by Max Bolt
“I brought you something,” Fitch says, reaching inside his pocket.
“No!” Mason trains the gun on Fitch.
Fitch pats the air.
“Easy Mason. It is not a weapon.”
Fitch works his right hand slowly inside his pocket. Mason cranes his neck like a turtle to see. Fitch’s hand emerges holding a vial of pills he took from Mason’s former workplace.
“I brought these for you Mason.”
Fitch crawls forward and places the vial on the desk.
“Take them Mason. They will help you think straight.”
*
Fitch knows the pills are the best thing to bring Mason down; can’t talk him down, so he will try and medicate him down.
But Mason is not playing.
The pills are tempting. The softer side of his brain, the side that has been conditioned by the pills is screaming out for them. But the stubborn side knows that if he takes the pills now then today will all be a waste.
“No Fitch. The pills make me a doped up vegetable.”
“Take the pills Mason and we just walk out of here,” Fitch counters.
Mason ignores the pills.
“Why are you here Fitch?”
Good question that. Fitch recalls his unfinished Q&A on the drive into town.
“I don’t know.”
It is a lie. He’s considered things further and realised it is all quite simple. Sergeant Fitch has a conscience to clear. He needs to right the wrongs of his birthday twenty years ago. It is all quite selfish.
“Let Ben go and this gets instantly better Mason.”
“He’s fine,” Mason snaps, “just keep your head down there Ben.”
“What is it you want Mason?” Fitch asks.
Mason raises his chin. He has condensed his numerous grievances into a single symbolic request.
“I want an apology,” Mason says, “on the phone from the Prime Minister.”
“That is not going to happen,” Fitch counters, “the government does not get involved in hostage situations.”
Mason laughs.
“Really Fitch? Let me tell you a bit about this government not getting involved. They send a load of citizens off to war and then abandon them on their return. Won’t even look those soldiers in the eye. And those men are dying, not only in the Middle East but right here at home, surrounded by the very society they fought to protect. And what do their families get? A cookie cutter condolence letter, some petty cash to see them through, and their man’s name on some bullshit honour role that never sees the light of day. It is criminal Fitch. Those men fought the wars the Government declared and were too afraid to fight for themselves.”
“There are other ways to get your message across Mason,” Fitch counters.
Mason laughs.
“No one listens. I’m nothing. I’m less than nothing. This bloke here,” Mason nudges Craig with his gun, “proved it this morning when he sacked me.”
Fitch’s mobile interrupts things.
“Can I get that?” Fitch asks, “it could be important.”
Mason is wary but nods. Fitch pulls his mobile out and glances at the screen.
“Someone wants to talk to you Mason.”
Fitch puts it on speaker phone.
“Fitch! Fitch! Where are you?”
“I’m with Mason.”
“Is Ben there?” Linda is frantic.
“Yes. He is unhurt.”
“Thank God. Thank God. I’m hearing stories on the news. The police know about Mason and you. I told them things Fitch. I had to.”
“It is alright Linda. Speak to Mason.”
There is a long pause. Mason stares blankly at the mobile. He’s sweating profusely. His gun hand is shaking like a leaf in the wind.
“Mason. What are you doing? They’re saying you’ve got a gun. That you’ve done some bad things.”
Her tone is soothing, like she is coercing a child.
“I’m not the only one,” Mason counters.
“Why have you got Ben?”
“Because I wanted to spend some time with him. Because I’m his father. Why did you remove me as a parent at the school?”
“Have you taken your pills Mason?”
“Never mind the pills Linda. Why’d you do that at the school? Why can’t I see my own son?”
“I was scared Mason. Now let Ben go and we can discuss things.”
Fitch is impressed by Linda holding it together. She is subtly exerting leverage; give me something and then you get something. But Mason is not playing.
“Ben wants to stay.”
“What are you doing Mason? What do you want?”
“Respect,” Mason says. That single word sums up his grievances, “I want an apology from the Prime Minster. For what this Government has done. For what they did to me. For what they did to us.”
“I don’t care about the Government, Mason. Please, let Ben go.”
“I don’t want to Linda.”
It is then the dam wall breaks and two decades of frustrations spill over.
“You are a coward Mason. That’s what you are. You drink too much. You beat us. You scare us. You think that is the man we want? We waited for you to come home from the war Mason. Living every day expecting to turn on the news and find out you were dead. We stuck with you and this is how you treat us? And you have ruined Ben.”
“Did you know he responded today?” Mason interrupts.
“Well give yourself a great big pat on the back Mason. Remember it was you who stole his voice in the first place.”
Mason does not like the conversation.
“I’m going now.”
Linda feels her chance slipping away and she goes all out.
“You son of a bitch Mason. You let my boy go. You hurt my boy and I will kill you. I will never forgive you. You are nothing. The world would be better without you. I will…”
Fitch graciously hangs up. The room is eerily silent. Mason sways on the spot as if Linda’s words are still biting at him. The police sirens from outside the building swirl around him like whining mosquitos. He pulls himself together. He whispers conspiratorily in Craig’s ear.
