The Russian Affair

by Adrian D'hage

  Akram returned his rental car at Kingsford Smith International Airport and made his way to the international departures terminal for his flight to Dubai. The aircraft, car and apartment had all been bought and hired in false names, with false passports for identification, but Akram knew that as soon as police identified the aircraft and traced it to Bankstown, he would be identified by the security staff and the police would have him at the top of their wanted list. Using another false passport, Akram checked through customs and immigration. In the business lounge, all of the television outlets were carrying the downing of the Cessna, and Akram took one of the last available seats in front of a television feed from ABC News 24. The anchor, Joe Broadbent, was about to cross back to the ABC’s journalist at the scene.

  ‘For an update on what is happening in the CBD, we now cross back to Samantha Dobbin who is covering this live from inside the police perimeter at the Botanical Gardens. Sally, police have virtually blocked off the area around the gardens and the harbour foreshore?’

  The vision cut to Dobbin, her blonde hair blowing in the breeze. Sirens could be heard in the distance as police, ambulance and fire brigade units converged on the scene.

  ‘Yes, Joe, the area around the Botanical Gardens has been cordoned off from the Opera House in the west to Mrs Macquarie’s Chair in the east.’

  ‘Do we know if there have been any casualties?’

  ‘We don’t have accurate figures, but I have Inspector Stan Burroughs with me . . . Inspector, tragically, a number of people have been hit by flaming debris and are confirmed dead.’

  ‘That’s right, Sally, we’ve confirmed that three people have been killed, and we obviously won’t be releasing any names until the next of kin have been informed, but that figure may rise, given that a number of other people in the gardens and on the Opera House forecourt have been injured by falling debris.’

  ‘We’ll have to leave it there, Sally, because I’m just getting some breaking news from Dan Hastings, our correspondent in New York where there’s been an attack on Central Park. Dan?’

  ‘Good morning, Joe. It is of course, evening here, but there’s been a terrorist attack in Central Park . . .’

  Akram sipped his lemon squash and controlled his anger. Something had gone terribly wrong to prevent his pilot reaching the Australia Square target and he was only partly mollified as he listened to the devastation enveloping New York City. He kept a neutral expression, but at least the Great Infidel was in a world of hurt. He knew Allah would be pleased.

  ‘The problem in New York City, Joe, is the sheer size of the population – nearly nine million people – and the difficulty of communicating with them. The skyscraper office blocks, and other heavily populated buildings like the United Nations complex beside the East River, right down to the thousands of shops and restaurants – with a radioactive bomb, all of them have to be evacuated. I can tell you that right now, panic has set in as people try to flee the city.’ The vision cut to the chaos on the New York Subway as New Yorkers and tourists fought to get onto trains. That vision faded and was replaced with images from the John F. Kennedy Airport to the south-east of lower Manhattan. ‘As you can see from the live feed, Joe, people are desperate to get a flight out of New York – many don’t care where to, as long as it’s out of harm’s way. The authorities are urging people to stay calm, and they’re playing down the possible radiation effects, but that is getting little traction. I suppose it’s human nature, but as you can see, the CBD is in gridlock, and drivers have abandoned their cars, trucks and buses and fled on foot.’

  Out of shot of the media cameras and on the other side of Sydney, a grim-faced police commissioner and an equally grim-faced premier of New South Wales were receiving an update at the Police Centre in Surry Hills. Behind them, the state-of-the-art Command Centre was on full alert in case of further attacks. Rows of police as well as liaison officers from the fire brigade, ambulance, Health Department and other agencies were bent over their computer terminals. Both the premier and the police commissioner were being briefed by Dr Richard Scott, a specialist in radiation sickness.

  ‘We’re not certain, Premier, but we think that the debris from the Cessna was radioactive.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ the premier asked.

  ‘I ordered some tests when a surgeon and two of the theatre sisters at St Vincent’s vomited after treating several patients. A Geiger counter has detected radiation around the crash site.’

  ‘Do we know what it is?’ the police commissioner asked.

  ‘I can’t be absolutely sure until we get the results of some more tests, but I suspect strontium-90, which is a pure beta emitter.’

  ‘Meaning?’ the premier asked.

  ‘We don’t have time to get too technical here, Premier, but beta radiation is a high-speed, short-range particle. It’s not as powerful as gamma radiation, but it does penetrate the skin and if it comes in contact with cell DNA, it can cause mutations that can lead to cancer. Young children and unborn babies are particularly at risk because their cells are dividing more rapidly than those in mature adults. Mutated cells that divide more often lead to much greater damage. And it’s also harmful if beta-emitting particles are inhaled or ingested. Because of a chemical similarity to calcium, strontium-90 is a “bone seeker” with an affinity for absorption into bones and bone marrow. Paradoxically, strontium-90 is one of the hardest to detect, but we should have those results later today.’

  ‘Later today. Why the hell is it taking that long?’ the premier demanded. The strain of the past two hours was beginning to show.

  Doctor Scott kept his cool. It was not the first time he’d had to brief a politician. ‘Again without getting too technical, Premier, our laboratories are working to analyse it using gas–liquid chromatography, but we’ve had to take precautions to protect our own people. There’s little point in having them contract radiation sickness as well,’ Scott added meaningfully.

