Only Eagles Fly

by Graham Guy

  “Think about it,” Franco said to him. “Who in their right fucking mind would even attempt it? I think that’s our strongest ally. It’s just so outrageous, no-one would give it a thought. If what Gina says is true and there’s no security, then what will give us a problem? We might hit bad weather. The plane might blow an engine. The rent a car might break down. Jesus, there’s all sorts of stuff like that. But I can’t see how we’re going to have a problem. Gina?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve asked myself over and over. I’m with you. I think the plan is so bloody outrageous it will work.”

  “OK. So we wait it out.”

  “One further thing” Gina added. “Wouldn’t it have been easier for us to fly with Josh from here?”

  “Too messy,” Franco responded. “Too many people on board going into Darwin. And what do we do for a few days while Josh loads up, apart from draw attention to ourselves? No, I think this is best. It also gives Luigi a look at the place first before he comes back to get us.”

  As everyone departed Gina was still gravely worried about Enrico.

  How the hell do I keep him off the piss and away from the women in the time left before we leave? I’ll talk to Franco. That can be his job.

  She could tell Franco wanted more of her, but she was also expecting a call from Sebastian… and she was already late. She went to Franco’s door with him and looked down her face.

  “Oh, Jesus, you’re not?”

  “Started early. During the meeting for god’s sakes.”

  “Shit, Gina!” he cursed.

  “Bloody hell, babe, I’m not god. That’s one thing I can’t control.”

  “Sorry, sweetheart.”

  Franco cursed and entered his room alone.

  Gina checked her watch. Now I have to get the hell out of here and hope to god those bastards don’t spot me.

  Gina could hear the phone ringing as she tried to open her front door. She made a rush to get it.

  “God I miss you… have you been running?”

  “I’ve just been down to the car. I heard the phone ringing as I was trying to open the front door. How long have we got?”

  “Two hours,” he answered glumly.

  “Please hurry,” she purred into the phone.

  As she hung up, she wondered how many more times she’d have to go to bed with Sebastian McAlister before she could quietly slip away.

  Make the most of it, baby, ‘cause time’s nearly up.

  Chapter 14

  John James McGregor-McWeasely remained closeted in his flat by day, only venturing out at night to keep watch on Enrico’s house. He knew that when that four-wheel-drive left for the Northern Territory he would need to be closely following.

  This particular night started out like any other. He parked himself off Enrico’s house, then suddenly his stomach went into turmoil as Enrico arrived home in his car without the four-wheel-drive. John James panicked. He drove away quickly, heading for Franco’s house. There was no sign of it there.

  Shit!

  He then made his way to where Luigi lived, only breathing a sigh of relief when he saw the vehicle parked in his driveway.

  The bastards have changed tack. They’ve bloody swapped. Must have. So now it’s Luigi who’ll be the greeter. Ten days till the twenty-third. There has to be some movement shortly.

  * * *

  Georgette McKinley sat staring out the window of her unit, still in shock about what she’d heard on the car radio. Now and again she’d glance over at her telephone.

  Funny it hasn’t rung, she thought.

  She poured herself a small sherry, something she’d rarely do, and paced up and down her loungeroom floor. She was so preoccupied that she nearly jumped out of her skin when the phone did ring. Quickly she grabbed it. “Hello,” she said urgently.

  “Have you heard?” came the question from a familiar voice.

  “What the fuck happened?” she yelled down the line.

  Georgette was speaking to Prime Minister John Talbot. The news-flash on the radio told of his demise. He’d been rolled in cabinet at a specially convened Saturday meeting.

  “Had no idea,” he told her in the voice of a shattered man.

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “Not Cameron?”

  “Uh-huh, Cameron, my closest bloody confidant.”

  “Jesus, John, he’s the goddammed treasurer. What was the split?”

  “He got in by five.”

  “Five? And you really had no idea?”

  “I’ve just spent a week behind closed doors with him doing the bloody budget. No! Jesus Christ, not a bloody clue. What a fucking germ! I’ve dedicated my life to that bloody party!”

