“You’re welcome. I was excited to get it. We have our first pawns on the chess board.” Wesley waved towards the new postcard. “Another sports coach. We’ll communicate through Amed rather than use any of your local networks. I see you’ve got a new card too.” He pointed to the beach scene.
“Yeah he’s also on that chess board of yours. You know, it’s very reassuring to realise that each card reflects our past successes worldwide - South America, Africa, Asia ... Our influence continues to have an impact on men and women for the rest of their lives.”
Wesley nodded. This was true and he felt proud of their achievements.
“Now he’s our gateway specialist.” Brady pointed to the postcard. “He’ll team up with the ogdoad.”
Wesley grinned back.
“Ah, the chosen eight, your special project. How’s it going? How will he fit in?”
“The project’s going well. I’m pleased with progress to-date. This man’s at ground zero, so to speak, and he’ll be working in isolation.”
“Can you trust him? Isn’t it a risk to rely on one person, especially when he works away from his cell?”
“Yes, and no. The fewer people who know what he’s doing the better, it protects us all. He has a sister in Bogotá. He’s very close to her and he knows that completing this assignment successfully will guarantee that they both have a secure future. I expect him to provide us with a goldmine of data as well as ensuring that our primary objective is achievable.”
“So you’re confident that he can do this by himself?”
“One hundred percent! He’s real bright. He’s one of Frank’s protégés.”
Wesley nodded remembering the intense American in Bogatá. They both looked at the cards, imagining the board covered in colour, symbolising the various tasks as they activated and visualising their ultimate success! Brady lifted the dark blood-red Franz Kafka pen from its tray and unscrewed the top. He stared at the distinctive carved insect on the 18k nib. The pen was a reminder of their beginnings and he’d bought it just after they’d established the first Chosen Way cells. Absentmindedly his fingers stroked the barrel feeling its shape change from round to square.
“Have you read my report? I asked Hanna to email you a copy. Do you have anything to add? I’m due to see the head of the UN Development Program on Monday. She’s relatively new in the role and I’d like to impress her with our focus on the Millennium Development Goals.”
Reluctantly, Brady dragged his thoughts into the present. He screwed the top back on and carefully returned it to its spot in the tray then looked up with a bemused frown.
“The head’s a broad? What do you know about her, her background or her preferences?”
“She used to be a politician in New Zealand and I’ve heard she’s keen on education.”
Brady nodded thoughtfully. “Ah-ha. Then you can impress her! You’ve got all the facts haven’t you?”
“Sure. We established the first ESAP National Training institutes in 2008. Um … do we have exact numbers? I know the institutes have turned out doctors, nurses, paramedics, social workers and teachers. Local governments have recruited some of our graduates and we’ve offered our top students scholarships to overseas universities.”
“That’s it in a nutshell. A bit bare though. You’ll have to do better than that. You’ll have to dazzle her-”
“I know, I know. That was often on my school report. Could do better if he tried. I’ll add some glitz and glamour, blow my trumpet, that sort of thing. We both know I can do that.”
Brady raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t often that Wesley spoke so sharply.
“I didn’t mean to sound like a school master. Sorry. I’ll look out some stats for you just in case you find the need to throw some facts and figures into the mix. Be sure to hammer her about the dismal lack of progress towards achieving those UN Goals but it might be wise not to mention our plans to expand into New Zealand. I think it’s best if you keep the focus elsewhere. Stick to our African work and our training institutes.
“You need to do some more research though. Get Hanna onto it. Find out everything about that broad. Sometimes it’s not who you are but who you know that’s important. So the question is, does she have clout or just connections and what has she heard about ESAP? ... Take a bunch of flowers with you,” he added. “Gals always like flowers. Get Hanna to order something suitable.”
Wesley frowned. He disliked Brady’s sexism and he’d argued the point many times but nothing altered the fact that when it came to women in powerful positions, Brady was biased. With a shrug he pushed himself up out of the chair.
“Okay - will do. Thanks for the advice. Oh and send those stats, they might be useful.”
“Yes Sir! And Wes, let me know how you go … and don’t forget the flowers!”
“Wellington to Host Next ROAR Forum.
NZ Herald August 2010.
New Zealand’s successful nomination as hosts of the 2014 Forum was announced during the closing ceremony at Brussels. The 3rd ROAR Forum is generally regarded by officials as a remarkable success. Despite the threat of terrorist attacks which forced the Forum Committee to impose tight security measures, the meetings have been upbeat. Key resolutions were passed with majority support giving hope that even at this late date some of the UN Millennium Goals may be achieved.
Members of the NZ delegation will be returning home today and will be briefing the government on the implication of Forum resolutions. It is claimed that new economic and trade initiatives will benefit the Pacific Region and open new markets for our agricultural products especially in the developing Third World. Despite the economic and banking crisis, which have affected Western Nations, the global outlook is cautiously optimistic and many consider that the worst is now behind us. Recovery of the Euro and US dollar are predicted to occur before the end of 2011 to be followed by a period of sustained growth….”
