by Philip Bond
Bystanders watch as the vehicle closes the short distance between the corner and the café. Harry doesn’t see two fellow café patrons jump to their feet, draw weapons to kick their way through the outdoor setting towards her.
The raging vehicle draws parallel with Harry who’s welded to the seat. The driver levels an automatic pistol just as one of the patrons’ dives tackling her to the ground as the seconds, opens fire upon the driver.
The event’s over in seconds with the raging vehicle crashing into the kerbside planters; the driver slumps over the steering wheel, laying on the cars horn. Pedestrians and onlookers stare in disbelief as the typical Crows Nest morning becomes anything but typical.
Winded by the tackle, she takes a few seconds, recovering to comprehend events… “Who are you?”
“Agents from the National Crime Authority assigned to protect you.”
He helps her up as both surveys the car wreck. The second agent feels the driver for a pulse before slowly pulling him back off the car horn.
“Did he just try to shoot me?”
“Yes, fortunately events intervened.”
Still bewildered… “Yes, fortunately,” she replies.
Suddenly, her strength of character departs as delayed terror grips. She begins shaking and sobbing. The officer wraps his arms around her body, once again shielding her, this time from an enemy within.
Distant sirens grow louder.
The day has reached its peak temperature.
Replace the Divots
The climate in Hawaii is pleasantly warm, but that’s the stopover en route to here.
Its 02:17, the outside is below 30ºF. For the past hours, it’s been the same questions disguised in different construct… “What a fuck up. Again, I’m to clean up your mess.”
The American embassy in Canberra expunges all entries for Lloyd Sanders. Nothing shows him either leaving Australia or entering the United States. In fact, he ceases to exist yet mysteriously, here he is… “I told you,” answering a superior’s questions… “I have things under control.”
This is the third debriefing.
The previous ones were conducted by others with lower authority but now, the director’s personally involved; he’s not happy… “You leave the country with dead bodies lying in the street. You should have neutralised that reporter the first time, but you missed, three times for Christ sakes, plus you turn the Australian political landscape on its goddamn head not to mention, blown a perfectly good, no, the best agent of influence we could even have in Australia.”
“What can I say, shit happens.”
He had to leave a party fundraiser to come here, further taxing their already caustic relationship… “Goddamn it, man,” the director ignites… “I can’t cover for you.”
“Yes, you can and will.”
“For god sake man, it’s all over the headlines. The White House is clambering for blood and I’m out of excuses.”
“You will think of something like you always do.”
“I’m going to hide you in Bosnia until I can think of something.”
“Bosnia,” there’re worse assignments, but not many… “Okay, I can live with that.”
Regularly, the director authorises death to the expendable. However, today, now, there are constraints… “Maybe, I’ll get lucky and the Serbs will slit your throat.”
It’s time to remind who holds trumps… “Anything but natural circumstances, the complete story is to be released on my death, it’s best to keep me alive.”
The director loses his cool… “Goddamn it,” again… “You’re a son of a bitch.”
“We both know our mom was no angel and neither are we.” The retort silences both men.
*
Several hours pass occupied with police interviews, statements, comforting friends and Phillip. He remains visibly close, organising a doctor, food, fluids and caring. Once satisfied they have all necessary information, the police release Harry into Phillip’s care. He drives her back to her apartment. As they arrive outside the apartment building, Harry breaks the silence… “I have to leave. I don’t feel safe here.”
“Okay, don’t worry,” Phillip steers the car back onto the road to drive away… “I’ll put you up in a hotel.”
Although she is much calmer, her voice betrays emotion… “No, you don’t understand. It’s not the apartment.”
He interjects… “What, in Sydney?”
“No, Australia.”
He pulls over into a car space… “Harry, the feds believe there won’t be any more attempts against you.”
Immediately after the ordeal, Harry is stoic; however, the emotional king tides places enormous pressure on the levy… “This is the third. Will there be a fourth?”
He’s never seen Harry anything but steadfast, until today… “Harry, the feds think he was the last.”
“I won’t give them opportunity.” She wants reassurance, to be safe. That can only be found in Germany with Matt.
Her voice regains a reassuring strength causing Phillip to question… “What’ll you do?”
“I’ve made plans to go to Germany and maybe visit relatives in Graz, Austria.”
“When will you leave?”
“Tomorrow.”
Repercussions
Theme music fades, the director keys camera one as the newsreader raises his eyes to the camera… “Tonight we report, just days out from an election, the federal government is in turmoil, we cross Wellington Fairchild for this special report.”
Again, the director keys a camera, this time for the parliamentary studio in Canberra.
