Hardcastle nodded agreement.
‘There’s a C-5 departing Townsville to Diego Garcia tomorrow, sir,’ Monroe said cheerfully. ‘I can have Warrant Officer Wilkes loaded as my excess baggage.’
‘Tom,’ said Hardcastle, ignoring Monroe, ‘if you refuse to take on this assignment I promise you it will not reflect badly on you in any way. We’ve discussed your operational status already and this is as good a time as any to put it to the test. The final decision is up to you.’
The D-G stood and shuffled together a sheaf of papers. ‘Let me know your answer quickly, Tom,’ he said.
‘The answer’s yes, sir,’ said Wilkes, kicking himself. He needed a good stretch of R & R and he wanted – no, needed – to spend some time with Annabelle. And while he’d never been to Israel, he was well aware of the situation there, as was everyone who had access to a news bulletin. The place was a mess, despite all attempts to restart the peace process. So why go? This was his job, what he was trained to do. Sort of. And as for not reflecting badly on him if he chose to sit on the beach instead? Bullshit. When you started turning things down, people started questioning your commitment. Simple as that.
Griffin paused at the doorway. ‘Thanks, Tom. Why am I not surprised? Andrew, thank you also.’
Hardcastle stood to go. The meeting was concluded. ‘Watch out for yourself, Tom,’ he said as he left the room.
‘Tom,’ said Griffin, popping his head back around the door, ‘I’ll get DIO to put some background notes together for you to read on the plane so you know what you’re walking into. And by the way, meet your new boss.’ He gestured with his folder at Gia Ferallo. ‘Ms Ferallo.’
‘Welcome to the CIA, Tom,’ said Ferallo.
The woman was standing, looking straight at him, and her hands were on her hips. Gone was the twinset and pearls girl. And, for the first time, Wilkes noticed how attractive she was. At five foot nine, Ferallo was slightly taller than him, and slender. Thick auburn hair that turned naturally blond at the tips framed her face and fell with a bounce below her shoulders. She had olive skin with eyes the colour of bright green glass. Her accent was broad – a New Yorker, probably, and from the poorer part of town from the sound of things, but she wore it like a badge of honour.
‘Thanks, Ms Ferallo,’ said Wilkes.
‘Call me Gia.’ She smiled and it was a warm, genuine smile that made her green eyes sparkle.
‘Oh-kay,’ said Monroe, aware of the electricity in the air. ‘Think I’ll leave you two to get better acquainted. Things to do, people to see.’ He stopped to shake Tom’s hand on the way out. ‘Heard a lot about you SAS types. But I’m sure it’s all hype.’
‘And you’ll be the judge,’ said Wilkes, wondering whether to take Monroe seriously.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘See you tomorrow morning. Dress to kill, dude.’
‘Don’t mind Atticus,’ said Ferallo when he’d left. ‘He’s cocky, but he’s good.’
At what?
It was obvious to Ferallo that Wilkes remained unconvinced. ‘You’ll both get along fine. Trust me.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Wilkes. He glanced at the wall clock. ‘Whoa,’ he said. ‘If I hurry, I can catch my flight.’
‘Hey, why don’t you come with Atticus and me? I’m heading up north to have a quick look around. Never been there. We’re catching a VIP flight up a little later.’
‘I would, but…’
Wilkes’s body language told Ferallo he’d already decided against it. ‘Well then, have a drink with me in Townsville this evening and I’ll give you some background on CIA procedures.’
Part of him was tempted, but being around a woman like this for any length of time could be dangerous, and Wilkes didn’t want anything to complicate things with Annabelle. Not now.
‘Um…happy to do the briefing, Gia, but I have a date planned with my fiancée.’
‘Oh,’ said Ferallo, a little surprised. ‘I didn’t know you were…Never mind,’ she said, forcing a smile.
Townsville, Queensland, Australia
Wilkes’s plane had been delayed. It didn’t touch down until nearly eight pm. He hadn’t phoned Annabelle during the day to tell her that he’d be back for the evening. He’d wanted to surprise her. But when he did phone, he was the one who’d received the surprise. Annabelle hated going to bars, but that’s apparently where she was. And there was something strange, almost guilty, in her voice.
