The agents looked at each other and shrugged. Moharic spoke.
‘Sounds good to me,’ he said.
‘It is good,’ said Sierota.
‘When do you want to wire Vincent’s vehicle?’ asked Agent Coleborne.
‘Later on tonight,’ replied Sierota. ‘He lives in a quiet street and there’ll be nobody around.’
‘Do you want me to do it?’ asked Agent Niland.
‘You’re the explosives expert, Agent Niland,’ replied Sierota.
‘I’ll take that as an affirmative,’ said Agent Niland.
Sierota looked at his watch. ‘All right, gentlemen. We’ve got plenty of time. Anybody hungry?’
‘I am,’ said Agent Coleborne.
‘There’s coffee and condensed milk in the kitchen,’ said Sierota. ‘I’ll order up pizza. Who wants what?’
When Agent Sierota was driving towards Redhead in the Jeep Cherokee, Officer Laurie Blessing was working back in his office at ASIO headquarters in Canberra. Dark-haired with a moustache, Officer Blessing did a good job rounding up terrorists and Muslim radicals. But like his fellow officers, he sometimes wondered why the bleeding hearts in the press and certain sections of the government treated them as if they were the villains, and not the crazies who wanted to blow themselves up on trains and buses. At the moment he was working on a cell they’d uncovered in Adelaide and was trying to figure out what a certain phrase meant in Arabic, when his phone rang.
‘Yeah, Blessing.’
‘Officer Blessing? It’s Major McKell at Williamtown.’
‘Major McKell. How’s things?’
‘Pretty good. Listen. Zimmer Sierota just picked up three NSA agents who flew in from Washington.’
‘Go on.’
‘Their brief was, they’re in Australia checking out security in Newcastle Harbour, pending a visit from two ships of the US Seventh Fleet.’
‘The Fleet’s tied up in the Gulf for the next twelve months,’ said Officer Blessing. ‘Any leave gets taken in Italy.’
‘That’s right,’ said Major McKell. ‘And the way they were armed, I’d say they’re up to something.’
‘Are they staying at Bible Bungalow?’
Major McKell nodded into the phone. ‘Yes.’
‘Okay. I’ll have someone keep an eye on them. Thanks for the tip, Major McKell.’
‘Any time, Officer Blessing.’
With a stomach full of pizza marinara, Agent Niland was sitting in the front of the Cherokee feeling quite contented as Agent Sierota drove the three agents to Bar Beach. He didn’t feel at all nervous with the shoebox sitting on his lap. It was stable and he’d done harder jobs than this. Bar Beach looked beautiful as they drove past under the stars, and Fenton Avenue was as quiet as a graveyard when Agent Sierota stopped the Cherokee near the streetlight opposite Mick’s house.
‘That’s the van in the driveway,’ said Sierota.
‘There’s a light on in the house,’ Agent Moharic noted.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Agent Niland. ‘No one will hear a thing.’ He smiled at the other agents. ‘They will later, though.’
Agent Niland got out of the Cherokee and, with Agent Moharic behind him holding a torch, stepped silently across to the van. In no time he had the bonnet open and in the soft light from the torch had no problem finding the red coil wire, the starter solenoid and the positive cable on the battery. Minutes later Agent Niland had the bomb wired up and the four agents were driving back to Bible Bungalow.
After a night of fun and good healthy erotica, Mick and Jesse were sound asleep in Jesse’s queen-size bed in Stockton. It had been a mad night and they had the empty bottles and scattered CDs to prove it. Officer Blessing was asleep with his wife in his roomy, downtown unit in Canberra. The kids were in bed, a nice dinner had been left waiting for him in the microwave and his good wife even threw in a late-night legover for dessert. At Bible Bungalow, everyone was sound asleep with not a worry in the world. Blowing an innocent young man to pieces, and anyone else who happened to be around, was just another day on the job for the agents from the NSA.
In the soft moonlight over Bar Beach, however, two heavily tattooed men in their mid-twenties weren’t asleep. Far from it. Wearing jeans and black T-shirts, Big Larry and Little Burnsie had just stepped into Fenton Avenue from Memorial Drive looking for a car to steal. Not just any old car. They needed a van. An accomplice working in an electrical goods store at Kotara was going to leave a back door unlocked, so they needed something that could take a load. They would have found a vehicle earlier, only Big Larry wanted to stop at a dope-dealing single mother’s house in Merewether for a root. And being a good bloke, he talked the single mother into letting Little Burnsie root her, too. Then, after finishing most of the woman’s beer and helping themselves to her pot and speed, they left. They’d been walking for over an hour when it appeared they’d found what they were looking for.