  “So what now?”

  “Too bloody shell-shocked to even think about it.”

  “The budget’s this Thursday isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I have to resign Tuesday morning and he takes over from there.”

  “Certainly be in his element come Budget Day won’t he? What a mongrel!”

  “You home tonight?”

  “I’m always here for you, you know that,” she told him in a voice she hoped would go some way towards consoling him.

  “I’ll be in Sydney tonight. I have a couple of official duties to cover. I’ll get rid of security and come and see you.”

  “Oh, John, that’d be wonderful, but this is hardly the time. You must be going through hell.”

  “I am. Don’t make any mistake about that. I really, really am. I have something for you. It’ll be late, but I’ll be there.”

  “Be careful, because right now you’re front-page news. Every journo and photographer in the country will be trying to track you down.”

  “They won’t get anywhere near me. See you soon.”

  A short time later Georgette switched on the television to catch the news, but the demise of John Talbot was already across all channels.

  Bloody Cameron! What a mealy-mouthed, gutless little bastard he turned out to be. Got to hand it to him, though. That’s the neatest bloody hatchet job I’ve ever seen done on anyone!

  She cooked herself a light meal, showered and waited for John Talbot to arrive. When it came midnight and there was still no sign of him, she went into her bedroom, she went into her bedroom, took a blanket from her blanket box and curled up on the couch. At two a.m. he still hadn’t arrived. Three a.m., still no sign. It was ten past four in the morning when a slight knock at her door stirred her. She checked the security-eye. It was John Talbot. Quickly, she opened the door.

  “Bloody hell, you were right about every bastard in the country wanting a piece of me! The buggers are everywhere.” He closed the door behind himself and tried to smile as he took Georgette into his arms. “Hi,” he said softly.

  “John, this is just so awful….”

  “Never know in this game, do you?”

  “You sure it was Cameron?”

  “Sure I’m sure! He told me.”

  With that John Talbot put his briefcase on Georgette’s lounge-room table and looked at her. “How would you like the most humungous bloody story of your gorgeous young life?”

  She looked at him, her eyes opening wider and wider.

  “You’ve got two hours. I’m gonna take a shower and grab a bit of sleep… if I can use your bed…?

  “Of course you can, you know that,” she cut in.

  “Wake me up at ten to six. If you open my briefcase, you’ll find the Budget Papers. The summary’s on the top. Don’t bother with the other crap. Just use the summary. Defence, health, petrol, beer and cigarettes are the big ones. Write out as much as you like until ten to six. Save it till Tuesday night. I promise you it won’t leak. Then drop it at six o’clock. I want to watch Cameron squirm as you totally fuck his day.”

  “Oh, John, for god’s sake’s, this is… is…”

  He pressed his fingers to her lips. “I’m not bloody naïve, babe. I know that now I’m out of there you’ll move on. I’l
l go about what’s left of my life being a former Prime Minister, so I guess this is my way of saying thank you for being part of my life.”

  “It doesn’t have to be like that…”

  “Yes it does. You know that. I know that. It’s all about power and ambition. I had the power. You have the ambition. My god! you are so damn special to me it hurts. Believe it or don’t believe it, but a big part of me will always be in love with you. But I won’t hinder you. You have your whole life in front of you. Now start writing and wake me at ten to six.”

  “No,” she said sadly, “I’ll wake you at twenty to six.” Tears began to cover her eyes as she ran her hand up his shirt.

  He pulled her in close to himself. “OK. Twenty to six. I’d like that.”

  When John Talbot walked from Georgette’s unit a few minutes after six, she picked up the phone to the telephone company. She had planned to go to bed, sleep for the day then prepare her story on the budget when she got up. But she found she was on such a high in receiving the hottest story in the country, at that moment sleep wouldn’t come. So she switched on her laptop and went to work. By midday she was nearly out on her feet. In her office there was a small wall safe.

  She put her story behind lock and key then fell into bed.

