The Dying Diplomats Club

by Matthew Benns

  CHAPTER 8

  Early Fireworks

  ‘Would anyone like wine or shall we stick with bubbles?’ Patricia asked the awkwardly silent table. All eyes and thoughts were still on the gun that rested by the Prime Minister’s right elbow. The only person who appeared completely unperturbed regarding the gun on the table was Armand, who relaxed back in his chair. Beside him, Anne-Sophie was doing her best to emulate his unflappable manner but could not stop glancing at the weapon. Her hands twisted the end of her napkin.

  ‘Good idea,’ Monaro said to his wife. ‘There is a lovely Sancerre chilling in the ice at the foot of the unicorn in the foyer. A Sauvignon Blanc from the Loire Valley in honour of our French guests. And for those ready to move to red there is a big, bold Barossa Cabernet Sauvignon already opened and in the decanters on the sideboard.’

  ‘Of course if anyone wants to join me in a martini, I am always happy to make one,’ said Nick, in an attempt to keep the stilted conversation moving.

  ‘Perhaps my two able lieutenants, Charlie and Alex, could do the honours with the wine?’ said Monaro. It was a question but it sounded like an order. La Contessa looked up sharply from her sorbet but was stilled to silence by a gentle tap against the side of her foot under the table from Nick.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Alexander, placing an undue emphasis on the ‘sir’. The chair holding Charlie scraped back and he rose to his feet, ramrod straight, acknowledged the Prime Minister with a nod of the head and walked purposefully around to the banquet and picked up a decanter of red. Alexander returned from the foyer with a frosty, dripping bottle of white in his hand and a tea towel over his left arm.

  ‘Just like old times, sir,’ said Alexander, as he poured Sancerre into Anne-Sophie’s glass.

  ‘How so?’ asked Monaro, sitting back in his chair and regarding his former Special Air Service Regiment colleague carefully. ‘We are not in a heavily armoured Long Range Patrol Vehicle, ploughing through the Iraqi desert miles behind enemy lines.’

  ‘No, but you are still giving the orders,’ said Alexander, now pouring wine into Charlotte’s glass. ‘And there are guns present.’

  ‘I’ve got a prickle on the back of my neck just like the one I got that time right after we captured the Al Asad Airbase,’ rumbled Charlie, filling Hayden’s glass. ‘It has never let me down.’

  ‘That sounds terribly exciting,’ said La Contessa. ‘What happened?’

  The three former SAS men exchanged glances across the heads of the other guests. It was well known that Australia had been one of the four main partners, together with the United Kingdom and Poland, in the United States–led ‘coalition of the willing’ that had invaded Iraq in 2003. Prime Minister John Howard had committed three Royal Australian Navy warships, 14 F/A-18 Hornet fighter jets and a 500-strong Special Forces task group. Images of toppling statues of Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein and coalition tanks rolling through red desert sandstorms had dominated the media. Less was known about exactly what those Australian Special Forces soldiers were doing during their time in Iraq. Years later, in Kirribilli House, three of them seemed to come to some sort of unspoken agreement that they could break the operational code of silence and share the story.

  ‘I guess it is ancient history now,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘We are not breaching any official secrets by telling you that we captured the airbase, which was not as well defended as we had been led to believe, and secured fifty Russian-built MiG fighter jets and almost eight million kilograms of explosives.’

  ‘That was the easy part,’ picked up Charlie in his commanding baritone. ‘Once the air base had been secured by 4 RAR the three of us were then sent out on a search and destroy mission deep into the desert. That’s when my neck started to prickle.’

  ‘And with good reason,’ said Alexander, now pouring white wine for Taylor, who added a liberal dose of sparkling water to her glass. The French Ambassador frowned disapprovingly. ‘We had been on the road for several hours when we came up to an Iraqi command post. At first we thought it had been abandoned, but then two vehicles came bursting out of the rocks behind us with mounted machine guns firing.’

