‘Clear!’ The call was repeated as each room was found to be empty.
‘Area secured,’ said the leader of the squad, the black muzzles remaining trained on Kalas’s frightened, bloody face.
Gia Ferallo stepped through the door. She removed the French maid’s bonnet from her hair and loosened the belt cinched tight around her narrow waist. While the antiterrorist squad was AFP, Federal Agent Tadzic’s men, the official arrest was made by a couple of ASIO agents gladly provided by the D-G himself, Peter Meyer. ASIO, the agency charged with handling terror threats inside Australia, had been given the power to hold people thought to have links to terrorists or terrorist organisations for up to seven days without charging them. They’d need that time to sort out exactly what Kalas was up to, and take him out of circulation. The ASIO men came through the door and slapped the cuffs on the financier. ‘Jeff Kalas, you are held on suspicion of having terrorist links. You will be detained for a period of no greater than seven days pending the laying of charges. You may have a lawyer present and so…’
Yadda, yadda, thought Ferallo. What counted was that they had the bastard. He was the best lead, perhaps their only lead, to Duat and the weapon.
Federal Agent Tadzic, the officer in charge, stepped through the door behind Ferallo. ‘So this is what a financier of terrorism looks like?’ she said. Kalas lay at their feet, the robe up around his waist, white buttocks sitting in a puddle of yellow urine.
Annabelle was alone in her apartment, having a night at home. She had a shower and sat on her couch with a glass of wine and turned on the TV. The prime minister’s department had rung the network in the morning and requested time for an urgent broadcast. The time they requested was six o’clock. Prime time. News time. No one knew what it was about, although the network head of news had been ferreting about all day checking sources in Canberra, trying to find out. The best he could manage was that the news was going to be bad. But that was a given. A PM never made an all-station broadcast out of the blue unless an unbelievable sporting milestone had been achieved, or something dire was in the wind.
It was unseasonably cold and rainy outside. Annabelle sat on the couch in her dressing gown with her drink and waited for a mindless quiz show to come to an end. The unspoken fear within her was that the PM was about to announce a military catastrophe, and that somehow Tom would be amongst the victims. Her imagination had been playing with that thought all day. She went home early, sick. How had she allowed her relationship with Tom to implode? The engagement was off, she’d terminated it, handed back the ring. She’d told him that it was his job she couldn’t cope with. She’d also told him she didn’t want to go to Sydney. And that was a lie. In fact, she did want to go. Was that the real reason for the end of their relationship? Her selfishness? How quickly the emptiness of that choice had hit her. Was the career – her career – so important it transcended everything else? Was reading the news in Sydney such a pinnacle that she was prepared to sacrifice everything – even the man she loved – to gain it? Or did she just miss Tom so much she was blaming herself for the break-up?
And then there was Saunders. They had been on their way to a charity benefit when Saunders stopped at his apartment, claiming he wanted to dash up and get his chequebook. He asked her to come up rather than remain in the car. A thunderstorm was about to break and Annabelle hadn’t wanted to sit alone in the car in an innercity neighbourhood she knew nothing about. Big mistake. She should have taken her chances with the weather and the muggers. She’d used the bathroom and when she came out, Saunders was sitting on the couch, naked, with his erection in hand. She’d laughed at him and asked simply, ‘What are you doing?’ To which he’d said, ‘What does it look like, sweetie? Time to pay your dues.’ Sweetie?! Annabelle had laughed at him again, picked up her coat and walked out. Things had been strained at the station ever since. She’d even heard Saunders refer to her as a ‘hick’. Rumours about their evening together had swept the station and it was only then that Annabelle realised how truly unpopular Saunders was. He’d tried the same stunt with most of the women at the network at one time or another.
‘Don’t worry, honey,’ said one of the other women Saunders had failed to score with. ‘There’ll be a new female employee along next week and he’ll forget about you the moment she walks through the front door. And besides, his ego’s so big that in a month he’ll remember the incident differently – that you’d come across and that he was awesome.’ They’d both laughed about that. Apparently, being cornered by Saunders was something of an initiation rite. The women in the office had been waiting to see how she’d handle it before warming to her, and she’d come through with flying colours. Sydney was one tough town.
