Prime Minister Robert Harvey removed his reading glasses to peer at Danby. ‘That’s not what worries me, Aaron, and you know it. Besides, fully mobile or not, I will be at that SETSA banquet and every other meeting my doctors allow. So don’t count me out yet.
‘I am, however, worried that dignitaries may cancel because of this,’ he waved around at the hospital room and back to his injured leg.
‘Can you imagine what it will cost us - in money and pride - to wear the consequences of a half-attended conference that we’ve been touting the value of for 18 months? Then we’ll get another thrashing in the polls when all those lefties and unionists start up again about the whole inconvenience of the city still being shut down - but for only half a conference.’
‘It’ll be fine Bob,’ Mick volunteered. ‘And even if only half turn up, there’ll still be more of them than protestors, for a change. These multinational summits attract every rabid ratbag with a gripe about something they think is important. But we’ve at least got the Greenies on side with the SETSA agenda because we are all for saving the whales.’
The Prime Minister gave Mick Fleming almost the same look he’d given his Foreign Minister.
‘It really is okay, Mr Harvey,’ his own assistant informed him. ‘As of 15 minutes ago, there have been no cancellations.’
Harvey didn’t even bother looking at the young man. ‘It hasn’t even been 24 hours since the shooting,’ he reminded them all. ‘Half the world is still asleep.’
‘And we have already doubled the security arrangements, from the ridiculously high to the ludicrously elevated,’ Danby said.
‘Ridiculous? Yet still not lofty enough to prevent Barney being killed and me ending up here.’
‘Yeah, well no one expected anyone to take pot shots at either of you; ever.’
‘All that just proves, Aaron, is that our terrorist net is still not cast wide enough. Nor is it made of tough enough laws.’
Danby wondered why he was never able to resist baiting Bob Harvey whenever he could, regardless of the circumstances. Then he remembered how little respect he had for the leader of his own party. The fact that Bob was Prime Minister, and clever as a wheel, was neither here nor there. Danby shot a glance at Mick, who’d already closed his eyes in anticipation of the response.
‘Terrorist-schmerrorist, Bob,’ Danby couldn’t resist the urge.
‘Given that Barney is dead and you’re only wounded, I reckon we can knock the al-Qaeda angle right out of the equation. It’s entirely feasible that BW Cross finally pissed off one person too many; the one with the gun, too many.
‘Let’s face it, and I mean seriously Bob - and without cashing in on the excellent fear-mongering potential - if this shooting was the act of terrorists, then they’re not very bright. Why on earth would they target the two of you, and only manage to get Barney, when in a week’s time they could have taken out the leaders of every country south of the Tropic of Cancer?
‘Hmm, let me see,’ Danby juggled his palms, as if comparing weights. ‘You and Barney versus the biggest Heads of State gathering in Australia since APEC. Disgruntled taxpayer versus Osama bin Laden.’
‘You really are a shit,’ Harvey pronounced.
‘Oh yes,’ Danby agreed.
A knock on the door preceded a doctor, personally escorted by a New South Wales detective, and just in case that wasn’t enough, a federal officer. That was too much for Danby, given he’d had to run a gauntlet to get into the room in the first place. He stood and took his leave.
‘Can I ask you something, Aaron?’ Harvey said, as his Minister and sidekick reached the door.
‘Of course, Bob.’
‘I’ve kind of noticed, I mean I’ve been getting this sense from other visitors today and things I heard on the radio overnight - Barney wasn’t really well liked, was he?’
‘Well, no Bob. Not at all, in fact.’
‘Now you see, I don’t understand that. I always liked him. He was one of my staunchest allies.’
‘Enough said,’ Danby muttered, giving Harvey a bemused shrug on the way out.
It took ten minutes to make it through the milling media lurking in front of the RPA Hospital; to whom they reported that ‘the Prime Minister was fine, he’s sitting up, he was taking his medicine like a man’. When they finally got into Mick’s Range Rover, Danby just sat there frowning, with his seat belt half way to the buckle.
‘What?’ Mick asked.
‘Do you reckon people, like the rest of Cabinet and those journos back there, are going to think I had something to do with what happened to Bob?’
