‘Morning, Bob.’
Bob Muscat, the duty operations officer, waved a greeting from his desk. He was leaning into one of several microphones arrayed in front of him, talking to the Captain of a Royal Australian Navy guided missile destroyer that was just rounding the sea buoy at the Heads.
‘Harbour Control, HMAS Melbourne is rounding junction buoy, over.’
‘Romeo, Melbourne, this is Sydney Harbour Control, report departing Line Zulu and have a safe voyage.’
‘A pleasant overnight leave?’ Bob asked, leaning back from the microphone. The two had served together in the 5/7th Battalion, a mechanised cavalry regiment and there was an easy camaraderie between Murray and the short, dark-haired ex-Major.
‘Late-night shopping,’ Murray said, rolling his eyes. ‘Why is it that most women at shopping centres are fourteen pick handles across the arse?’
‘With husbands and barge-arsed kids to match,’ Bob replied. ‘You can’t have your ice-cream until you finish your bloody hamburger!’ he said with a grin.
Murray steadied himself against the roll of the tower, which was designed to flex in high winds, and then made a move towards the coffee that was quietly percolating near a whiteboard that held the current information on arrivals and departures. The whiteboard was there as a backup in case any of the four big computer screens on each duty officer’s desk ever crashed. Each officer had a split screen with a detailed display map of both Sydney Harbour and Port Botany. Another screen held arrivals and departures, and at the flick of a cursor either Murray or Bob could haul up the information on any ship. A third screen was controlled by a joystick linked to dozens of cameras that covered every part of both ports from the tops of buildings and other critical points. The image on the screen on Murray’s desk was beamed in from a camera near Sydney Airport; it was shaking even though the camera was anchored in an armoured box to protect it on days like today. Despite the weather, Murray had no difficulty in seeing the details of a tanker that was preparing to depart from Port Botany.
He scanned the digital meters above the whiteboard. No wonder the camera was shaking. The wind was touching 53 knots from the west. The tide had turned and at 0.8 metres, it was on the flood. Two more digital displays showed local time and Greenwich Mean Time. It looked like it was going to be a pretty light day. Only one large car ship was departing in the morning. He looked towards the west where the car ship was berthed a kilometre or so from the control tower. The Shanghai, a huge grey box towering over the loading dock at White Bay, was straining at her moorings and the wind was whipping grey smoke from the stubby smokestack at her stern. She had been emptied of the last of nearly 3000 cars from her eighteen decks and the engineers were firing up the huge diesels in preparation for departure. A break in the driving rain allowed Murray to scan the horizon. As the night sky gave way to the grey of the dawn he could just pick out the long jagged peaks of the Blue Mountains, and he noticed that another bank of thick black clouds was rolling in from across the Western Plains. To the east he could see Shark Island and beyond that South and North Head; between them, a Manly ferry was smashing its way past Bradley’s Head, one of the tree covered promontories that marked the turn towards the inner harbour.
He looked back to the whiteboard. The arrivals board was a little busier with the 80,000-ton tanker, the Ocean Venturer scheduled to berth just across from the tower at the big oil terminal at Gore Cove. She would be closely followed by the Jerusalem Bay, a regular visitor to the port.
‘Who are the Montgomery and the Wavell?’ Murray asked.
‘A couple of ocean-going tugs on their way to Vanuatu. They’re coming in to refuel,’ Bob replied.
‘They must be having quite a time of it out there,’ Murray observed. The waves were rolling powerfully and relentlessly across hundreds of miles of the Pacific, venting their fury against the jagged but unbowed face of North Head in thunderous explosions of boiling green water and foam.
‘Who’d be a tug boat driver,’ Bob said, echoing the words of Captain Svenson. It seemed to be a universal view.
