The Dying Diplomats Club
Page 3
‘I don’t know,’ mused Nick, sipping his Champagne. ‘I think it is quintessentially Australian for the Prime Minister’s residence to actually be a rather nice, five-bedroomed house on the harbour. Not too flash. Really, it is the location that sets it apart. Pretty nice by your average Aussie standards but no Buckingham Palace. We don’t like our pollies getting ideas above their station. After all they represent the people; they don’t rule over us.’
Baxter came jogging back to join them as Sir Aiden walked over to join the Prime Minister and two diplomats, who automatically stiffened to attention at the arrival of the more senior officer despite no longer being in uniform.
‘Let’s saunter over and say hello,’ said La Contessa, picking up the hem of her red satin gown and starting to walk across the sloping lawn. She balanced her weight onto the balls of her feet to stop her towering heels from sinking into the manicured grass. Perhaps, she quietly reflected to herself, wedges would have been a better option. Before they had gone more than a few paces they were intercepted by the untidy bulldog presence of Hayden Hill once again.
‘G’day, digger,’ he said, sticking his hand out for Nick to shake. Faster than a quick-draw gunslinger in the old west, La Contessa opened her clutch, whipped out a tiny bottle of hand sanitiser and squeezed a clear dollop into the casino mogul’s outstretched paw. ‘Jesus, woman, are you nuts?’
‘Delighted to meet you, Mr Hill,’ covered Nick smoothly as the billionaire wiped the alcohol cleanser on the leg of trousers that already carried the stains of previous encounters with soup, gravy and sauce. ‘Nick Moore and La Contessa Mariabella Belluci. And this must be your lovely wife,’ he said, inclining his head to the thin young woman in a sheer pale-blue dress that left very little to the imagination. She looked up sulkily from her phone.
‘Yes, this is my wife, Taylor Griffin,’ said Hayden, clearly proud of his much younger bride. ‘You’ve probably heard of her: she has more than half a million followers on Instagram.’
‘Really?’ said La Contessa. ‘Although I can’t say I have. You must share your handle with me so I can look you up.’
‘Ahem.’ Nick cleared his throat. ‘I believe a handle is what they used to use on CB radio —’
‘Whatever, Pops,’ interrupted Taylor. ‘I love your dress, Contessa. Where did you get it?’
‘Why thank you, darling, and yours is divine. Where on earth did you find something so exquisitely form fitting?’ said La Contessa, smoothly avoiding the question. ‘Have you posted that yet?’
‘Like totally,’ said the young woman, turning her phone to show a photograph of her, artfully posed on the Kirribilli House lawn with the Opera House in the background. The smiling face radiating from the photograph was almost a different person from the sulky young woman pouting before them.
‘How delightful,’ said La Contessa. ‘And your clutch is so lovely too. Is that the Dior Saddle Nano Pouch?’
‘No, but it looks like it,’ said Taylor with begrudging respect for La Contessa’s knowledge. ‘It’s an Aussie designer. They send me their stuff for free and I post it.’
‘And do you tell your legion of followers about the arrangement?’
‘Whatever for?’ said Taylor. ‘It has nothing to do with them. I don’t tell them JimBob Soda pays me to post pictures with their awful so-called-healthy zero-sugar drinks either.’
‘Isn’t there an ethical obligation about telling people that you are being paid?’
‘What about a health thing for me? Those drinks are packed with aspartame and Ace-K . . . acesulfame potassium,’ explained Taylor, mistaking the horrified look on La Contessa’s face for confusion. ‘I usually take a shot with me in a bikini by the pool, with the can looking all frosty from the fridge, and then just tip that muck straight down the sink.’
‘Gosh, and people who follow you think you like it?’
‘Yeah, the simps. As if I would be random enough to drink that. As if!’
‘As if they would be so silly as to believe that,’ said La Contessa before suddenly changing tack. ‘Are you cold?’
‘What are you saying?’ asked the social influencer, suddenly suspicious. ‘Are you suggesting I need to cover up?’
‘Heavens no! You just look pale and a little chilly.’
‘I’m fine,’ she said as Hayden slipped a possessive hand onto her backside.
