Dead Cat Bounce

by Peter Cotton

  I parked, and then we followed our escort into the foyer of the ministerial entrance, where she signed us in before leading us down a short corridor that opened out onto a huge courtyard paved with polished granite. Ahead of us were two massive doors made of copper and glass. One of the doors opened from the inside as we approached, and a security guard stepped out and ushered us into a reception hall where Davies was waiting for us.

  Our escort took Kemp around to Lomax’s office, while Davies led the rest of us to a small lounge room where three blokes sat waiting on plush leather chairs. They all jumped to their feet when we came in, and Davies did the introductions.

  Jim Feathers and Tom Edwards had been in the accompanying security vehicle when the PM was taken. They both made reasonable eye-contact when we shook hands, but their faces were ghostly white and Edwards’ jaw tremored uncontrollably. Having worked close-protection myself, I had some idea of what these guys were going through. Then again, I’d never lost anyone, so my sense of their distress probably didn’t come close.

  The third guy in the room was Lansdowne’s chief of staff, James Filandia. He looked more impatient than traumatised, as though he had somewhere more important to be. Davies closed the door, and, once we were all seated in a circle, McHenry set up his recorder and gave me the nod. But before I could open my mouth, the door swung open again and a severe-looking chap in a sharp suit walked in. Davies introduced the newcomer as Cliff Bolton from the Security Co-ordination Centre. The Centre was a highly secretive organisation buried deep in Attorney-General’s. It handled mega-policing issues such as national security assessments, counter-terrorism, and VIP protection.

  Davies didn’t give us Bolton’s rank, or any other designation he might own. And Bolton looked us over and simply said, ‘Afternoon, gentlemen.’ Then he sat down next to me and took out a palm-sized pad and began making notes. I glanced at McHenry. He was eyeing Bolton with undisguised contempt, which surprised me a bit. Did these two know each other? If they did, there hadn’t been any sign of it when Bolton had first entered the room. What was going on here?

  Then the penny dropped. It wasn’t Bolton as such who was rankling McHenry. It was the fact that the Centre had chosen to crash our interview. They had access to PROMIS, and they would have been following our progress very closely. So the fact that Bolton was here in person could mean only one thing: the Centre was about to ‘get involved’ in the investigation.

  This realisation stunned me momentarily, but at another level it came as no surprise. The case had escalated into a national emergency, and the Centre’s search-and-seizure powers allowed it to do things that we couldn’t. I looked at McHenry again. He was staring forlornly at the empty tabletop in front of him. I cleared my throat, he looked up, and I gave him a quizzical look. He answered with a resigned nod of his head, so I checked that his recorder was still rolling, and then got on with it.

  ‘Officer Feathers, Officer Edwards,’ I said. ‘I understand you may have lost a close colleague during this abduction. So, first, can I offer our sympathies.’

  Feathers looked up and nodded, his bottom lip quivering as he fought for control. Edwards glanced at his colleague, and then dropped his head and worked to control his own emotions.

  ‘Officer Feathers,’ I said, ‘can you tell us where the prime minister was going when he was abducted, and why Penny Lomax was with him at the time?’

  ‘We were taking him to the mosque in Yarralumla,’ said Feathers, his teeth clenched so tightly that I could hear them grind as he spoke. ‘The PM was meeting Sheik Khalid el Sheik. It was something Lomax had organised.’

  He emphasised the first syllable of her name, as though he was describing her as much as naming her.

  ‘The grand mufti,’ I said, turning to Filandia. ‘And what was the purpose of this meeting?’

  ‘The sheik is very influential in his community,’ said Filandia, choosing his words carefully. ‘And his community tends to vote as a bloc. We’d prepared an endorsement from the sheik which we wanted him to run in the media that services his ahh … his people.’

  ‘And in return?’

  ‘We … ahh … we were willing to look favourably on a cultural centre he wants built in Lakemba,’ he said.

  Filandia grimaced as he spoke, as though this forced disclosure caused him real pain. Bolton lifted his head from his notebook. He looked as if he was about to ask a question, but he went back to his scribbles instead. I turned to Feathers again.

