by Max Bolt
“Excuse me gentleman,” Mason makes to step around them.
They shift into his path.
“We want to show you something,” one says.
Mason senses trouble. The gun, unfortunately, is in his brief case.
“Look mate,” Mason soothes, “we just took a tinkle in your alley, no harm done yeah?”
A third man appears and together they herd Mason and Ben backwards.
“Won’t take a minute,” one of the men says.
Mason senses Ben’s unease.
“It’s ok son just do as they say.”
Mason’s mind goes all Afghanistan as he considers a way out of things.
The men open the same door the head appeared from earlier and usher them inside. Mason is momentarily blind as he shifts from bright sunlight to internal darkness, and he does not see the fist coming. It warps his jaw and his legs go slack.
The second punch puts him out cold.
Chapter 11
When Mason comes to he thinks he is outside in the sunlight but once his eyes focus he realises he is indoors and what he thinks is the sun is really a bright overhead lamp. His hands are bound behind his back and his ankles are secured with masking tape. Ben is lying similarly bound beside him. Ben is panicking as he tries to free himself.
“Relax,” Mason says, “the more you struggle the more it will hurt.”
Ben stops struggling and stares at his father. There are tears in his eyes but he seems relieved that his father is conscious again. Mason feels the weight of responsibility. His son should be in school, instead he is on an unauthorised excursion, and bound up in some empty warehouse. Mason knows, that as the parent, he must find a way out.
The room is painted black with no windows. There are two doors; one has a thin strip of what appears to be sunlight at its base. Mason is sitting on a raised stage area and the wall behind him is covered by a black flag with Arabic writing. Similar flags are strung about the place. Arabic books are piled on a small table on the stage. In the centre of the room is a video camera on a tripod. And behind the camera is a man dressed in a black floor length shawl. The man’s face is covered by a black mask and he is holding a very long sword.
*
Craig’s PA considers it her responsibility to look after both Craig’s diary and his wellbeing. And she is concerned for him. She has been screening his calls and watching him stare aimlessly out the window most of the day.
She enters his office and hands him a report.
“Are you alright Craig?”
He looks up and fakes a smile.
“Never better, why?”
“You don’t look good.”
“Looking good is overrated,” he says.
“Why don’t you go home Craig? Take the afternoon off.”
Craig considers the idea. He could go home and avoid what he does not yet know is coming for him. But what’s at home? Just more of the same. Get caught up in Mia’s crisis of the moment. Far better to stay in the office and pretend he is in control of things.
“If I’m not here,” he says sweeping his arm in a dramatic arc, “who’s going to look after all this?”
“It will survive without you,” she says.
That, Craig muses, is the truth.
“Can I get you anything?” she asks.
Craig considers the offer. Anything? A sandwich, a coffee, a… new life.
“No. I’m fine,” he says.
*
Mason recognises the white Arabic script from his time in the Middle East. And the flags are similar to those depicting Islamic militants on the news. Mason watches as the man behind the camera mutters into his mobile and hangs up.
The man continues to watch Mason and Ben in silence.
“What do you want?” Mason asks.
Silence.
“Let the boy go. Keep me.”
No response. Instead the man selects a book from beside the camera and starts reading aloud in Arabic. Mason does not understand the words but believes the man is praying.
“Better pray for a bodyguard you bastard. Because once I get out of this…”
The man keeps chanting, unperturbed, his words echoing in the enclosed space.
Mason recognises the scene. Filming executions was rife in Afghanistan and Iraq. Social media; YouTube, Facebook, Twitter, are the mouth pieces for militants to spread their propaganda around the globe. You can’t get the people to the warzone you take the warzone to them. Because, Mason knows, like all the great struggles in history, the battle is fought in the field but ultimately won in the media and the minds of the masses. And Mason has seen first hand how ISIS (FIBS from here on, as there will be no free promotion in this book), have revolutionised the process of executions. Beheadings, stonings, cage drownings, mass hangings; an endless list on how to deliver death and misery, the more shocking and depraved the better. But FIBS have failed to consider the human conditioning response. That is, when you behead and stone and shoot enough people, the shock value is lost. What starts as barbaric and savage becomes alarmingly normal.
The internal door opens and two men walk in. They are dressed in black and have their faces covered; clones of the sword carrying cameraman.
“Allahu Akbar.”
“Allahu Akbar.”
They stand either side of the man with the video camera and watch Mason and Ben in silence.
They’re waiting, Mason thinks. For what? For who?
“Let the boy go,” Mason says again, “he cannot identify you.”
Silence, just the incessant ticking of the wall mounted clock and the hum of traffic outside. The sounds remind Mason that society and people are just outside the door. His military mind is working quickly, picking apart ambush and hostage situations in Afghanistan. He knows his best weapon is time. The more time he can create, the better the chance of escape.
The door opens again and another man enters. Dressed in black with his face covered by a balaclava, he moves purposefully across the room.
“Allahu Akbar.”
“Allahu Akbar.”