“Not a keeper hey boss?”
Fitch tries again.
“Just put the gun down Mason and we can all walk out of here”
“For what?” Mason challenges, “I ain’t got nothing left. Phone call just proved it. I gave everything to this country. Put my bloody life on the line. Did the killing and dirty work so that the masses could keep their hands and their consciences clean.”
“We can’t change the past,” Fitch says, “but there’s the future.”
“The future? What is a future when you’re gonna be doped up on drugs, begging for a job? Getting kicked around. That ain’t a future is it?”
“There’s Ben,” Fitch counters, “he deserves a father.”
Mason glances at his son and is silent for a long time.
“Not a deranged one like me. Kid deserves better.”
“Every kid needs a father Mason.”
At that moment they are disturbed by sounds outside the office. Footsteps and furniture being moved. Mason ducks instinctively behind his hostage. He sees the shadows shifting outside the office. He hears muffled voices. He knows the police have arrived. Fitch knows it too and it strengthens his resolve to protect his brother.
“We can get you right Mason.”
“We tried that already Fitch. Didn’t work. Just made things worse. Get me a line to the Prime Minister, and then we can talk Fitch.”
“Won’t happen Mason.”
Chapter 20
They come in fast and in great numbers. The cavalry has arrived. A big old Terrorist Response posse, complete with big ol’ assault weapons, big ol’ black kevlar bullet proof body armour and shields, and a mighty glass busting pylon. And the fat bearded senior in charge of this unit; Robocop reincarnated – Robocop on steroids – establishes a perimeter exclusion zone around the office and
sets about grilling Craig’s P.A. for information.
How many are in there?
Four. One crazy man with a kid, Police Officer, and my boss.
The crazy one, how did he look?
Crazy.
Was the kid hurt?
No.
How’s the office laid out?
Desk. Table. Shelves.
More information.
Don’t know, it’s an office.
The table and shelves – metal or wood?
Metal shelves, wood table.
Does the phone work?
Yes.
Is your boss healthy?
Yes.
Has there been any gunfire?
No. And oh dear I think I’m going to be sick.
It is a rapid fire Q&A to complete the picture in the commander’s mind’s eye of just who and what he is dealing with. Because the fragmented picture the behind the scenes intelligence team has assembled is very hard to believe. Here are the facts as they have them.
Mason Turner, the Target, is ex-military. Three years in Afghanistan. Started as a foot soldier but ended on the fringe of Special Operations. The military angle could be good news or bad news. Good, as the bloke will likely understand the hostage negotiation process and might just get with it. Bad, because the Target isn’t some fly-by-nighter that’s picked up a gun for the first time. But did he work with explosives in the military? Stupid question, you fight in Afghanistan your working with explosives. Better question: did he work directly with explosives, either assembling or dissembling? No. Well thank Lordy for that.
But there’s more.
The Target has suffered from mental illness since returning from the field. Inability to adjust to society. Apparent dissatisfaction with the ruling Government (don’t we all), but the Target’s gripes go beyond the backyard BBQ rant, extending to threatening Government officials and verbal threats against the country. Interest in Islamic doctrine with more than accidental visits to known extremist websites. And the combination of CCTV train station footage, witness sightings, and Internet vigilante cameos, point to a desperate and dangerous man with an agenda. Losing his job was the trigger. Western Sydney was his canvas. The Government is his target. He is a terrorist.
A radicalised Islamic terrorist.
The exact point of Mason’s radicalisation is impossible to pinpoint and it does not really matter. Because when the lion’s in the front garden it doesn’t matter how it got there, it is there, and you got to deal with. Seeds were probably sown in Afghanistan. Started off fighting terrorism and ended up embracing it.
And that is the issue with exposing our good men to the war in the Middle East, the Commander thinks, they bring the war and all its evil home. Might not surface straight away but surfaces years later.
The Commander has been briefed on all of this and knows he has a major incident on his hands. The entire nation will be watching. And as if on cue a young reporter holding a handicam appears on the floor. He is breathless from climbing the fire stairs from the basement to get past the police lines in the foyer.
“Who let Peter Parker in?” the Commander growls, “get him out of here.”
“Terrorism or activism?” the reporter asks as he is manhandled out of the room.
What’s the difference, the Commander thinks. Both are fighting to get their message across; one uses a sword while the other uses spray paint.
“Hero or villain?”
“Neither,” the Commander snaps, “he’s a criminal.”
“Is this another Lindt Café?” the reporter calls as he is dragged out of sight.
Not if I can help it, the Commander thinks.
The Commander walks carefully to the edge of the exclusion zone and studies the office. Six Robocop clones are kneeling like black lions behind a desk with their too big guns trained on the office, and two others kneel behind them with shields and the glass busting battering ram. It is reminiscent of a medieval siege.
“Any movement?” the Commander asks.
“Difficult to see, appears passive.”
The men are deciphering shadows, because that is all they can see through the frosted glass.