Wilkes strolled into the dimly lit bar at around 2030 hrs, but he felt like it was closer to three in the morning. Meetings did that to him, and he’d had a day of them. Annabelle was perched on a high stool, legs crossed, sipping a cocktail. Men were gathered around her and she was enjoying the attention. This mightn’t have been her style, but she seemed to be lapping it up anyway.
‘Hey, Belle…’
‘Hi,’ she said with a wave through the gathering. She appeared pleased to see him, but there was that something else, unsure and unspoken. She kissed him quickly on the lips when he managed to squeeze through, just as another man joined them.
‘Tom, this is Steve, Steve Saunders. Steve – Tom. My fiancé.’
‘You’re a lucky man, Tom,’ said Saunders, holding out his hand.
Tom shook it automatically. It was pudgy, and Saunders had just returned from the bathroom so the hand was also wet. Saunders was around forty-five, with perfectly combed hair, a tanned face and a pink shirt with white collar, the two top buttons undone revealing a nest of grey hair.
‘Yes, very lucky,’ Tom said, his other arm around Annabelle’s waist.
‘Steve’s up from Sydney. He’s the ANTV Network News executive producer.’
‘Ah, the big kahuna,’ said Tom.
‘Exactly, Tom, so we have to be nice to him,’ said Annabelle, playing the part and rewarding Saunders with her best smile. Annabelle was wearing her usual preferred style of clothing, something stretchy and tight that showed off her figure. Wilkes didn’t like the way Saunders looked at her, as if he was about to tuck into a banquet.
‘I’ve just been congratulating Annabelle, Tom. She’s got a big future in the network. She could go all the way,’ said Saunders, toasting Annabelle with a bright green cocktail. ‘Get you something?’
‘Ah, just a beer, thanks,’ said Wilkes.
The beer arrived pronto. It tasted good, so he drank half straight away.
‘Thirsty,’ said Annabelle, giving his leg a reassuring squeeze.
Tom forced a smile.
‘So, have you told Tom yet?’ asked Saunders.
‘Told Tom what?’ Wilkes asked.
Annabelle took one of his hands in both of hers, like she was about to propose. ‘Tom, as I said, Steve’s the network producer. He’s here because, well, they want me in Sydney.’
‘Hey, that’s fantastic, Belle,’ said Wilkes, putting his beer down to give her a bear hug and a kiss to go with it. He knew she was the best and this was recognition that everyone else thought so too.
‘Yeah,’ said Saunders, raising his glass for yet another toast. ‘We want Annabelle in Sydney to read the morning news, following on from the cartoons. It’s a big move up. And we also want you, Tom. Annabelle’s told me what you do – hey, just in general terms, mate, no secrets because then you’d have to kill me, right?’ he said mock seriously.
Don’t tempt me, thought Wilkes.
‘And the network needs a defence expert – a consultant. In Sydney, of course. God knows there’s enough going on around the world these days. That’s something we should have had – full time – a long time ago.’
It was a strange moment for Tom. He heard what the producer was saying, but all he could focus on was the man’s shirt. People stopped wearing them back in the eighties, didn’t they? Weren’t they called power shirts? And the tan looked fake. Tom Wilkes didn’t like being ambushed. It made him want to fight back. But against who? And how? And what did Annabelle expect? That they’d just up and leave Townsville? And what about the army? He couldn’
t exactly give two weeks’ notice. Hadn’t they talked about this? Wilkes tried to recall the conversation. If he remembered correctly, they’d decided he wasn’t leaving the army. ‘Um…I don’t know what to say, Steve.’
‘That’s okay, Tom. No need to thank me. We’d do anything to get Annabelle down to Sydney.’
I bet you would, mate.
‘You okay, Tom?’ asked Annabelle. Tom was smiling, but it wasn’t a particularly pleasant smile. Saunders had turned away to order another round of drinks, and had struck up a conversation with the bar girl.
‘Look, Belle, I’m proud of you, you know that. But this, now…well…shouldn’t we talk a bit more about it without Donald Trump here to moderate?’