‘Or a pilot,’ Murray replied, as he focused his binoculars on the small but powerful boat that was heading out to sea from its base at Watson’s Bay. The bright yellow pilot boat rose momentarily on the crest of a big wave before ploughing defiantly into the base of the next one. The passage to the rendezvous point with the Ocean Venturer, 4 nautical miles off the Heads, would be rough and arduous. ‘It’s bad enough up here,’ Murray added, lowering his binoculars and glancing at the photograph of Anthea, with Louise and the twins, that he kept on his desk.
In a few short hours it was going to get unimaginably worse.
CHAPTER 67
AN INNER-CITY WAREHOUSE, SYDNEY
J amal had been at the warehouse since before dawn calculating the extra time he would need to allow for the stormy weather and reflecting on the first part of the attack that was to be launched with the trucks. One by one, his drivers arrived, all of them suicide bombers, all of them sombre and determined. The videos with their last messages to family and friends had all been completed. They had woken to their last day on earth. Soon they would all be reunited with Muhammad, peace be upon him, and they would receive the rewards of heaven that were promised to all those who martyred themselves for the Faith.
Jamal disappeared into the warehouse’s small bathroom to conduct the ablutions that were mandatory before a Muslim could get in touch with his creator. First he washed his face, then his arms to the elbows, then he wiped his head with his wet hands and finally, he washed his feet. When the other cell members had completed washing, they laid out their prayer mats on the floor of the workshop where they’d loaded the trucks with ammonium nitrate. Jamal began the dawn prayer. Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! God is Great! God is Great! Bismillah ir-rahman ir-rahim In the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful… Ash-Hadu Allaa Elaaha Ellaa Allah, Wahdahu Laa Shareeka Lah – I bear witness that there is no other god beside God. He alone is God; He has no partner. Assalaamu Alaikum Peace be upon you.
Jamal stored his prayer mat beside a battered filing cabinet in the office at the back of the workshop. He spread the big map of the city streets over his grimy wooden desk and switched on the scanner that was tuned in to the channel the tow-truck operators used to monitor police responses to traffic accidents. As a back up, he switched on a local radio station that encouraged people to call in with information on the traffic. Unbelievers, he thought bitterly. Soon the information on the traffic would jam the airwaves but so far the roads seemed remarkably clear. One truck had been allocated to the first target and the other six would attack in pairs with the routes to each of the four targets being worked out to the last second. Nothing had been left to chance.
Just before 8 a.m., Jamal kissed each one of his seven drivers three times on the cheek.
‘Your place in heaven with the Prophet, peace be upon him, is assured,’ Jamal said, and he pointed toward the seven trucks lined up at the front of the warehouse. ‘It’s time for you to start your engines. May Allah, the Most Kind, the Most Merciful go with you.’
Less than an hour later, Jamal parked his car at the boatshed to which the Destiny had returned after picking up the divers from Clarke Island. After final prayers, he and two other crewmen opened the old boatshed doors and one of them started the winch motor. Jamal took his position at the wheel as the Destiny slid down the greased rails into the water. He pressed the starter button and the big re-conditioned diesel throbbed into life, and he waited until his two crew members had rolled the doors on the boatshed shut. As he pushed the heavy chrome throttle levers forward, Jamal switched on the radios that operated on the Police and Harbour Control channel. Almost immediately, there was a transmission on Channel 13.
‘Harbour Control, this is the pilot aboard the Ocean Venturer; we are now rounding the sea buoy and inbound on the Western Channel with four tugs in attendance.’
‘Romeo Ocean Venturer, you are cleared to proceed to
Gore Cove.’
Jamal nodded to himself in satisfaction. The trap was closing. The first truck was due to be detonated at 10.05 a.m., followed by the others in quick succession.
CHAPTER 68
THE PARK HYATT HOTEL, THE ROCKS, SYDNEY
K ate stirred, her head still on Curtis’ chest. Curtis brushed her blond locks away from her forehead and kissed her gently. There was a faint aroma of whiskey on her breath.
‘We smell of sex,’ Curtis whispered, as he ran his hand slowly over her back, moving down to Kate’s small, firm bottom.
‘Mmm,’ Kate responded dreamily.
