Fox Hunt

by James Phelan

  1:38

  1:37

  1:36

  Ivanovich looked into the eyes of the man before him, clutching at the firing control panel to steady himself. His leg was pumping copious amounts of blood. “Who are you? CIA? MI5? Special Forces?” Ivanovich asked as he moved slowly backwards.

  “I’m just a guy who doesn’t like to see innocent lives taken by arseholes like you—and you can stop moving now,” Fox said.

  “I take it you’re not American then.” Ivanovich looked with genuine intrigue at the man before him. “Still, they’ll get theirs in the end. You do know where the Dragon is now pointing, don’t you?” Ivanovich said, inching away again.

  “Tehran?” Fox said and glanced at the digital display.

  1:29

  1:28

  “Washington.”

  Ivanovich’s grin was pure evil. He looked at the man in front of him, so dishevelled and weary, trying to work him out. Another inch back and he bumped into the woman tied to the chair. In a lightning move he twisted behind her, using her as a shield. He held a small two-shot pistol to her head.

  Fox held the SOCOM level, aimed at Ivanovich’s eye, while he shot another glance at the counter.

  1:23

  “You know that the theterium is gone,” Fox said. “You’ve got nowhere to go.”

  Ivanovich was starting to pale from the loss of blood. He pulled the gag from the woman’s mouth and she let out a scream, tears running down her face as she struggled in his grip.

  “Why don’t I make you a deal, Mr…”

  “Fox,” he replied, not wasting time.

  1:15

  “Walk away, Mr Fox, and you can take this woman with you.” Ivanovich squeezed his hand around the woman’s neck, pressing the pistol harder against her head. “Or I take her life. What’s your name, woman?”

  She did not answer, just kept crying, making gurgling sounds.

  “Let Mr Fox know your name, darling. He doesn’t have much time.”

  For Fox, time seemed to stand still. He could reach the fire control key and let this woman be killed. Or he could wait for an opportunity to take a shot at Ivanovich, but the clock would beat them.

  “Alissa,” the woman sobbed. “Alissa Truscott. Please help me.” Her voice was hoarse. Desperate. She was thin and sick after months in captivity.

  “Decisions, Mr Fox!” Ivanovich said, swaying from his wound.

  Fox looked from Ivanovich to the controls.

  0:49

  He looked into the bloodshot eyes of Alissa Truscott. He could see her young beauty, but there was a lost innocence there too. She’d been to hell and back.

  She pleaded with her expression, then saw the tear roll down Fox’s cheek and closed her eyes.

  Gammaldi used every ounce of strength he could muster to wrap his hands around Orakov’s neck and squeeze off his air supply. The Chechen fought back, swinging wildly at Gammaldi but achieving nothing.

  Gammaldi, still lying against the ground with Orakov atop him, tightened his grip until the man’s eyes bulged and blood dribbled from the damaged tissues in his throat. After two minutes, Orakov was totally limp and Gammaldi tossed him aside like a rag doll.

  Gammaldi got to his feet, heaving exhausted breaths, his face reddened with strain, and looked to the last crewman.

  The man bolted out the door and jumped over the side of the boat.

  0:27

  Fox lunged at the fire control key and turned it, his other arm and the SOCOM outstretched towards Ivanovich.

  Before he could fire, a pop rang out and Alissa Truscott went limp in Ivanovich’s grasp. The Russian quickly turned his small pistol to fire at Fox.

  Fox fired twice into Ivanovich’s head and chest and the Russian slumped to the floor. He emptied the remainder of his .45 magazine into the firing controls, which caught fire with the last shot.

  There was nothing he could do for Alissa Truscott, but he picked up her lifeless body and walked out, stepping over the extinguisher that had dented his head moments earlier.

  He paused at the door of the main bedroom and looked in at the cowering women.

  “You might want to jump overboard now,” he said.

