Free No Man's Land - A Russell Carter Thriller by Roland Fishman

leaving Carter in the stifling heat.
    Less than a minute later he stepped back out and said, “The receptionist reckons she can’t track her down. She wants to know your name. What’ll I say?”
    “Tell her I had to shoot through. I’ll be back later.”
    Dazza disappeared into the guardhouse again. When he emerged thirty seconds later, Carter asked, “Nicole is actually somewhere around, I presume?”
    “Came in two or three hours ago and hasn’t left. Maybe she’s avoiding you?”
    “Maybe she is. You know women. You can never tell what they’re thinking.”
    “You’re not wrong there.”
    “Any chance of letting me in so I can surprise her?”
    “Gettin’ you through the gate ain’t a big drama. But I gotta warn you, unless you’ve got an appointment, getting past the receptionist to see someone unannounced is like being granted an audience with the Pope.”
    “I’ll take my chances.”
    Dazza pressed a button on a handheld remote and the boom gate lifted.
    “Cheers, mate,” Carter said. He gave Dazza a two-finger salute and drove into the grounds.
    —
    Carter picked out a deserted corner of the parking lot and pulled in under the shadow of one wing of the resort.
    He locked the car, slung his daypack over his left shoulder and walked through the dry, harsh heat.
    A glass door slid open. Once again, the welcoming breath of air-conditioned cool came as a pleasant relief.
    He headed straight for the front desk, where a woman sat behind a shiny white counter.
    She looked Indonesian, around thirty years of age, and wore a dark blue blazer and white shirt. Her hair was tied back in a tight bun. She lifted her attention from the computer screen and gave him a questioning stare.
    “Good afternoon, sir. Do you have an appointment?”
    “I’m here to see Nicole Davey.”
    “Your name?”
    “Sinclair. Brett Sinclair. From the Commonwealth Bank.”
    She typed something into the computer, then looked up and shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir, but you have no appointment. You can’t see anyone here without an appointment. That is company policy.”
    Her mouth smiled at him, yet her dark eyes were ice-cold. He had no idea if she knew who he was, but he understood her culture and could read her manner. She wasn’t going to let him in and intended to report his appearance to her immediate superior as soon as he left.
    Whatever he said would fail to budge her one inch. But nothing was impossible if you knew the correct approach and used the appropriate language. He suspected she wouldn’t say no to some quick cash on the side.
    He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, extracted a crisp fifty-dollar bill and placed it on the table.
    She looked at the money and then at him, unmoved.
    He placed another fifty on top of the first.
    She glanced around the room, checking to see if anyone was watching.
    In any act of bargaining the trick was to know a person’s limit. If you offered too much or too little, you lost respect.
    More slowly this time, he lay down a third.
    She raised an eyebrow and glanced at the money, then at the black book on the table next to her iMac.
    Her hand reached out for the money like a hungry snake stalking a mouse.
    He snapped his hand back over the notes before she got even close.
    “Where will I find Miss Davey?”
    —
    Carter raced two steps at a time up the stairwell that led to the third floor and Erina’s office.
    He spotted the minute eye of a camera attached to the concrete ceiling and wondered if Erina had hooked it up to her computer, enabling her to track anyone’s movements as they came up the stairs.
    As well as being an expert in the martial arts, she was an IT whiz, and with Alex in the vicinity she couldn’t afford to be caught unaware.
    She stood waiting for him as he entered the open door of the bare rectangular room. The window gave her an uninterrupted view of the grey concrete wall of the other wing of the building.
    She was leaning on the edge of the