On the television set in front of her, the game show host flashed an impossibly white set of teeth at the camera as the plump contestant, who looked like she was smuggling pillows under her tight sweater, bounced up on stage and squeezed into the new car she’d just won. The credits rolled, the theme music played, and then a cut was made to the network’s logo. A voice said, ‘The six o’clock news will be presented after the prime minister’s address to the nation.’ The logo remained on screen for several pregnant seconds before being replaced by the head and shoulders of Prime Minister William Blight.
Annabelle Gilbert wasn’t sure what she thought about Blight. He was a larrikin, a former heavy drinker who had, at one time, been a union boss on the waterfront. She hadn’t heard any off-putting rumours about him, which was unusual for a politician, but she didn’t trust him – not wholly, anyway. Was it possible for a truly good man to become the prime minister in modern politics when so much of their personality was manufactured and moulded by spin doctors? Answer: no. Blight seemed to buck that belief to some extent, but when it came down to it, Annabelle guessed she just didn’t trust politicians.
She examined his face. It was deeply lined. He was a harried man and looked like he’d aged ten years since coming to power at the last election, only a year ago. It was an honest face, though – craggy and avuncular at the same time. Annabelle turned the volume up and prepared herself for the worst.
‘People of Australia,’ he began. ‘Recent intelligence has come to light indicating a threat to our country and our way of life. This intelligence is not by any means certain but my government – in all good conscience – could not take the risk of keeping it quiet for reasons that will quickly become apparent.
‘A terrorist group known as Babu Islam, hiding within the Indonesian archipelago, has in its possession an unknown quantity of a deadly nerve agent called VX. They also, according to our sources, have a drone – an unmanned plane – capable of delivering this weapon of mass destruction to a target that – again – is unknown to us at this time.
‘We believe it is quite possible, however, that the terrorists are capable of reaching our northern population centres. As such, we have declared a state of emergency and have instructed the legislature of the Northern Territory, along with the Australian Defence Force, to begin the evacuation of Darwin forthwith.’
Annabelle Gilbert, like the overwhelming majority of Australians watching their TV sets, listened in utter disbelief. She realised her mouth was open, literally gaping. There had to be some mistake. Surely it was a hoax?
‘…Indonesia is also at risk, with several population centres – including Jakarta, a city of ten million souls – a possible target, and the president of that country is making a similar broadcast to his people at this time.
‘Again, I stress to you, our knowledge of the precise details of the terrorists’ cowardly and brutal plans are uncertain. What is certain, however, is that action must be taken immediately to prevent what could be a human tragedy on a monumental scale.
‘I urge those of you in the southern regions of Australia who have friends or relatives in Darwin to open your house to them. We are calling now on the true Australian spirit of helping one another. Those of you who do not have friends or relatives in Darwin but would
like to assist, we will, within the next few hours, have a billeting register set up.
‘The Australian Defence Force, in conjunction with our American allies, will be distributing limited numbers of protective clothing called NBC suits, at several dispersal sites in and around Darwin. The location of those sites will be announced within the hour. The people of Darwin, you are already seeing an increased presence of the ADF on your streets. The soldiers will be there to set up field hospitals and decontamination centres, as well as assisting the police to keep the evacuation orderly.
‘I will also take this opportunity to ask all people who are current members of the Army Reserve to report to your units.
‘If, for whatever reason, you are unable to leave Darwin, there are a number of preventative measures you can take to protect yourself against VX, and over the course of the next twenty-four hours, we’ll be relying on the television networks and newspapers to provide this information.’