  * * *

  Bill Murphy was having a dreadful time putting the words together to complete The Corridors of Injustice. He’d sit down at his keyboard, but nothing would come. He’d spend literally hours in his ‘seat’ on the cliff face in front of his house. The waves would roll in. Seagulls swooped on anything he threw to them, but the only thoughts to fill his mind centred on Georgette McKinley. He’d light one cigarette, then another while the first one was still burning.

  As much as he tried to tell himself he was being nothing but a ridiculous old fool, her image was constantly before him. Even the sea air couldn’t dispel her smell from his senses. He’d try to sleep. An hour later he’d be up, pacing the floor, berating himself. Convinced such stupidity was nothing more than a mid-life crisis, he found if he kept himself physically active he was better able to cope. So he’d fuss around his plants and bushes. After spending the Tuesday afternoon in his garden he walked inside in time to catch the six o’clock news. Georgette McKinley led the bulletin with a story that stopped him dead in his tracks. She began:

  “Australia’s new Prime Minister and Treasurer Lindsay Cameron will hand down his third budget on Thursday.

  “And I can tell you this document will not only be heinous and ruthless, it will rip the very soul out of mainstream Australia. Cigarettes will be 25 cents dearer for a standard pack of 20. Leaded and unleaded petrol will jump 15 cents a litre. It’ll cost you an extra 20 cents to buy a schooner of beer and there’ll be an across-the-board cut of 12 per cent in unemployment benefits. Defence spending will be dropped by 32 per cent meaning there’ll be no funding for recruitment purposes over the next year, and allocations to public hospitals chopped by 20 per cent…”

  Bill Murphy sat glaring at the television set. “Jesus Christ! That’s the bloody budget! How the fuck did she get that? Nobody gets that.” He rose from his chair and paced his kitchen floor, still glancing at Georgette on the screen. “Nobody gets that! This is unbelievable! Unbelievable! How the hell did she get it?”

  He couldn’t stand it any longer. He dialled RTN ELEVEN.

  “Good god! Three times in a bloody week!” George Hanks said. “Hey, thanks for the grab. I owe you one.”

  “And I’m about to call it in, too. What’s going on?”

  “You mean the budget stuff? Christ, if she’s got it right, then she’s just scooped every bastard in the business. Every journo in the country has been on the phone to this joint since it dropped. Cameron is screaming but he won’t say it’s bullshit. The Opposition’s carrying on like a dog with two dicks. The Financial Review is shitting itself because no bugger in there got the drop on the price hikes and cutbacks. The Sydney Morning Herald, The Age… mate, every bastard’s climbing up my arse!”

  “Has she got it right?”

  “I only hope for her sake she has. If not, I’ll have to fire her.”

  “And if she is right?”

  “They’ll probably make her the bloody Prime Minister.”

  “Jesus, I don’t know. She’ll be able to write her own ticket I suppose.”

  “Mate, when she came into my office Monday and closed the door, I could tell whatever was on her mind was a bit more than a children’s tea party. When she laid it on me, Christ, I nearly had a bloody haemorrhage. I asked her where she got it, but she wouldn’t tell me. In fact I reckon she’d even go to jail rather than disclose her source.”

  “So now what?”

  “Wait till Thursday, I guess”

  “If she is right, is it too late for Cameron to change it?”

  “I’d think so. The presses would already have done their job. Any-way why all the interest in our wonderfully gorgeous Georgette?”

  “Has she got a passport?”

  “Oh really! So she has got under your bloody skin?”

  “Don’t be an arsehole, George. Could you do without her for five days?”

  “Piss off! After what’s happened tonight? You must be joking. And if her budget stuff is spot on, I’d say she’s going to be pretty thin on the ground. Why? What’s going on?”

  “Nothing’s going on… I was wondering if she disappeared for a week, that you’d cover for her?”

  “When?”

  “About a fortnight’s time.”

  “No way…”

  “You owe me one, remember? She’ll only be away five days, OK?”

  “You’re a pain in the arse, Bill.”

  “Thanks, mate. Just don’t tell her you and I have talked.”