Mick screwed up his face before regarding his friend with incredulity. Even for him that was a bizarre question. ‘Did you?’
‘No,’ Danby said. ‘Unless you organised it for me. In which case, thanks.’ He watched the media surge towards the hospital doors and then back again, as the exiting couple turned out to be two women older than God. ‘You didn’t, did you?’
Mick laughed. ‘If I had mate, my guy wouldn’t have missed. And he would’ve got the Treasurer as well, and the Opposition Leader, and that witch Amelia Bander, and your ex-wife, and…’
‘Righto, you goose. Drive me somewhere. I need food.’
Houston, Texas, USA
Sunday 7 pm
Jesse-Jay Bagget, ex-Carthage Thunder Militia, strolled companionably around Bayou Place with the commander of the Texas Star Brigade. He hadn’t gone back to the Militia; and if they knew what he’d done to Micah O’Brien they’d likely banish him anyway.
‘I sure am amazed we’re just walking around looking for a place to share a meal, Colonel.’
‘First of all, son, I know exactly where we are headed. Second, Space City’s got two million citizens, do you think anyone is going pay us any mind?’
‘I don’t know sir,’ Jesse said doubtfully. ‘I been all the way to Vegas just one time, and my first night there I bumped into the Carthage fire chief in that giant pyramid casino.’
‘Was the fire chief’s wife with him in that exciting city of sex and vice?’ the Colonel asked, steering Jesse-Jay through the swinging saloon doors of a steak house.
‘No sir, I don’t believe she was.’
‘Uh huh, and I bet the next time you bumped into that fire chief back home, he did not mention ever laying eyes on you in Las Vegas. Am I right?’
‘Oh,’ Jesse snorted. ‘He did give me a look though. Guess that’s because he was with his missus that time. I’m thinking that’s what they mean by “what plays in Vegas, stays in Vegas”.’
‘That would be a sound deduction,’ said the Colonel, as a pretty brunette showed them to a table by the corral surrounding the dance floor. ‘We don’t need the menu, young lady. We will have two of your Shuttle Specials and a couple of pints of Guinness Draught.’
The Colonel stroked the finely-manicured hairs on his chin and gazed thoughtfully at Jesse-Jay. The boy, well he was 26 but rather child-like in his naivety, reminded him of a whippet. He was a lean, mean little sonofabitch who took to a lure like there was no other purpose in life; easily trained, loyal to a degree, but not entirely reliable around other dogs. The Colonel was well aware that if he let him off the leash he’d be distracted by a passing breeze, or by a trainer with a bigger bone.
‘I believe we are waiting for something other than our dinner, Colonel.’
‘I swear, Jesse, you are getting smarter by the day. And no, I am not making fun of you; so there’s no need to puff up like a little rooster.’
Jesse-Jay relaxed and forced himself to smile. He did not take kindly to anyone making reference to his level of knowing. He could forgive the Colonel more than most though, because he was the one person who had faith in Jesse-Jay’s real abilities.
‘We are waiting, son, but only for a phone call. You see, I’ve had wind of a situation rearing its warty old head in those dark and curly corridors of power.’ The Colonel hesitated for a moment when the waitress returned with their beers, and then leant
forward conspiratorially. ‘It seems somebody has been telling tales to the CIA, and quite possibly the FBI as well.’
‘Tales? You mean about us?’
‘What I mean, son, is that those unwholesome spying appendages of our totally illegal so-called federal government have received information that, quite luckily for us, they have yet to properly analyse, let alone respond to.’
Jesse-Jay frowned. As much as he admired the Colonel and even enjoyed the very tone of his voice, he often wished the man spoke common American and got to his point quicker.
Then, like a mind reader, the big man obliged. ‘Some traitorous member of our sizeable organisation has informed the enemy about our game.’
‘Who would do that?’ Jesse-Jay asked. ‘And how do you know about it?’
‘Dear boy, the one thing that every intelligence organism the world over has in common is spies - some that work with them, some that work against them. And just as we seem to have a betrayer in our midst, the current unholy Administration’s little army of spooks include people who, shall we say, share our sympathies. This is precisely how the world turns. In fact the very mechanism of spies spying on spies is all so very productive. I find it quite delicious. When you’ve got to check your own closets as well as those of your enemies, then it truly keeps the whole machine running smoothly. Everyone stays in business forever, and business, of course, is what we’re all about.’