‘What about that white van over there, Larry?’ whispered Burnsie. ‘It’s got roof racks and everything.’
Big Larry winked at his mate. ‘As good as,’ he said smugly.
After carefully checking the nearby houses, the two men walked over to Mick’s van. Burnsie took a flat piece of metal from his jeans and quickly forced the driver’s side door open. Just as quickly Big Larry climbed inside then opened the other door for Burnsie.
‘Too easy,’ said Big Larry, already groping around beneath the dash with a pair of alligator pliers.
Burnsie swivelled around in his seat. ‘Hey. There’s a stack of stuff in the back we can nick, too. And a new pair of fins.’
‘Good one, Burnsie. Now. I think these are the right wires,’ said Big Larry. ‘Let’s give it a…’
Big Larry touched the wires together and instantaneously a horrendous explosion lit up the sky and thundered across the surrounding suburbs. Pieces of hot metal, tools, screws, nuts, wiring and glass rained down onto the nearby houses, along with the shredded remains of a surfmat and two smouldering flippers. A burning tyre rolled out of the flames and up Mick’s driveway, then wobbled right and rolled down Fenton Avenue. All Big Larry and Burnsie felt was a sudden burst of unimaginable heat before they were barbecued. Big Larry’s right arm and a rear-vision mirror landed in the Wardleys’ front yard and Burnsie’s left leg slammed down on the Parsonses’ roof, smashing the TV aerial. Still half drunk and snoring his head off, Reg Parsons didn’t hear a thing. With a Serepax and a glass of warm milk circulating through her system, and wearing earplugs so she could sleep through her husband’s snoring, Rose Parsons didn’t hear anything either.
Anatural early riser, Officer Blessing was out of bed by six for his early morning jog along Lake Burley Griffin. His wife prepared him a healthy breakfast afterwards, then he saw the kids off to school. Now he was back at work. While Officer Blessing had been jogging, he’d picked the two Sydney-based officers he would send to keep an eye on the Americans: Kerrie Ryman and Craig Cozens. Both were reliable officers who had recently been promoted and their files sat open on his desk. Officer Ryman, from Rose Bay, was a wiry thirty-two-year-old woman with unruly brown hair and brown eyes whose nose had been broken in a car accident. Officer Craig Cozens, thirty-four, from Warriewood, had dark brown hair and hazel eyes, liked the sun and kept fit jogging and windsurfing. Somehow, between sheer coincidence and the laws of chaos, Officer Blessing had chosen two officers with an uncanny resemblance to Mick and Jesse. Officer Blessing had rung Officer Ryman earlier; now he was on the phone to Officer Cozens.
‘I don’t know what these Seppos are up to,’ he concluded, ‘but I’ve got an agent in Newcastle working undercover with a suspect bunch of happy smiling Muslims. And if Zimmer Sierota’s about to snatch somebody, he’s likely to get our bloke snatched by mistake.’
‘Yes, knowing Sierota, that would be on the cards,’ agreed Officer Cozens. ‘Where do you want us to stay in Newcastle?’
‘At the Captain Phillip in the city. I’ve already made the bookings.’ Off
icer Blessing glanced at his watch. ‘If you pick Officer Ryman up in the next hour, you can be in Newcastle by noon. Ring me as soon as you’re outside Bible Bungalow.’
‘Yessir. I’m on my way.’
Cozens hung up and smiled down from his first-floor unit at the department’s white Commodore parked in the driveway. This could be a good gig watching the NSA agents in Newcastle. He and Kerrie Ryman were friends. They knew each other’s style and had been on a number of jobs together. Plus they had something in common. Kerrie went out with a mad, pot-smoking musician named Jack. And Craig went out with a zany, pot-smoking artist named Jackie.
Looking like he’d had no sleep, Agent Sierota was seated in the kitchen at Bible Bungalow listening to the radio when the other agents filed in just in time to catch a local news bulletin.
‘Well, it looks like we got him,’ said Agent Niland, smiling around the kitchen when the bulletin finished.
‘It said there were two people in the van,’ was Sierota’s unsmiling response.
‘It might have been a new business partner or something?’ suggested Agent Coleborne.
