Sword of Allah (31 page)

The two Australian Customs officers walked slowly through the corridors between containers stacked as high as five-storey buildings. Daisy went ahead, the slack on her leash played out. The cool breeze quickened as it funnelled down these aisles and, despite the fact that it was late summer, both of the customs investigators were pleased to be wearing caps and windcheaters over their dark blue overalls. Daisy, a labrador–kelpie crossbreed, snuffled from side to side, shoving her snout into various cracks, hunting for the stray molecules of an array of different substances.

There were over a hundred containers on the wharf. On this day, they would try to inspect three, but probably only get through two. One of the agents carried the manifest for the first container to be inspected: 2209LK. The officers
were going to make it hard for the wharfies today because this one was buried right in the middle of a stack. That meant getting to it would require other containers to be shifted and restacked. The labourers weren’t keen to cooperate because of the extra work involved. But the customs officers couldn’t care less. ‘The buggers get paid to move the things around, so what’s the fucking problem?’ said Craig in an aside to his older partner when the shift foreman bitched and moaned as he walked off.

The officers and their dog reached the end of the aisle and walked into bright sunshine, a cool breeze blowing the scent of salt and diesel fuel off the waters of the bay. The wharfies were shifting the containers one at a time with an enormous crane that hoisted the steel boxes up under its belly like a giant four-legged squid. It would take another half an hour at least, the agents realised, for the particular container they wanted to inspect to be freed from the stack.

The customs men sat down in the sun, out of the breeze, and soaked up the warmth. Daisy, too, took the opportunity to rest, half lying, half sitting up, her long red tongue waggling as she panted. ‘What are we looking at again?’ asked Robert, older by ten years and a considerable number of beers, all of which seemed to hang precariously over his belt.

Craig handed him the manifest. ‘Here, check it out.’

Robert pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head. ‘Okay, we got a whole bunch of pots and furniture. Indoor and outdoor stuff, plus half a dozen snooker tables. Out of Denpasar. Should be pretty straightforward.’

‘Sweet,’ said Craig.

Robert’s mobile struck up a jaunty rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’.

‘When are you going to change the ring on that phone, man?’ Craig shook his head. His partner was a bit of a dag.

‘Never. This way, it’s Christmas all year round.’ Robert let it play, answering it at the last moment. ‘Rightee-ho,’ he said, speaking into it. The officer hitched the phone back on his belt. ‘C’mon, ace, they’re ready for us. Jeez, these guys are getting quicker by the day,’ Robert said, grunting as he stood. Daisy was making figure eights in her expectation of getting on with it. The two agents walked through the dark aisles of containers and back out again into the sun. The container chosen for inspection had been isolated on the dock. They strolled up to it and met representatives from both the stevedoring company and the shipping line. The various forms were signed and in order, so the container was cracked open. The door swung wide with a rusty groan that rang in the men’s ears.

The agents snapped their flashlights on and strode into the darkness, directing Daisy here and there by tugging on her lead. Daisy surged forward, scampering over, through and under the cargo neatly stacked inside.

‘Nice of whoever to leave so much room for us,’ said Craig, swinging the flashlight about.

‘Yeah.’ Robert illuminated the far back end of the container. The air smelled of dry wood and earth. The container would have to be fumigated and any biological nasties eradicated. Daisy snuffled up and down, retracing her steps, but nothing seemed to excite her. They walked to the far end where the air was close and hot, the sun’s power amplified by the metal of the container. The
younger man led his dog under a pair of snooker tables. The animal took its time, placing its nose into the cracks and joins, its keen olfactory senses reaching out for the minutest trace of illicit cargo.

‘Nice table,’ said Craig. ‘Look at this – solid mahogany. You know, they just walk into the rainforest and cut this shit down. Jesus,’ he said, envy interwoven with new-age sensitivity to the environmental implications of such behaviour. ‘Did I ever tell you my old man was the local snooker champion?’

‘Nope.’

‘Yeah, used to beat all them rich wankers, the ones who could afford to have a table like this at home. They cost a fortune, these bloody things – and then you’ve got to have a room big enough to put it in. I’ll never earn that sort of money – not doing this shit, anyway.’ He leaned under one of the massive tables and shone his torch up onto the underside. ‘The best ones have slate under the baize,’ Craig said.

‘Yeah,’ said Robert, not really listening. ‘Looks clean.’

