Decker stood up and then joined Valerie at the window. “Let me see.” She moved away and allowed him to use the telescope. He saw the gleaming vessel moving beneath the Harbour Bridge, shining like a bright jewel on the water.
“Who’s the bloke lying in the tender?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “He followed the three guys who climbed up on top.”
Decker grinned as he thought about what could happen aboard his boat. Possessions did not mean much to him. He was no lover of art and everything else he owned could be replaced. He even replaced wives on a semi-regular basis. The Newshound was a good investment, perfect for entertaining and deal making and the occasional holiday. A mere tool, he thought, although much more than that today. What a glorious day to make news.
Alec Crowley had acted according to instructions and handed the cruiser over, but not before removing all the television sets and putting the radio out of action. Alec had also voiced his suspicions about Kaz Jamison and the leader of the criminals. A bit of spice for the tabloids!
“Keep watching,” he told Valerie and then returned to his desk and punched the intercom. “Get me the Premier.”
“Why him?” asked Valerie.
Decker grinned. “Always go to the top,” he answered. “If the top man knows what is going on – and you can prove it – he can’t blame anyone else if there is a fuck-up. My insurance.”
Decker tapped his fingers on the desk and looked at his watch. It was 3:10, not quite twelve hours since the ship burned on the harbour. Incredible. What a beautiful day. TVs all over the world were tuned into his channel’s coverage; his printing presses were churning out afternoon editions all over the country; and with one of his own reporters ‘kidnapped’ by the bad guys, things could hardly be better.
The phone buzzed. “Decker.”
“This is the Premier’s office, Mr Decker.” He recognised the voice as that of Hilda Marsh, the Premier’s secretary, a formidable, hard-edged woman aged somewhere between forty and ninety. “The Premier is busy with the Police Minister at the moment and will return your call later.”
“I don’t give a fuck if they are in there giving each other a blow job,” Decker said, cheerfully, “this is more urgent.” Valerie gave him a look of reproach, but he was enjoying himself immensely. The phone clicked and he was through.
“Is that Decker?” The Premier’s voice was loud and angry.
“It certainly is. Good afternoon Mr Premier.” Decker’s own temper was legendary, yet he could remain totally calm in the face of hostility, an ability that often confused the people he dealt with.
The Premier was steamed up. “Jesus, Decker, you are in so much shit. I don’t believe any of this crap about your reporter being kidnapped. She’s involved and so are you. I’ll deal with you when we’ve cleaned things up. In the meantime, fuck off!”
The line went dead and Decker grinned. The little turd must be really pissed off to speak like that to me. He needs to be reminded of his lowly position in the scheme of things.
“What now?” asked Valerie.
Decker looked at her and grinned, but no humour reached his eyes. “I think it’s time to get a little dirty. We can’t have the Premier labouring under the illusion he runs the state, can we? He again punched the intercom. “Get me Hilda Marsh.”
HARPER
The Premier, Gary Harper, was a worried man. Sitting at his desk, he twiddled with his pen, wondering how he was going to climb out of this hole. The day was a nightmare. And it was only half over! Three months from the election and until three o’clock this morning all the opposition’s bullshit was being successfully fended off. Scandals were being put to bed, the usual promises were being trundled out. Victory was a real possibility, perhaps even assured. And a necessity. Just one more term was his springboard into Federal politics. A cabinet post at first – at least – then maybe a fast track into the PM’s job.
But today everything had collapsed. The murders on the harbour were beyond anyone’s control, but the shootout and the escape from Central Police Station would land on the government like a mortar bomb. There was no way he could now avoid convening Parliament before the election.
Harper looked at his Police Minister, Spiro Georgiadis, who sat forlornly in a corner of the office. He knew he was finished. Hordes of print, radio and TV reporters waited downstairs for the pair of them. The lynch mob. Christ! he thought, I’m only forty-five and still handsome! I’m too young to die politically.