The rain was lashing the balcony where they’d stood the night before, and Kate moulded herself against Curtis’ body. It was one of those mornings where they both would have preferred to stay in bed.
‘Come inside me,’ she said softly, caressing his hair.
Back in her own bathroom, Kate set the shower nozzle to ‘pulse’ and let the warm water massage her back. Her thoughts were in turmoil. The sex the night before had been urgent and passionate but this morning they had taken their time. The roguish Irish-American she’d decided to have a fling with had also turned out to be a wonderfully caring lover. As she stood in the shower she reflected on the early morning. She had felt very comfortable and safe with this man but she tried repeating her mantra with more conviction. ‘This is a one night stand and I can’t get involved with him.’ But Kate knew Curtis was different and realised her mantra had come a little too late.
The rain lifted momentarily as Kate and Curtis arrived at the State Crisis Centre on the southern side of the city. Kate spotted a postbox as she waited for Curtis to pay the taxi fare.
‘Won’t be a second. I’ll just post this off to Richard,’ she said, waving a postcard. In an instant Curtis recognised the photograph. He remembered he’d seen it years ago at the time of the Sydney Olympics. Taken when the smoke of the fireworks heralding the start of the 2000 Olympic Games had cleared, the word ‘Eternity’ was illuminated in the middle of the arch of the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
‘Wait. Can I see that?’
‘Want to read my mail now that we’ve slept together?’ Kate saw that Curtis was serious. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Do you remember Kadeer’s first warning attack – “beneath Eternity”?’
‘You think this is what he was referring to?’ Kate frowned as she suddenly recalled something else Kadeer had mentioned in his broadcast.
‘It’s possible,’ Curtis replied. ‘Is there a significance to the relationship between Sydney and the sign of Eternity?’
‘It has its origin in the 1930s,’ Kate explained, remembering a long-forgotten history lesson. ‘Arthur Stace was a homeless alcoholic who lived on the streets of the city. One night he went in to the Baptist Tabernacle in Darlinghurst where he listened to a sermon from a minister called Ridley. Ridley was urging his congregation to think about their mortality and the promise of eternity with God and he concluded his sermon with something like “Eternity! Eternity! Oh that this word could be emblazoned across the streets of Sydney!” For the next forty years, while the city slept, Arthur Stace wrote ‘Eternity’ using yellow chalk in an immaculate copperplate hand in every doorway, and on every footpath, train station and ferry wharf where he thought people would see it.’
Curtis shook his head.
‘You don’t think this has anything to do with the warning?’
‘On the contrary, I think it might have everything to do with it. It’s just that you seem to have swallowed the Britannica.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment but if you’re right, Kadeer is going to attack the Sydney Harbour Bridge, and now that you mention it, there was something else in Kadeer’s video. Didn’t he say that his first warning would take place where we least expect it, beneath Eternity where the windmill has been stolen?’
‘The stolen windmill has always confused me,’ Curtis admitted.
Kate looked thoughtful. ‘Can we get access to a computer at the State Crisis Centre? I vaguely remember that the area known as Dawes Point was once called Windmill Hill.’
‘Let’s go,’ Curtis said.
By the time they reached the foyer, Brigadier Anthony Davis, the Australian Defence Force’s senior liaison officer in the State Crisis Centre was waiting for them.
‘Curtis! Welcome back. Great to see you again.’ The Brigadier shook his old friend’s hand warmly. ‘Still travelling in the company of beautiful women?’ he said, turning to Kate.
‘Brigadier General Anthony Davis,’ Curtis said, introducing him to Kate.
‘I prefer Anthony,’ Davis said, shaking Kate’s hand firmly and smiling. ‘Welcome to Fort Fumble. We’re preparing for a major anti-terrorist exercise so you’ve come at the right time. The Prime Minister’s hosting APEC next week and the politicians are in a flap,’ Davis said as he pressed the lift button for the sixth floor. ‘The State Police Minister’s here at the moment,’ the Brigadier said, ‘and right now he’s arguing with Cecil Jensen, the Defence Minister’s minder over who has responsibility for announcing the exercise. Since responsibility is something that the politicians here only take when the news is good it’s really an argument about who gets their mug in front of the cameras.’