  By the time Fox reached the pilothouse, Gammaldi was bringing the yacht to a stop against the edge of St Mark’s Square, Venice’s famous open piazza at the southern end of the Grand Canal. Two scantily clad women emerged from the forward hatch and jumped over the side of the almost motionless vessel, smoke escaping from the hatch after them.

  “Who the hell were they?” Gammaldi demanded, thinking he had missed out, but then he noticed Fox was carrying a body. He saw the look in his friend’s eyes.

  “Come on,” Fox replied as he stepped over the body of Orakov and onto the side deck.

  Gammaldi set the engine to full speed ahead, then pulled the rudder wheel off and tossed it overboard. He and Fox leaped to shore as the boat moved off.

  They watched the yacht head off into open water, trailing smoke. Soon the sirens of police boats cut through the morning as they chased after the blazing hulk. They could see Popov standing on the stern deck, shaking his good fist in anger.

  Moments later the boat exploded spectacularly in the open expanse of St Mark’s Canal.

  Fox gently laid the body of Alissa Truscott on the pavement and placed his Kevlar vest over her face, for what little dignity it offered.

  “You’re leaving her here?”

  “We can’t walk the streets with a body,” Fox said. “The authorities will look after her.”

  The sound of more sirens was enough to urge Fox and Gammaldi into a run. They passed the early-morning traders setting up in the square, startling thousands of sedate pigeons into flight.

  After several minutes of zigzagging through incredibly narrow cobbled laneways and crossing the Rialto Bridge, the weary pair came to an antique telephone booth outside a newsagency. Gammaldi entered the box, picked up the receiver and paused. “You said the number was 1800 GSR HQ?”

  “Yeah,” Fox said as he waved a bloodied hand to the stunned newsagent.

  “Notice anything about this telephone?” It had an old-fashioned dial ringer.

  “Just call the operator. They can figure it out,” Fox said.

  “Okay…”

  Gammaldi read the listed numbers on a laminated panel in front of him and dialled as quickly as the device would permit. The conversation that transpired became increasingly heated.

  “She’s not being very helpful,” Gammaldi said, putting his hand over the mouthpiece. “She will only put us through if we know the number.”

  “Shit!” Fox said in despair.

  “Okay…” Gammaldi pinched the bridge of his nose in thought. “We can do this.”

  “All right…” Fox paused. “Do the letters start on one?”

  “I thought they started on two,” Gammaldi said.

  “Shit!” Then Fox saw a cyclist riding towards him, talking jovially on a cell phone. “I think the gods are smiling on us,” he said.

  Fox stepped into the bike’s path and plucked the phone from the stunned man. The cyclist looked like he was about to yell in protest until he noticed Fox’s blood-soaked army clothes.

  “Here we go! 1800 … 477 … 47.” Fox tossed the cell phone back to the man. “Grazie,” he said, using the one Italian word he knew. The man sped off.

  Gammaldi relayed the numbers in Italian and passed the receiver to Fox.

  A GSR operator answered the call.

  “My name is Lachlan Fox and I urgently need to speak to Tasman Wallace,” Fox tried.

  Fox and Gammaldi found the Continental Hotel after ten minutes of searching along the Grand Canal’s many properties. As per Wallace’s directions, the pair went to a side door where they were met by the manager, who gave them a cursory look over before shuffling them inside and leading them up an internal fire escape. Gammaldi profusely thanked
the man in Italian, blessing his family for years to come, and the manager left them alone in their assigned room.

  “I do believe this is the Honeymoon Suite,” Gammaldi said, as Fox discovered the minibar and produced a couple of beers.

  “So long as it has a shower, I don’t mind playing your husband,” Fox said, taking in the postcard view from the balcony.

  “A shower?” Gammaldi echoed from the bathroom. “It has two!”

  After two long showers that almost ran the hotel’s hot water system dry, the duo ate a full room-service breakfast and received fresh civilian clothes from the manager.

  Gammaldi was enjoying an in-room massage to ease his battered body when the phone rang.

  “Hello?” Fox answered.

  “Lachlan, it’s Tasman. I trust you’ve settled in?” Wallace said.