  ‘So, tell us about the lead-up to the abduction,’ I said. ‘How did it play out?’

  ‘We got the cars up to the courtyard at about noon,’ said Feathers. ‘Ray was riding up front in C1, and Tom and I were in the security vehicle behind. Once we were set, I went and waited outside the PM’s door. A few minutes after that, Lomax came around from the staff offices and went into the PM.’

  ‘Did she have anything with her?’

  ‘Nothing unusual. Briefing notes. And her handbag. It’s medium-sized. Black leather.’

  ‘And was the bag in her hand, or over her shoulder?’

  ‘It was on her shoulder. And she had the notes in her hand.’

  ‘Did you hear anything after she went in?’

  ‘No. And I wouldn’t expect to. The PM’s office is pretty much sound-proofed. But there’s six panic buttons in there, and he didn’t touch any of them, so I don’t think anything was going on at that stage.’

  ‘Did Lomax know about the buttons?’ said McHenry.

  ‘I guess so,’ said Feathers. ‘Everyone in here knows about them, but only a few of us know where they are.’

  ‘So how long were the two of them in there?’ I said.

  ‘They came out at about twelve-ten. So, ten minutes at most.’

  ‘Any “tells” from the PM as he walked out?’

  ‘No, nothing. His was to tug his right ear lobe, and he only ever used it once that I know of, and that was a complete disaster. A mozzie bit his ear while he was talking to some senior Yank in the garden over at The Lodge. He gave the bite a bit of a rub, and we all piled onto the Yank. Spear-tackled him, actually. Almost caused an international incident, but the bloke wasn’t hurt, so they kept it quiet.’

  It was the wrong time for such a tale, but I figured it might help Feathers to tell it. And that’s how it seemed, at least until he’d finished talking. Then he looked at me, and, as he waited for the next question, his neck went red, and then it bulged as the pressure built up inside him again.

  ‘So there was no tell,’ I said, nodding. ‘And when Lomax came out, did she still have the bag on her shoulder? And the notes in her hand?’

  ‘The bag was on her shoulder. The notes had gone. And her hands were in her pockets. The PM was to her left, walking slightly ahead of her. I guess we know why now. They both went through the foyer. I opened the door to the courtyard. They got into the car and it drove off. And we followed.’

  ‘Was there anything strange or unusual about the way all this happened?’

  ‘It was all pretty much a standard exit. Until we got down to the bollards, of course. Then everything turned to shit.’

  Channel Four Live Cam

  Thursday 8 August, 2.00pm

  Good afternoon, Jean Acheson here. Back in Canberra for what must rate as one of the most dramatic and tragic days in the life of our nation.

  A little over an hour ago, Governor-General Mark Bradley signed a Minute from the Executive Council appointing Malcolm Redding as Australia’s acting prime minister.

  Mr Redding’s jet is due to touch down in Canberra in twenty minutes. Once he’s on the ground, he’ll be taken to a security bunker under Parliament House where he’ll be sworn in. Then senior police and security personnel will brief him and his advisors on the fate of Prime Minister Michael Lansdowne.

  I understand Mr Redding will r
emain in his bunker until the parliamentary triangle has been assessed for any threat to him and his team. And in news just in, Governor-General Bradley has signed another Minute which effectively puts the army onto the streets of Canberra. The army’s orders, and here I quote from the Minute, are to ‘safeguard the national interests of the Commonwealth of Australia from criminal activities and related violence.’ This is Jean Acheson. Back with more in a moment.

  33

  LEAFLESS WISTERIA SNAKED in and over the two massive gazebos that ran the length of the Prime Minister’s Courtyard. The clouds had descended during our time inside, and the temperature had dropped to single figures. McHenry turned his back on the metal-and-glass doors, and lifted his hands to indicate the space directly in front of him.

  ‘So, the cars stopped here,’ he said, puffs of mist coming from his mouth.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Feathers, buttoning his jacket. ‘Close to the doors, as always. And the PM and Lomax came outside, and, oh … there was something.’

  Feathers’ eyes narrowed, then he grimaced and let out a sigh.