“Son of a bitch,” the commander growls, and unhooks his hand held radio and talks to his snipers laid out in the surrounding buildings.
“What do you see?”
The truth–
Not much.
Dressed in black they look like panthers in the dark jungle of office towers, lying in wait behind their rifles. The ash in the air is playing havoc with their telescopic sights. But these men have x-ray vision, or the closest thing to it, heat sensor technology. More Predator than Superman. Despite the drawn blinds they track the activity in the office via infrared heat images. One heavy red and green shape sitting and not moving, two standing, one pacing the other still, and one other, partially visible, must be located behind a metal cabinet or something, on the floor.
“The Target seems agitated. Moving constantly.”
“If he engages a hostage, you take him out.”
The commander is on edge. The situation is high profile. His superiors and the media have only one thing on their mind, the Lindt Café.
And as for that other officer, thinking he’s Dirty Harry, marching into the lion’s den. He’ll be singing for his supper if he gets out of this unscathed.
“Get the negotiator up here,” The Commander orders, “I want to know what that bastard inside wants.”
Chapter 21
“Take the pills Mason.”
Fitch watches Mason pace the narrow space behind the CEO’s desk. The airconditioning has cut out (likely the work of the Special Ops unit outside) and the office is like a sauna. Sweat leaches out of Fitch dripping down his arms and face. He senses the patience of the officer’s outside wearing thin.
“I want to talk to the Prime Minster, Fitch.”
“That will not happen Mason. The government does not negotiate with criminals.”
Mason looks confused.
“Criminal? I am the bad guy? How did that happen?”
“Just put down the gun Mason and I will get us out of here.”
But Mason is still trying to rationalise things.
“I get cut up by a bunch of kids on the train. I see a pimp beating up his underage people smuggled worker. Then I just about get me head lopped off by some would-be teenage jihadists. All of this in a country I risked my life for. But I am the bad guy? Explain that to me Fitch.”
Fitch could not explain it even if he tried. The world and life are not fair. Fairness is determined by wealth and power and which side of Sydney you live on.
“It does not matter Mason, all the police see right now is a lunatic with a gun and three hostages. Let them go Mason and I will stay with you.”
“No. No, Fitch,” Mason says, “I never did nothing. People did stuff to me but I never did anything to anyone. These people don’t respect what I did. I had a mate Fitch. We fought together in that piss ant desert. We dodged the bullets together and made it home together. But he’s dead Fitch. Took himself out. The demons killed him. The government killed him. The government that sent him to that desert and the government that abandoned him when he returned. You know what his family got? Fifteen thousand dollars, Fitch. Tell me, Fitch, what’s a life worth?”
Fitch can’t answer that. But he knows, like it or not, some lives are worth more than others. Fitch is struggling to think. The office feels as if it is burning up. He needs to sit down. But he forces himself to stand. He needs to be ready to respond. The men outside are coming in; it is only a matter of time. Fitch sees that Mason is too close to the office windows.
“Move away from the windows Mason.”
The instruction focuses Mason. He knows, like Fitch, that there are snipers out there. Mason wheels Craig sideways in his chair and crouches behind his former boss.
It is then that the desk phone rings. Mason rolls his eyes. Who now? He nods and Craig places it on speaker p
hone.
“Who am I speaking to?”
The voice is firm, professional and precise. The police negotiator.
*
Fitch knew the call was coming. The men outside have to try at least, to talk Mason down. Fitch wants to take control of the conversation but Mason has it in hand.
“Who are you?” Mason snaps.
“My name is Henry (a nice neutral and passive sounding name). Who am I talking to? Is this Mason?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Mason. Who have you got there with you?”
Mason stares at the phone. He can sense a rat.
“Three others.”
“Are they injured in any way?”
“They’re fine. And yes I do have a gun. And I will use it. Now let’s just cut the bullshit. I want the Prime Minister on the line. He’s gonna apologise for a few things.”
There is a moment of silence. Fitch knows the negotiator is relaying the information. The line is also likely tapped, with at least five others eavesdropping. All of them listening out for clues; random sounds that might give a hint as to what is going on inside the office. And the negotiator has been told to stall and pacify, while they work out a way to end this situation.
“Now Mason, that’s a difficult request. The Prime Minister is a busy man. He’s…”
“The next time this phone rings the PM better be on the other end.”
Mason hangs up.
The office is silent as Mason paces the small corner behind Craig. He mashes his gun hand into his forehead. He knows they are trying to trick him outside and he is struggling to think straight. He is getting tired. It has been a long day. But he has to stay alert.
“What about Ben?” Fitch asks.
Mason stops pacing and glances at his son. Ben appears afraid. Mason winks at him. Ben smiles reluctantly.
“What about him Fitch?”
“He should not be here.”
“It is too late Fitch. I’ve already messed the kid up. I’m the reason he doesn’t speak.. I abandoned him for half a decade and when I got home I turned on him. I roughed him up so much he lost his voice. What kind of father would do that?”
