by Peter Cotton
When I’d trained in close protection, our instructor had always said that we shouldn’t think of ourselves as protecting a person — it was the person’s high office we were there to protect. And right then, I knew I had to do something, anything, to save the prime minister.
I lifted my arm and made as if to throw something at Hanley. He swung his aim my way, saw that I was bluffing, and immediately moved his pistol back onto Lansdowne. So I decided to become a goalie again. Except, this time, I had to stop the ball.
I forced my gaze away from Hanley’s pistol and focused on his eyes. He squinted slightly, like his sister had, and I flew in front of the prime minister as Hanley’s pistol flashed. The bullet hit me in the chest, my world exploded into colours, and everything slowed. The rock ledge moved up to meet me, and I seemed to fall through it. I fell further — much further than I thought I could fall. Then everything went black.
Epilogue
IT WAS LATE NOVEMBER before I was able to walk from my apartment down to the police memorial by the lake. As I stood there in the morning sun, reading the names on the lines of plaques, I visualised my name up there in bronze, and the image didn’t trouble me anymore. It had been that close. Hanley’s bullet had smashed my collarbone, taken out an artery, broken a rib and collapsed my left lung. It had missed my spine by millimetres, and for that I thanked my luck every day. I had already thanked the sniper in the chopper who had pinged Hanley before he could get off a second shot.
Lansdowne had escaped with barely a nick on his body, but his life was in tatters. The bloodied transcript in my jacket, and the tape they’d found on Lomax, combined to seal his fate. He resigned soon after the polls closed on Saturday night, and he was formally charged on the following Monday. His case is yet to be heard. It’s said he’ll plead guilty to all charges flowing from the Mondrian conspiracy, so he’ll lose everything. And he’ll do time. But at least he’s alive — not like the rest of his cabal.
Kemp turned out to be wrong about the death vest. Lansdowne never got to wear a bomb, but he very nearly rode in one. They found Hanley’s BMW at the top of Geary’s Gap, about three kilometres from where he’d shot me. The car was packed with nails and explosives. Lomax had made a very big bomb for the prime minister, and she’d planned to have him strapped into it when it blew.
When Harry the driver regained consciousness, he confirmed my theory about how Lomax had got her contraband past House security. He said that when he drove her down for early mornings at The Lodge, Lomax would occasionally divert the car to her Blackall Street unit, saying she’d left documents there.
The team investigating the Mondrian conspiracy finally got access to Proctor’s dirt files. Media pressure on the new Redding government saw to that. As it turned out, Lomax hadn’t handled the rumour file. Not that Brady made any mention of that when he visited me in hospital a few weeks after the shooting. He just smiled for the cameras, pinned a medal on my chest, and left. We’re yet to see if any prosecutions flow from the files, but the word is that some bigwigs like Brady have reason to be worried. As does Mondrian itself. The Securities Commission has been through the place like a dose of salts, and it’s said to be preparing some huge briefs.
Lomax’s cat-killing friend Joe turned out to be a Polish national called Stefan Falat, a one-time foot soldier for an Athens-based heroin cartel. Falat had dropped off Interpol’s radar in Bangkok shortly after Sylvie Hanley ‘disappeared’ in Thailand’s north. At the time, Falat was known to be in possession of a big wad of his bosses’ cash. Interpol had always assumed he had been caught and killed by his own. We now knew that he’d hooked up with Hanley while they were both ‘re-badging’ themselves in the Thai capital.
As a mere copper, all I could think of was what a mess it had all turned out. Greed had led to grief, and that had led to mayhem. The whole country had suffered a trauma that seemed so unnecessary.
Jean was sitting next to my bed when I first regained consciousness. She spent most of the next week there, before I told her to go back to work — at least for a few hours a day.
When I was discharged, she drove me to her apartment and set me up on the couch with the view of Red Hill. Later, when we were having a cup of tea, she asked what I’d do while I was recuperating. Rest, I said, and then get bored. She had a different idea — she suggested that I find a way to tell my story. You could even write a book, she said. I thought about it for a while, and then found myself agreeing with her. A book, eh? I might just do that.
Acknowledgements
MY THANKS to all those who advised and guided me in the writing of this novel. They include close-protection specialist, AFP Federal Agent Vince Parnell; the former head of ACT policing, Detective Superintendent Ray Sweeney; the senior Crown prosecutor for NSW, Mark Tedeschi QC; the director of the National Institute of Forensic Science, Dr Tony Raymond; the senior instructor in Military Self-Defence and Close Quarter Fighting at ADFA, Warrant Officer Anthony Berne; the dean of the ANU College of Business and Economics, and professor of business administration at the ANU, Professor Keith Houghton; the political editor of The Canberra Times, Ross Peake; and ABC political reporter Alex Kirk.
Special thank to my agent, John Timlin, for believing in this book. And to my publisher and editor, Henry Rosenbloom, who seamlessly smoothed the text and taught me to value omissions. And to my good friend and writing mentor Kel Robertson, whose insights and input helped me keep my chins up in the hard times. And, finally, my love and thanks to my wife, Claire Tedeschi, without whose encouragement and support this novel would never have been.
Contents
About the Author
Dedication
Title Page
Copyright Page
Epigraph
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Epilogue
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