  ‘It was a perfect ambush,’ said the Prime Minister calmly from his seat. ‘Iraqi soldiers in the command post also opened up with heavy machine guns, Russian NSVs. I was sitting in the front next to Charlie, who was driving. I started shooting and told him to speed straight at them.’

  ‘Which I did,’ rumbled Charlie. ‘Bullets were pinging off the armour plate at the front and I could tell we were being hammered from behind. Then Alex sprang into action. Ignoring all that flying metal, he stood up in the back of the vehicle, braced against the bodywork and let fly with a shoulder-held Javelin anti-tank missile. It took out the first of the two vehicles.

  ‘Unfortunately, while I was reloading,’ continued Charlie, ‘the Hajis, sorry, the Iraqis, were setting up a mortar in the hills to the south of the command post and started to drop rounds onto the road. I took out the second vehicle and then brought the Javelin ‘round to bear at the front.’

  ‘He fired the missile into the sandbagged machine-gun nest to the north of the command post, which also took out their makeshift boom gate,’ Monaro said. ‘Charlie drove like Lewis Hamilton for the smoking gap.’

  ‘Mortar rounds were still dropping onto the road around us,’ recalled Charlie, his eyes glazed at the memory and the wine forgotten in his hand. ‘Scout sorted that as we drew level and we could see them. They were scattered to the winds by a well-placed rocket-propelled grenade and a solid burst from the Browning machine gun. Moments later we were through, although I often think it may have been better if our war had stopped there.’

  A prolonged silence covered the table, with only the pouring of the wine in the remaining empty glasses filling the aching void. No one seemed willing to pick up the final strands of the tale. Eventually Alexander spoke, ‘As I said, just like old times. Three men, the same three men, relying completely on each other’s trust to maintain the status quo and stay alive.’

  ‘That’s quite true,’ said Monaro quietly. ‘I have trusted you both with my life, although I would only trust one of you with my wife.’

  Patricia gasped and reddened. Her hand flew to her mouth and tears sprang to her eyes. ‘Robert!’ she said.

  ‘Oh Scout, not this old chestnut again,’ said Alexander rather wearily. ‘We have dealt with this one before. On several occasions, as I recall.’

  ‘Once with a revolver, a bottle of vodka and a game of Russian roulette,’ agreed Charlie with a deep-throated chuckle, although the humour did not reach his eyes. ‘And another time —’

  ‘And another time and another time and another time,’ said Alexander. ‘I told you then and I repeat again: Patricia and I have never, ever had any contact of any kind other than platonic and in your presence since you have been married.’

  ‘But plenty beforehand, even while we were engaged,’ said Monaro.

  ‘Yes, plenty beforehand, but none after – and you knew everything when you got married. I wish you and Patricia nothing but happiness – I did then and I do now.’

  Patricia was now quietly sobbing into her white linen napkin, the two seats either side of her at the head of the table empty. La Contessa watched anxiously, aware there was no way to go and comfort her. Baxter, alive to the emotion in the room, got up from the rug and toddled over to her side. He nudged her knee with his nose and she gratefully let her hand drop to his head. Even from his position below table height, the beagle’s eyes moved to follow the tone of the emotional voices above.

  ‘I don’t know why you feel the need to bring that up again now,’ said Alexander, the edge of anger in his voice growing.

  ‘It’s a matter of trust,’ said Monaro, twirling the Sancerre in his glass and looking at the long sticky legs of the wine coating the sides. ‘I thought we could trust each other. We three knew what happened after we got through that command post.’

  ‘And we three agreed t
o never discuss it,’ said Alexander. The glasses were all full and he was slowly starting to walk around the table. Baxter snuck back out from under the table to curl by the fireplace, his gaze glued to the two men.

  ‘None of us ever has,’ said Charlie, circling the table like a boxer to keep it between him and his former colleague. ‘Until you brought it up tonight.’

