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  Mishra wrapped her hands around her mug and pressed the edge against her lip, letting the pressure and heat scald her. She’d lied and lied. All through the investigation she’d lied: to the police, to her bosses at the university, to the investigator from the Air Force, and to this woman, Philip’s mother. Of all her transgressions, she counted this her worst.

  Even now she was tempted to offer Catherine the final thread of hope that remained. But the source was uncertain, and it had been given to her. If Philip had wanted his mum to believe he was alive he’d have left a sign for her too, wouldn’t he?

  Mishra slid her hand into the pocket of her tunic. The card accompanying the posy of calla lilies and frangipani that had arrived the day after Philip disappeared was still there, dog-eared and stained. It was her talisman against the obvious explanation, the unacceptable truth, that Philip was dead.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Catherine repeated.

  ‘Shall we see what they’re saying on the news?’ Mishra waited.

  Catherine’s coffee trembled as she lifted her cup to her lips. Her gaze rested on the tablet. ‘Go on then.’

  Mishra’s finger hovered over the headline. News seemed so much more persuasive when it was written down. She wasn’t sure her slim hopes would stand up to the assault.

  Military Puts Killer Bee Episode to Rest.

  Mishra’s voice caught at ‘to rest’. She glanced at Catherine, who was staring into her coffee, took a blistering swallow from her own mug and continued reading aloud.

  Today, Group Captain Hebden, of the Royal Australian Airforce, finally broke the military silence about what the media has dubbed, the ‘Killer Bee Episode.’

  Philip had hated Hebden, blaming him for turning their robotic pollination project into a potential weapon for the Australian Defence Forces. She hadn’t met Hebden, but in her mind’s eye, he was a cobra wearing rimless glasses, and a midnight-blue dress uniform.

  ‘We’ve traced the source of the false information about the project,’ he told reporters. The source, whom Hebden didn’t name, was part of a group working on a pollination study, part-funded by the Australian Airforce.

  ‘The police investigation, and our own investigations, have concluded that, sadly, the young man probably took his own life. His colleagues described the man as brilliant but troubled. He was clearly confused about the purpose of the project and the ADF’s role in it.’

  Mishra’s voice rose in volume and pitch as she read. Sadly! Troubled and confused! The lying bastard! They were covering up their military interests and blaming the whole thing on Philip!

  Hebden went on to say, ‘I hope this tragedy will draw a line under what has been a very confusing time for the public, and a distressing time for the young man’s family and colleagues.’

  Hebden declined to comment further.

  The Group of Governmental Experts on Lethal Autonomous Weapons Systems (LAWS) met in Paris earlier this month to discuss the future of so-called killer robots. An international consensus is building around moves to ban their development.

  ‘Stop!’ Catherine’s head was shaking and fresh tears were trailing down her cheeks, soaking the nylon scarf at her neck.

  Mishra looked up.

  ‘I don’t believe it. That he would do …’ Catherine sniffed and bashed tears from her cheeks with the back of one hand. ‘He loved you – he told me as much himself. Why would he …?’ She stood and strapped her arms across her chest.

  A little part of Mishra died every time she witnessed Catherine’s misery. She should just tell her about the note.

  ‘My Philip would never have sold out. He had too much respect. His dad –’ She stopped, then strode across the living room to the French doors that opened onto the balcony of Mishra’s townhouse.

  Philip’s dad had been in the British military and Philip believed he’d used his military contacts to help secure him the programming job at the Institute of Synthetic Technologies. Yet the man hadn’t shown up when Philip disappeared. What kind of father could ignore the disappearance of his own son? Mishra wondered if Catherine was thinking the same thing.

  ‘He wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t been encouraged.’ Catherine’s voice had grown claws.

  Mishra waited for the assault.

  ‘Your campaign!’ She whipped around and stabbed a finger at Mishra. ‘Your bleedin’ articles!’

