Tehran Decree

by James Scorpio

  The book revealed a complex life of dishonesty and criminal activity that she was totally unaware of, but this was only a part of Clement’s secret life.

  The book was a truly unabridged autobiography of Clement Chester during his time in the police force...now a biography, she reminded herself, as she thumbed through the pages. It was dynamite...the kind of stuff which destroyed peoples lives and brought governments to their knees -- she thought for awhile -- and made lots of money as a sleazy best seller.

  This was Clement’s legacy to her...his life’s work, just waiting to be aired to the public at large. But the real hair raising tidbits were in the manuscript pages.

  It contained strange hieroglyphic maps which turned out to be tunnels in and around Sydney. Clement had been an expert on tunnel excavations and knew more about their condition and location than any other person in Australia. In his privileged position as a policeman of forty years, he had managed to build up a vast knowledge of Sydney’s underground earthworks as well as a few others on the surface.

  There were a whole range of red ink lines depicting unknown tunnels that had been lost to the modern world. The diagrams resembled a collection of spider webs with interlacing passageways of different thickness. And the most surprising thing of all, was a detailed description of St. Peters Bank, and the two ancient tunnels which ran directly beneath it. This was followed by a plan describing how to carryout a robbery of the Bank linked to a diagram of the basement areas. Only a person with inside knowledge could have mapped out the inner sanctums of such a building. She remembered that Clement had often carried out security inspections of several banks during his tenure as police commissioner. Offering advice and directions on the best way to run and handle a secure safe deposit facility as well as subterranean bank vaults.

  An apprehensive Rosy went back to the shed, and peered into the gloom with a new perspective, her seemingly nondescript husband, and his hidden life, had taken on a whole new perspective.

  She shivered involuntarily as a deep foreboding gripped her -- what else would she find in Clements citadel? Opening the toolbox she squinted at the bottom, which seemed to be covered by a dark layer of sacking material. Retrieving a pair of long shears from the tool display board she plucked the sacking from the tool box.

  Bundles of hundred dollar notes covered the entire bottom of the chest. It was more money than she had ever seen in her life -- several minutes elapsed before she got over the shock and stopped staring at the bank notes. She took a bundle from the bottom and slowly flicked through it, counting each note, then counted the other bundles in the bottom of the container. After a prolonged calculation in her head, she came up with a figure -- there was at least ten million dollars in pristine notes within the tool box.

  It wasn’t difficult to work out where the money may have come from. She was sure the amount stated in the newspapers about a bank robbery at the time was in the tens of millions. If this were the case where was the rest of it?

  Thinking about the recent past...there was a bank robbery involving St. Peters bank, but it received only minor coverage in the newspapers due to the abduction of the US president in the cross city tunnel. Strangely, Clement never mentioned the bank robbery, even though he often talked about the latest criminal cases in the papers.

  She was seized by an irrational impulse...remembering that Clement had left everything in his will to her -- did this include millions of dollars in bank notes from the robbery of St. Peters Bank?’

  Dropped the sacking back over the money she closed the lid, locked the shed door, and went back into the kitchen.

  Squeezing another coffee out of the coffee making machine, she sat at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. This was all too much, a long thinking session was needed before any further action could be taken. Her emotions were in tatters and deep thinking was out of the question, she resolved to take several codeine tablets with a glass of hot milk before retiring.

  It wasn’t everyday that a long standing police commissioner, sacked for incompetence, ended up robbing a bank and then committed suicide.

  She considered the newspaper article which reported the bank robbery and how it was over shadowed by the presidential abduction. Normally such an event would have commanded the front page of most of the national newspapers.

  Booting up Clement’s computer she went to the news pages looking for past articles on the robbery. Several small articles appeared in the middle pages of most papers, with one large article in a Sydney tabloid.

  She quickly read it through...apparently fifty million dollars had just disappeared from one of the underground security vaults. A mishmash of extraneous thoughts invaded her head all clamoring for attention. Her prime urges prompted her to take the money and run, it would give her a new life, and save her from a grieving nightmare for the rest of her life. She wasn’t a young woman anymore, and who the hell wanted a broken down sixty year old, ex-police commissioner's wife anyway.

  She could fade away from the scene and go abroad unnoticed. Visit the capitals of the world in her own time, maybe take a world cruise in the Queen Elizabeth 2 or perhaps the newer Victoria Cunard liner. Romance floated through her mind, but she gently moved it aside...another long term relationship with a man like Clement was not on the cards. It would have to be a simple liaison with no strings attached just to allay her loneliness. The warm thoughts were exhilarating for a short while, but her conscience soon came charging in. They would trace the money back to her and she would be arrested and spend the rest of her life in prison.

  She scrolled back to the beginning of the article and squinted at the amount that had been stolen...50 million dollars, and yet there was only ten million in the tool chest -- for the second time the question came surging back -- where was the rest?