‘Only another four hundred containers to go,’ Craig said with some aggravation in his voice, the realisation of his future low net worth well and truly under his skin. ‘C’mon,’ he said, ‘let’s go have some lunch.’

Gia Ferallo entered the small lecture theatre and found it already crowded. The Australian Defence Force chief, Air
Marshal Ted Niven, had called her and her boss, the station director, to the meeting. Ferallo’s superior, however, was in the US, leaving her to carry the can. Ferallo didn’t mind. Responsibility – proving she was capable of handling the job – was good for the career. She took a seat beside the Director-General of ASIS, Graeme Griffin, as Peter Meyer, Director-General of ASIO, Australia’s internal intelligence organisation, walked in with Hugh Greenway, the defence minister. Obviously something serious had developed. Water cooler scuttlebutt said it had something to do with Kadar Al-Jahani. The gathering represented the top military and intelligence personnel in the country – enough brass in the room to cast a couple of cannons. The lights dimmed slightly as Captain Ali Mahisa came in and took a seat, followed by Felix Mortimer from the DIO. There weren’t a lot of pleasantries exchanged, on account of it wasn’t a particularly pleasant occasion.

‘Thank you all for coming.’ Niven stood in front of his seat and turned to face the gathering. ‘I believe you all know each other, with a couple of exceptions,’ he said with the slightest nod at Gia Ferallo. ‘This is Captain Ali Mahisa from Indonesian counter-terrorism. He has flown down from Jakarta at short notice to attend this meeting.’

Mahisa rose from his seat partially, then sat back down.

Ferallo smiled a hello at the Indonesian officer.

‘Also, the officer at the whiteboard is Colonel Hank Watson, NBC expert from the US Army Chemical Corps. He’ll be liaising with us for the foreseeable future.’

Ferallo was curious.
Liaising?
NBC – nuclear biological and chemical? She noticed the colonel for the first time off to the left, writing something on a whiteboard, his back to
the room. From behind, he was not a particularly standout kind of character: short, pear-shaped, shiny bald head spattered with big brown sun freckles. The colonel stopped scribbling and turned to face the assembly. His face was lined and intelligent. He did not appear to be happy. Ferallo could see that the gathering was about to get some bad news. That, she would later recall, was the understatement of the year.

‘A couple of points to set what you’re about to hear in context,’ said Niven in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘As you all know, Kadar Al-Jahani was not killed in Ramallah, but was captured and taken to Guantanamo Bay for questioning. However, he died three days ago while being interrogated. Before he died, though, he cleared up a few questions for us, and left a few others unanswered. We now know, for example, that he and Babu Islam were indeed responsible for the US Embassy bombing.’ The former fighter pilot paused to look at his notes and took a deep breath before continuing.

Ferallo smiled faintly. The Australian had sugar-coated it. More accurately, Kadar had died under torture. But there was something else going on here…

‘There’s no way to soften this, so I’ll just out with it. Before he died, Kadar Al-Jahani revealed that Babu Islam also has in its possession around twenty litres of VX nerve gas, and the means to deliver it.’

Ferallo blinked in disbelief.

‘Jesus Christ,’ said someone. The effect of the air marshal’s statement was like a punch in the solar plexus.

‘Colonel?’ said Niven, motioning to the American officer to take over the briefing.

Watson underlined two very long words on the
whiteboard, the squeaking of the felt-tipped pen making the flesh on Ferallo’s arms prickle. ‘S-2-(diisopropylamino)ethyl O-ethyl methylphosphonothioate,’ Watson began, ‘is otherwise known as VX gas. It’s not the most lethal substance known to man, but close enough not to quibble about it. VX is three hundred times more lethal than phosgene, the nerve agent most commonly used in World War I. It’s odourless, virtually colourless and, unlike some other agents, is an excellent adhesive. Once it lands on a surface, it’s almost impossible to remove.

‘The exposure limit for VX is one ten-thousandth of a milligram per cubic metre. Just getting it on your skin is bad enough. Ingest slightly less than you could fit on the head of a pin and, unless you get treatment immediately, you’re dead in a couple of minutes. VX works by binding itself to the enzyme responsible for transmitting signals to the nerves, blocking the signals. Basically, your whole system loses control, goes haywire.

‘The symptoms of VX exposure manifest themselves within minutes or hours, depending on the level of exposure. It’s not a nice way to leave the planet,’ he said, briefly smiling without humour. ‘The symptoms include visions, headaches, runny nose, pressure sensitive skin, nausea, vomiting, nightmares, muscle twitches, cramps, involuntary urination and defecation – all the good things – progressing to convulsions and, ultimately, respiratory failure.