‘But this would be good for us.’
‘Look, it’s great for you, but can you honestly see me hanging around the TV station in Sydney?’
Annabelle took a long sip of her drink, her cheeks flushed red with anger.
‘Jesus, don’t pout. We need to talk about this.’
‘How about tomorrow?’
Bloody hell, thought Tom, he’d just been ambushed again. ‘Belle…I’m going away tomorrow.’
‘Right,’ she said, nodding her head slowly. ‘Care to tell me where? Oh, I forgot, you can’t tell me.’ The words dripped with sarcasm.
‘Belle, that’s not exactly –’
‘If you’re going to tell me it’s not fair, don’t bother,’ said Annabelle. ‘I want a husband who’s going to be there when I come home at night. I read the headlines, I don’t want a husband who makes them.’
‘So what are you saying here…?’
Steve turned back and felt the tension between Annabelle and Wilkes. He’d seen it coming. A raucous laugh caught his attention. It was the producer he’d been introduced to earlier, having some fun with a few other people he’d recognised from the station – a cute cadet journalist amongst them. He made his way over. ‘Hey, Barry…Barry Weaver, isn’t it? Loved that Papua New Guinea piece, mate…’
‘Belle? Speak to me, please.’ Wilkes was uncomfortable with the brooding silence.
‘Look, every time you go away, I don’t sleep.’
‘You never told me that before.’
‘We weren’t getting married before. And when footage comes in from some crisis somewhere or other, I live in fear that I’m going to see you as I read the bloody news, getting shot, right in front of my eyes.’
‘Look, that’s not going to happen.’
‘It’s already happened. In Papua New Guinea. I saw the out-takes. It was you right there in the background. After the battle with the highlanders…’
That bastard… Wilkes concentrated his anger in a glance at Weaver. The producer looked up and toasted him, smiling.
‘So what? You expect me just to pack everything in and move to Sydney?’
‘Do you expect me not to go to Sydney?’
Both Tom and Annabelle could see they were getting nowhere. Annabelle drank the rest of her drink, and felt it warm her stomach. ‘Are you going to stay with me tonight?’
‘No,’ said Tom, wishing he could have said something different. ‘I leave at four in the morning. Have to stay on post.’
‘Fine, then.’
‘Look, Annabelle –’
‘Just go. You have to anyway.’
Tom didn’t know what to do. He had to get back to post, pack his gear and get a final briefing, but he didn’t want to leave the woman he loved when she was feeling so awful about the future. He wanted to shout that he had an important job to do, that the job he did helped keep the world in which she lived safe, but it wasn’t the time or the place for anger or a lecture. The fact was, at that moment Tom knew he would not leave the regiment to work as a TV consultant no matter how good the pay was. It was not his style. Quite what that foretold for their relationship he wasn’t sure, but the twist in his gut told him that the prognosis wasn’t good. ‘Goodbye, Belle,’ he said, giving her a peck on the cheek. ‘See you when I get back.’
‘When will that be?’ she said, eyes watering, her face full of disappointment. ‘Oh, I forgot, you can’t tell me that either.’
Flores, Indonesia
Duat stood at the edge of the beach and listened to the hum of activity in the camp behind him, the warm waters of the Java Sea gently breaking on the sand of crushed shells. He dug his toes into it and wiggled them, something he used to do as a child. Of course Kadar Al-Jahani had to go to the West Bank and capitalise on the demonstration in Jakarta, he told himself, the bombing would have been a largely pointless exercise otherwise – but it would be a dangerous trip. As agreed, they had not claimed responsibility for the attack. The time for Babu Islam to announce its existence and its intentions to the world would come. But that time was some way off yet. There was still too much to do to risk a response from the west. And yet, despite the silence and as a direct result of Kadar’s demonstration, into the new camp had wandered a steady stream of willing recruits. These people knew little or nothing about Babu Islam but still they came, for the bombing had been a beacon for the faithful to take up the fight.