Agent Moharic shrugged. ‘Probably one of his buddies.’
Agent Sierota looked at his watch. ‘I’ll know for sure in an hour.’
Wearing tight-fitting jeans, a white T-shirt with an Orca on the front, and a very satisfied smile on her face, Jesse was in the kitchen cooking breakfast when Mick came down the stairs dressed in the same clothes as last night. She had the radio on, half listening to some FM morning crew, all trying desperately to be funny between rafts of ads and bursts of pop music.
‘Hey,’ said Jesse. ‘There was an explosion at Bar Beach last night.’
‘There was?’ answered Mick.
‘Yes. A van got blown up. They think it was the gas bottle.’
Mick gave Jesse a knowing look and took a bottle of mineral water from the fridge. ‘Yeah, I know who that’d be. Old Jack. He’s been living in his campervan outside the surf club for the last couple of months. Him and his dog. I told him about the fitting on his bottle.’
‘You did?’ said Jesse.
‘Ohh yeah. “I’ll get it fixed”,’ parodied Mick. Mick shook his head. ‘Looks like he got it fixed all right.’
‘Shit! Poor bloke.’
‘Yeah. Jack was all right. He had this grouse little fox terrier called Fidel. It was everybody’s mate.’
‘What a shame,’ said Jesse.
‘Yeah.’ Mick rubbed himself against Jesse as he moved around the table.
‘Ooohh,’ said Jesse. ‘Is that a stethoscope in your pocket, doctor? Or are you just glad to see me?’
‘Want to find out, Nurse No Knickers?’
Jesse pointed to the table with her wooden spoon. ‘Just sit down and behave yourself,’ she ordered. ‘I’ve got your favourite breakfast coming up. Scrambled eggs with chives and paprika. And tomatoes fried in sweet chilli sauce. I even grilled the bacon for you.’
‘Unreal. I’ll get the tea and toast together.’
The forensic squad had come and gone in Fenton Avenue, along with a tow truck and a swarm of reporters, radio journalists and film crews. The forensic people had been to any number of horrific crime scenes, but they conceded this hadn’t been a bad one when they pulled the charred remains of Big Larry and Little Burnsie from what was left of Mick’s van. And after they found Big Larry’s arm in the Wardleys’ front yard, and retrieved Little Burnsie’s leg from the flattened remains of the Parsonses’ TV aerial, the Police Rescue Squad agreed. The grim-faced detectives from Newcastle Homicide Squad couldn’t find anything unusual in Mick and the Wardleys not being home. But they couldn’t believe a surprised Mrs Parsons and her badly hungover husband hadn’t heard anything. Meanwhile, the DNA on the remains of the two deceased persons had come through, and although there was no connection between them and Mick, the detectives still believed they had a suspect. Subsequently, a heavily armed police squad surrounded a small house in Birmingham Gardens, and ‘a male Caucasian, Andrew Brooks, was now in custody, helping police with their investigations.’ All that remained at the crime scene was a huge scorch mark in Mick’s driveway, two broken front windows in the house and a garage roller door peppered by shrapnel. This was being guarded from behind a perimeter of police tape by two bored young police officers waving away flies in front of a crowd of shocked neighbours and chattering stickybeaks carrying Handycams and digital cameras.
At Bible Bungalow, Agent Sierota’s pock-marked face looked like the dark side of the moon when he slammed down the phone. Not only was it bad news. It had taken a lot longer than an hour to get it.
‘Goddamn lazy friggin’ Australians!’ he thundered.
The other agents seated around the bigger loungeroom blinked and exchanged puzzled looks.
‘Bad news, boss?’ Agent Coleborne asked tentatively.
‘Yes, you could say that, Agent Coleborne,’ Sierota replied tersely. ‘It wasn’t Vincent in the van.’
‘WHAT!’
‘It was two piss-ass petty criminals named Larry Aldershot and Daniel Burns.’
‘Oh shit!’ exclaimed Agent Moharic.
‘They tried to steal his goddamn car, for Chrissake!’ cursed Sierota.
Agent Niland rolled his eyes. ‘Jesus H. Christ! How’s our luck?’
‘Yes. Just great.’ Sierota’s eyes narrowed before he smiled bitterly at Agent Niland. ‘But I’m glad you mentioned Jesus, Agent Niland.’ Sierota pointed to the bedrooms. ‘You know where your short-sleeved white shirts are, gentlemen. The Bibles are on the table and you’ll find an ample supply of Watch-towers in the garage.’