‘She’s never been fitter,’ he said, giving Nick a lecherous wink. ‘She didn’t even need a Covid jab to come tonight: I had a word with the right people so that wouldn’t cause her any problems. I have never met anyone with such a strong constitution.’
‘That’s true,’ Taylor said, warming suddenly to a new theme. ‘I take this coated silver every day and it protects me from any bugs or infections.’ She pulled a small glass bottle from her sequined bag to show them. ‘I have never had a vaccination in my life, besides we know how bad they are for you. They actually give you diseases, you know. I mean, can you believe that?’
‘Silver, you say,’ said Nick, interrupting what was rapidly becoming an evangelical rant. ‘Why not gold? Surely that’s even better? Or what about titanium?’
‘Darling,’ interrupted La Contessa quickly, laying a restraining hand on Nick’s arm and meeting his eyes knowingly. ‘I’m sure Taylor knows what she is talking about.’
‘Oh yeah,’ Taylor said. ‘They were taking silver to fight germs way before antibiotics were invented. It’s an old protective remedy that has its roots in ancient medicine.’
‘Sometimes the old ways are better, hey honey,’ crooned Hayden, quick to seize the opportunity to make what was clearly a long-running point in their relationship.
Taylor frowned at her husband. ‘I can’t belieeeeeve I’m here on New Year’s Eve when there are soooooo many great parties that I’ve been invited to.’
‘Come on now, honey, we’ve had that chat,’ Hayden protested, switching to an unexpected and rather incongruous baby voice. ‘It’s an honour to be here with the Australian Prime Minister. Post that, it’s cool.’
‘Yeah right,’ said Taylor. ‘The same Prime Minister who drove my dad out of business just to get elected.’
Nick nodded, joining the dots. Griffin Industries, founded and run by Taylor’s father, Alan Griffin, had been a major employer in Robert Monaro’s electorate before it was discovered the mogul had deliberately ignored asbestos poisoning in his production processes. Monaro’s popular campaign to close the factory down had secured his seat and sent Griffin bankrupt. Angry red spots appeared on the young woman’s pallid cheeks at the memory.
‘Come on, darling,’ said La Contessa pulling Nick clear of the couple as the verbal storm clouds gathered. ‘You promised to introduce me to the Governor-General.’
‘But I don’t even know the Governor-General,’ whispered Nick as they walked away, with Baxter trotting alongside.
‘I know that, silly. I just wanted to get away from those dreadful people,’ said La Contessa. ‘Taking silver as an antibiotic? Really! She is probably one of those crazy conspiracy theorists who think the government will use the coronavirus vaccine to put microchips into our blood. I cannot believe Hayden Hill left his lovely first wife for that silly little airhead.’
La Contessa had at one stage been in a walking group with Hayden’s first wife, Caroline, who had surprised her wealthy, well-to-do Perth mining family when she fell for the brash young entrepreneur. La Contessa had never met Hill when he’d been married to Caroline, although she had heard plenty about him from her friend. For a long time Caroline and Hayden had both proved the critics wrong, making a success of their marriage and positioning themselves as an Australian society power couple. Hill made the money while Caroline provided the class. Many criticisms of his methods, and the fact that his money came from gambling, were offset by Caroline’s extensive donations to charity and philanthropic bequests. She turned a blind eye to his frequent philandering and the pair seemed to have reached a happy arrangement until Hayden met Tay
lor and announced he was divorcing his wife to marry her. Caroline had behaved impeccably throughout and continued her discreet work on the boards of several artistic organisations and donating generous gifts to worthy causes through the sizeable sum she took from the divorce. Hayden’s crass actions without her moderating influence had only managed to emphasise his complete lack of moral or ethical compass.
Baxter gambolled along at the heels of Nick and La Contessa as they approached the group of men on the verandah. As one, the group turned to fully appreciate La Contessa’s shimmering red satin arrival.
‘La Contessa, Nick, may I introduce you to Governor-General Sir Aiden Smith?’ said the Prime Minister. ‘And this is Charlie Johnson, our man in China and —’
‘Alexander Brown, our man in London, yes I know,’ said La Contessa, leaning in to allow him to kiss her cheek. ‘Hello, Alex, you are looking as fit and debonair as ever.’
