Kate looked thoughtful. ‘You know, I don’t think it was just the politics, although I was never cut out to be a politician’s wife. It was more the mixture of politics and religion and the belief that theirs is the only tram to be on that really started to turn me away. They’re such hypocrites.’
‘It can be quite an extraordinary force, this religion thing,’ Curtis observed. ‘The problem with religions is that they’re all based on faith rather than logic. You can no more argue with a Muslim terrorist who’s convinced he or she is going to heaven for blowing up a bus stop on behalf of Allah than you can with a president or prime minister who is convinced he or she is being guided by God.’
‘Yet as a species we’ve always needed something greater than ourselves to believe in,’ Kate replied. ‘Look at the bloody Greeks and Romans, they had a raft of Gods to go to war for – Apollo, Mercury, Zeus – and heaven help you if you offended them, yet who believes in them now?’
‘I’m not sure we’re any more enlightened,’ Curtis responded. ‘The Muslims think the Christians are wrong and the Christians think the Muslims are on the wrong trolley bus, although I’ve often wondered what the women suicide bombers are going to do with seventy vestal virgins,’ he added with a grin.
After dinner, as they walked back to the Park Hyatt, Curtis put his arm around Kate’s slender waist and she found herself thinking seriously about getting to know him a lot better.
At Sydney’s Kingsford Smith Airport, al-Falid was boarding the last flight to Melbourne. In the morning, he would link up with Cathay Pacific’s direct service to Beijing.
CHAPTER 62
THE HARBOUR OF THE TARGET CITY
T he sinister signal emitted from the last of the pingers embedded in the rocks covering the cross-city tunnels on the bottom of the harbour echoed quietly and relentlessly in the lead diver’s headphones. He swung the receiver through an arc of 20 degrees to confirm the direction of the last pinger’s signal. He checked the bearing with his compass, but as he reached for the communication cord to signal to those behind he was moving on, something knocked the receiver from his hand.
The diver froze and waited, forcing himself to keep calm, and mouthing a silent prayer to Allah for protection of the mission. Whatever it was didn’t return. Probably a small shark, the diver thought, and he reeled the receiver’s safety line in and re-established his bearings. He gave a short tug on the communication cord, signalling again that it was time to move forward.
The long and painstaking journey along the bottom of the harbour had taken over an hour and a half. The lead diver signalled that he’d reached the final pinger and the team gently descended to the rocks that marked the top of the western cross-city tunnel. Getting the negative buoyancy of the canisters right and working in the dark had not been easy, but the team had practised for weeks, perfecting their deadly art off a deserted beach on the south coast. The team leader felt his way to the last of the cylinders and the team unhurriedly manoeuvred their cargo into position. A Port Jackson shark scurried out from the rocks while above the divers, the deep throb of twin outboard motors could be heard as one of the rich and powerful infidels brought a large boat back to its berth. Leaving his team to connect the last container to the others, the lead diver checked his depth gauge and compass and swam off on a predetermined bearing to the north, slowly paying out a long line of detonation cord from a lightweight reel. Each cylinder was shaped to direct the blast upwards, and each contained 50 kilograms of ammonium nitrate. 2.5 kilograms of plastic explosive were embedded in the centre of the ANFO and the detonators were all connected to the detonation cord. The lead diver knew that explosives behaved differently under water and the deeper the cord was laid down, the faster it would burn. He had learned his trade in Iraq, near the headwaters of the Persian Gulf, and he’d calculated the timing of the blast down to the last second.
The al-Qaeda frogman felt for the pylons underneath the Jeffrey Street wharf, in the shadow of the harbour bridge. He surfaced beneath the wharf and reached for the bag on his belt that contained a mobile phone with special circuitry that would set off the detonation cord as soon as the phone was rung. He located a steel strut beneath the centre of the wharf, connected the detonation cord to the phone and hid it among the barnacles just above the high water mark on the strut. He looked out across the dark surface of the harbour where he could see the Destiny passing beneath the massive bridge and heading towards Clarke Island. The harbour island was uninhabited at night and the shallow waters around it provided a perfect rendezvous to collect the team. He gave the phone on the strut a final check and slipped beneath the water.