CHAPTER 11
November 2010
George Ritmeyer, UN Security Chief and frequent flyer, liked to arrive early. It meant he could choose where to sit and once in place, years of practice had taught him how to blend into insignificance. He hadn’t managed to avoid unwelcome attention this time and check-in had been anything but routine. It still rankled that he could so easily be made to feel at fault. He wiped the beads of moisture off his forehead and settled lower behind his paper.
In response to the shocking midair murder of passengers on a flight to Hawaii two months earlier, a new Risk Screening Process had just been rolled out. If the palaver he’d had to endure was any indication it was half baked. He made a mental note to recommend that the UN petition US Passport Control to amend its TSA system.
He had presented his passport expecting to be waved through but instead the computer software had identified him as a potential threat. It had taken time as the officious little passport control officer peered at the screen before her and followed the unfamiliar process.
“Sir, are you carrying any prohibited items?”
“No ma’am.”
“Did you pack your own bag?”
He smiled reassuringly and nodded.
“Yes.”
She continued to frown at him, her lips pressed tight in a thin slash of half eaten colour. There was no warmth in her eyes and he felt his smile die.
“Are you travelling for business or pleasure?”
“Business ma’am.”
“You appear to travel frequently. I see that your last trip was to Bangkok.”
George felt a needless flutter of guilt. It dawned on him that his frequent visits into and out of the world’s many trouble spots had triggered a red alert on the newfangled system. He nodded and waited.
“Was that also for business Mr Ritmeyer?”
He absorbed her stare, masking his annoyance.
“Yes ma’am.”
“And you say this flight is also for business?”
“Yes.” What would happen if he was to say no, he wondered?
“How long are you staying in New Zealand?”
“Three days ma’am.”
“What will you be doing while you're there?”
“I’ve been invited to attend an important meeting.”
She glared at him suspiciously over her screen. He could read her thoughts. She didn’t believe him. He caught sight of his reflection. Faint craters of long gone acne marked his skin and his hairline was retreating. He looked quite ordinary in his tired suit. Surely, he thought to himself, she can’t think I’m a terrorist. She turned her attention back to the computer and he waited as she typed, clicked the mouse, then she looked up and spoke more sharply than necessary.
“Please explain yourself further sir.”
Again she stared at him watching attentively. He considered and discarded several flippant answers in favour of the plain truth.
“Well ma’am, I’m a UN adviser and I’ve been invited to address a meeting with New Zealand Government officials. I’m expected to represent the UN at strategic meetings and conferences. That’s my job … You can see my UN credentials ... Here!” he leaned forward to direct her attention to the appropriate pages. “Surely this is unnecessary?”
She scowled at him until he moved back slightly.
“I’ll decide what is unnecessary. That’s my job Mr Ritmeyer. So you say you represent the UN? Was that why you visited,” she paused as she flicked through the passport pages. “um Bangkok, Cairo, the Arab States and um Jakarta to mention a few?”
“Yes ma’am. Each occasion was different of course.”
“Don’t talk down to me, Mr Ritmeyer. How long have you been working for the UN?”
“I joined immediately after college ma’am and was appointed to this role eight years ago.” Then hoping to forestall further interrogation he added. “My chief responsibility is to identify threats or potential threats against world’s leaders specifically during UN sponsored events.”
Her eyebrows rose and he could see suspicion written on her face.
“Are you hiding something from me?”
He started. A rising flush washed over his sallow complexion and the crater scars. This was not a confessional, he reminded himself.
“No ma’am I have nothing to hide.”
She waited for more but he held her gaze as if challenging her to refute him. She let it pass.
“Have you been to New Zealand before?”
“No ma’am. It’s my first time.”
He met her gaze calmly then when her attention returned to her screen, he sighed quietly. This was becoming tedious. She changed the direction of her questioning.
“Where will you be staying in New Zealand?”
George shuffled through his travel wallet, found the hotel vouchers and handed them over. She noted the details, returned the papers to him and continued.
Despite his avowed UN connections, she doggedly followed the new TSA instructions on her screen; question after stupid question until, with obvious disappointment, she reluctantly handed him his passport and released him. He felt her eyes on his back as he walked away.
Once in the departure lounge, he commandeered two seats at the end of a row, placed his carry-on luggage on one and lowered himself onto the other. Instinctively he had identified one of the most defensive seats in the room. With the wall protecting his back, he angled his body inwards, rested his arm on his cabin bag and spread open his newspaper. He forced himself to wait patiently for his boarding call.
The rigid plastic was hardy comfortable and the minutes passed slowly. He loathed this preflight roundup of passengers. Surreptitiously he peered over his paper watching as they scattered belongings around themselves to mark out their personal space. The room filled and those boundaries shrank inwards. He was acutely aware of tension building as those being crowded together resisted the pressure to merge.
He’d observed the transformation many times. Despite passing through check-in, passport control and security, travellers were not yet fully committed to the journey. George had come to the conclusion, there was something about handing in a boarding pass and walking along the ramp which changed the dynamics and by the time they were seated, they were unified. For a short time their futures were intertwined and they would live or die together.