  The mystery was just one of dozens of nagging questions with no answers in sight. Perhaps the answers to all here problems were in Clement’s unabridged biography? She quickly waded through the heavy book once again, stopping at what she thought might be an interesting relevant chapter to her unanswered questions -- there was nothing specific -- most of it was exposes of political malpractice -- with a bevy of names she was unfamiliar with. Occasionally a well known name would crop up which shocked her. She turned to the back page and noticed a large asterisk followed by a short note in Clement’s hand writing; it said that the Valley of the Kings in Egypt was like a modest rabbit warren when compared to the rampant totality of the Sydney tunnel network. The book clearly demanded a dedicated read to get the big picture.

  She breathed a heavy sigh, it was time to make a hot cup of milk, and take her codeine. Then hopefully, fall asleep reading Clement’s candid life story -- it had been one hell of a day, and now it would be one hell of a night.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  A week had passed since the MOAB bombing incident and Jansen and his team had returned with the bodies of the BIB top brass and their personal details. Hopefully they had managed to pip the Americans at the post.

  The debriefing preliminaries to be held at government house were underway when Jansen arrived. He was thirty minutes late due to a Sydney traffic grid lock; such things had become a daily occurrence, and were in fact a handy excuse for lateness. He apologised profusely to the row of stern countenances which greeted him in the main conference room. They really were taking this little nondescript skirmish a little too seriously, he thought. A short informal heart to heart chat with the defence minister was all that was needed. Although he had to admit that personally he preferred to rigorously question his own clients, but could not stand being roasted himself.

  A second confusing issue was how they managed to start a debriefing session without himself (the star player) being present. In spite of all the inconsistencies, they all sat together stiff upper lip fashion, shuffling papers between each other; all avoided eye contact with him as he entered the room.

  He recognised most of the luminaries: there was the director of ASIO, Steve Dea
kin, sitting at the far end of the table, then the governor general, next came the prime minister, and then the defence minister. The paper shuffling suddenly ceased as if on some predefined cue, and the room went deathly quiet. The quiet continued for several moments, until the defence minister looked down at his notes, then pursed his lips.

  ‘We are all in awe of what you have done commander; you have successfully completed an extremely difficult operation with a minimum of casualties and the loss of only one life on our side, please accept our sincere thanks and congratulations for a job well done.

  However, the operation is still ongoing, there are a number of other issues which have eventuated since you’ve been abroad commander.

  I’m sure you are aware of the fact that you and your crew came very close to being annihilated by the release of a MOAB aerial bomb from a USAF bomber. This was released in spite of information relayed to the American defence department that we had a SWAT team in direct contact with the BIB terrorists. In spite of that, president Jenkins ordered the MOAB to be dropped immediately, stating that collateral casualties were inevitable during times of war regardless of who the victims were.

  As a third generation Australian, I find this behaviour totally unacceptable, even if the man is the acting president of United States,’ Jansen smiled inwardly...these were strong words indeed coming from a federal minister.

  ‘I see sir, a case of no confidence in the Australian forces then?’

  ‘I think it goes a little deeper than that commander...lets just say that one man on the ground needed to be eradicated at all costs,’ Jansen’s ears pricked up.

  ‘Really, I won’t embarrass you by asking who that individual is sir,’ a repressed smile flashed across the defence minister’s face.’

  ‘Thank you commander...over to you prime minister,’ the PM peered at his notes and cleared his throat.

  ‘We might have rid the world of eight terrorists and created the biggest bomb crater in Muscat, but we also seem to have opened a can of worms in the process.

  Apparently eighteen terrorists entered the cross city tunnel, but only nine came out according to the police inquiry over the tunnel siege. To all intents and purposes these men just vanished. Also, another interesting event occurred just after the presidential abduction. The St. Peters Bank on Elizabeth Street was robbed of fifty million dollars from an underground vault,’ the PM glanced at the ASIO director at the top of the table.

  ‘I think the director would now like a word with you in private commander about the situation,’ the ASIO director stood and gestured towards a side door.

  They entered a small drawing room specially reserved for secure discussions. Jansen was pleasantly surprised by the plush interior and quality furnishings. It seemed that if you were going to have a secure covert little chat then you might as well have it in comfort.

  Jansen eyed the well upholstered divan with view to occupying it, unfortunately the director pulled out a chair at a central table and beckoned him towards it. He then strode to the drinks cabinet.

  ‘What are you having commander...whiskey, port...sherry?’

  ‘Just a small whiskey for me sir...with a splash of soda,’ the director took his time getting the drinks then sauntered over placing them gently on the table.

  The two men sat facing each other while the director placed a folder of notes on the table. Jansen patiently nursed his whiskey taking the odd sip and growing increasingly suspicious of the whole proceedings.

  Deakin did the usual paper shuffling between gulps of whiskey -- as if he were playing for time in order to pick up enough courage to say something unpleasant. Finally

  he fixed Jansen with a serious grimace.