CHAPTER 63
THE PARK HYATT HOTEL, THE ROCKS, SYDNEY
C urtis guided Kate into the lift. The dinner, the wine and Curtis’ ability to make her laugh had weakened Kate’s resolve.
‘We should have a nightcap,’ Curtis whispered.
‘And just what might your definition of a nightcap be, Curtis O’Connor?’ Kate challenged. Curtis’ face was close to hers. She could see that his eyes were a smoky blue.
‘Champagne or whiskey,’ Curtis replied in the Irish brogue she found so attractive.
Kate Braithwaite, this man is trouble. Remember the rule. Don’t get involved with someone you work with, Kate reminded herself.
‘I think whiskey,’ she said softly, deciding to rebel against ‘the rule’, parting her lips as he kissed her very slowly and very softly.
Kate wandered out on to Curtis’ balcony while he cracked ice into two crystal glasses. The ferries had stopped running for the night and Sydney Harbour was quiet but beautifully powerful and captivating. Kate took a long, relaxing breath, taking in the smell of the sea breeze that was coming through the Heads and ruffling the waters below in swirling ‘cats’ paws’. To the south, dark clouds were gathering, signalling a storm was on the way.
Kate glanced back into the hotel room. Curtis had finished pouring the drinks. His tanned face was relaxed and his dark hair slightly tousled as he put a CD into the machine. The soft tones of Madeleine Peyroux drifted out to the balcony. If she was honest with herself, Kate thought, she’d been attracted to him from the day he’d met her in the foyer of the CIA Headquarters, and it wasn’t just his lean, fit body and mischievous blue eyes that drew her in. The physical attraction had only deepened as she’d discovered his agile mind. Kate smiled inwardly at how well he’d handled her angry lecture on DNA and she decided she was entitled to a fling.
She glanced to her left, up towards the massive bridge that towered over the hotel. A lone fishing vessel, the Destiny, was passing slowly underneath the bridge as it headed towards the outer harbour. Opposite Curtis’ balcony, the huge white sails of the Sydney Opera House reached majestically toward the night sky. Kate soaked up the city harbour she loved.
‘Twelve-year-old Jameson’s. The proper Irish stuff,’ Curtis said, handing Kate a glass and standing closely beside her on the balcony.
‘Prost,’ Curtis whispered, softly clinking his tumbler with hers.
‘Prost. Mmm. That is so good. Like malted honey.’ Kate could feel the old whiskey warming her, dissolving any last minute misgivings.
Curtis’ hand moved lower and she felt a surge of warmth between her legs as she let him slowly explore her thigh. He put his glass down and when he reached for hers, she relinquished it willingly, and pressed herself against his body. He kissed her gently, his lips soft, warm and tasting of whiskey, then he kissed her more urgently and she responded with her tongue as he held her tight. Kate parted her legs to allow his thigh between hers.
Kate groaned as he slowly undid the zip on her white linen pants and she moved against his finger as he gently explored her. She reached for his zip but it caught; unhurriedly, he helped her pull it down. He was growing in her hand and she groaned again as he kissed her.
‘I think we should do this,’ Curtis whispered.
‘I think we should too.’
Kate leaned her head against
his shoulder as they walked towards the bedroom. He stepped back and slowly unbuttoned her shirt.
The small voice was back, annoying and persistent. ‘This man has too much finesse. He’s bad news. You’re just another conquest.’ Kate banished the voice by concentrating on undoing Curtis’ leather belt. He released the clip on her bra.
Kate closed her eyes and groaned again as she felt Curtis run his hand very slowly down her back and over the outside of her thigh.
Curtis kissed Kate’s breasts and slowly licked and sucked her hard, erect nipples. He searched Kate’s tongue with his own and as she reached for him, she found that he was hard and wet.
Curtis moved his hand slowly between her thighs and caressed her, gently at first, and then more powerfully.
‘Fuck me, Curtis,’ Kate whispered, guiding him into her.
As their tongues found each other, Kate could feel herself rising on a huge wave.
‘Oh fuck me, Curtis! Fuck me!’ she urged softly, her voice catching in her throat as the wave took her still higher.
She wrapped her arms more tightly around his broad shoulders and pushed against him in perfect harmony with the increasing power of Curtis’ lean, muscled body, the wave taking her higher and higher.