The remainder of the prime minister’s address only dimly penetrated Annabelle Gilbert’s shock. The network’s normal programming returned and the anchor, whom she’d only met once, appeared to be visibly shaken. Producers and researchers would be on the phones and the Internet, frantically chasing down further information on VX gas, Babu Islam, unmanned drones and, of course, the reaction of the people in Darwin and Jakarta to the news of this latest terrorist threat. Annabelle stared at the television as her home phone, mobile and pager rang and beeped away in the background. Eventually, she picked up the mobile.
‘Annabelle, hi. Steve Saunders,’ said the voice down the line.
‘Steve,’ she said distantly, her mind still grappling with the prime minister’s words.
‘Are you watching TV?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you saw the prime minister’s speech?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s chaos down here at the network,’ he said.
‘I thought it might be.’
‘Listen, Belle, we’ve got an assignment for you.’
‘Sorry?’ An assignment? Annabelle wasn’t a reporter, she was an anchor, and Saunders’ words threw her.
‘Yeah, I’ve spoken to management and it’s kind of your area.’
‘What is?’
‘The north. We’d like you to be on the spot.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Darwin. You leave tomorrow.’
Australian Defence Force HQ, Russell Offices, Canberra, Australia
The transmission was cut, freezing the frame on Warrant Officer Wilkes for an instant, leaving Niven, Griffin, Greenway, Mortimer and Hardcastle to consider the operation they’d just approved on the fly. If it went wrong, Wilkes and Monroe were dead men walking. And all their careers would be finished. ‘If you go with this plan you could be sending these people to their deaths,’ said Mortimer, stating the obvious. He got up off the couch in Niven’s office and poured himself a glass of water. ‘And what about the legal implications?’
The Australian defence force commander nodded slowly. There was no time and therefore few other options. Revise that, he said to himself – there were no other options.
Griffin had already considered the legals. ‘There’s no way we’d be able to get any cooperation from Myanmar or Thailand within the time frame.’
‘So you’re saying we have to go, and worry about the consequences afterwards?’ asked Greenway.
‘Minister, I’m just saying that if we are going to go through with this, we’ll have to toss all niceties out the window.’
‘What about the plan itself, Spike? Do you think it has a snowball’s chance in hell of coming off?’ Greenway asked.
‘It’s risky and the timing is critical but, yes, Hugh, I think it has a good chance. And at the moment, it’s not like we’re besieged with alternatives,’ said Niven. The strategy had largely come from Hardcastle with some interesting refinements from Wilkes. ‘Colonel?’
‘Wilkes’s choice of ordnance is a touch of class, but the problem, as with any mission planned in five minutes with people who don’t have the appropriate training, is that the risk of failure compounds. Bottom line? Despite a crucial part of the plan coming from Wilkes, his lack of experience in this kind of warfare again makes him the weak link.’ The colonel massaged his chin. After a moment he added, ‘But with a lot of luck and good timing?’ A shrug finished his view on the matter.
‘Is anyone else available?’ asked Niven.
‘No, sir.’
‘Well it’s academic then, isn’t it, because the alternative is turning our backs on the one solid lead to Duat.’
‘Then we’d better get onto the Americans PDQ,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Last time I checked we didn’t have any AGM-154Ds in our inventory.’
Greenway turned to Mortimer. ‘What are your thoughts on that, Felix? The Americans? What do you think their response will be?’
‘I think they’ll play ball, Minister. We all heard the president’s recent state of the union address. It fits with the bit about the front line of freedom being wherever evildoers ply their trade and all that. General Trip is one mother of an evildoer and, as you say, he’s our only potential lead to the whereabouts of the WMD.’
Greenway nodded.
‘And we know we have the support of the CIA,’ added Griffin.
‘That leaves Tadzic,’ said Mortimer. ‘What about her?’ The AFP federal agent had submitted a separate report on the Myanmar drug lord on issues unconnected with Duat. Or maybe they were related at a level they hadn’t even considered. Mortimer didn’t believe in coincidences, only connections. One just had to root them out.
‘We could consider letting her go in on the second phase,’ said Griffin. ‘But we’d be putting her in harm’s way.’
