‘Well there’s no accounting for taste,’ Sally said. ‘Although he is lovely to look at.’
‘Which is what most blokes would say about her,’ Jana said.
‘Is he a real journalist or just a desk jockey?’ Gideon asked.
‘Allegedly he once wrote for a country newspaper,’ Jana said. ‘He got lucky when he switched to TV because he really does look good on camera.’
‘What’s his show like?’
‘This Week, The World is not what you’d call high-calibre current affairs, although it does tackle more than the latest diets and conman stories. Other reporters do all the in-depth stuff though, because Alan doesn’t think well on his feet. He interviewed the PM - once; it was about mandatory detention. It was embarrassing.’
‘So he doesn’t do the foreign correspondent thing?’
‘Good God, no. He’s a trouble magnet. He’d leave a trail of destruction in his wake worse than any cyclone or bloody uprising. That man could set out to do a puff piece on a cattery and turn the place into a war zone. I mean look what happens when he takes a junket to Laui: the place gets hijacked by rebels.’
‘You think that was his fault?’
‘Could’ve been,’ Jana grinned. ‘But, seriously, you’d be wise to keep tabs on him and his staff reporters. He’ll get them to look into you lot for an exposé.’
Gideon gave a resigned shrug. ‘The best way to distract dogs with short attention spans is to give them a new bone, a bigger one if possible. Why was he even on Laui? Was he covering your conference?’
Jana snorted. ‘Beach massages, cocktails and souvenir hats comprise Alan’s understanding of Pacific trade and tourism. He was there with us, as a thank you from the Australian Economic Tourism Council for the support his show has given our domestic ecotour projects, but he had no obligations. Sadly, and I’m big enough to admit this now - but only to you two - I was responsible for him being there. I had an ulterior motive for matching his junket with our conference.’
‘Don’t tell me you fancied him?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Sally. It was cover for me to schmooze him while contemplating my future.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Laui was my second-last conference for the AET Council. My contract is up in two weeks. I was going to socialise with Alan at the resort, while I decided whether to join his TV show, as a consultant on trade and tourism. Alan knew nothing of the offer, which came from his producer but, ultimately, if he didn’t like me then there was no job. Alan might be a moron, but he’s a moron with ratings clout.
‘Things were going great for that first couple of hours, until those bloody rebels turned up and decided to lock the two of us in the same space for nine days. Now he despises me, and all I want to do is thrash him with my luggage.’
‘I’ll help you lift it.’
‘Thanks, Sal. But it means that after the meeting in Chiang Mai next week I’m unemployed.’
‘But not unemployable.’
‘True.’
Gideon resumed her head-count as the final 12 from Laui were herded into the room by the two Foreign Ministers’ go-to-guys, Mick Fleming and Jim Finch. Gideon had met Fleming briefly, five days before, but at the time had no idea who he really was. An hour ago they’d been officially re-introduced by his Kiwi counterpart, who referred to himself as ‘bug Jum Funch’.
The two men left again once they’d ensured everyone was accounted for; which meant the circus was about to begin.
Gideon braced herself. She retuned her full attention to Sally and Jana’s chitchat, which amazingly hadn’t veered from the subject of the latter’s future employment.
‘Uh-oh,’ Sally noted, ‘the whole rest of the gang just arrived en masse. Excuse me while I go snaffle a chocolate croissant before they’re all devoured.’
Jana glanced around the room. ‘What’s going on, exactly?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I just came in here for coffee,’ Jana said. ‘But we’re all here at the same time as if it was prearranged but nobody arranged anything with me so my presence is either a fluke or…’
‘Jana, take a breath.’
‘Sorry. It’s just seems odd, Commander, that…’
‘Please, call me Bryn, or Gideon.’
‘Except in front of the others, right?’ Jana said. Bryn? No, that doesn’t feel right.
Gideon raised an eyebrow. ‘Sally seems okay. But, call me George or Ethel in the company of your ex-roomy, or the other press.’
‘What other press?’
‘The other press that’s about to arrive with the VIPs.’
‘I thought we were the VIPs,’ Jana said.