‘Fortunately, there is an antidote of sorts: a mixture of atropine and diazepam, and another chemical called pralidoxime chloride – all of which are pretty nasty things in themselves. Decontamination wipes and powders are also available.’

‘Can I ask a question?’

‘Please, er, Ms…’

‘Gia Ferallo, CIA. Who invented this stuff?’

‘The Brits, Ms Ferallo, in 1953. Rumour has it they exchanged the technology with us, the United States, for thermonuclear secrets.’

‘Oh,’said Ferallo. She realised that her mouth was open, in shock. It had finally sunk in. They were being given this information for a reason, and it wasn’t to further their general knowledge. This was it, the scenario western governments all over the world had feared for a long time. Niven’s frightening words came back to her:
terrorist organisation…twenty litres of VX nerve gas…the means to deliver it.

‘A while ago, Hollywood made a film starring VX called
The Rock
, with Nicolas Cage in the supporting role. You might like to get it out. A lot of the facts were wrong, but the movie got the point across about the toxicity of VX, and it’s quite entertaining,’ he said, smiling that brief smile of his before the frown returned.

‘Jesus, Spike. How reliable is the source for this?’ asked Greenway.

‘Very,’ said Niven, the muscles in his jaw bunching as he ground his molars.

‘Do we know where they got the VX from?’ Mortimer asked in a voice devoid of fear – ever the academic.

‘There are several likely sources. Exactly where is unknown. Possibly the missing Iraqi cache – a fraction of the stuff that supposedly didn’t exist. And that’s the most frightening option. It means that somewhere out there could be a thousand litres of this agent, and it opens up
the feasibility of there being hidden stores of anthrax and botulism – and that it’s all accessible to terrorists. There’s also the possibility that it has come from some other source entirely – Iran’s the most likely suspect given the situation at the moment. But it could have come from Syria. Or from somewhere else in the region. While most countries don’t manufacture these weapons, many countries have small stocks of chemical and biological agents just for study purposes: Egypt, Saudi Arabia…We can’t just point the finger at Iraq. The reality is, we’ll probably never know.’

‘What about the delivery mechanism you mentioned? Would that give us an indication of the target?’ asked Meyer, who was still trying to get his head around the implications of this news.

‘Not really,’ said Niven. ‘If anything, it makes the possible scenarios worse.’ He touched a remote button and a screen filled with a picture of some kind of strangelooking aircraft. ‘They’ve got one of these. It’s a UAV, an acronym for “unmanned aerial vehicle”. A drone, basically. It’s one of ours, or rather, America’s.’

‘Great. And where the hell did they get one of those?’ asked Meyer, huffing irritably.

‘That we do know,’ said Niven. ‘Kadar told us it came from Israel. We’ve checked on that. One did go missing late last year. Shot down and not recovered. The Americans and Israelis believe it was purposely targeted for acquisition.’

‘Hang on,’ Ferallo said. ‘You mean the strike in this part of the world has been planned in the Middle East?’

‘My area is NBC, not intel,’ said Watson.

Ferallo frowned.
Thanks
.

‘Somehow, Kadar Al-Jahani managed to have it packaged and delivered to Babu Islam, somewhere in Indonesia,’ Niven said. ‘We have to assume the UAV is airworthy.’

‘And when it’s airworthy, what are the UAV’s capabilities?’ asked Meyer.

‘That would depend on what kind of damage it sustained when it crashed in Israel, and what sort of expertise is available to the terrorists to repair it. But, in standard trim, it can cruise for twelve hours at seventy-five miles per hour with a payload of around fifty kilos.’

‘With a tail wind, it could conceivably have a range in excess of a thousand miles,’ said Mortimer, quickly doing the sums.

‘Yes,’ Niven agreed.

‘Is the location of the terrorists’ base known?’ asked Mortimer.

‘No.’ Niven looked down at his notes, hoping that the answer might have miraculously appeared amongst them.

‘Beautiful,’ Meyer said, rolling his eyes. ‘Were the Americans perhaps a bit too heavy-handed with their interrogation of Al-Jahani?’

‘According to the report, Kadar Al-Jahani died from a pulmonary embolism,’ said Niven. ‘He developed a deep vein thrombosis that travelled to his lungs. Basically, he died from suffocation.’