‘La Contessa, it’s been a long time but you haven’t changed a bit,’ replied the diplomat, his blue eyes twinkling beneath a neatly cut mop of sandy hair. ‘As beautiful as ever.’
‘And you have lost none of that charm, I see,’ replied La Contessa, sparkling at the praise. ‘I do so fondly remember your regular and energetic visits to the little house Patricia and I shared. Feels like only yesterday. What about a Mrs Brown? The last I heard from Patricia is that you are still single?’
‘Never married,’ agreed the diplomat. ‘The woman I loved was sworn to another and there just never seemed anyone else who fitted the bill.’
‘Oh what a shame, although that was a rather torrid affair, if I recall correctly,’ said La Contessa, as the Prime Minister coloured slightly and shifted uncomfortably. She continued blithely. ‘This does seem a rather exclusively male group. Where are the ladies?’
‘I’m afraid I’m rather like my old mate and diplomatic colleague,’ said Charlie in a startlingly deep baritone that would have made Richard Burton proud. ‘Never married. But unlike Alex I haven’t worked quite as hard at the sampling process to try and find “the one”.’
They all got a chuckle out of that as Alexander smiled coyly and tried to look demure while only succeeding in looking rather like a naughty schoolboy. La Contessa turned her gaze to the Governor-General.
‘I am afraid I lost my wife, Vivienne, to cancer nine months ago,’ said Sir Aiden, an inner shadow clouding his eyes. For a moment the older man, shorter and thinner than the others, looked defeated. ‘She fought hard but it was a relief when she finally passed.’
‘Oh, yes of course, forgive my forgetfulness. I’m so sorry,’ said La Contessa as the Prime Minister placed a gentle hand on the older man’s shoulder.
The death of Vivienne Smith had been well documented in the newspapers at the time. She had been a tireless champion not only of the causes supported by her husband but also several of her own. In particular she had focused on the plight of Indigenous Australians and the inequalities of their care, support and life spans when compared with other Australians.
There was an awkward momentary silence before Sir Aiden rallied. ‘Now the boys have left home I must say it has made an inordinately large house feel even bigger, if that were possible.’
‘My wife and I were just looking at that rather magnificent pile and wondering about the history that put you there and the Prime Minister here,’ said Nick.
‘I know, it does seem the wrong way ’round,’ said Sir Aiden. ‘It is a beautiful house, built for the customs collector Colonel John George Nathaniel Gibbes in 1843. It was in fact the home of the Commander-in-Chief of the Royal Navy’s Australia Squadron from 1885 to 1913 – hence the name Admiralty House.’
‘I guess its grand nature reflects the importance we put on the Crown back in the day,’ said Nick.
‘Well it was allowed to fall into disrepair until the State Government bought it and reopened it as the Governor-General’s residence in 1936,’ Sir Aiden said. ‘Although its links to the royal family do go back to Colonel Gibbes, who was reportedly the illegitimate son of King George III’s son Frederick.’
‘It does seem a little out of whack today,’ continued the Prime Minister. ‘This house was actually built in the grounds of Admiralty House by a merchant called Adolphus Feez in 1854 and at one point was used by the staff of the Governor-General.’
‘Speaking of which, go and get me a drink, would you, Robert,’ quipped Sir Aiden, before ducking in to pick up a couple of flutes of Champagne himself.
‘It was set aside for the use of Australian Prime Ministers in 1956,’ continued Monaro. ‘They are of course allowed to borrow the Governor-General’s pool.’
‘So you and Patricia live here full time?’ asked Charlie.
‘Yes, we are together here when I’m in Sydney. I normally stay at The Lodge when I’m in Canberra. The precedent was really set by John Howard, who said he wanted to live here so that his three children could all remain together.’
‘Hang on,’ said Nick. ‘Isn’t his seat of Bennelong about ten kilometres down the road?’
‘Yes, he did attract quite a bit of flak for that,’ said Monaro. ‘But the Prime Ministers who followed him have been pretty grateful for him setting the precedent. Of course our two girls have left and gone to uni, one in Melbourne and one in Canberra, but we still like living here.’