The new arrival approaches Mason. The man is clearly a leader of sorts and he lifts Mason’s chin with the point of the gun he pulls from beneath his shawl.
“Do you know what this is?” the man asks, his voice distorted by the balaclava.
“Play School?” Mason replies.
“This,” the man continues unperturbed, “is retribution.”
Bullshit. Mason knows what this is. It is a copycat call to arms. It is a bunch of wannabe jihadists mimicking what they’ve seen on the Internet. It has no place in Sydney. It has no place anywhere. But he knows he must keep his captor talking so he can determine a way out of things.
“Retribution for what?”
“There is a global war.”
“Really,” Mason raises his eyebrows, “when did that start?”
“When the infidels invaded our sacred lands. The Americans and their lackey allies including Australia, Canada, Britain, France. Invading our sacred homelands of Afghanistan, Iraq and Syria. The American dogs seducing Israel.”
“Really,” Mason says, “when did all that happen?”
The irony is not lost on Mason. If only his captor knew the truth. That he had been on the frontline with these dreaded infidels. Fighting right up to the Syrian and Iraq borders. Ridding Afghanistan of this man’s make-believe Taliban buddies.
“You will be a message,” the man continues, “your death is a minor sacrifice in the eternal war. Allahu is great.”
“Why him?” Mason says, indicating Ben, “he is just a boy. Keep me but let him go.”
“Why? When your people kill the women and children in our homelands.”
Homelands? Mason thinks. This man has an Australian accent, a pair of Nike shoes beneath his black dress and gold rings on his fingers. What connection does he have to the people in the Middle East? And the eternal war is the one he has read about in make-believe Internet propaganda.
“L
et him go,” Mason presses.
“What’s wrong with him?” the man asks.
“Nothing.”
“He doesn’t speak.”
“Maybe but he still makes more sense than you do,” Mason says, “let him go.”
“Why? When you support the scourge that lays waste to our homelands. When you support the dirty American pigs. You…”
“Look,” Mason cuts him off, “I don’t support no one other than the Wests Tigers on Sunday. And how does this mindless bullshit help?”
“Our cause will never end. Our war is eternal and universal.”
Ah, really? A war that never ends. Rewind shall we, Mason thinks, to – nuke the Middle East.
“Sounds like a waste of time then,” Mason retorts.
“Your deaths will be an example to others. The way of Islam shall be universal. The war will rid the world of the infidels and non believers. They shall be crushed. Allahu Akbar!”
Mason knows the man is just parroting the words of faceless antagonists on the Internet. It is a grandstand speech but no one is at the game to listen. And Mason will not become the headless fodder for the FIBS propaganda machine. He’s working his hands against his bindings. They give a little, but not enough. He senses his window for escape is closing.
“Look, I’m sorry for interrupting your FIBS Tupperware party, but if you would just–”
The man punches Mason in the face.
“Shut up pig. You take issue with FIBS, when the American pigs are bombing innocent people in the Middle East?”
“I don’t have a problem with anyone,” Mason says, “I have a problem with people cutting off innocent people’s heads. I dislike women being stoned by men. I dislike men forcing children to murder innocent people.”
The man pauses and Mason can tell from his eyes that he is smiling beneath his balaclava.
“A typical Western response. When the West have bombed and killed countless families in the Middle East. Today you will become a symbol of the power of FIBS. Proof that FIBS can strike anywhere at any time.”
The man barks something in Arabic and one of his cloaked offsiders steps forward and offers the sword to his superior. The leader sets his gun down on the stage and takes the sword. The cameraman straightens the tripod and checks the images on the connected laptop.
“Your death will be streamed live to the masses,” the leader says, “you will be a celebrity. A reality superstar, like the Kardashians. Your boy will watch you die first and then he will die too.”
The man behind the camera nods to his superior who bows to the camera.
“We are ready. Allahu Akbar!”
“Allahu Akbar,” the men in the room echo.
The executioner steps into frame behind Mason and lifts him by the hair forcing him to stare at the camera. The man reads in Arabic from one of the books and points at Mason and Ben.
Mason considers the irony of things. How he spent years of his life dodging the Taliban and suicide bombers in Afghanistan, only to encounter a bunch of try-hard jihadist foot soldiers in Australia. Really? What are the odds? But this is not the way it is meant to end. He glances at Ben. The boy is crying and shaking. Mason winks and smiles at his son. Then he stares defiantly at the camera.
The man’s words become increasingly animated. He slaps his chest and points to the flag on the wall behind him. He shakes Mason by the hair. He punctuates each sentence with a clenched fist. Then he slaps the book closed and sets it on the floor. He raises the sword in a wide arc, the blade flaring wickedly beneath the stark light.
“Allahu Akbar. God is great.”
*
Fitch has been working non-stop to track down his brother. Fitch knows the danger. He has visions of Mason getting lost and violent. But where does Fitch turn. He has exhausted all his leads. He has interviewed the now famous 7-Eleven attendants and asked them about what went down.
With the criminals?
No, the customer that was in the store at the time.