  ‘But you’re certain it’s radiation from the aircraft – it couldn’t be from elsewhere?’ the premier asked, hoping against what was rapidly turning into his worst nightmare.

  ‘Yes – we’re in the process of sending a report to your office, and to the Operations Centre here,’ Scott said.

  ‘On the upside, Premier, if there is one,’ the police commissioner offered, ‘it could have been a lot worse. Had what may well have been a dirty bomb on board that aircraft been specifically detonated over the city, it would have affected a much wider area. As a precaution, though, and based on winds coming from the north-east, you should evacuate the CBD until we can determine the extent of any radiation coverage.’

  ‘What? That’s impossible. There will be absolute panic!’

  The police commissioner took a deep breath. He had never liked the know-all politician, but he wasn’t about to take a backward step. ‘I’m not saying it will be easy, Premier, and there may well be some panic, but the alternative is worse.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that when – and it’s when, not if – it subsequently becomes known that we knew about the radioactive content on board the aircraft and did nothing, you will lose your job.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ the premier said finally.

  The police commissioner was not surprised at the response. A politician’s base instinct was almost always one of survival. ‘We need to hold a news conference and emphasise calm. I’ve already recalled all police from leave, and they’re being deployed to oversee the traffic flow as we speak. We also need to provide media executives with a briefing. We need their cooperation so that the threat is not overemphasised. It’s a precaution but sometimes the headlines in the Daily Astonisher can do more damage than the actual event.’

  Akram’s viewing of the developments in Sydney and his pleasure at the potential for at least some chaos was interrupted.

  ‘This is a boarding announcement for Cathay Pacific Flight 162 to Hong Kong and Dubai. Your aircraft is r
eady for boarding at Gate 23. Please have your boarding pass and passport ready for checking at the gate. Have a safe and pleasant flight.’

  Akram lingered in front of the television. The New South Wales premier and commissioner of police were about to give a media conference. His pulse quickened as he picked up his shoulder bag and headed for Gate 23. By the time the authorities started to look for him he would be halfway to Hong Kong.

  The members of the National Security Council stood as President Travers, followed by his hapless Chief of Staff, stormed into the room.

  ‘I want some answers,’ President Travers thundered, taking his seat at the head of the polished table. ‘How the hell could this be allowed to happen!’

  Tom McNamara, seated in one of the advisors’ chairs against the wall, glanced at the faces around the table. McNamara had been reliably informed by one of his Pentagon contacts that there were grave concerns in the nation’s military headquarters over this president’s fitness to hold high office. No less than the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Reid, had privately expressed a view to one of his closest aides that he thought President Travers was a nutter. The general, McNamara thought, looked decidedly unamused. Nor was the president’s tirade, the latest in a long list of many, going down well with the Secretary of State, Porter Warren, or the Secretary of Defense, Dwight D. Corbett. After many years spent in and around the corridors of power in Washington, McNamara was not only very well connected, he was a trusted confidant and he knew Porter Warren shared the view of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. In private, Secretary of Defense Corbett had been even more scathing. Not only did Corbett think this president unfit to hold the highest office in the land, the Defense Secretary thought Travers was mentally ill. McNamara glanced back toward the president who was now glaring around the table. Travers had unwisely promised the American people that when he became president, not only would they be safe on his watch, but he’d guaranteed that ISIS and a raft of other terrorist organisations would be destroyed. McNamara guessed correctly that Travers’s tirade had commenced in the Oval Office. With his approval ratings headed south at a rapid rate, the current explosion was simply part of his growing irrational anger.

  ‘Well, I want some answers!’ The president had turned an alarming shade of purple.

  ‘Mr President,’ the Defense Secretary began, assuming the role of a voice of reason. ‘I know you’re deeply upset by this attack – we all are, but with respect, now is not the time for us to be looking for answers. That’s a task for the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. As you can see from the feed at the far end of this room, New York is in absolute chaos, and that chaos is now spreading across the Hudson to New Jersey.’ The Defense Secretary inclined his head toward the live coverage coming through on one of the huge wall screens. The interstate highways leading out of New York and New Jersey resembled a massive car park. ‘I have asked my department to come up with plans to further assist in the evacuation of New York, and to provide estimates as to how long it’s going to take to decontaminate the city, and if you wish, I can give the Security Council a brief?’

  ‘I’m not interested in Senate inquiries and more bureaucracy!’ the president snarled. ‘I want answers! What am I going to tell the American people?’

  The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the Secretary of State exchanged glances.

  The Secretary of Homeland Security, Sherman Powell took a deep breath. ‘Mr President, although all New York agencies were on an increased alert, it’s very difficult to react to a threat if we don’t know how or when such an attack is going to be made.’ Powell was measured but deliberate. ‘Based on a report from a traffic policeman who had a very brief conversation with the driver at the Frederick Douglass Water Wall roundabout at the northern end of the park, we believe there were two bombers, a man and a woman.’

  ‘So why didn’t he apprehend them?’ the president demanded. ‘I want him fired!’