With his glasses customarily resting on the end of his nose, Wellington deadpans into the camera… “In a day of dramatic developments, the prime minister’s press secretary Brian Pullman is removed at Perth airport from an aircraft bound for Johannesburg. [email protected] understands this is in connection to a drug bust in Sydney’s west that claims the lives of three law enforcement agents.” The autocue rolls, however, Wellington departs from the script… “Far more damaging for the government just days out from an election, the Minister for Immigration Samuel Duffield is at AFP Canberra headquarters being questioned about his personal involvement in a migrant worker program for the Hunter region, first aired on [email protected] by Harry Reisner.” In the Sydney control room, the director hurries file vision from Harry’s Newcastle report to run in closed caption beside Wellington’s head… “Harry’s report some weeks back told of drug dealing through migrant workers within the region and that led directly to Harry and her news crew being run off the Newcastle freeway. It does not end there. Armed with limited facts but strong suspicion, she came to Canberra on the pretext of reporting on the forth-coming federal election. Brilliant investigative work brought her much closer to the heart of the story. Again, she ruffles feathers in the national capital, almost paying with her life when abducted. Only the alert response by AFP officers conducting random breath testing saves her from certain death but costs one officer his life. Harry is able to recant all to the AFP resulting in the NCA intercepting the massive drug shipment and subsequent events as indicated. It does not end there; one day after release from AFP protective custody, another attempt is made on her life while relaxing over a coffee in suburban Sydney. Harry has survived three attempts to end her life. She no longer remains in Sydney, instead seeking anonymity elsewhere as not all the perpetrators are apprehended. So where does this leave the government? Answer, in tatters.” He decides to introduce a political bombshell just as Harry would do… “I can report the prime minister planned to retire within three months of winning this election, handing over to his heir apparent Samuel Duffield. Recent events change everything, and there is much yet to play out.”
The director keys back to the Sydney studio… “Thank you, Wellington, and we hope Harry remains safe. In news today, the reserve bank announced rates will remain on hold.”
*
She’s annoyed by the interruption… �
��I’m terribly busy, gentlemen, and you do not have an appointment.”
Wes ushers the secretary out through the door, closing it for privacy… “Correct, we do not. However, our business is not to brief you but to investigate your relationship with Leon Neumann.”
Somewhat taken aback, Kate allows… “He’s my fiancé,” and questions… “What’s your purpose?”
Wes speaks first… “Ms Fitzgerald.”
Unsure what this might be about, Kate injects her dominance… “Ms Fitzgerald, that sounds ominous.”
Richard takes over… “And deadly serious, did you share any information with Leon Neumann regarding our investigations into Samuel Duffield and Brian Pullman?”
Seeing where this heads, Kate short-circuits the questioning… “Gentlemen, I’m interrupting this discussion to make a telephone call. Any responses I might or might not make to your questions will wait until my solicitor is present.”
“Make your call, Kate.” Wes makes their intentions crystal clear… “But we know Leon arrived unexpectedly at party’s Canberra headquarters the very next day following our initial case briefing. Also present were Duffield and Pullman. Oh and both have made a full statement. Kate, at the very least, you’ve been careless, at worst, duplicitous.”
“Gentlemen, I have a telephone call to make.”
Reunion
Tegel airport’s bustling with people arriving, people departing and those witnessing both. Emerging from the customs hall into the crowded arrivals, she searches for that standout black face.
There he is, front and centre, beaming, ready to jump the barrier, and he does.
Oblivious to all the surrounds, she releases her baggage trolley; it wheels on for almost a metre more as she’s engulfed in his arms. They embrace, kiss, hug and hold.
Momentum turns the trolley, creating a block for exiting arrivals, much to the consternation of some… “Sie blockieren Durchgang, jetzt Trolley Gepäck zu bewegen.”
Reluctantly interrupting the passion, Harry’s quickest… “Ich entschuldige mich für Sie zu belästigen.”
Twenty plus hours cocooned in the aluminium tube with only one stopover, some fellow travellers are impatient to be away… “Sie sollten, wir alle wollen die verliebten gerecht zu werden.”
In securing the errant trolley, Matt, too, offers his apologies… “Leider bin ich, konnte ich nicht warten, bis die Liebe meines Lebens zu halten.”
Another passenger voices indignation… “Schritt hinter der Schranke, zeigen uns mit freundlicher Genehmigung.”
Claiming the errant trolley, he releases his love steering towards the exit with Harry following. Once clear of the evacuation, they stop to reengage in the most tender of moments… “I miss you badly, babe.”
“As I miss you, sergeant, but no more. I’m here in Berlin with you until you tire of me.”
“Babe, you know that’s never going to happen. I’ve loved in the past but never truly understood how it actually feels.”
“Then tell me, sergeant, how does it feel?”
“It eats inside when you’re not near.” His voice is emotional, a tear forms in his eye… “When you are, the world’s in harmony, my brain works differently, I can best describe it as, somethin’ like a drug-induced high.”
“For me too, sergeant; for me too.”
“Let’s get you home and settled.”
“On your motorcycle, with luggage?”
“No babe, the Untergrundbahn.”
“Lead on Sergeant.”
“It’s a short walk to the station, you up for it or do we taxi?”
“After twenty plus hours sitting, any walk is welcome.”
Arms linked, the lovers trek, mostly in silence, the eight hundred metres to U-Banh, An der Mühle. It seems nothing will ever separate them ever again.
German efficiency and thirty minutes gets them to Leopoldplatz Uhlandstrasse interchange. Waiting for the connection, they delve back into Harry’s story and its repercussions… “So, they hung in, retaining government?”
“Yes, with a huge swing against to hold on by two seats.”