The first of the arrivals caused a great deal of concern. Any one of the new recruits could be a spy. The solution had been a costly and time-consuming one, but necessary. A panel of trusted men was created to handle the influx. The arrivals were questioned and background checks performed. The newcomers were thoroughly searched, of course, and quarantined for a time until the background checks were completed. So far, no spies had been identified but the core of a bureaucracy had been created, perhaps the beginnings of a workable security infrastructure that could be imposed once Babu Islam assumed power.
More than likely there were other groups like Babu Islam also enjoying an influx of new blood; Jamaah Islamiah and the Islamic Youth Movement – the GPI – and others benefiting from the blow they’d dealt the Great Evil, the United States of America. The resources required to process the arrival of so many new enthusiastic hands had been considerable, but the influx had been welcome.
Working parties had been hard at their labours for a good hour before dawn. The runway was already partially hacked out of the jungle and mangroves, and all the major buildings were up. Indeed, the bombing had profoundly affected the atmosphere at the camp. There was a sense of elation underpinned by a renewed purpose. Duat had noticed small shrines dedicated to Dedy and his heroism, incense burning before blurred snapshots of the man. It was not strictly the Muslim way, but the movement had attracted followers from the four corners of the sprawling Indonesian archipelago, and with them had come a melange of local superstitions and idiosyncrasies. In time, a deeper understanding of the Qur’an would purge Babu Islam of these impurities but at the moment, Duat had decided to tolerate them – there were other priorities.
Dedy Abimanu’s sacrifice had, overnight, become the benchmark of a man’s dedication to the cause and a demonstration of his love for Allah. Already, Duat had received several requests from others begging for martyrdom in the name of Allah and for the eternal benefits that would flow to them for this sacrifice. This was something Kadar Al-Jahani had predicted, something that could be put to good use when the time came for coordinated attacks throughout Indonesia, Malaysia and the Philippines, for an army of committed believers would be required to give up their lives.
A small crab scuttled across Duat’s instep and brought him out of his reverie. He raised the binoculars to his eyes again and ran a forefinger across the wheel, bringing the mist on the horizon into focus.
‘If the navigation package works, we would not expect to receive its transmission signal for another sixty-five seconds,’ said Hitu Hendra by his side, a former communications lieutenant in the Tentara Nasional Indonesia – Angkatan Udara, the Indonesian air force.
Duat nodded. The two men stood together, each lost in his own solitary world. Duat had no real understanding of the problems and challenges faced by Hendra, and the former air force man was equally blind to Duat’s concern
s.
Hendra pondered this latest flight test. The electronics that came with the drone were smashed and beyond repair, as were its sophisticated infrared and optical cameras – no doubt the result of its fall to earth in Israel. So Hendra had had to create a guidance system from scratch – something the Americans spent millions of dollars and years to develop, and he’d had to do it with off-the-shelf technology. But rather than being daunted by the task, Hendra had at first relished it. Ingenuity was what kept the TNI-AU flying, and it would also get Babu Islam’s unmanned aerial vehicle – its very own UAV – off the ground and to its target.
Hendra had experimented with a number of different possible technology paths, all of which had failed for one reason or another, and he was beginning to think that perhaps his promise of success to Duat and Kadar Al-Jahani had been the product of pride rather than of ability. Even though wide experience with aircraft and computers enabled Hendra to test systems that appeared to be workable in theory, they turned out to be flawed in practice.
Hendra watched a couple of seagulls turn and bank on the air currents and then skim across the water, all in complete control. They mocked him. He bit his nails down to the quick as he walked back and forth, willing the test to be a success.
Duat scanned the horizon with binoculars, forcing his tongue into the hole in his front teeth. This was the fourth test flight he’d witnessed, all failures. And there had been others he hadn’t attended. This particular test aircraft was small, no more than a child’s toy, really, with a wingspan of two metres. It was supposed to be heading inbound to the encampment by now, following the completion of a twenty-kilometre loop over the open water. Duat looked at his watch.
‘Any moment now, sir,’ said Hendra, feeling the tension. ‘When the plane climbs above the horizon, we should receive a signal from its transmitter.’
Duat grunted a reply without lowering his binoculars.
Hendra glanced at his watch. Thirty seconds and counting. The seconds ticked by. Duat and Hendra searched the distance. A minute passed. Silence.
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