  Mishra should be numb to this by now. It was nothing she hadn’t already berated herself with since Philip disappeared. She did support the Say No to Killer Robots campaign – she’d been honest with Philip about that. But uploading the whole project to the public domain wasn’t on the campaign plan. Philip’s disappearance wasn’t part of the plan either. Yet her conscience wouldn’t let her believe that this wasn’t all her fault.

  She told Catherine, ‘I didn’t know he would leak the code.’ That much was true.

  ‘You believe it was him?’

  ‘I don’t know, Catherine. But leaving does make him look suspicious.’

  ‘Leaving? You mean dying! And he left all his things with you. You’re supposed to be his bleedin’ girlfriend. And yet you claim to know nothing.’

  Mishra closed her eyes. They’d been over the events leading to Philip’s disappearance with the police and the ADF investigator – more than once. Mishra had given them everything Philip had left behind – his keys, his passport, his phone, his wallet, the clothes in her wardrobe. There had been no note with them. It was likely the authorities were monitoring her phones and emails, and the campaign’s social media sites. And still nothing. Or at least nothing that the authorities had shared with her.

  She’d believed Philip dead herself to begin with; still did whenever she lost hope.

  Mishra shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Catherine.’ Nothing was certain: whether he was truly dead, or hiding, or if he still wanted her, and what she should do next. All she knew was that he’d decided to leave and she couldn’t tell the authorities about the flowers. If she did, she might lead them to Philip. He wouldn’t survive in a cage. And that would be the outcome if the authorities found him. ‘Shall I come with you to the airport?’

  Catherine pulled her thin grey cardigan around her ribs. She was lean like Philip. ‘I have a taxi booked.’

  It was her last chance to tell Catherine. She fingered the note in her tunic:

  This was the only way to make things right. Hope the sabbatical works out. x

  No salutation. No love. No promises of further contact. Not even a signature.

  It was Sol, her friend, who had pointed out the implications of the second line. Hope the sabbatical works out. Where Mishra saw flippant indifference, Sol saw a coded message. Philip would meet her at her sabbatical in New Zealand.

  That one line was the source of her hope.

  Mishra glanced at the tablet. Powersave had kicked in and the screen was dim. Against the bold statements of the article her hope seemed pathetic, slight at best.

  ‘More coffee?’ she asked.

  Catherine shook her head and walked past Mishra to the front door, where she pulled up the handle of her suitcase. ‘I’ll wait outside.’

  ‘Catherine?’

  Catherine turned and glared at Mishra.

  ‘I haven’t given up.’ It was the closest she could come to an admission.

  Catherine’s brow furrowed and her lips pressed together in a hard line – a gesture Mishra knew was Catherine’s way of beating back her tears. ‘Well then,’ she said, ‘that’s just grand, isn’t it?’ She opened the door, tugged her suitcase through, then slammed the door behind her.

  Mishra didn’t think it possible to sink any lower, but as she leaned against the door, fighting the urge to call Catherine back, to show her the card, she slumped under the weight of her guilt and deceit.

  Why did he do it?

  A residue of her old anger welled up. Philip hadn’t discussed his plans; he hadn’t asked her to go with him. Would he be waiting for her in New Zealand? How co
uld he get there with no money, no identity? Why hadn’t he confided in her?

  And the darker, more insistent voice: What if the card wasn’t a code? Maybe he was dead as the authorities seemed to believe.

  She lifted the Celtic pendant she always wore from beneath her clothes and clutched it in her hand. Philip had given it to her on the last night they were together. Cold at first, the silver circle surrounding the cross warmed in her hand until it seemed to melt into her skin. Where are you, Philip? She waited. There was no answer, no gut feeling to guide her. They’d been together for such a short time.

  A horn blasted from the street, making her jump. Catherine’s taxi. She’d liked Catherine – Philip’s favourite parent. Always cheering for him from the bleachers, refusing to accept the labels. Would Catherine think more kindly of her if Mishra found him? Or would she resent her for holding out?

  What would her own mother do?

  Mishra squeezed her eyes shut. Dead too.