‘Tremendous,’ Meyer said.

‘Look, Peter, getting pissed off is not going to help,’ said Niven. ‘What we need is your brain. For that matter, we need everyone’s brain here. The bottom line is, we’ve got to find BI’s base before they launch their drone.’

‘If they haven’t already done so,’ the ASIO boss muttered.

‘Which brings us to the next question: at what?’ Greenway asked, almost afraid to voice it. ‘What are they going to launch the thing at?’

‘We don’t know that either, but we have to think the worst,’ Niven said.

‘And that is?’

‘Darwin.’

There was a sudden intake of breath within the room.

‘Jesus,’ said Greenway, speaking for everyone.

‘How much Indonesian territory is within a radius of a thousand miles of Darwin?’ asked Meyer, thinking perhaps that they could work backwards from the target.

‘A lot,’ Mortimer said.

‘After the embassy bombing, the Indonesian army, in conjunction with the police, raided Babu Islam’s known encampment on Java,’ said Mahisa in clipped, heavily accented English, repeating the fact for those who weren’t aware of it. ‘But they had recently moved. Whether they were tipped off, or whether it was part of their plan to move after the bombing, we don’t know. We believe that they moved east – perhaps to Sumbawa or Flores, or maybe even West Papua. All are more remote and, of course, closer to Darwin than their Java base, and most certainly within the drone’s range.’

‘Well, that should narrow the search somewhat,’ Meyer said.

‘Yes, you would think so,’ said Mahisa, not picking up on Meyer’s sarcasm, ‘but these islands are rugged. It would take months to search them. And, of course, they might be somewhere else entirely.’

‘The captain is right,’ said Niven. ‘And we don’t know for sure that Darwin’s the target.’

‘Christ…so what do we do then?’ For the first time in his life, Peter Meyer felt at a loss, helpless.

Colonel Watson cut in. ‘While I believe it’s prudent not to sit on our hands, I also believe we have some time up our sleeve.’

‘Why is that, Colonel?’ Meyer asked.

‘The weather, sir,’ he said, putting the lid on his pen and setting it on the rail of the whiteboard. ‘VX has never been used to its full potential in war for a number of reasons, treaties banning its use notwithstanding. While it’s often called VX
gas
it is, in fact, a liquid at room temperature. It needs to be atomised so it can be spread over a maximum area. It’s carried on the wind, and if the wind changes, the droplets go with it. Basically, if you’re not real careful, you can end up killing your own people. At the moment, it’s cyclone season up there. If the terrorists know what they’re doing, and all indications are that they do, there’s no way they’ll launch their bird into those conditions. Even if they aren’t worried about the stuff blowing back on them, they will be careful to get their targeting – wherever it is – right. We do know they’ve only got one shot at it. Now, I’ve talked to a few of your meteorological people, and they say there’s perhaps another two to three weeks of cyclone activity before things calm down. I’d say we’ve got a window there.’

‘You a hundred percent sure about that, Colonel?’ asked Niven.

The man shrugged. ‘There are never absolute certainties in life, sir, but I can tell you – as much as I can be
certain – that these terrorists won’t launch their weapon until the weather is clear. Unless, of course, they’re pushed.’

‘Thanks, Colonel. A little good news, maybe?’ Niven said.

The American managed to combine a shrug and a nod in the one movement.

‘What about Babu Islam – the group itself? Did Kadar Al-Jahani reveal anything new? Their aims, that sort of thing?’ Griffin asked.

‘According to the statements taken from him, their ultimate goal is the establishment of an Islamic super state in South East Asia. They are opposed to the Americans, the Australians – any and all infidels. Various Middle Eastern interests funded them initially. Now they are financing themselves through the sale of drugs in Australia. We’re talking millions.’

‘Then given their aim of creating this Islamic super state, Jakarta has to be considered a possible target too,’ said Griffin.

‘Yes,’ said Mortimer. ‘At last, something I agree with.’

‘Why Jakarta?’ Mahisa asked.

‘Your government is a secular one, Captain,’ Griffin said. ‘It’s also considered to be Java-centric, and there are quite a few ethnic, religious and tribal minorities within Indonesia that would cheer loudly if the Javanese city was taught a lesson. Particularly if the spin was that the lesson came from God.’

Mahisa stared blankly. The Australian intelligence man had a good point, and his family was in Jakarta – the possible epicentre for the weapon.