  ‘The PM usually rode up front with Harry,’ he said, picturing the scene. ‘But occasionally he liked to sit in the back. Well, today, he went to the back door, so I opened it for him, and when he got in, he shuffled across the seat so that Lomax could get in after him.’

  ‘What’s the problem with that?’ said McHenry.

  ‘A staffer would normally go to the other side of the vehicle to get in,’ said Feathers. ‘You know, to save the boss having to shuffle across like that.’

  ‘I assume she didn’t have both her hands in her pockets at this stage,’ I said.

  ‘No. She had her BlackBerry out, but I’m sure her right hand was still in her pocket.’

  ‘A BlackBerry? Was she using it in any way that you could see? Making a call, or texting or something?

  ‘No. It was just in her hand.’

  ‘And her other hand was in her pocket? You’re sure of that?’

  ‘Yes. And once she got into the car, she sort of swung around in the seat and faced the prime minister. To keep him covered, I guess.’

  ‘So, once everyone was in their cars and you were ready to go, what happened then?’ said McHenry, nodding at Feathers.

  ‘Well, the PM’s car moved off,’ he said. ‘And we followed. The guys on the gates opened up. And we drove down the hill towards the bollards.’

  ‘Let’s follow your route, then,’ said McHenry, tilting his head at the massive wrought-iron gates that dominated the far end of the courtyard.

  He led us across the courtyard, through the warm foyer of the ministerial entrance, and out into the cold again. We marched down the hill to where Feathers’ Fairlane sat stranded up on the bollards.

  ‘So this is where we ended up,’ said Feathers, running his hand over the bonnet of the vehicle. ‘High and dry.’

  ‘How’d she do it?’ said McHenry, cupping a hand over the top of his tape machine so that the breeze wouldn’t blow holes in his recording.

  ‘It was all too easy, really,’ said Feathers. ‘The security office usually controls the bollards, but the PM’s car carries a remote. It’s the only one, and it overrides everything else. We were coming down the hill here, behind C1, and we heard a pop. Just one, but it was a firearm, for sure. I tried Ray on the two-way, but he didn’t respond. And they were still moving, so I got bumper-to-bumper with them. And then they stopped, suddenly — about a metre past these bollards. That put us on top of the things. And that’s when they went up.’

  ‘And while you were being hoisted, what did you do?’

  ‘Tom tried the immobiliser on C1, and I jumped out, but they’d already taken off.’

  ‘So the immobiliser failed?’ said McHenry.

  ‘Correct,’ said Feathers. ‘She must have got at that, too.’

  ‘And, of course, there was no point putting a few rounds into the tyres,’ I said, knowing that there wasn’t.

  ‘Nup. The whole fleet’s got run-flat tyres. I could’ve filled ’em with lead, and it wouldn’t have made any difference.’

  ‘And did you get a good look at the PM?’ I said. ‘As they were driving off?’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said Feathers, his voice cracking slightly. ‘He swung round and looked at me just as the car took the corner down there. And, you know, I’ve seen plenty of him up-close over the years, and he’s always been calm and confident. Projecting his aura. Well, there today, he looked completely flummoxed. No surprise in that, though, I suppose.’

  ‘And you’re sure it was Lomax orchestrating things?’ said McHenry, eyeing Feathers with mild disbelief.

  ‘Who else could it have been?’ he said. ‘Ray was slumped against the window, covered in blood. And Harry was driving.’

  ‘Why not Harry?’ I said. ‘What makes you so sure he wasn’t in on it?’

  ‘Harry? No way. I mean, I didn’t get a good look at him, but as they went around the corner, Lomax was right forward in her seat, screaming at him.’

  The late-afternoon sky had greyed out to the horizon, and the moisture in the air had put a sheen on all our faces. I was suddenly hit by the immensity of what had happened here, and I momentarily struggled for a follow-up question.

  ‘So, the car went down the ramp and off the Hill,’ said McHenry, taking up the slack. ‘And, Officer Feathers, you pursued on foot. Let’s go over there now, and you can tell us what you saw.’

