Tropic of Death by Robert Sims Page B

posed by the base.’ He glanced sideways before continuing. ‘I know for a fact the protest movement was right about radiation pollution. That’s what I mean by a tropic of death.’
    ‘Electromagnetic radiation?’
    ‘Precisely.’
    ‘Byron says you’ve compiled a report.’
    ‘Then Byron’s been talking out of school. Please don’t mention it to anyone.’
    ‘Can I see it?’
    ‘It’s on a disk.’
    ‘Is that yes or no?’
    ‘Let me think about it.’ Steinberg looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go.’
    As he pushed back his chair Rita placed her hand on his.
    ‘Dr Steinberg. When will you think about it?’
    ‘You’re very persistent.’ He sighed. ‘I’m going straight home from the dentist. That’s when I’ll consider producing an edited version for you. I’ll call your mobile. Five o’clock on the dot.
    Satisfied?’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Don’t thank me. If we’re discovered it will put both our lives in jeopardy.’
    Rita drove back to the police station and touched base with Jarrett.
    He had nothing new to tell her and she wasn’t about to inform him of her visit to the Steamboat. She left him with a glum look on his face and made her way into the old watch-house, climbing the stairs to her makeshift office. There was little to do other than wait and think, the computer screen in front of her, the archaeology of crime propped around her.
    She did a series of online searches, calling up background pieces on the protest movement, the research base, the war on terror, but her mind was distracted by doubts about Steinberg and his conspiracy theory. He was convinced of its truth. That was obvious.
    Just as obvious was his bitterness and resentment. Had it warped his judgement? It was very easy for a deeply disgruntled man to blame a hostile force for his plight, much as Jarrett felt that fellow citizens were turning against him. Somehow there seemed to be an overlap, though that wasn’t enough to turn the investigation on its head. She needed more to go on than Jarrett’s anxiety and Ockham’s razor. She needed something tangible. Perhaps Steinberg’s secret report could provide it.
    Five o’clock came and went with no call on her mobile.
    Steinberg had been definite about when he’d phone her but by ten past five he still hadn’t rung. She gave him another five minutes.
    Still nothing, so she called his mobile. It was switched off. That didn’t surprise her. His failure to contact her had an ominous feel. Something must have gone wrong. There was no point in hanging around.
    Trying his number again, with the same result, she walked briskly to the police car park where she’d left the Falcon. The weather was changing. A wild wind had blown in a low ceiling of cloud. She got in the car and pulled a local street directory from the glove box. According to the address Byron had supplied, Steinberg lived south of the town at a place called Leith Ferry, which was little more than a dot on the map. She decided to pay him a visit, whether he liked it or not.

14
Rain was sweeping in off the sea as Rita drove south from the estuary along a road skirting defence department property. She passed the research base, a barracks and an artillery range behind tall wire fences studded with warning notices: commonwealth of australia - authorised personnel only . On the other side of the road cane fields stretched into the distance, their dense mass of stems threshing around in the wind. After a few kilometres the fields receded inland, giving way to soggy ground and the upper reaches of tidal inlets, while to her left was the fringe of the vast military reserve.
    There was no sign of activity, war exercises or otherwise, as she followed the road through an empty landscape. The place had an end-of-the-world feel to it, nothing but muddy creeks and mangrove swamps. Remote sugar sheds lay low on the land.
    Solitary trees stood bent and stunted, deformed by the coastal winds. The isolation obviously suited