  She slid back up the door and faced her silent townhouse. The coffee had cooled on the table. Through the French doors the frangipani tree was in bud. In a month it would be covered in fragrant creamy blooms if the clement weather held. She walked past her bedroom door to the second bedroom, which Philip’s mother had occupied for the past week. Rawinia, her flatmate and best friend, had left for New Zealand and it seemed only decent to ask Catherine to stay and save the expense of a hotel. Her sole reprieve from Catherine’s misery had been when Mishra dragged herself to the last of her lectures for the semester; the final one was later this afternoon.

  She tugged the sheets off Catherine’s bed and trailed to the kitchen to put them through the washing machine. The authorities had managed to keep Philip’s name out of the papers and even out of social media. How? Mishra wasn’t sure, but she suspected the military wanted the whole thing hushed up as quickly as possible. They were the ones lying through their teeth. Maybe she should have anticipated Philip’s extreme actions – he wasn’t one to do things by halves. But why didn’t he tell her?

  In the front loader the sheets tumbled around. If only she could take her head off and toss it in for a thorough clean. She was sick of the endless questions, the persistent stain of self-recrimination, the uncertainty. It would be easier to draw a line under the whole bitter episode – believe that Philip was dead like the authorities said. A pang in her stomach doubled her over and sent that thought screaming away.

  The doorbell rang.

  Mishra groaned. She was so bloody tired. Who could it be? More press looking for a reaction to today’s announcement? Rawinia had been handling that, but she’d gone. Catherine come back to make amends? Philip? Every time the doorbell rang that flimsy hope reared its head.

  As she tiptoed across the room the doorbell rang a second time. She peered through the peephole.

  It was him again – Roberts, the man from the Air Force who had assisted with the investigation. Still in his dark suit, with his steely, military-length haircut and eyes like asphalt after rain.

  The authorities had made their announcement – she didn’t have to speak to them anymore.

  ‘Dr. McKenzie?’

  His voice reminded her of her father’s Scottish cousins. Mishra shook her head. She didn’t want to talk to him.

  ‘Please.’

  She stilled. Through the whole investigation this man had barely said a word, which had somehow made him more ominous. There’d been no easy camaraderie between him and the other people on the team. She doubted whether Roberts was easy with anyone. In that way, he reminded her of Philip. Now this. Please.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he called through the door.

  Why was he here? Did he know something else – something not in the papers?

  Mishra opened the door.

  Roberts’ gaze flicked from her face to Philip’s pendant at her breast. ‘The Celtic cross?’

  Mishra nodded.

  ‘A gift?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘Reminds me of home.’

  Mishra tucked the pendant inside her tunic. ‘I have to leave soon.’

  A curt nod. ‘I won’t keep you.’

  He was being more civil than usual, friendly even. Mishra stood back to let him in.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She followed him to the living room where he stood, hands clasped behind his back, staring through the French doors.

  Folding her arms, she waited.

  ‘Is there anything else, Dr. McKenzie? Anything else you haven’t told me?’

  This again? ‘You offered your condolences.’

  He turned and looked down at her. ‘I did.’

  Mishra’s heart began to race. They were onto her. Why wasn’t Ra here, or Sol? She couldn’t do this by herself. ‘But you don’t believe he’s dead.’ Her voice had shriveled to a whisper.

  Roberts continued to stare. ‘I don’t believe Phil –’ He paused and started again. ‘If it were my lad I wouldn’t be so quick to reach that conclusion.’

  ‘But he’d go to jail.’

  Roberts shrugged. ‘He should have left well enough alone.’

  ‘He was a hero!’

  Roberts cocked his head. ‘You think Philip leaked the code.’

  Mishra collapsed onto an armchair and hid her face in her hands. ‘I don’t know what to think. All I know is, he left me.’ If Hebden had given up the search, why was Roberts here?

  ‘Aye, lass. He did. You don’t owe him anything.’

  Anger surged from the pit of her stomach. What did he know about Philip and her – nothing! Yet here he was making judgements. She’d love to pummel that poker face right through the back of his head. ‘Get out,’ she growled.