‘If you say so, Colonel,’ Jesse-Jay nodded. He sat back so the waitress could place his meal, a giant plate of steak and potatoes covered with a suspicious green sauce.
‘I am glad you agree, my boy, because the phone call on which we are waiting while we dine, may well provide you with a thrilling new activity on my behalf.’
‘Really?’ Jesse-Jay was still grinning like a prize-winning whippet when the Colonel’s cell phone rang, barely a moment later.
‘Uh-uh, yes. Well I’ll be damned,’ the Colonel said to his caller.
‘No, no, we know who that is…Oh, I see, not him…An outsider, you say? Interesting, and reassuring that it was not one of ours…Just hold a second, while I consult with my compadre.’ The Colonel buried the cell phone in his big hand and leant forward again. ‘You went to Mexico with our late friend, did you not?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Jesse-Jay confirmed, ‘and I was with him the entire time.’
‘Excellent.’ The Colonel put the cell back to his ear. ‘Text me the location, my sweet. How long do you think before your clueless colleagues make their move?…Splendid, even if they wake from their collective coma tonight, we have time to get the jump on them. Thank you, my dear.’ The Colonel ended the call, but left his cell on the table to await the text message that was en route.
‘When you and our now-departed friend took that trip to Nuevo Laredo and met with our business consultants, you apparently also had a meal with a couple - a man and his girlfriend - from California.’
Jesse-Jay pulled a thinking face. That trip had been six months ago, and he and Micah had met a dozen or more contacts in Mexico over a week. ‘Would that be the, ah, equipment or the game consultants?’
‘The game people,’ the Colonel replied.
Nuevo Laredo? Fourth day: breakfast in the hotel with Micah; lunch in the hamburger joint with Micah and the American computer dude, his Korean girlfriend and the towel-head; dinner at the green cantina place with them all again, and the Mexican whores, ah - and the hippies. ‘Yes, I remember them.’
‘They are the informers,’ the Colonel said as his cell phone began vibrating around the table. He clicked open the message and turned the device so that Jesse-Jay could read it. ‘This is where they informed from, just last week. They are still there, in Mexico, awaiting a CIA response. I would like very much for you to ensure they never speak to anyone; ever again.’
‘That would be my pleasure, Colonel,’ Jesse-Jay grinned.
‘Excuse me young man.’ The request came from a blue-haired lady fronting a little clique of similarly-coiffed elderly women wearing matching pink leisure suits. It would have been scary if they hadn’t all been smiling, And it seemed the ‘young man’ was a comparative reference to their own advanced years, because they weren’t talking to Jesse-Jay.
‘Yes, my dear,’ the Colonel said graciously. ‘How may I be of assistance?’
‘My girlfriends and I saw you on the TV, Wednesday night, on the talking head show on CNN.’
‘And how did I look?’
‘You looked fabulous,’ said one of the other women.
‘That would be on account of my thoroughly good looks and my inordinate charm.’
‘Anyways,’ the ringleader continued as the rest of them chuckled, ‘we dropped by to thank you for being vigilant on our behalf. And for bringing up the questionable tactics of our government and military leaders in sending young Americans into foreign situations they’ve got no place going.’
‘Why thank you. I do pride myself on asking the tough questions, ladies,’ the Colonel smiled.
‘We still can’t believe those boys got sent to that Pacific hellhole to save them folks that had already been rescued, Governor. How truly embarrassing, and how sad we had to lose yet more of our young’uns in the process.’
‘Well obviously, I was shocked by that whole debacle myself,’ the Colonel said. ‘That’s why I could not let the issue be swept under that proverbial old floor rug.’
‘I have also been charged with telling you,’ the woman continued, ‘that all us girls in our retirement condo just adore you, Mr Gantry sir.’
‘Well now, I thank you again, and I do humbly request, ladies, that you call me George.’