‘Nuh, well you might be, but as a group you’re now just the photo op,’ Gideon said.
‘Speaking of me,’ Jana flashed a smile, ‘did you find out who singled me out for the Private Ryan treatment?’
Gideon lifted her chin to indicate the doorway and the jamboree that seemed to be gathering force in the hallway beyond. ‘You’re about to find out.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Jana said as the vocal squall headed towards their room.
‘My thoughts exactly, although mine were - louder,’ Gideon said as gang of press, complete with mikes and cameras, reversed into the room ahead of a gaggle of dignitaries and their yes-people.
‘Shouldn’t you be hiding or in disguise or hightailing it for the nearest exit?’ Jana asked.
‘I’m on a mission,’ Gideon stated. ‘There’s your Mr Spielberg.’
Jana recognised, in order of arrival: Ellen Parker, the New Zealand PM; David Bailey, her Foreign Minister; Barney Cross, the Aussie Attorney-General; and - oh my God - the rat-bastard himself. After him, it didn’t matter who else was in the group of VIPs because the arrival of that Vile Ignorant Prick made her long for the lock-up on Laui. A little blight on her past, the man was now like a recurring wart.
Jana closed her eyes, sucked in a lung-full of air she didn’t plan to keep and turned away from the incoming bigwigs.
Gideon’s curious glance implied she thought Jana was strange indeed. ‘You okay?’
‘Yes,’ Jana said. ‘But could you do me a favour?’
Gideon gave a cautious affirmative shrug, so Jana asked, ‘Could you stick bodyguard close to me - just in case?’
‘Just in case what?’ Gideon scoped the room for a threat. But all she could see was that she had unwittingly been moved down the room away from the VIP/PR gridlock. Gideon glanced down at the guiding hand that was still holding her elbow and asked its owner, ‘You think you’re in danger?’
Jana smiled wryly. ‘No. But he might be and I wouldn’t want to create an international incident.’
Gideon took her senses off alert. ‘Too late, Doc, you lot already are one.’
‘Nonetheless,’ Jana raised an eyebrow.
‘I won’t leave your side until you tell me to get lost. As long as you remember I’m not really here.’
‘A deal. Thank you,’ Jana said, deciding not to call her Gideon, Bryn, Commander or anything in particular until one emerged as the most comfortable. By which time their ways would have parted and she wouldn’t need to call her anything at all.
‘My goodness,’ she exclaimed, registering the uninterrupted view that Gideon had been trying to enjoy earlier. ‘Pity about the weather, but that is incredible.’
They stood for a moment - in blissful silence, Gideon noted - admiring the gun-metal grey water of a perfectly flat inner Lambton Harbour.
‘Te Whanganui-a-Tara was created by two Taniwha, or sea monsters,’ Jana whispered.
‘What was?’
‘The harbour. In Maori the whole harbour is called Te Whanganui-a-Tara.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I read the tourist stuff in my room,’ Jana said, turning to find out why the noise level in the room had just dropped from seven to two.
She and Gideon watched as a simple waggle of Ellen Parker’s hand caused a Red Sea part
ing in the media pack, through which the official party passed. When a clueless Fox News guy had the temerity to re-thrust his mike towards them, Prime Minister Parker gave him her look and said, ‘Play nice now.’
He looked blank and fairly stupid with his arm still extended, so she just stood there until his uncommon courtesy kicked in and he stepped back into the pack.
‘Whoa, she’s even more amazing in person,’ Gideon noted. ‘And I thought only the wild scenery would entice me here to live.’
‘Yeah,’ Jana agreed. ‘Although it’s not like our own government doesn’t already give us enough reasons to migrate across the Tasman - especially that vile Barney Cross.’ She noticed some of the VIPs were starting to circulate. ‘Uh-oh, time to blend into the background.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Narita Airport, Tokyo
Wednesday 8.30 am
Scott dumped Kaisha’s suitcase and his travel bag onto the trolley she had wheeled over, and then slung his laptop satchel over his shoulder. Amazingly, they were on time for their Air Canada flight to Bangkok despite the horrendous traffic they’d just been driven through. As they headed into Terminal Two they joined the throngs going in so many directions it was hard to tell whether they were arriving, departing or still making up their minds.