Curtis grinned. ‘Who’s winning?’
‘Last time I looked, the Police Minister. Right royal little turd he is too. Pardon my French,’ Davis added, holding his arm against the lift door for Kate.
‘I’ve heard it all before,’ Kate replied easily.
‘But I wouldn’t think he’ll be winning for too long,’ Davis continued as he swiped his card at the door to the State Crisis Centre. ‘I’m putting my money on the Defence Minister. He’s an even bigger turd with an ego the size of the Great Wall of China and when he finds out, he’ll be in front of a camera in a flash.’ The Brigadier closed the door and led them into a large room. Two big plasma screens were operating on the far wall.
‘Paul! Great to see you again, buddy!’ Curtis and the senior policeman shook hands.
‘Assistant Commissioner Paul Mackey,’ Brigadier Davis said, introducing Kate to the Commander of the NSW Police Counter Terrorism Group. Mackey’s handshake was firm. He had a strong jaw and a craggy face, etched with the lines of nearly forty years’ experience as a tough, no-nonsense policeman. He was one of the most respected men in the force.
‘Paul kept me sane when we worked on the Olympics together and if he wasn’t so fond of politicians, I could learn to quite like him,’ Davis explained to Kate.
‘I have a file on the brigadier and one day I’m going to make it public,’ Mackey replied. ‘This is the nerve centre for the city. There are several hundred cameras in Sydney, and sometimes we pick up things going on at bus stops that the participants would rather we didn’t.’ He glanced at the left-hand screen and gave Curtis a wink. The images on the screens were constantly changing, and the one on the left had rotated to a bus stop in North Sydney. Oblivious to the hidden camera, a well-dressed man in his early fifties and a much younger woman in an elegant black suit were in a steamy embrace in a bus shelter. As the man’s hand disappeared down the front of the woman’s pants the cameras rotated and an image of traffic gridlock in Market Street appeared. The other screen showed an image from a camera focused on the waters around Bradley’s Head.
‘These people in front of us,’ Mackey continued, pointing to the occupants of two long rows of desks with computers that were linked to various other headquarters around the city, ‘are from the police, ambulance, fire brigade, the military, health department and any other experts we need to call in; and behind us is the conference table for the main participants. When it’s up and running, as it will be for APEC in the next few days, the State Crisis Centre is chaired by the Premier and it includes the Ministers for Police, Transport, Roads, Emergency Services – all the usual suspects.’ Commissioner Mackey glanced at the group near the main conference table where a heated discussion was still going on betw
een the Police Minister and the senior advisor to the Defence Minister.
‘Have you got an office where we can get online?’ Curtis asked.
‘Sure. Follow me. Anything I can help you with?’
‘More the other way around, although I hope we’re wrong.’
Kate googled ‘Sydney Observatory’ and ‘Dawes Point’. ‘Bingo,’ she said as she pulled up a web page that referred to Windmill Hill. Next to a photograph of the Sydney Observatory taken in 1874 was an explanation of the early history.
‘Here it is,’ Kate said. ‘In 1796 a windmill was built on the hill overlooking the first settlement in Sydney Cove and it became known as Windmill Hill, and later Observatory Hill when a fort built by Governor Hunter was turned into the Sydney Observatory.’
‘But more importantly,’ Curtis said, looking over her shoulder, ‘the canvas sails of the windmill were stolen. Did you ever have a problem with TCDD in this town?’ Curtis asked, remembering the email Echelon had intercepted.
‘Tetrachloro dibenzene-para-dioxin?’ Davis replied, a quizzical look on his face. ‘As a matter of fact we have. They found some pretty alarming levels among the fishing community so they’ve banned prawning and trawling in the harbour. Why?’
The Beijing conspiracy Page 26