Chapter Forty
The White House, Washington DC
Sunday 8 pm
President Brock thumbed through the pages of the dossier on his lap, not paying any particular attention to their actual content until he arrived at the stack of photographs: of a woman; a very beautiful wo… oh, naked woman. He pretended not to react for a moment, just in case someone had slipped them into the file to see if he was paying attention. Like that time some joker included the picture of Marilyn Manson amongst the guest mugshots for the State Dinner for the Nation’s Governors.
‘That’s her Mr President.’ It was Harry Corbin, Nate van Louden’s Chief of Staff, speaking; and pointing at the photos.
‘And who is she again?’ When four of the other six people in the Oval Office glanced his way, he realised he’d probably tuned out for a bit too long. Well damn it, he was tired. ‘I mean exactly,’ he added, hoping the request for clarification would cover the lapse.
‘Ilia Dushenko is her real name, Mr President,’ van Louden explained. He took the track, well worn by everyone in the room, of explaining the situation differently the second time so Garner Brock never knew that they knew he’d missed it the first time.
‘My niece Hilary, who was lucky enough not to have been on that train, said this woman claimed to be a Madame Ilia de Chevalier, the French Trade Minister’s wife. She did this in order to seduce my nephew Justin into, ah, into unwittingly carrying the detonator.’
Brock, looking up from the photos when van Louden hesitated, noticed the man was all choked up. He gestured to his Chief of Staff, Rob Martin, to fetch the Defense Secretary some water.
In the meantime Harry Corbin filled in. ‘When Justin’s body, or what was left of it, was found, a part of the device was still attached to his wrist. It was a bracelet, one this terrorist gave him as a gift.’
‘I’m surprised they found anything of the poor young man at all,’ Arlen Conte said. ‘Wasn’t he at the very centre of the blast?’
‘Yes he was, Mr Vice President,’ said Brenda Janeway, Executive Assistant Director of the National Security Branch. ‘But there’s a curious thing about suicide bombers,’ she glanced at van Louden, ‘not that I’m implying your nephew was any such thing, Nate. But, it is a peculiarity of these kinds of incidents, that those closest to the point of detonation, for instance th
e person actually carrying or wearing the bomb, often remain remarkably intact. They are dead for sure, but not completely obliterated as you might expect.’
President Brock liked to watch Brenda Janeway as she talked the talk; and as he chanted the abbreviation of her 10-mile long job title in his head: the EAD of the FBI’s NSB; the EAD of the FBI’s…
‘For example, in the attack on the US Embassy in Guyana last year,’ Janeway was saying, ‘the bomber’s head was found on a nearby second-storey window ledge. Sorry Nate.’
Van Louden waved it off. He’d seen worse in the last week than Brenda Janeway could ever get descriptive about.
‘But Justin wasn’t wearing the bomb,’ Aiden Bonney clarified. ‘No, of course not,’ she said. ‘But the detonator was a close-proximity device. He had to be within range - and he was directly above it I gather - for it to even work.’
‘What’s the significance of these?’ Brock asked, tapping the tattoos on the terrorist woman’s bare buttocks; because he could.
‘This Dushenko is a Russian-Spanish militant who changes affiliations like most normal women change shoes,’ van Louden said, feeling able to talk again.
‘And, unlike a terrorist constrained by a single ideology, she’s more of your anarchist, mercenary femme fatale.
‘Over the last two decades she’s been known to cast her lot in with the Basque group, ETA, the Chechens, various factions in Germany and Greece, the NRA in Russia, and now - it seems - Atarsa Kára. She claimed the Luxembourg train in the name of the Brigade d’Etoile d’Euro. French Intelligence has already linked this small but lethal group to other new semi-autonomous AK units rumoured to be operating in Greece, Algeria, Morocco, Sweden and the UK.’
‘Sweden and England?’ the Vice President exclaimed. ‘What on earth is going on out there in the world? Since when do these European and non-religious organisations work in cahoots with the Islamic ones? Or is the whole world taking arms against us?’
‘Atarsa Kára, from all accounts, is not your usual militant Islamic group,’ Secretary Bonney said. ‘Their brand of Islam is a strange one, and they have declared themselves as holding no association with other Jihad organisations. As a consequence they have in fact been denounced as infidels by the likes of al-Qaeda.’
Redback Page 28