Scott, unlike his travel companion who seemed to know exactly what she was doing, felt he was in the not-quite-sure box.
Despite Kaisha admitting she didn’t know much about Hiroyuki’s brother Hiroshi, except that he owned restaurants in Bangkok, Chiang Mai and Phuket, here they were on their way to find him. Apparently, if Hiro said his brother would take care of her, then he would; without warning, and without so much as a written note.
But why Scott had agreed to escort her all the way, instead of just putting her on a plane and waving goodbye, was an odd detail he was still trying to figure out. True, Kaisha had reminded him that Hiro Kaga had been quite specific in his instructions: ‘Scott, take Kaisha to brother’. So naturally Scott started wondering why a dying man would do that; why he’d ask that of a stranger. Was there a reason other than just, ‘look after my mistress’?
Then, of course, there was the whole issue of the man dying by very sharp sword blades.
And not by a guy on rollerblades, you idiot.
Although either way it was weird and all very samurai or Zen-judo; which made Scott really want to believe that it was just a domestic. And, all things considered, it was best for everyone if the guy was killed for cheating on his wife with Kaisha. Because one alternative was that Hiroyuki’s murder was directly linked to Scott’s story; to the Plot. If that was so, then it was possible that because Scott had contacted him, Hiro Kaga was now dead.
Okay, so clearly potential guilt was one very good reason why Scott was about to fly to Thailand.
The trouble with taking that kind of guilt-trip, however, was that there was no single departure point. No one else knew about what Scott knew yet. Even Hiroyuki had known only that he wanted to interview him about the strange pirate version of his most famous game, one of Nayazuki Firebolt’s most profitable.
But, maybe Hiro had subsequently talked to the wrong someone else about just that, and they then did what they did. That could mean that Hiro was knocked-off because he asked the wrong questions. Or he’d been in on it, but was expendable.
Scott jogged to catch up to Kaisha who was weaving easily in and out of a thousand passengers and their farewelling kith and kin, because - unlike him - she wasn’t pushing their trolley. As an entire family-tree breached the space between them, Scott was forced to stop walking altogether until 20 people, followed by several straggling great-great-ancient aunties, moved on through.
This damn stupid Plot. It was of such ridiculous tabloid conspiracy-theory proportions that he was starting to doubt it could possibly be real. A plan to assassinate a host of the world’s ‘somebodies’ was just too James-Bond. No, it was perfect Get Smart, and KAOS had finally invented the VIP weapon. For that was what the pirated game had maybe hinted at. And the clues, the real-world ones, not the in-game ones, kept leading him on. The who and when were still the biggest questions, apart from exactly by whom and why. Talk about a journalistic challenge.
The next destination in his investigative research, after what should’ve been a nice chat with Hiro Kaga, was to have been home. Well, sort of. Home, where his cat and his sister lived, was New York.
After Japan he’d been intending to go Virginia to look up an old girlfriend, who also just happened to be his unofficial CIA contact. Scott was hoping Laura would be able to tell him if the Agency knew anything about this weird game or what a particular nasty new terrorist group might be up to. But that trip had now been postponed by this little sidebar flight to Bangkok.
Scott still marvelled at fluking onto this whole story. To think, if he’d never taken that flight to Melbourne, the one Mark the Kiwi joined in Dubai, he’d never have stumbled on this possible conspiracy.
Problem was, especially with Hiro Kaga now a very dead cult hero, he’d probably now never find out who had rejigged his game. Or why.
Yo Scott, switch off for a while. Think about something else.
He’d almost caught up to Kaisha, who seemed to have all but forgotten about him, even though she was still looking around dramatically. She was convinced they would be followed or was trying to convince him that they might be.
When three German backpackers overtook Scott in a huge hurry but then slowed to loitering speed in front of him, he gave up looking for the off-switch in his mind and went back to the thing it wouldn’t ignore.
Ever since he’d seen that pirated WarTek game, and bought it from the Kiwi on the plane, the turns in this journalistic investigation into war-game training for real war, had just kept getting screwier.