  ‘It seems we have a number of seemingly unrelated pieces of information commander. St. Peters Bank on Elizabeth Street was robbed of fifty million dollars during the cross city tunnel siege and our former police commissioner, Clement Chester, was a closet expert on Sydney’s warren of underground tunnels. He was a man in a privileged position with too many crooked secrets. As if that wasn’t interesting enough, as the PM pointed out, eighteen of the BIB terrorists entered the tunnel, but only nine came out.

  We have all made up some pretty clever scenarios out of all this commander, as you might well imagine...all of them pretty hairy.’

  ‘I see sir, so you now want my version?’

  ‘Sort of, except we want you to make a extensive private investigation of the whole matter and report back to us. I must stress the necessity of absolute security during, and after the investigation, as well as the need for expediency in delivering results.’ Jansen had a sudden violent rush of déjà vu. The last thing he wanted was yet another government posting designed to pull their nuts out of the fire.

  ‘So what you really want sir, is an official printable version, suitable for consumption by the press and public’

  ‘That’s right, but do remember commander, these things have a habit of throwing up embarrassing situations. The political tight rope is always dangerously unpredictable -- we have these little secrets in order to protect, not only ourselves, but also the public at large. How would you like the press to print the fact that your great grandmother was a lesbian and fraternised with Lord Nelson?’

  ‘Point taken sir, but lets just leave out rampant cover ups can we?’

  ‘Well we can try commander, but you know human nature...it’s very over rated,’ Jansen found himself unconsciously nodding in agreement.

  ‘There are no hard and fast rules in true politics commander; the good politician will go down to the wire without breaking the law and then some, in order to achieve the required results.’

  The director placed a typed sheet on the table and pushed it towards him.

  ‘That commander, is all the facts we have so far on the case,’ Jansen peered quizzically at the flimsy information.

  'I'm sorry we can’t give you any more, but as I’m sure you are aware, we have been hard pressed on all fronts with this case -- what with Chester resigning leaving a rudderless police force, and the incessant demands of the Americans for security compliance in with their own protocol, and our own struggle to protect Australian sovereignty. We simply haven’t had the skilled staff to cope with it all.’ Jansen took a second look at the typed sheet it listed the three major anomalies: Chester’s Sydney tunnel expertise, the disappearance of nine BIB members in the tunnel and the fifty million dollar bank robbery. At least it spelled out the main problems and tentatively pointed towards the possible course of action one should take to solve them. The ASIO director took another sip of whiskey and pointed his glass towards the info sheet.

  ‘We owe some sort of resolution to the Americans...the operation you have just carried out didn’t bring us a lot of glory. It was the least we can do; after all Australia was well placed to carry out such an operation without raising the suspicions and dire of the rest of the world,’ Jansen cast a curious glance at the Deakin..

  ‘You Know...I don’t know who is the more corrupt, us or the fucking Yanks -- this is not really about Australia and glory, or the rest of the world, is it sir?’

  ‘Of course it is commander,’ Deakin hastily added with a twisted smile, that made his laugh lines stand out, and forced the wrinkles on his forehead to compete. Jansen was more than familiar with the type of perfunctory grimace -- most politicians seemed to have it in abundance.

  Deakin looked up from his notes the strain on his face was beginning to show.

  ‘I think that will do for today Commander...just keep in touch with your usual report.’ Jansen took his leave silently exiting the building deep in thought. Deakin watched him go wondering if they had chosen the right man for the job afterall.

  Abruptly one of the side doors opened and a parliamentary secretary walk in with a clutch of typed papers placing them in front of the ASIO director.

  ‘Sorry to bother you sir, but two of the national dailies are running a story saying that we have messed up and brought back
the wrong man.’

  ‘I presume they are referring to the US president who we now know was a US security agent vapourised in the MOAB blast.’

  ‘Couldn’t we put a ‘D’ notice on this sort of speculation or something sir?’

  ‘You mean invoke a dusty old UK caveat from the spy era. I think not, the Australian D notice system organisation hasn’t had a meeting since 1982, better to let the tabloids stew in their own juices. After all, speculation is what the world and democracy is all about , and in any case theoretically, we didn’t bring back the wrong guy, we brought back who we wanted to bring back.

  ‘And who would that be sir?’ Deakin touched his nose and smiled.

  ‘Let’s not forget our democratic roots, the government’s job is running the country for the people who put them there, it is not there to gag the press because of a few speculative articles.

  ChapterFifty-two

  Jenkins had a great scenic travel plan, which he used to transcend reality when the going got tough. Washington to Tenerife, then Cape Town, with a quick fuel stop at Mauritius, followed by a longer haul, using extra fuel tanks to Hobart in his private jet. A quick check through customs, then straight to The Queens Palace Hotel in his special Mercedes-Benz E-Class hire car -- it was a wonderful escape route to instant obscurity. Situated in outback, south west Tasmania, the hotel had a fantastic panoramic view of Cradle Mountain and the wild national park hinterland -- it was one of the best natural views Tasmania could provide. But the full vista was only available from suite 24, a collection of delightfully appointed rooms Jenkins always insisted on when he visited the Apple Isle.