  ‘I brought it up because I am being blackmailed with the facts of what happened; of what we did,’ said Monaro quietly. ‘I note with interest that neither of you is being blackmailed Or are you and have you just neglected to mention it?’

  Both men shook their heads.

  ‘Which leads me to the inevitable conclusion that one or both of you has broken our pact.’

  ‘Never,’ said Alexander, a flush of red anger rising up his neck from beneath his collar. He cast a flinty-eyed look at the diplomat opposite.

  ‘Not me,’ said Charlie, meeting the look with ice-cold implacability.

  ‘So how do you explain this letter?’ asked Monaro. ‘Why am I being blackmailed out of the blue about something that happened almost twenty years ago? Why now?’

  ‘I have no idea, Scout,’ said Alexander. ‘I knew nothing about this until tonight. I genuinely thought we were coming for a New Year’s Eve fireworks party. Dinner in Kirribilli House with our old boss who has done so well.’

  ‘I agree, I had no knowledge of any of this,’ said Charlie. ‘But given that you are the one being blackmailed it does tend to point the finger of suspicion at one of us. And given that I know it’s not me . . .’

  ‘And I know it’s not me . . .’ said Alexander.

  ‘We are left with the unmistakable conclusion that one of you is lying,’ said Monaro, raising his glass to each of them in turn before tipping it back. ‘The question is, what are we going to do about it?’

  ‘Well, you have the gun,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Now just slow down a moment,’ said Nick, interrupting the escalating flow of the conversation. ‘I think you are all missing one crucial point.’

  Every eye at the table turned to him. La Contessa looked at her husband with wide anxious eyes. The three former commandos stopped, dangerously still. Nick appeared not to notice and took an appreciative sip of his martini.

  ‘You know you chaps really should try one of these: very calming I find them,’ he said, attempting to take the heat out of the moment. ‘It reminds me of the gorilla who walked into a bar and ordered a dry martini before paying with a $50 note —’

  ‘I hardly think this is the time —’ began Sir Aiden before Nick continued.

  ‘So the barman thinks to himself that the gorilla will have no idea how much a martini costs and decides to give him a $2 coin as change. After a while, the barman is bursting with curiosity and he says, “You know we don’t get many gorillas in here.” To which the gorilla replies, “I’m not surprised when you charge $48 for a martini.”’

  Nick chuckled to himself, took another sip and then looked at the three men, who had not moved or smiled. ‘Your note, the blackmail note,’ he said, looking directly at the Prime Minister, ‘said quite clearly that the truth of what happened that day will come out because, and I quote, “I have the report.”’

  ‘Your point?’ asked Monaro.

  ‘My point is that if there is a report and the blackmailer has it then it does not necessarily mean either of these two highly esteemed and reputable Australian diplomats has broken your pact of silence.’

  ‘It is a fair point but one that does not hold water, I am afraid,’ said Monaro. ‘There was only ever one copy of the report and I know that the person who received it destroyed it instead of submitting it to Defence.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Nick.

  ‘I would trust him with my life,’ said Monaro.

  ‘Ahh, another one you trust with your life.’ Nick nodded sagely. ‘Just like these two men until you received that note you told us about ten minutes ago.’

  ‘The point you are missing is that both of these men knew about that report and agreed with me at the time that we needed to file it. The fact that the report was mentioned in the blackmail letter only underscores to me that one of them is the blackmailer.’

  At that both Alexander and Charlie, muscles taut like piano wire, turned to glower at one another across the table. Neither seemed persuaded by Nick’s argument and each looked at the other with barely concealed suspicion. Baxter, sensing the dangerously electric energy in the room, rose to his feet and stood again next to Patricia, hackles up and emitting a low warning growl.

  The lights went out.

  ‘Time for the 9pm children’s fireworks,’ said Patricia, getting to her feet herself, ever the hostess despite the strain sounding in the high pitch of her voice.

  ‘Who turned the lights out?’ asked Taylor.