‘Oh fuck,’ she whispered urgently. ‘Oh fuck! I’m going to come! Oh fuuu… ck!’ Kate’s lightly tanned and freckled face was contorted in exquisite pain as Curtis too, let out a muffled cry and she felt him convulsing inside her.
Kate basked as she slowly surfed the wave into the beach. Curtis held her for a very long time, kissing her softly, and gently stroking her back.
CHAPTER 64
SYDNEY HARBOUR CONTROL TOWER, SYDNEY
D eputy Harbour Master Murray Black drove along Hickson Road in the pre-dawn darkness, past the stone convict buildings and on towards Dock No. 5 and the main entrance to the container docks that lined the west side of the central business district of Sydney. The headlights of Murray’s battered Saab probed through the rain that was falling in silvery sheets. It was going to be one of those foul weather days that made control of the busy harbour even more difficult, but not even the rain or the 45-knot westerly that was blowing could diminish Murray’s good spirits. Today marked his tenth year as a deputy harbour master. After a stint in the Australian military Murray had finally agreed with his wife that a young family shouldn’t be pushed from pillar to post, and he’d joined the Sydney Ports Authority. It had been a wrench to leave the Army but his experience as an operations officer had been a good match for Sydney Ports, who needed men and women trained to be calm in a crisis and make instant, common sense decisions.
The entrances to Sydney Harbour and the nearby Port Botany were strictly controlled to the extent that ships’ masters often complained about excessive red tape, but Murray knew that it was one of the safest maritime environments in the world and he intended to do everything he could to keep it that way. Fit, wiry and not overly tall, Murray Black had a rugged face and light blue eyes. His blond hair was kept short in a regulation military haircut; some habits died hard.
Today was his daughter Louise’s eighth birthday. As Murray approached the security gates and the guardhouse that marked the entrance to the container dock and the port control tower he smiled to himself, recalling his daughter’s pleas the night before as he was watching television after the family had been out late-night shopping.
‘Can we go to Luna Park for my birthday, Daddy? Please, please, pleeeeease. Can we?’
‘We’ll see, little one. Daddy has to work tomorrow so we wouldn’t get there until after lunch.’
Louise crawled onto his lap, put her arms around his neck, rested her blonde head on his shoulder and whispered, ‘I love you Daddy, can we go please?’
Murray glanced out towards the kitchen where his wife Anthea was preparing dinner. Anthea rolled her eyes and raised her eyebrows, as if to say ‘Daddy’s girl has you wrapped around her little finger. How are you going to get out of this one?’
‘ Please, Daddy, please, pleeeeease?’
‘Okay. If that’s where you want to go, little one, that’s where we’ll go. Mummy can bring you and the boys in on the train in the morning and I’ll meet you there after I finish my shift,’ Murray said, giving his daughter a kiss and again looking across to Anthea.
She shook her head and smiled warmly.
Murray pulled up behind a semi-trailer in the waiting bay in the middle of Hickson Road, the traffic sloshing past intermittently on either side. It had been over thirty years since he’d been to the fun park in the shadows of the northern pylons of the bridge. It was a toss-up as to who was more excited – Louise or the six-year-old twins, Jonathon and Matthew – and although Anthea wasn’t letting on, Murray knew that she was pleased too. It was about creating family memories. As they’d made love together that night, Anthea had whispered, ‘We’re so lucky, Murray. I love you.’
‘I love you, too,’ he’d replied.
CHAPTER 65
THE APPROACH TO SYDNEY HARBOUR
A s the dawn broke over the Pacific Ocean, Captain Arne Svenson, the Swedish captain of the Ocean Venturer, stepped quietly onto the bridge of the massive tanker. Svenson was a tough professional who had dedicated his life to the sea; no matter what time of the day or night he was always on the bridge hours before any ship under his command entered a port. He glanced in the direction of the helmsman and was mildly irritated to find that Mussaid ibn Khashoggi was on duty. Not that the swarthy Saudi Arabian wasn’t competent, quite the reverse. He was arguably one of the most professional and reliable men in the tanker’s entire crew, but Arne had been around seamen and the sea for nearly forty years and there was something about Khashoggi that made him uncomfortable. The Saudi never relaxed and Captain Svenson was convinced he had some sort of chip on his shoulder, but his early attempts to find out what that might be had been met with surly denial.