“I can only know of one other news story changing a political landscape, Watergate.”
“There’s been many; Italy has a litany of corruption, Jacques Chirac had his problems in France, there are others.” With substantial pride, she adds the footnote… “However, none as dramatic as mine.”
An announcement interrupts… “Spichernstraße ist neben.”
Gathering the luggage, along with fellow train travellers, they exit… “Babe, you’re up to another thirteen-minute walk or do we cab it?”
“Let’s walk, sergeant,” again linking arms… “Especially since I’ll need to know how to get around; I’m going to be here a while.”
The sky is partially overcast, it’s cold yet the welcoming sun breaking through warms the journey; trees lining the Straße are still. Life could not be better for either.
Big, wide, clean and airy, Uhlandstraße is lined with apartment buildings, some of which hold convenience stores, cafés or retail shops at ground. Al fresco cafés interrupt angled car parking.
“This is us, babe,” stopping just past the empty tables in front of an arched double door. Looking up… “We’re two flights up and no elevator,” adding… “That’s us on the left.”
Lookup up, seeing a balcony, secretly she’s comforted it’s not the top, fifth floor. Regardless, this is where she wants to be and with whom.
*
Intimacy for both escalates into a whole new world, reaching heights each and every occasion with both taking each and every opportunity to explore the magnitude of their newfound love. Each writhes, the exhilaration and ecstasy of the other’s body exchanging DNA and delights offered. Only seven of the past nineteen hours are spent sleeping.
Obligations take precedent with Matt announcing… “I gotta go to work.”
Looking through the double-glazing… “It’s snowing.”
His feet step onto the heated floor… “Don’t need to tell you the business. Editors want vision and reporters want their head on TV. I gotta go.”
It’s warm and she’s naked under the doona… “Where to?”
“Dresden,” he stands… “Doing a follow up on a people smugglin’ story we filed last week.”
“What’s in Dresden?”
“Transnational Organised Crime is the current vogue phrase.” Evocatively pausing in all his nakedness… “Previously, it was tobacco, black-market cigarettes, now it’s prostitution. We’re doin’ a story on political corruption, green cards for illegal immigrates.”
Ogling his magnificent body, she employs considerable restraint in pulling him back into bed, instead asks… “Back when?”
“In two days.” Looking caringly at her lying naked albeit under the doona… “You’ll be okay here till I’m back?”
“Sure will. I’ll explore Berlin.” Then the mischievous… “Maybe even drop a resume into your office.”
“Do it.” Emphatically… “Like I said, with you in front and me behind the camera, we’d be a great team.”
“Or maybe,” with tongue firmly in cheek… “I’ll just stay in and keep house for you,” or maybe not.
Matt stands to grab his underwear… “I gotta go.”
She watches him extend godlike frame dressing, his dark skin, his shoulders, his powerful arms then his cute butt disappearing under clothing. He’s a god who returns her love in equal dimension. Finishing dressing, he leans over… “Love you, babe,” to kiss her passionately.
If not for Dresden, he’d reoccupy his place beside her… “Gotta go.”
She hears the closing front door.
Last night, during the heat of passion, Matt asked her to marry him. Her reply is not an immediate yes; although it’s something she’s thought about, the considered response is for them to live together for a while, seeing her warts and all, then see if he still wants her.
With no work visa for Germany, the idea o
f trying for a sponsored job appeals. Jumping out of bed announcing… “Yes, I will see if there’s a job at CNN.”
*
His military background is apparent in selecting accommodation; located on Uhlandstrasse, it’s a one-bedroom bathroom and toilet, kitchen, living room and a small room he calls a study, close to the U-Bahn, close to all resupply lines as well as simple connections to the airports. The Harley Davidson arrives three days ago, garaged close by, for the winter.
Planning ahead and tapping into Wellington’s European contacts, one referral is in London with the BBC, the second Paris with Agence France-Presse. Obviously, she wants something in Berlin to be with Matt.
In typical style, today she is going to front up and ask.
First a shower, then dress, two-pieces of luggage besides her carryall briefcase are all she brings, limiting clothing choices for job hunting. That and Berlin’s weather dictates comfort and warmth.
Armed with a map, Tageskarte and newly acquired Deutsche Telekom cellphone, Harry ventures forth.
The very public resume continues occupying columns and airtime in the world’s media. Every journalist the world over salivates upon uncovering a story so septic that it eventually changes a nation’s political landscape. The name Harry Reisner now sits in journalistic folklore aside Woodward and Bernstein, a cow she’s going to milk.
In Sydney, during winter, temperature may lower to 0ºC around 6 am yet by midday, it mostly returns to double figures and dry. Being new to Berlin and the weather, crossing the city is much easier using public transport, U-Bahn avoids the above ground traffic snarls. Here is definitely not the place for high heels; the short walk to the station requires concentration, avoiding ice on the pavement.
Eventually, including two wrong turns its Taubenstrasse 1, home to the CNN Berlin bureau and up to reception… “Gutenmorgen, wer spreche ich mit einem ungefähr job?”
The receptionist’s twenty-something, stunningly good looking. Looking up to Harry, feigning interest… “Welche art des jobs?”