The WarP designers he’d gone to interview in Melbourne for his original story had checked the Global WarTek disk for him. They’d discovered quotes from the Rashmana embedded throughout the first two levels of the game. Just as the image of the book itself should not have been in the game’s intro movie, the words most certainly had no place in the game - in any Firebolt game. Scott and the WarP guys then spent 18 hours trying to find a password to get beyond Level 2 before giving up, on the assumption that the disk was, in fact, just bad.
‘You want a magazine?’ Kaisha asked. She’d stopped to wait in front of a book shop for him.
‘No thanks,’ he replied, glancing at the screaming headlines and graphic photos on the half-dozen newspapers arrayed out the front. The last he’d heard, no group had yet claimed responsibility for either the Luxembourg train or the Dallas bomb. Until they did, Scott didn’t even want to countenance the slightest possibility that Atarsa Kára might be the culprit, because that would mean their game was starting. Whatever the hell their game was.
‘Scott. Scott!’
‘What?’
‘Bald gaijin, near the café back there.’
Scott looked down at her, hiding behind him, as she nodded her head in the direction they’d just come. ‘Our bald gaijin, or just any old hairless white guy?’
Kaisha thumped him on the arm. ‘Ours. Look.’
Scott did as he was told and - oh shit - there he was: the same beefy stretch of pale skin and black leather. He was looking around, but obviously hadn’t spotted them yet.
‘Okay, time to get out of Dodge, Kaisha. If you haven’t paid for that magazine, leave it.’
She obviously had, as she held the latest edition of Vogue up beside her face as they headed off down the concourse, to checkin as quickly as possible.
Dargo, standing by the airport café, took his vid-phone out of his coat pocket, dialled the number of his last incoming caller, and leant on a tall café table. He smiled as he watched his targets run away from him again.
‘Is it done?’ his Client asked. ‘They saw me.’
‘Good. I’m grateful that you took time out from your busy schedule to play bogeyman.’
/> ‘Hmm,’ Dargo raised an eyebrow. ‘For the record I do not like deliberately showing myself.”
‘Quite understandable in your business, dear boy, but they had already seen your face. You were, therefore, the best man to scare them right out of the country,’ the Client said. ‘Hopefully they will just keep running and hiding, assuming that you are forever on their tail.’ The man sounded gleeful.’
Dargo scratched his forehead. He had yet to get a handle on his latest Client. Potentially one of the most influential people in the world, he took an almost boyish interest in Dargo’s work and sheer delight in things that went his way.’
‘I hope you don’t mind me saying so sir, but you are the strangest employer I’ve ever had.”
‘Ah, I shall take that as a compliment, Dargo. Now, did you get a photo of the young man with whom our little mistress is on the run?’ ‘
‘Uploading as we speak,’ Dargo said. ‘And now, if you don’t mind sir, I need to get back to Terminal One. My bags and gear have already been checked through, so I really can’t afford to miss my flight to Sydney. I hate to think what they’d make of my sporting equipment if they were obliged to take a really good look at it.”
Fort Hood, Killeen, Texas
Tuesday 6.30 pm
Jesse-Jay Baggett and Micah O’Brien raised shot-glasses to their companions. They were all sitting around an army campfire, eating beans and jerky and laughing like teenagers. The other five regulars of the Carthage Thunder Militia had been coming and going through the gates of Fort Hood for nearly nine days. All the equipment was now in place and all they were waiting on was the order to begin.
The local Killeen Civil War Group had invited seven other state companies to take part in the first annual American Celebration: Battle Re-enactment Camp. Dressed in confederate and union uniforms, 249 men and women had been living like soldiers of old: eating the food, doing the training, learning the tactics and gearing up for the grand Celebration Battle on the coming weekend. An audience of a thousand was expected to attend on both days.
The Fort Hood authorities had given the green light to American Celebration six months ago, including allowing the participants to camp for the full two weeks around the lake area. The idea to use the Killeen military installation for the re-enactment had been suggested by the new Lieutenant-Governor of Texas, George Gantry.
Redback Page 14