  Travers was getting more and more irrational by the hour, McNamara mused. Having seen the transcript of the interview with the policeman, if anything, McNamara thought he should be given a commendation for being so observant that he could not only remember the truck but was able to provide a description of the occupants.

  ‘Mr President, nearly three million vehicles enter New York City every day of the week. It’s just not practical to search vehicles unless we have a tip-off or another strong reason. The truck in question was not breaking any speed limit or any other by-law – the policeman was directing traffic around a vehicle that had broken down at the roundabout.’

  ‘So what else do we know?’ the president growled.

  ‘We found a VIN – a vehicle identification number – on one of the truck’s axles in the wreckage,’ Powell continued, ‘and from the VIN, we’ve been able to trace the truck to a hire company in Chicago. The FBI has already interviewed the hire company employees, and the truck was hired in the name of Faysal Abboud. That will undoubtedly turn out to be a false alias or a stolen identity. The policeman described the girl in the truck as being in her teens, and the driver in his early twenties. That’s not definitive, but it’s possible that there may have been a third party involved, because terrorists in their teens and early twenties are very young to have the expertise to build a bomb of this power.’

  ‘How big a bomb are we talking about? What was in it?’

  The Secretary of State and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs again exchanged glances. New York and New Jersey were in lockdown, all the airports were closed to civilian traffic, the roads leading in and out were almost totally blocked and POTUS was on a witch-hunt to shore up his sliding popularity.

  ‘We’ve yet to confirm the size or the composition, Mr President,’ Powell said, ‘but we have some early indications. We estimate, and I stress it’s only an estimate, that the bomb was in the region of six tonnes. As to composition, it would appear that it was not dissimilar to the one Timothy McVeigh constructed when he destroyed the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma, and that bomb was constructed from ammonium nitrate fertiliser, nitromethane and Tovex. In addition, we have some preliminary analysis that points toward strontium-90 as the radioactive material.’

  ‘And where the hell would they get that?’

  ‘Mr President, the Director of the National Clandestine Service is representing the CIA Director today, and he has the detail on that.’

  ‘It’s early days, Mr President,’ McNamara began, ‘but you will have seen an intelligence briefing on Operation Gamma Ray which was a combined CIA–Navy SEAL operation led by Agent O’Connor.’

  President Travers looked puzzled. McNamara was well aware this president didn’t much care for the intelligence community and he had a particular dislike for detailed intelligence briefings, and even though he knew Travers and the White House were in receipt of a written brief on Gamma Ray, the CIA spy chief continued on the assumption the president had no idea what he was talking about. ‘That operation was based on some outstanding work by the NSA, and Agent Barbara Murray in particular, who managed to unravel the ISIS plan to obtain strontium-90 from some generators left over from the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan. O’Connor’s team arrived in time to foil the seizure in one location, but ISIS beat us to it at a town called Arandu and they escaped across the border into Pakistan.’

  ‘I’ve made this point before!’ President Travers fumed. ‘Why the hell didn’t we chase them and apprehend them? Are we going soft on terrorism?’

  McNamara forced himself to remain calm. If it had been anyone other than the President of the United States, he would have given them both barrels.

  ‘Mr President, we are not authorised to conduct cross-border operations.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call me? I would have given you authorisation. Immediately!’

  ‘Mr President, if I may.’ Clearly Secretary of Defense Corbett was reaching his limit of patience. ‘Neither the Navy SEAL teams, nor the CIA, nor any other US force is authorised to conduc
t operations across national borders.’

  ‘Rubbish! We did it for Osama bin Laden. What’s the difference?’

  The Defense Secretary fixed the president with a steely glare. ‘The difference, Mr President, is quite stark. Firstly, Neptune Spear, the operation to capture or kill Osama bin Laden, was months in the planning and was based on meticulous training to the extent that we went to the trouble of building a replica of bin Laden’s Abbottabad compound in the CIA’s Harvey Point training facility in North Carolina. Secondly, to minimise the risk of discovery, the operation was carried out at night against a very specific target and with very specific planning for a time frame of 30 minutes on the ground. Even then, the SEALs were in that compound for 48 minutes because of the number of hard drives and documents they uncovered. By the time SEAL Team Six lifted out of the compound, the Pakistanis already had their F-16s in the air, but F-16s have only limited ability to spot helicopters at night. Which is quite fortunate, Mr President, because the helicopters had to refuel and they were on the ground in Pakistan for nearly 20 minutes on the way back to Afghanistan. Are you seriously suggesting, Mr President, that O’Connor and the SEALs, who are amongst the most capable and courageous in this country – are you seriously suggesting you would have approved a cross-border operation into Pakistan, without the Pakistanis’ knowledge, without any prior rehearsals and in broad daylight, for an indefinite period? Are you seriously suggesting that?’

  McNamara felt like applauding. And from the look of approval on the face of the Secretary of State, he did too. Corbett reminded McNamara of the steely-eyed five-star general and Secretary of State, George Marshal. Harry Truman famously called people, no matter their status, by their first names, but even he addressed George Marshal as General. The vice-president and the other members of the Security Council all looked worried.