Acknowledging the greeting of his first officer, the Captain checked the tanker’s position on the GPS and then checked the chart. They were abeam of Point Perpendicular, less than 100 nautical miles from Port Jackson and the entrance to one of Captain Svenson’s favourite harbours. More importantly, the tanker’s arrival in the port would coincide with the high tide. The Ocean Venturer had a draft of 14.2 metres and the UKC, the under keel clearance, was critical. He knew that Port Jackson’s next high tide was 1.7 metres and that it would occur at 10.05 a.m. He also knew that the Western Channel of the harbour was dredged to a minimum of 13.7 metres at mean low tide. The critical points were the tops of the two tunnels the authorities had built on the harbour floor; even at high tide the massive tanker would clear them by barely a metre.
Captain Svenson thanked the duty steward for the mug of hot coffee and sank into the big leather chair that he’d worked a lifetime to win. Driving rain was lashing the reinforced glass on the bridge that towered over the Ocean Venturer’s wide deck, with its jigsaw puzzle of interconnecting pipes and winches. A great mass of foaming water exploded over the tanker’s huge bow but the Ocean Venturer barely registered the vibration. Svenson had a deep respect for the awesome power of the sea but the waves would not trouble him or his ship today. As if to underline his judgement the Ocean Venturer smashed through another wave, causing dark, foaming water to cascade over the decks only to disappear into the scuppers, spent and defeated. He glanced at the radar screen. There was a small blip on the screen, about 10 nautical miles further inshore.
‘She’s a bit bloody close in this weather,’ Svenson observed.
The First Mate nodded. ‘Small cargo vessel. The Jerusalem Bay. She’s due to dock just after us. My guess is that she’s making heavier going than we are and probably doesn’t want to be out in this weather longer than necessary. I’ve been keeping an eye on her.’
Svenson grinned. A 3-metre swell could make life very uncomfortable aboard a small container vessel. He glanced at the radar again. Well to the north, off the tanker’s starboard quarter, one and occasionally t
wo fainter blips were showing on the screen.
‘And those?’ the Captain asked.
‘A couple of ocean-going tugs, the Montgomery and the Wavell, also due in Sydney at the same time as us.’
‘Who’d be a tug driver,’ Svenson observed sympathetically. He’d started out in tugs and he knew the sheer hell of a watch spent strapped in and hanging on through a long night, the deck pitching and rolling relentlessly beneath you.
‘A warship, the HMAS Melbourne, is due out of the harbour this morning as well and she’ll be followed by a car ship, the Shanghai, but otherwise, there’s nothing else to bother us,’ the First Mate said.
CHAPTER 66
SYDNEY HARBOUR CONTROL TOWER, MILLER’S POINT
T he semi passed through security and Murray Black inched forward in the rain. The hydraulically controlled posts in front of the gate disappeared into the road, the light turned green and Murray drove off Hickson Road and pulled up at the guardhouse.
‘Morning, Frank.’ Murray flashed his Sydney Ports Authority identification card and gave the security guard a smile. Frank waved and a second set of security posts disappeared, opening the entrance to the vast concrete dock. Murray drove onto the secure area of the docks and turned right towards the Sydney Ports Authority Control Tower at the far northern end. Slowly, he swung his car into the small parking compound at the base of the control tower.
‘Bugger!’ he muttered as the wind blew his umbrella inside out. The Best and Less $2 special was no match for the westerly that was driving rain across the open docks. Murray bolted up the narrow staircase on the outside of the tower, unlocked the door, wiped his face and stood dripping rainwater onto the carpet in the lift well. The tower might be an engineering marvel but it had one of the slowest lifts in the world, he thought, as he waited for the tiny capsule to come down from the operations centre, 76 metres above him. After what seemed an eternity, Murray stepped into the lift and pressed the button for it to return to the top. He could feel the lift rocking as it ground its way up the middle of the concrete tower. He stepped out and made his way up a few stairs into the operations centre – a large round capsule on top of the tower that provided 360 degree vision around the city and the harbour. The tower had been deliberately sited above the most dangerous part of the harbour where ships were blind to each other’s movements around Miller’s Point.
The Beijing conspiracy Page 25