  “Yes, thank you, we’re feeling much more alive,” Fox replied, drinking another beer.

  “Good to hear. I cannot tell you how glad I am to know the two of you are alive and well. And after all that you have done!” Wallace sounded extremely happy.

  “Anyone would have done the same,” Fox said. “Before I forget…” He picked up the small journal he had carried with him from the theterium site. “I found a book at the site … belonging to Alissa Truscott.”

  Wallace was silent on the other end of the phone line. When he finally spoke, his voice quavered. “Then you know who she is?” he said. “Do you know where she is now?”

  “There was an unsealed letter addressed to you inside,” Fox explained quietly. “I’ll send it to you this afternoon. And…”

  He took a few moments to muster the strength to tell Wallace about Alissa Truscott. Only once before had he been the bearer of such news: to the widow of John Birmingham. This was just as bad.

  67

  NEW YORK

  Tasman Wallace walked to his bathroom, where he splashed water on his face. He entered his spacious lounge room and sat on the stool at his grand piano, and began to play. As he keyed the notes of Chopin, he gazed at the silver-framed photo atop the highly polished Steinway. It was of a person he had known for barely two years—two wonderful years. Someone who had literally turned up on his doorstep one day and introduced herself in such a dignified manner. Alissa Truscott.

  His only child.

  Epilogue

  WASHINGTON

  McCorkell was grinning from ear to ear, elated by the pain across his shoulders and the burning in his legs as he rowed with all his might. It was a feeling he hadn’t had the luxury of indulging in for so long, and it took him back to his happy days at Oxford. As did the company of his old dorm mate and exercise partner.

  The pair had rowed the Potomac leisurely at first, then broke into a sprint just to see if they still had it. Evidently they did—passing numerous other similar craft—but it was a pace their middle-aged bodies couldn’t keep up for long. At the urging of McCorkell’s companion, who was a few years older, they slowed to a lazy stroke.

  “What’s happening with the nuke situation?” the older man asked.

  “Word hasn’t got out yet, but it seems a French satellite picked up the blast so it will probably become public knowledge soon,” McCorkell replied.

  “And what will the President do?”

  “Explain it as an Iranian-based Al-Qaeda terrorist tactic to further inflame the growing tension of the Iranian–Chechen situation. That the Iraqi army attacked the Chechens, who were in their territory, further fuels the flames of suspicion. What’s more, it will galvanise the world to back us in any further preemptive strikes against rogue states,” McCorkell said.

  “What does that mean for Iran?”

  “UN personnel will sweep in and snoop under every rock in the country. Maybe overthrow the governing council and get involved in making the country a democracy; appoint a UN body to hold provisional elections,” McCorkell explained. He pulled a water bottle from the bottom of the boat.

  “Good old UN saves the day. They could do with the good press,” the man said.

  “Exactly what the President said.”

  “And what of the situation with the Dragon?” his rowing partner asked as he watched a local college team row past with ease.

  “Last I heard, we’re still searching—and certain people close to the President are urging the need to recover the weapon intact. Purely for study purposes, of course. Drink?” McCorkell offered.

  “Thanks, Bill.”

  Tasman Wallace took the bottle and drank, then pulled off his cap and splashed a little water over his mane of white hair. He handed the bottle back over his shoulder. “Do you know who set off the nuke?”

  McCorkell took a pull of the water.

  “That, Tas, we may never know. But I have my ideas.”

  VENICE

  The afternoon sun warmed the city, which was abuzz with tourists taking in the sights and vying for positions in the city’s gondolas. Fox and Gammaldi soaked up the atmosphere at an outside table of a restaurant, sharing a bottle of wine.

  “What did you order for us?” Fox asked, topping up his friend’s glass.

  “A mixed plate of fresh pasta, followed by an osso bucco that will probably put my momma’s to shame,” Gammaldi replied.

  “Sounds great,” Fox said with a grin.

  Gammaldi sat thoughtfully for a moment. “Returning to the navy is going to seem a bit dull now.”