George Shelton, the Premier’s Private Secretary, knocked on the door and entered the office. “What is it, George? More bad news?”
“Police Commissioner Henderson is here.”
“Send him in. He can join the fun.”
Henderson entered, a barrel-chested man of fifty-eight. Not the brightest of men, but intelligence had never been a prerequisite for Police Commissioner and Harper was a stickler for making traditional appointments.
“Hello, Frank. No, don’t sit down, I don’t expect you’ll be staying very long.”
Henderson frowned. He knows what’s coming, thought Harper, but I’ll give it to him anyway. “What’s the latest, Frank? Massacred some more civilians? Any more mass escapes, murders, rapes? I mean, I haven’t listened to the news for ten fucking minutes!”
Henderson sighed. “We’ve found the police van used by the escapees.”
“Wonderful! That should clinch the election for us! And I suppose all the naughty men were waiting there for you?” Harper sank deeper into his seat, the fight suddenly gone.
He took a deep breath. “Sit down, Frank,” he said. “Where did you find it?”
“Under a building in Milsons Point,” said Henderson, gratefully lowering himself into a chair. “Someone must have seen them, so we’re combing the area. I reckon that fucking reporter’s behind it.”
Harper was reminded of Harry Decker. Jesus! To think he’d once trusted that bastard. Actually, that wasn’t true. No one trusted Decker. They needed him. “You’d better catch them all, Frank. If the government falls you won’t last five minutes with the other mob.”
The phone rang. “Yes, Hilda?”
“Mr Decker called again...”
“I don’t want to know and I don’t want to hear from him.”
“He said you would call him back straight after I gave you his message.”
“Make it quick.”
“He said, ‘July 15th, 2009. Photos’. That’s all. That’s your birthday.”
Harper scribbled the words down. “Yes, Hilda, thanks.” He replaced the receiver and looked at his pad. His fortieth birthday and just after being made a junior minister. He remembered the party at the Regent. Family, friends, crooks, politicians, enemies, hangers-on. Rebecca Montgomery.
He felt the colour drain from his face. Surely not! She was a stunner. Decker introduced her to Harper while his wife was at the other side of the room. The attraction was mutual and they slipped away for half an hour. Jesus Christ! The bastard must have had a photographer in there. How could I have been so stupid? And Rebecca being married to a decrepit High Court judge would not help matters if it got out. He remembered Decker’s words to him that night. “You know, Gary, I really think you are going to go places.”
Harper picked up the telephone, the other two men in his office forgotten. “Call him for me, Hilda.” He’s got me by the balls, he felt like adding.
BLANEY
Enjoying the power surge beneath his feet, Lieutenant Christopher Blaney brought the Newshound about easily and moved out of Lavender Bay. Captain Cross and the men remained below, out of sight until they were fully under way. Like the motorised carriage, the vessel responded to the turn of a key, releasing a comforting grumbling noise deep within the bowels of the ship. Both he and Kite had been amazed when Karen flicked a switch and the anchor was instantly winched aboard. A far cry from a dozen men sweating at the capstan.
Karen stood near him, carefully watching to see he followed Alec Crowley
’s instructions. She need not worry, thought Blaney. Compared to the vast reserve of knowledge required to run a navy ship, the Newshound was simplicity itself. Even the wheel turned as though the cables had snapped, and yet the vessel responded instantly.
He could still smell Karen’s perfume, and the memory of her lips on his lingered like a dent on a pillow. With one kiss he had read her mind and she his. So much communication without words. He had never understood women and had always avoided them, except for the basest of his needs, yet he felt like he knew Karen. As if he had always known her. Blaney had no idea what would happen between them – could happen between them – yet for an unfathomable reason, this did not concern him. Fate would dictate the future.
“Slow down a bit,” said Karen as the ship emerged from under the Harbour Bridge. “We’re conspicuous enough without racing.”