  The ramp was a nameless two-lane road that arced off the Hill to an intersection and a set of lights. After the lights it became Melbourne Avenue, with two pairs of double lanes separated by a wide median strip full of mature eucalypts. The overhanging trees obscured the upper reaches of the road, as well as the school where Lomax had abandoned the PM’s car.

  ‘We had a green-light corridor all the way to the mosque,’ said Feathers, pointing to the traffic lights now flashing amber, ‘so those ones down there were green. And by the time I got here, the car was through them and barreling up the hill. I lost them when they went over the first rise, and only got a glimpse when they came up over the second one, and then the trees got in the way and they were gone.’

  ‘And how long before someone gave chase?’ I said.

  ‘We had three cars and half-a-dozen bicycle cops here in a minute,’ said Feathers. ‘And they shot up that road like there was no tomorrow, but it was too late by then.’

  McHenry nodded, turned off his tape, and we followed him up a steep flight of stairs and back to the prime minister’s office. Once we were settled in the little lounge room again, he put his machine back on record and turned to Filandia.

  ‘Lomax would have gone through a security check when she came to work here,’ he said, ‘so I assume your people discovered nothing adverse about her?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Filandia. ‘And Senator Chalmers recom-mended her, so that would have carried a lot of weight with whoever did the check. Admin’s digging out her file. We’ll shoot it down to you as soon as we get it, but it’s ancient history, isn’t it?’

  ‘How would you describe Lomax?’ said McHenry, ignoring his rhetorical question.

  Filandia slid forward in his seat, thinking through his reply. As chief of staff, he was ultimately responsible for everyone in the office, so maybe he feared that some of the blame for what had happened would attach to him. Or maybe he knew less about Lomax than he should have, and dreaded looking like a goose when his ignorance was exposed.

  ‘I came to work for Mr Lansdowne eight years ago,’ he said, measuring every word. ‘When he had Communications. Lomax came in about a year after that. And, you know, she was extremely intelligent, and she had skills that were in demand …’

  ‘We want to hear about her skills,’ said McHenry. ‘But, first, tell us about Penny Lomax the person.’

 
‘Well, people who work here are generally judged by what they do. And she was good at her job and generous with her time — no matter who was after it. She wasn’t one for small talk. Or superfluous talk of any sort, really. But she was attractive and easy to have around. So she was liked, and she helped people when they needed it. And she always seemed happy somehow.’

  ‘And what about her skills?’ said McHenry.

  ‘Well, she knew computers. Better than most of the IT guys. If you had a problem, she was nearly always the one to fix it. And she had a memory for process, which is a valued talent in an office like ours. Then, three years ago, after Mr Lansdowne became PM, Alan Proctor joined us, and he asked if she could help with his files.’

  ‘And I assume her work for Proctor allowed Lomax to get close to the PM,’ said Bolton, his pen poised over his notebook.

  It was Bolton’s first intervention, and everyone looked at him, as if the question were alive with meaning. Filandia opened his mouth to answer, and then closed it again. He’d had something on the tip of his tongue, but he’d swallowed it like an accused person under pressure.

  ‘Alan developed the campaign strategy,’ he said, finally. ‘And despite what we know about her now, Penny Lomax was his able assistant in that effort. She was a woman on the rise because Alan Proctor valued her. He paved the way for her to attend key meetings. And whenever the PM had a question at those meetings, she always seemed to have the answer at her fingertips. Alan still kept most of his material to himself, of course, but he regarded Lomax as his disciple, and I’ve no doubt he was grooming her for a seat. So, did her relationship with Alan allow her to get close to the PM? You’d have to say it did. For a start, she picked up most of Alan’s early mornings, after he, ahh, after he passed away.’

  ‘Early mornings?’ I said. ‘What are they?’

  ‘When the PM’s in Canberra,’ said Filandia, ‘early mornings are exactly that. It’s a job for the senior people in the office, and when it’s your turn, you get in here at about six, and put together cuttings and cables for the PM, as well as any alerts he should read. And then Harry takes you down to the Lodge. Sometimes you have breakfast with the PM. And when he’s ready, you drive back here with him in C1.’