  “There are plenty of options,” Fox said, swirling his wine in its glass. “We should take Gunther’s plane back tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll be fretting by now.”

  “And from there?”

  Fox stirred from his thoughts. “From there we can get the GSR boys to pick us up.” He looked into the face of his friend, the corners of a mischievous grin beginning.

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re roping me into something dangerous?” Gammaldi asked with raised eyebrows.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I can’t imagine things will be this frantic all the time,” Fox said. He watched a pair of gorgeous Mediterranean women approach the busy restaurant.

  “Why does that sound like another famous Fox quote that will come back to haunt us?” Gammaldi said. The two friends laughed harder than they had in ages.

  “Excuse me? May we share the table?” one of the women Fox had seen approaching—a tall curvy brunette—asked in accented English.

  Fox shared a quick glance with his friend, their eyes glinting in the setting sun.

  “Please do.”

  New York Herald

  16 February 2006

  CHECHEN CRISIS AVERTED

  By L. Fox

  The potential military conflict between Chechnya and Iran has been averted with the death of Chechnya’s leader, President Sergei Ivanovich. President Ivanovich’s body, and that of his chief military commander, were found in Venice, Italy. Authorities are investigating the deaths.

  All military personnel on either side of the Azerbaijan–Iran border have withdrawn. Iran’s forces have moved into the port city of Bandar-e Anzali to help with the continuing clean-up effort. Bandar-e Anzali, located on Iran’s Caspian Sea coastline, was destroyed last month. The cause of the destruction remains unknown but it was most likely due to tremendous seismic activity in the region.

  Eight thousand bodies have been retrieved so far and authorities hold little hope for the seventeen thousand people still missing.

  In Chechnya, the UN has set up an interim government representing the diverse ethnic population, and has slated elections later this year for a 45-seat parliament. Five thousand peacekeeping soldiers from Canada, Australia, England and Spain are keeping the peace in the streets of Grozny. So far there have been no altercations and the population appears excited at the prospect of free democratic elections.

  Lachlan Fox is an investigative journalist with the GSR news agency.

  Acknowledgements

  Being a first novel, there are many peo
ple I wish to thank for helping me get there.

  To Nicole Wallace, my literary guinea pig and main protagonist. Thanks again for your support, generosity and tried and true patience. To the Beasleys, my driving force, inspiration and critical friends. To my family, for putting up with my conspiracy theories and backing my dreams.

  To my friends who endured early drafts of Fox Hunt and were honest in their appraisals. Anne Looney and Louise Truscott were brilliant in helping get my work to a publishable standard—and thanks for the great title Louise! To my friends at The Age and Swinburne University for their time and encouragement. Special thanks to my expert panel of readers and supporters: Bill Green, Wendy Newton, Emily McDonald, Steve Kynoch, Stephen Javens, Tony Niemann, Bec and Janet Dickson, Tony Wallace … and of course my best mate from high school, Alister Gammaldi. Thanks Al for letting me cheat by not having to make up a ‘buddy character’, you’ve got it all mate.

  To my contacts in the Australian Defence Force, serving and retired, my hat goes off to you all. Thanks for your expert commentary even if it was at the expense of my poetic licence. When I can get DARPA to make some Falcon parachutes, I’ll send one to each of you. Be safe.

  Eternal thanks to my publishing team. My extraordinary agent, Pippa Masson, is knowledgeable, talented and supportive. Same goes for all the gals at Curtis Brown Australia. To all the staff at Hachette Australia, thanks for your enthusiasm. Special thanks to: my wonderful and talented editor Vanessa Radnidge for spotting a diamond in the rough, publishing maven Lisa Highton for her generosity, my line editors Deonie Fiford and Nicola O’Shea for cutting out thousands of superfluous words, Louise Sherwin-Stark sales and marketing genius, Deb McInnes and Amy Hurrell publicity gurus. Last but not least, each and every sales rep out on the front line, cheers.