Blaney grinned like a small boy and saw Kite do the same. It was grand to be back on the water. The last twelve hours seemed like twelve months. He slowed the Newshound and looked ahead. The harbour was alive with sails of all sizes and shapes. They passed the more cumbersome vessels with ease, while being overtaken, in turn, by smaller craft which skimmed the waves at great speed. Overhead, weird, buzzing machines hovered at a distance. Karen called them helicopters and told him to think of them as flying cars. He was intrigued by them and the rest of this new world, but he must not lose sight of the job at hand.
The city, to Blaney’s right, was magnificent in the sun and the tall tower in the centre shone like a torch, while to the east, in the direction they were heading, a magnificent cloud bank spiralled into the heavens. Blaney knew those clouds. Knew their danger. They frightened him, yet at the same time he experienced the comfort of recognition. Salvation?
“Here, Henry, take the wheel,” said Blaney.
Kite squeezed past, eager to take up the offer. Blaney moved back so he could look at Karen. Her face was screwed up in concentration, as though she trusted neither of the men. Understandable really, though Blaney had assured her that seafaring was in his blood and a ship, however equipped, still floated and had to be steered.
“Who is this man Decker?” he asked.
Karen, startled, turned to him and smiled her smile, the one he imagined was reserved for him alone. “He’s one of the richest men in the country and he owns my newspaper, among other things.”
“Was he born to wealth?”
“He got some money from his father, a small fortune. But he’s built it into a huge one by hook or by crook.”
Kite turned back. “Do you mean he is a criminal?”
“No, no, no!” exclaimed Karen, laughing. “In Australia rich people are never criminals. They are colourful identities. Harry Decker is as honest as he needs to be. He operates either within the law, or one step ahead of it. He’s the king of loopholes.”
“I see,” said Kite, puzzled. He turned back and concentrated on the water once again.
Blaney became uneasy. The rich in his own time lived by a different set of rules – indeed, made them – so it appeared things were no different here. Perhaps the destiny of he and his men was not in his own hands. “It is very good of him to let us use this ship,” offered Blaney.
“That’s what worries me,” said Karen. “He’s not known for his kindness and he hasn’t given me the bill yet!”
“Look,” shouted Kite, pointing to port. “We came ashore over there!”
Blaney saw the familiar coastline, and the road where they began their morning march. The road near to where he met Karen. The shore was crawling with blue uniformed men going about various tasks. Many stopped their work to follow the Newshound’s passage.
Blaney turned to the starboard side, where official boats patrolled a cordoned off expanse of water. “Then this must be where the Marlin rests.” Pieces of wood floated on the surface, though he could not be sure they were from his ship. A few small boats with uniformed men were collecting the remaining debris, so he assumed they were the only remains of the Marlin. An ill-fated ship, yet one for which he felt a deep sadness.
“Unhappy memories?” asked Karen, joining him and resting a welcome hand on his arm.
“Aye. It was my home for many months.” He said a silent prayer for the good men who had died at the hands of Redmond and his cut-throats. To survive two storms and a whirlpool only to die here in calm waters was a cruel fate indeed.
Remembering the whirlpool, he shuddered.
“What’s wrong,” asked Karen.
He looked to the clouds ahead, then turned to her. It was incredible to him that he could speak so freely to her. “The strange thing about being sure of one’s duty,” he said, “is that the knowledge cannot prevent one’s fear of the unknown.”
DECKER
“The Premier for you, Mr Decker.”
“Thanks, Joyce. Tell him to wait.” Harry Decker leaned back in his chair and grinned at Valerie Doyle, who stood by the window overlooking the harbour. “You look surprised.”
“What do you expect?” she asked. “You give a cryptic message and next minute he’s back on the phone. I don’t understand.”
The beautiful, pouting look on her face almost drove Decker to distraction. The fact Valerie would not allow him to run his hands over her body kept him in a perpetual state of frustration. It was a Catch-22 situation. If he touched her uninvited, he would be dragged through the courts. Yet if she capitulated, he knew he would discard her after a short time. Instead he would have to continue dangling on this delicious string.