‘I can see why,’ said Nick gesturing to the view, where more boats were crowding onto the water and the noise of revellers was increasing. ‘But it seems a little cramped for formal occasions.’
‘You are not wrong,’ said Monaro. ‘Normally for a big event or public reception we have to put up a marquee on the lawn.’
‘Yes, I would have thought you would need something like that for New Year’s Eve. This is rather the box seat for the fireworks.’
‘Ah, well it is a rather more intimate event tonight. Special friends only,’ said Monaro. ‘Even so, the dining room will only just accommodate us.’
‘Is anyone else coming?’ asked Nick.
‘Yes, and then I think we can get this unfortunately rather uncomfortable party started,’ said Monaro, turning to look at the doors onto the verandah. ‘Here come a few more now.’
*
The man stepped from the ice-cold shower and towelled down his torso, lean and toned not just from the gym but from a lifetime in action. In the mirror he could see the scars peppering his frame. Beneath his right shoulder the skin puckered around a circle the size of a 50-cent piece, where a round fired from an AK-47 by a Taliban insurgent had passed straight through his body, miraculously missing bone and vital organs, but leaving a much bigger exit wound on the other side. His body was criss-crossed with scar tissue, most notably a long jagged slash from his left hip, across his belly and up past his lower ribs on the right-hand side. He had received that from a wickedly curved dagger in the hands of a masked assailant during an off-the-books black ops mission in Morocco. There had been many more such missions since then.
Dry, the man pulled on a dark polo shirt and black jeans. He picked up a black Antler rucksack and dropped an iPhone into the front pocket. He picked up a polymer-framed SFP9 pistol, favoured by Special Forces the world over, and wrapped it in a light black fleece before dropping it into the main section of the rucksack. He put a full Mount Franklin disposable water bottle on top of it. The man pulled an elasticated ankle holster onto his right leg and slipped a Gerber Ghoststrike knife into place before pulling down the leg of his boot-cut jeans, which gave no hint of what was underneath. Finally he laced on a pair of black tactical combat boots and donned a dark blue baseball cap. He slung the rucksack over his right shoulder, opened the door and stepped out without looking back.
CHAPTER 4
Australian of the Year
‘Welcome!’ said Monaro, as a stunning woman in a flowing flamenco-style black dress with a daring thigh-high split stepped through the double doors onto the verandah. Every pair of eyes followed her as she smiled and casually embraced the Prime Minister.
‘And Brett too,’ the Prime Minister said, shaking the hand of the lean, silver-haired man who ghosted onto the deck in the glamorous woman’s wake. He wore his dark blue dinner suit with the élan of a modern-day Stewart Granger, yet still managed to give off a slightly disreputable air. ‘Can I introduce you to everyone?’
‘There’s really no need to tell us who this is,’ said Sir Aiden, stepping up and kissing the woman on the cheek. ‘Charlotte Ngo, pioneering brain surgeon and Australian of the Year.’
‘You are too kind, Aiden,’ she said in a voice as smooth as honey. ‘But I don’t know everyone else. Hello.’
She held out her hand to La Contessa, who took it and smiled into her eyes. ‘Of course we all know you. The operation you performed on Patricia all those years ago was, well, amazing. We all thought she was going to die. And then you literally brought her back from death’s door.’
‘Thank you, I love my work. Unfortunately, while I am acknowledged, the work itself is not getting the recognition or acceptance that it deserves – and until it does, so many more lives are needlessly lost.’
‘I don’t understand that at all,’ said La Contessa. ‘Surely the medical authorities should be embracing anything that can save lives?’
‘The problem is that many people come to me as a last resort when all other more conventional treatments have been exhausted. These are people who have been given basically no hope, no chance of survival. Obviously when I save someone the treatment is hailed as a miracle, but . . .’
‘But when you don’t,’ said La Contessa, as a waitress appeared with a tray of creamy canapés. She took one and continued, ‘they say it is dodgy and the patient, who was going to die anyway, has died, proving their point.’
‘Exactly, they say it is too controversial and the techniques I use are too dangerous, but I believe the results speak for themselves. Oh!’