George both resented and welcomed the added levels of security. He knew better than most how important those extra checks were. Their lives, quite literally, depended on it yet still he resented them. Remembered paragraphs, hijacked from the classified pages of intelligence reports filled his mind; paragraphs which could easily induce the beginnings of panic. George didn’t fool himself. He was no hero. His driving purpose was to ensure that ordinary citizens could live their lives in peace. He buried his head in his newspaper to distract his thoughts but his senses were alert.
The humid air grew heavy with the stale smell of dime-store perfume, duty free scents and hot bodies. Sounds churned and swirled; the dry rustle of newsprint, shoes scuffing against the carpet and creaking groans from the plastic chairs protesting as heavy bodies settled. Now and then George overheard random snippets of conversation above the din. He started to relax behind his paper.
“George! Fancy meeting you after all these years. Must be at least twenty! You haven’t changed a bit. How’re you doing?”
The loud voice made him start and he lowered his paper to find Brady Ambler standing before him, a wide smile lighting up his face. George was not at all pleased to have been recognised. It was indeed twenty years since he’d seen Brady and his unexpected appearance unsettled him. He glanced quickly around. Several fellow travellers turned towards them alerted by the loud voice. Brady had always enjoyed being the centre of attention, but not George and he had no chance now of remaining unnoticed. He stood up and grasped the outstretched hand, forcing himself to smile.
“B-Brady. This is a surprise. Great to see you,” he spluttered. “So you’re off to New Zealand too?”
“No, I’m flying to Sydney but the plane refuels in Auckland so I guess technically you could say I’m going to New Zealand.”
Brady stood taller and appeared more muscular than he remembered, but he hadn’t lost any of his good looks or his taste for high fashion. Brady, he judged, noting the Italian shoes, the designer labels and the Rolex, was doing well. Reluctantly George folded his paper, removed his bag from the seat and they sat down.
Brady continued. “I’ve got business in Australia and plan to stop in New Zealand for a few days on the way back. It’ll be my first visit and I hear the fishing’s great. Where are you off to? Business or pleasure?”
“Business. I’m meeting up with some colleagues in Auckland, just routine, nothing world sh-shattering.”
God why did he have to stutter? Calm down, he ordered himself, it’s only Brady. He forced a smile.
George had no desire to talk about his trip but by habit he was a truthful man. The odd white lie was perfectly acceptable, at times diplomatically essential but facts were facts. There could be no harm in admitting to his destination, he told himself, it was self-evident given the flight he was about to catch; besides it was on public record. Adeptly he changed the subject.
“I won’t have time for fishing but guess I’ll get to see something of Auckland, if only from the inside of a taxi. What sort of fishing interests you, fly or big game? I believe New Zealand’s famous for both.”
“I always go for the big game!” Brady laughed raucously.
George shifted uncomfortably and responded with a half-shrug. He wiped his forehead.
“It’s getting stuffy in here,” he grumbled. “They can never get the damn air conditioning right. It’s either freezing or roasting, and never in-between. Too many bodies in a confined space and by the time the damn machine cuts in, we’re on the plane.”
Brady nodded. They chatted, small talk really, saying nothing of importance, circling around the unspoken. The sound system crackled. Conversations faltered as passengers strained to catch instructi
ons.
“What’s your seat number George? I’m amongst the great unwashed, in the middle somewhere, an aisle seat.”
“I’m travelling business class. I usually travel economy but I had so many air points ... ” His voice trailed off. Brady’s eyebrow arched briefly. Was it surprise or jealousy? George didn’t care, his relief was overwhelming. Further tête-à-têtes were unlikely. That’s all that mattered. Thank God he’d upgraded.
Brady shook his hand heartily.
“Well George, it’s been great to catch up; all the best with your Forum Security Meeting. We’re all grateful for the work you UN paper soldiers do to keep us safe. You and I know that it takes courage to do the right thing.”
Brady turned and without a backward glance blended into the snaking line. He felt pleased with himself. He’d achieved all his objectives and a satisfied smile flitted over his face as he remembered George’s obvious consternation. Nothing had changed despite the years which had passed. Lost in thought he held out his boarding card and passport and before he knew it he entered the belly of the Airbus. He rarely travelled in economy and gazed with distaste at the narrow seats. He ducked his head beneath the overhead lockers as he sidled into the cramped space and eased his trousers as he sat. It was certainly a tight squeeze and his knees almost touched the seat in front. Why had he assumed that George would be travelling cattle class? Still, the relief on George’s face made it all worthwhile. Now all he had to do was haunt the fringes of George’s imagination.
Disconcerted George watched as Brady swaggered through the crowd. What did Brady know about the Forum? He was sure he hadn’t mentioned it. George racked his brains. He’d last heard of Brady some years past. He’d featured in a newspaper article about disaster relief although the remembered details were only vague. At least, their spheres of influence and connection were worlds apart, he thought thankfully. It was unlikely that their paths would cross again.
By the time George joined the slowly moving queue he’d again become unremarkable. No-one would later remember seeing him board the plane. He dropped thankfully into his seat and stretched his legs. The cushions felt simultaneously soft and firm and his body settled comfortably. He found the in-flight magazine and flicked through it, his thoughts still restless. Paper soldiers indeed! What did he mean? The edges of his mind worried at Brady’s barb. He shivered as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
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