  No answer from Roberts.

  She peered through her fingers. Roberts had turned to face the French doors again, showing her his back.

  ‘I know he’s not easy,’ he said. ‘Takes after his father.’

  Mishra dropped her hands into her lap. What the hell was he talking about? ‘How do you … you don’t know Philip or his father.’

  ‘Did you never wonder why I was absent when Catherine was around?’

  Mishra glared at his back. This man was claiming to be Philip’s father? ‘You?’ It couldn’t be true. He was toying with her. ‘I want you to leave.’

  Roberts turned. ‘The investigation was too hasty. Something is amiss.’

  ‘But you would send Philip to jail?’

  ‘Aye. If he leaked the project. But the Philip I knew would never take such action.’ Roberts studied her. ‘Rules stop atrocities; I’ve seen too many of those in my time.’

  There was no way he could be Philip’s father. A father wouldn’t send his child to prison. ‘It’s not him causing the atrocities, it’s the ADF. They’re the ones trying to break the rules.’

  ‘That’s as may be. Exposing the code wasn’t the way to go about it.’

  Mishra stood up. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to know my son is safe.’

  ‘From what?’ He wasn’t making any sense – he wanted to find Philip so he could send him to prison?

  Roberts stared at her, apparently weighing up his answer. ‘Hebden.’

  Mishra shook her head. ‘You’re on his investigation team.’

  ‘I didn’t give him a choice. Not about that; nor about giving Philip the job. If Philip was the leak, he would be safer in the courts, facing criminal charges, than left to the mercy of that man.’

  What had Philip told her about his father? He was retired from the British Army, but during Philip’s childhood his father had been away on mission a lot. When home, he was remote and critical. Philip had seen little of him since his parents had divorced when he was a teenager.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about and I’ve got no reason to believe anything you say.’

  ‘That’s Philip’s pendant you’re wearing.’ After undoing the top button of his shirt Roberts pulled out a silver chain, tugging at the pendant wh
en it caught. A Celtic cross encircled in silver dangled from the chain. ‘It’s the twin of this one. I gave it to him before he left for Adelaide.’

  Mishra’s hand pressed against the pendant on her chest while she stared at Roberts. Philip’s father? She shook her head. And why tell her now? If he cared that much about Philip, why punish him for doing what was right? ‘Hebden has closed down the investigation. He thinks Philip is dead.’

  Roberts sighed; impatience or worry, she couldn’t tell. ‘Have you not been listening? He can’t be trusted. I’ve a long history with the man on mission. I’ve seen what he can do, what he’ll turn a blind eye to.’

  Mishra’s mind crowded with questions. ‘What things? If you know what he’s capable of, why haven’t you reported him?’

  Roberts stared at the ceiling while he rolled each of his shoulders in turn. Whatever he was planning to say was making him uncomfortable. Her own apprehension rose as he returned his gaze to her.

  ‘Hebden’s careful. I’ve no proof beyond what I’ve seen with my own eyes, what I suspected. There was always an explanation: “They’re evacuating those people to somewhere safer; those children are orphans – they’re taking them to new families.”’ He paused.

  In the silence, Mishra worked through the implications of what he was saying. Desperate people would pay extortionate rates to middle-men who promised them safety in another place. Was that what Roberts was alluding to?

  Roberts broke into her thoughts. ‘And he’s been good to me, where others have not. I preferred his explanations to the alternatives. But there’s nothing left of that friendship. I believe he’s been playing me, trading favors for silence. I was just too stupid to see that before.’

  An unwelcome drift of pity crossed Mishra’s heart. More than anything else he’d said, Roberts’ hurt at being played when he’d believed the friendship was true reminded her of Philip. Difficulty interpreting social cues and wrestling with loneliness were challenges Philip apparently shared with his father.

  ‘I’ll waste no more of your time.’ Roberts strode across the living room toward the front door, where he paused and looked back at her. ‘If you hear anything, Dr. McKenzie, come to me. Just to me.’