  ‘Must be on a timer or some bugger is watching us,’ growled Hayden, reaching over to scarf down her uneaten, half-melted sorbet as he pushed his belly up over the table to get to his feet.

  The room was now lit with the lights from the boats on the harbour and from the city opposite. It had an eerie orange-blue hue.

  ‘We should continue this after the display,’ commanded Monaro, rising to his feet. ‘It will be pointless trying to talk over the noise of the fireworks anyway. Let’s go onto the verandah.’

  Nick walked around the table and pulled out La Contessa’s chair, helping her to her feet. She leaned against him, favouring her sprained ankle. Baxter was already by his side. ‘Come on, darling,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘I don’t think these are the only fireworks we are going to see tonight.’

  CHAPTER 9

  Flash in the Pan

  ‘I have often heard the words “fireworks spectacular” but this is the first time I really understood what it means,’ said La Contessa as another shell burst into a brilliant red flower right above them. ‘We are so close it is as though we are part of the display.’

  Next to them the other guests were equally enthralled despite the tensions of the evening, their faces bathed in the glow of the pyrotechnic display above their heads. Nick tipped his empty martini glass upside down and frowned. ‘I might go and refresh our glasses, my Palermo pyro,’ he said. ‘And find the little boy’s room while I am at it. Keep an eye on Baxter, although he seems to be enjoying the show as much as everyone else.’

  Baxter remained calmly by La Contessa’s side, surveying the exploding light show above with detached ease as Nick sauntered off. Inside the dining room it was dark, lit only by the red, green and blue of the explosions outside and the melting candles in the silver Georg Jensen Cobra candle holders on the table. Nick headed to the foyer, which was darker still, and began to feel along the wallpapered wall for the handle that was the only clue that it contained a hidden door that led to the toilet. Suddenly the door flew open, catching Nick off-guard and sending his left elbow crashing into the door jam. A jarring pain shot up his arm and sent stars shooting through his head.

  ‘Ouch, watch out,’ he cried as a shadowy figure burst from the room. The person slammed the door closed and threw an unexpected punch into Nick’s solar plexus. The air burst from him with a whoosh and he doubled up. The assailant delivered a cracking left hook to his temple and Nick was out for the count before his body crumpled onto the tiled floor. His attacker lithely stepped around him and padded back into the main room.

  *

  ‘Darling? Darling? Are you hurt? What on earth happened?’

  The lights were back on and Nick felt a sticky wet sensation across his face. Blood?

  ‘Baxter, you can stop licking him now. Look, he is all right. His eyes are open,’ said La Contessa. ‘How did you come to be here on the floor, knocked out?’

  ‘I’m not sure, my love,’ said Nick, struggling to sit up and acutely aware that other concerned faces were peering down at him from behind his wife. Some policeman’s long-instilled instinct warned him against revealing exactly what had happened. ‘It was dark, t
he floor was wet from the ice melting from the carved statue of, of, of,’ he looked at the ice carving towering above him ‘of the pegasus there and I guess I must have slipped.’

  ‘One too many martinis, more like,’ came the sneering voice of Hayden from behind the group.

  La Contessa bridled at the comment. ‘I can tell you it would take more than a few martinis to put my husband on the floor,’ she flashed angrily. ‘Darling, you must have slipped on the wet floor. Let me help you up.’

  ‘Speaking of martinis,’ said Nick as La Contessa helped him to his feet. ‘That could be just what the doctor ordered.’

  ‘Speaking as a doctor, I don’t think so,’ said Charlotte, stepping up to Nick and taking his wrist, then looking at her gold Longines wristwatch to measure his pulse. She dropped his wrist and put her finger in front of his face, moving it side to side. ‘Just follow my finger with your eyes, and don’t turn your head. No, there is absolutely nothing wrong with him.’

  ‘Nothing that a martini cannot fix anyway,’ said Nick doggedly as they headed back into the dining room, where the Prime Minister was standing by the table.