“Your religious, clean-cut, upstanding Premier has a certain weakness for extramarital action. On his fortieth birthday I introduced him to a prominent woman...”
“That’s almost too convenient,” said Valerie, a look of revulsion dawning on her face. “So you had them photographed in bed?”
“Of course not,” grinned Decker. “The important thing is that Premier Harper believes I had them photographed in bed. You have the wrong idea about me, Valerie. I have no idea what they did or didn’t do. But I do know politicians live by assuming the worse. They believe everyone is as loathsome as they are.”
Valerie shook her head. Decker hoped she was impressed. She turned back to the window. “Isn’t it time you spoke to the Premier?”
Decker picked up the receiver. “Hello, Premier, I’ve got some good news for you.”
“Yeah, well make it quick, I’m busy,” said Harper, coldly. But Decker could hear a satisfactory note of caution amid the petulance.
“Busy fucking up the city?”
Harper sighed. “If you’ve called to gloat, go ahead and then leave me alone.”
“I’m about to save your bacon,” said Decker, getting down to business. “About ten minutes ago, my cruiser – you know the one, you’ve been on it often enough – left Lavender Bay. On board are my reporter, Karen Jamison, and the men who escaped from Central Police Station. They are heavily armed and, I believe, looking for trouble.” Decker had no idea if the men were armed or not, but one couldn’t be too careful when planning a spontaneous news event.
“Jesus Christ!” said the Premier. “You won’t be able to weasel out of this, Decker, you’ve gone too far.”
“Don’t get cocky , Gary,” warned Decker. “Even if I was involved, which I am not, you would do precisely nothing.”
“Then what about Kaz Jamison? She works for you.”
Decker winked at Valerie, who was watching him from the window, fascinated. “I really don’t want to discuss my private life, except to say that Kaz has unlimited access to the Newshound.”
Harper scoffed. “That story won’t hold water, Decker.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
Silence.
Eager to conclude the conversation, Decker continued. “The cruiser is now approaching Bradleys Head...” – he looked at Valerie, who nodded confirmation – “...and picking up speed. I suggest you ring up your navy mates and get a patrol boat out there. Oh, and don’t worry a
bout the paintwork, I’m fully insured.” He replaced the phone without giving Harper a chance to reply.
Joining Valerie at the window, Decker looked at the harbour. Two helicopters, their bold red Channel 8 logos plainly visible on each fuselage, flew high above the vessel. Five minutes ago, his stations broke into their scheduled programs world-wide and viewers were being brought fully up to date. Primed for what was to come. Decker had no idea what that would be. He was just lighting the touchpaper. All that remained was for the Premier to trigger the pursuit and the fireworks would begin. Maybe God does exist, thought Decker.
“We don’t know if those men are armed,” she said. “Alec didn’t mention anything about guns.” There was thinly disguised criticism in her voice, though Decker didn’t care.
“Can’t take chances,” said Decker. Nothing could spoil his mood.
Valerie was looking through the telescope. “The men are moving around on top of the cruiser!”
“Let me see.” Decker looked through the glass, taking a few seconds to catch up with the Newshound as it powered down the harbour. The speed was not as fast as he had told Harper, but the vessel was no slouch and he hoped the Premier would get his finger out quickly. He focussed on the top deck and saw the three men on all fours furtively crawling about. They wore suits and one of the men was much bigger than the other two. He could not make out their faces, yet their actions told Decker they were up to no good. He felt another surge of excitement. “Get me Dave at Channel Eight, Val.” She hurried to the phone.
What a day! And it was getting better and better!
REDMOND
Rufus Redmond decided it was time to move. Rest was nigh on impossible with the racket made by the two abominations hovering high above the vessel. The convict wondered if they were demons waiting to haul them all off to hell. If they were, he resolved, he would not make the passage alone.
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