‘Tadzic’s a big girl, Graeme,’ said the air marshal. ‘She’s on the team because we value her experience.’
‘With respect, sir, before you make a final decision, I think you should put it to Wilkes first,’ Hardcastle said.
‘Yep,’ said the CDF. That went without saying.
Griffin wasn’t so sure that letting Tadzic accompany Wilkes and Monroe was the right decision, and he had an uncomfortable churn in the pit of his stomach. General Trip was a study in infamy, wanted all over the world, a drug lord and a murderer, responsible for countless deaths and a universe of misery. There was nothing sexist about his reluctance to let her go. Why put people at risk unnecessarily?
‘Anyone turned up anything on those numbers Kadar Al-Jahani kept babbling about?’ asked Mortimer.
‘No,’ said Niven. ‘We’re banking on them not being significant.’
Perhaps that wasn’t so smart, thought Mortimer. They had to mean something. He’d read the interrogation transcripts and they featured often enough throughout. He knew the series off by heart now: 1511472723. Everyone had hoped the numbers were some kind of code for the whereabouts of the Babu Islam encampment, but Mortimer considered that unlikely. And indeed it proved to be a dead end. The sequence remained a mystery. He’d even pulled out his Scrabble set one evening and played with the letters till dawn to see what he could come up with. But, of course, it was a ridiculous idea: were the first two digits one and five or fifteen? If the numbers represented scores for letters then the one could be an a, e, i, l, n, o, r, s, t or u. It couldn’t be fifteen unless the value was five and the letter – which would have to be a k – was sitting on a triple word score. And what language would Kadar Al-Jahani use? Arabic or English? He apparently spoke French and a smattering of Bahasa too. The sequence mightn’t even be a word but something infinitely more obscure – like a part number or something. The Scrabble thing was a pointless exercise. A whole bunch of nothing there, as he knew it would be before he started. Yet on some level, he believed he was getting close. Even just raising it again with Niven brought the answer nearer in a way he couldn’t put his finger on. And then there was the Sword of Allah guy, the general Khalid bin Al-Waleed mentioned through Kadar’s interrogation transcripts
. He’d done a little research and knew a lot about the general’s deeds now, and again he felt this was significant but in a way his conscious mind couldn’t identify. And was the significance of the general connected to the number sequence or to something else?
Yes, the sequence had troubled everyone, but it had led nowhere – at least, nowhere that meant anything to anyone. And yet, Mortimer believed it was the key to this madness.
‘What do you think, Hugh?’ asked Niven. The Minister for Defence, Hugh Greenway, was a farmer with no military experience; despite that, the CDFs’ confidence in the man’s judgment was growing by the day. And, of course, the prime minister relied heavily on his views when it came to military matters.
‘I think it’s time I briefed the PM,’ Greenway said, standing. ‘My recommendation? We go. He may need to speak to the governor-general.’
Flores, Indonesia
The cancers had aged him, accelerating him towards death. Rahim noted for the first time that his fingers had become little more than brown twigs, the skin a dry and papery bark, the hands of a very old man. He noticed this as he stroked Etti’s hair while they lay in bed. Etti’s body was still warm but it would not stay that way for long. Rahim ran his hand along the skin of her back. A large red bruise covered her shoulderblade. He circled its extremities, tracing it with his fingers. Etti’s skin had a flaccid quality about it. She was gone. The malignant agent had somehow escaped its cage and Rahim had realised too late to administer the antidote. The encampment had lacked an incinerator with which to dispose of the exposed test animals. That had been a serious oversight. Instead they’d buried the animals deep in the earth in plastic bags. There was a slight chance this had not been an effective method of sealing the carcasses and the agent had somehow escaped into the ground water. Perhaps if he had spent less time riding the stallion, he thought. With Etti’s passing the last flickering warmth in his existence had been extinguished. His work was finished, Kadar had been captured and killed, and Etti was now growing cold. Rahim’s last reasons for drawing breath were gone and so living had ceased to be worth the effort.
Sword of Allah Page 31
