I only had time to catch the first three digits. The door slid open. “Don’t delay,” she said, “the door will close after eight seconds.”

This was the inner sanctum, and had been furnished in generic luxury. The beige carpet was thick enough to turn an ankle, the filtered air was just a little too cool, the walls were papered with a discreet cream-and-pale-ocher pattern so inconspicuous that I had to look closely to see that it was made up of the Hiddwing name repeated over and over.

Portraits—not photographs, but oil paintings—were positioned to greet anyone who entered, each illuminated for optimum effect. Facing me was Oliver Hiddwing, his hard face serious, his grandly hooked nose looming over the slash of his thin-lipped mouth. The artist had given him rather more hair than I recalled from photographs I’d seen, and had colored it a pleasing chestnut, rather than the fading red it had been in reality. Beside Oliver Hiddwing his sister, Clara, lifted her heavy chin at the world. She was, I decided, even more formidable than her brother because there was intelligence in her painted eyes, and determination, rather than inflexible stubbornness, in the lines of her face.

Ilka had paused to let me admire the portraits. “Our founders,” she said. “Without them, there would be no Hiddwing Institute.”

I shook my head. “Unimaginable.”

She looked at me, a faint frown creasing her forehead. I swore silently to myself. However tempting, irony was to be avoided at all costs. I could hear my trainer snarling at me, “Cut out the smart stuff, Denise. Your mouth will get you killed one day.”

With smooth haste, I went on, “What I mean is, the Institute has been a leader so long in the cultural and political life of the country that it’s impossible to imagine Australia without that influence.”

“Indeed.” Ilka was nodding agreement. “And it is vital, absolutely vital, that we extend and deepen that influence.” She took a deep breath, and I imagined her mounting an invisible soapbox. “The so-called progressive forces in society are determined to undermine everything that has made this nation a leader in the South Pacific.”

This was tiresome. I had the irritated feeling that Ilka Britten, along with having no sense of humor, had an inexhaustible supply of set speeches that she would perform at any opportunity. Assuming what I trusted was an alert, keen expression, I said, “I am looking forward to meeting Mr. Hiddwing.”

“Of course you are.” She paused to lean into an open office door. “Will? Coffee et cetera, I think.”

I didn’t catch sight of Will, but a cheerful “Okay” came from within the room.

Ilka led the way down a broad, carpeted corridor, at the end of which was a polished wooden door. She ran her hand down a panel as though stroking an animal. “Rainforest wood,” she said. “Very rare. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Thinking that it would be far more beautiful if such a scarce tree were still alive and growing, I said, “Everything is very nice here.”

I repressed a grin. I was sounding trite and boring, and I was supposed to be a crash-hot PR operator. Ms. Personality, with the ability to coax the most recalcitrant subject in the desired direction. I’d learned to cajole, to charm, to flatter, and, when necessary, to be tough. I liked the last mode best, but sadly found myself having to be super nice most of the time.

I tried a super-nice expression while Ilka rapped sharply on the door, paused, then opened it wide.

Standing aside for me to go first, she announced, “Denise Brandt.” She added approvingly, “She’s a little early for her appointment with you, Mr. Hiddwing.”

It was, of course, a huge office, dominated by a glass wall looking out into a tropical garden of riotous colors and luxuriant ferns. The furniture was cane, but not the tatty stuff that I remembered from my family home’s sunroom—this was designer cane, lovingly made and finished in a light-colored satin sheen. The polished wooden floor gleamed, a gray slate step-fountain built into one wall made muted chuckling sounds as the water ran over semiprecious stones artfully arranged, and a vase of scarlet roses set on a cane stand scented the air.

The man in shirtsleeves who came from behind the desk, hand outstretched, had the same hooked nose as his father, but his mouth was fuller and his thick hair was a determined red. “Denise. I’ve heard wonderful things about your work for us. I’m so pleased to welcome you here.”

He gestured toward a low table—cane, naturally—surrounded by four—more cane—chairs. “Ilka? Coffee, I think, and perhaps something to go with it?”

“Already ordered.”

Rhys Hiddwing smiled, saying to me, “Ilka always has everything under control.”

I smiled in turn—a moderate, pleasant smile. I took care to crinkle up my eyes a little. The Hiddwing Institute was very big on analysis of body language, and mine had to be just right. It was very important that I make a positive impression. Rhys Hiddwing had to learn to trust me, to begin to think of me as someone whose political and philosophical convictions marked me as one of the chosen, belonging in the company of those who thought of themselves as the keepers of the Hiddwing flame.

I went through the mental exercise that I’d been repeating to myself constantly during the last few days. I was Denise Brandt, only child of Phyllis and Robert Brandt, both deceased. I had been brought up by them with a reverence for traditional values. I could see, with the clarity and detail of a movie, the faces of my parents, and hear their voices as they imbued me with their ultraconservative, right-wing views. Phyllis and Robert Brandt were so vivid in my mind that for a moment it was hard to believe that they had never existed.

I became aware that Rhys Hiddwing was frowning at me. What could I have done to cause this response? I looked back at him, attentive, interested, but feeling a niggle of disquiet.

“We’ve met before,” he said.

Hell, was my cover broken before I even began?

“I don’t think so.”

He tapped his fingers on the edge of the coffee table. “Yes, I believe we have. You see, I never forget a face.”