‘Watchtowers?’ said Agent Coleborne. ‘Ain’t they the Jehovah’s Witnesses?’
‘Don’t matter a goddamn, Orrin,’ replied Agent Sierota. ‘They’re all the same Jesus Junkies.’
‘If you say so, boss,’ shrugged Agent Coleborne.
‘So we’re…?’ said Agent Moharic.
‘That’s right, Floyd.’ Agent Sierota gave Agent Moharic another thin smile. ‘Even if you have to knock on every door and window in Newcastle spreading the gospel, you’re going to find out where this sonofabitch Vincent is.’
Agent Moharic rose to his feet. ‘We’ll start with his neighbours.’
‘That would be just peachy, Floyd,’ said Sierota.
By the time the fun and games got started at Bible Bungalow, Mick and Jesse had enjoyed a beautiful breakfast and cleaned everything up. Jesse had packed everything she thought she’d need for the trip to Muswellbrook, including a packet of pain killers, plenty of film and several of her favourite CDs. With her bags in the kitchen, Jesse was looking thoughtfully at Mick.
‘Now you’ve got a backpack, haven’t you, Mick?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ replied Mick. ‘My overnight bag doubles as a backpack.’
‘Good. Because if we’re going to find Tesla’s doomsday machine, I imagine we’ll be doing a fair bit of bush bashing.’
‘Don’t worry, my dove,’ said Mick. ‘I’ve accounted for that. So I also packed Aerogard and a pair of Odor-Eaters for my sturdy boots.’ Mick wiggled his eyebrows. ‘And I’ll be wearing Lynx. So keep your filthy little hands to yourself.’
Jesse gave Mick a double blink, mixed with a withering once-up-and-down. ‘Mick,’ she said. ‘Don’t take this lightly, you goose. The future of the bloody world rests in our hands.’
‘Along with possibly a substantial amount of money, too, I might add,’ replied Mick.
Jesse looked wounded. ‘How can you say that?’ she asked.
‘Easy.’ Mick picked Jesse’s bag up off the floor. ‘Come on, you horrible, rotten, avaricious little beast. Let’s blast off.’
Jesse’s eyes narrowed before she grabbed Mick by the front of his shirt and sucked air in through her teeth. ‘God! I love it when you call me names,’ she growled.
Madeline Peyroux was shuffling through ‘Weary Blues’ and Mick and Jesse were motoring majestically along the New England Highway p
ast Maitland when the two young police officers stationed outside Mick’s house noticed the three Mormons making their way through the crowd to Mrs Parsons’ front door.
‘Fair dinkum,’ said the tallest cop. ‘Can you believe those Bible-bashing bastards? What are they doing here?’
‘I dunno,’ replied his partner. ‘But if they come over here annoying me, I’ll kick the three of them in the nuts.’
The three NSA agents shuffled around on Mrs Parsons’ front porch exchanging glances, before Agent Coleborne spoke.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Who wants to be Joseph Smith?’
‘It may as well be me, I suppose,’ offered Agent Moharic.
Agent Moharic knocked on the door and stepped back. A few moments later, a puffy-eyed Mrs Parsons opened it, wearing an old blue tracksuit. After being questioned by detectives and hounded by the media, she was pleasantly surprised to find three clean-cut young gentlemen standing at her door holding Bibles and briefcases.
‘Oh hello,’ said Mrs Parsons brightly. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Madam,’ said Agent Moharic, ‘I’m Elder Gorgel. This is Elder Caleb and Elder Bozidar. Can we have a word with you about the good Lord Jesus?’
‘Our Lord and Saviour,’ smiled Agent Coleborne.
‘And Redeemer,’ added Agent Niland.
An irritable voice suddenly boomed out from inside. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s the Mormons, dear,’ replied Mrs Parsons.
‘Yeah? Well, tell ‘em to piss off.’
‘I will, dear.’ Mrs Parsons smiled at the three men. ‘Take no notice of him. He’s always like that. Now, what was it again?’
‘We’re soldiers fighting for the Lord,’ said Agent Moharic. ‘We’d like to talk to you about Jesus Christ.’
‘Amen,’ said Agent Niland.
‘Hallelujah to that brother,’ intoned Agent Coleborne.
The Tesla Legacy Page 8