  * * *

  Australia’s news media and talkback radio shows ran with saturation coverage of the leaked budget. Prime Minister Lindsay Cameron instituted damage control in a bid to run a snow job over the entirety of Georgette McKinley’s report. But at no time was anything she stated denied. The pressure for comments from Georgette became so intense, George Hanks ordered all her calls to be screened.

  “You want to talk to the media about this?” he asked her.

  “Do you think I should?”

  “It’s up to you. I wouldn’t.”

  At that moment George Hanks’ direct line rang. Only a handful of people had the number. He picked it up expecting a familiar voice. It wasn’t what he got.

  “Is that George Hanks?” bellowed a question into the phone before he even had time to fully announce himself.

  “Yes it is…”

  “Lindsay Cameron, Mr Hanks. Put Georgette McKinley on the line,” he demanded.

  George Hanks felt his stomach drop. He looked at Georgette. “It’s the bloody Prime Minister… for you.”

  Without thinking, she grabbed the phone. “This is Georgette McKinley, Prime Minister. Good evening.”

  “Don’t you good evening me, you fucking strumpet!” he roared. “Where the bloody hell did you get your information and don’t come the bullshit it just lobbed on your desk?”

  Georgette’s hands and knees were shaking. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t tell you that…”

  “Well, let me tell you something, you goddammed smart-mouthed bitch. This phone call never happened. If it’s being recorded I’ll see you in fucking jail. And as long as your arse points to the ground you will never ever get anything ever again from this office or this government, as long as I’m Prime Minister. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “I demand as Prime Minister of this country that you tell me your source or I’ll sue your bloody station for every penny it’s got.”

  “One question?”

  “What?” he bellowed.

  “Tell me my report was a pack of lies?”

  “Fuck you, bitch!” Click.

  “He hung up on me,” Georgette told her boss.

  “What the hell was all that about
?”

  “You mean amongst all the threats and abuse? He called me for everything. Wanted disclosure or he’ll sue the station for everything.”

  “The mongrel bastard!… And?”

  “And nothing. I wouldn’t tell him and, what’s more, you heard me ask if what I said was a pack of lies and he just roared ‘Fuck you, bitch!’ and slammed down the phone.”

  George Hanks looked squarely into Georgette McKinley’s eyes. “Jesus, I hope you’re right.”

  “If I’m not, you won’t have to fire me. I’ll leave.”

  “Yeah, and you’ll be taking me with you. The old man wouldn’t let me stay after that. And remember, too, if you are wrong, Cameron will see to it that our names are shit and we’ll never work in the industry again.”

  George Hanks’ direct line rang again.

  “Monkhouse… put the girl on will you?”

  George turned to Georgette with his hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s the old man.”

  “Shit! What will I tell him, George?”

  “The PM was a piece of piss. The old man should be a walkover,” he grinned.

  She took the phone. “Mr Monkhouse?”

  “What have you done, girlie?” Georgette hated being called that. “I’ve just had bloody Cameron screaming blue bloody murder on the phone. You as sure about this one as you were with all the others?”

  “Probably more so, I’d say,” she told the station owner.

  “Give me a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’. Have you got him by the balls—figuratively speaking, of course?”

  “With both hands, and I’d say very tightly,” she replied.

  Monkhouse roared with laughter. “Jesus, girlie, you’ll do me. You know if you’re wrong I’ll have to sack you, don’t you?”

  “And if I’m not?”

  “I’ll give you a new contract, and I’ll draw the bastard up myself. So now we wait till Thursday?”

  “We wait till Thursday,” she told him.

  * * *

  The Wednesday morning papers were full of the Georgette McKinley story. The proposed price hikes and cutbacks sparked outrage across the nation. Prime Minister Lindsay Cameron went from one interview to another all day and into the night. At times he struggled to remain calm, but in every interview he tried to dismiss McKinley’s report as pure speculation and urged people to wait until the budget was read in full to the House on the Thursday. When asked over and over to stamp McKinley’s report as a pack of lies, he held to the political line of saying he wouldn’t give the woman credibility by commenting on her.