There was someone else in the store?
Dead end.
He dropped in on the Kingston medical centre. The ghostlike faces of the Doctor and Receptionist barely budged as they described the lunatic with the knife.
Did he say where he was going?
No, why would he?
Yes, well, right, why would he?
The gnawing uneasiness in Fitch’s stomach has become a constant ache. Time is running out. His head hurts. His entire body seems to be drawn tight like a spring. He could share the load and engage more officers but that would mean describing the nature of the matter.
And Fitch, what is your interest in this case?
Ah well… next question please.
With nowhere else to turn Fitch calls home. Not for strategic guidance but because he just needs to talk. He feels weak doing it. But he needs to get things out. To relieve some of the stress. There was a time where they told each other everything. But he rarely talks to his wife now. Even as he calls he considers the sad reality of his and her lives. She sleeps all day, he buries his head in his work all day. She is alive but what kind of life does she have, and likewise himself.
The phone rings out and Fitch hangs up.
He stares out his window. The wind is up, stirring the litter and leaves in the car park. When in doubt, he muses, head back to the start. Everything and everyone starts from somewhere. He gets his hat and keys and finds Nate.
“Come on kid. We got some work to do.”
*
The blade sweeps down and–
Strikes the wooden stage inches from Mason’s head, as the would-be executioner falls clutching a knife that is suddenly embedded in his leg. Mason, his hands somehow free, rolls across the stage and claims the gun the man had set down earlier. The two minders rush forward but Mason rolls and shoots. One of the men falls, his left leg ruined. The other stops and puts his gun down and backs up, before rushing out of the room, closely followed by the cameraman.
Mason stoops beside the man who’s moaning and trying to remove the knife from his leg. Blood is pooling over the stage, staining the discarded books.
“Didn’t see that one coming did you?” Mason says.
The group were amateurs. All tough in their black balaclavas and with their big badarse sword. But the whole exercise was a hack job. Mason’s escape seems very Houdini like but it was all too simple. The thugs had bound Mason’s arms too high and by twisting and maneuvering his wrists he was able to contort his hands free. And compounding their failure, the men had not bothered to search Mason for weapons. But really why would they? Mason was just some random unarmed civilian on the street. I mean what are the odds of randomly abducting a returned Afghanistan veteran with a knife? But it cost them big time as they overlooked the knife Mason had tucked into his sock.
“Let me help you.”
The man screams as Mason rips the knife free. Then Mason cuts his own ankle bindings and frees Ben. Ben cowers against the wall.
“It is alright son.”
Then Mason steps down from the stage and picks up the gun that the shot man has dropped. He hands it to Ben.
“Watch that one. If he moves, shoot him.”
Mason then approaches the camera and laptop and confirms it is still streaming live pictures. He adjusts the camera slightly so that it is trained on the injured man on the stage. Then he returns to the stage and picks up the sword. He uses the blade to lift the man’s chin.
“Smile,” Mason says, “the world is watching.”
“No. Please.” The man’s voice is a pathetic whine.
Mason places the blade at the back of the man’s neck, measuring his strike.
“No please. No. I don’t want to die.”
Tears pour from the man’s eyes, catching in his balaclava. Mason addresses the camera.
“This man asks you to die for him. When he is afraid of dying himself.”
The man keeps moaning. Muttering in a mix of Arabic and English.
&
nbsp; “Hardly a glowing endorsement for the product.”
“Save it,” Mason says, “I’m not about to kill you. That’s not how we do things here. Besides, unfortunately, you are better off alive.”
Mason sets the sword down and approaches Ben.
“Let’s get out of here son.”
They start for the door but Mason pauses and returns. He unmasks his attacker and recoils like he has been stung. Expecting a man, he sees a kid barely thirteen years old.
Chapter 12
“This is crazy boss. What are we looking for?” Nate moans.
Fitch and Nate are back at Mason’s workplace where productivity is at an all time low. One visit from the cops is exciting, two visits in the same day, and there is definitely something going down.
“Anything that tells us where our man went,” Fitch answers.
Fitch provided Nate some further details on the drive over. Their man was a returned military serviceman. Mentally unstable, a history of violence, and likely upset about being sacked. He is dependent on medication and left the office without it today.
“You know him chief?”
Nate might be a Lowie but he is no dumbie.
“Reckon we should hand this over to someone else Chief?”
“You can go back to the station if you like kid.”
Nate shuts up. Being out and about, even in the heat, is better than pushing paper back at the station.
They rifle through Mason’s drawers again. Recycled paper box. Bin beside his desk. Shelves and filing cabinet. More questions for the office manager and the woman on reception. But the search reveals no further clues. One of the office big noses sticks his into their search.
“What’s up gentlemen, did this bloke go postal somewhere? Bloke was a frigging weirdo.”
Fitch gets up in the man’s face.
“What did you say?”
The man is stunned. This is a police officer right? Meant to be keeping the peace not destroying it? But the whole office is watching so he holds his ground.
“Bloke was crazy. Everyone knew it.”