Sword of Allah (32 page)

‘Do you honestly think they would kill their own people?’ asked Meyer, aghast.

‘The fact is, we don’t know enough about BI to make the call either way,’ Mortimer said. ‘God knows there are plenty of precedents for it. But we do know that they are fanatics and killers. Who knows what they’re ultimately capable of? I think we’d be irresponsible to ignore it as a target. Darwin, however…I don’t know. I’m not sold on that one.’

‘Care to enlighten us as to why not, Mr Mortimer?’ asked Meyer dryly.

‘At the risk of putting Darwin’s nose out of joint, in my view it’s not a worthy terrorist target. It has no significance politically. What sort of statement would Babu Islam make to the world if it struck Darwin? Other than, perhaps, that we should treat our indigenous population better?’

‘What, the deaths of thousands of people, white
and
black, wouldn’t count?’ asked Meyer, continuing the sarcasm theme.

‘Okay, Peter, I’ll give you that, but I think Jakarta would be the more likely target,’ said Mortimer, keeping the tone in his voice as neutral as possible.

‘Christ, we’re talking what, a population of…?’ Niven wasn’t exactly sure, but it had to be big.

‘Close enough to ten million people,’ said Griffin, writing the figure on a pad in front of him and seeing, as he wrote, the horrible consequences of being wrong. When the news was revealed to the people there, the panic in the crowded city would cause almost as much death and destruction as the arrival of the weapon itself.

‘Holy shit…’ said Meyer.

‘I hear what you’re saying about Darwin, Felix, but we can’t take the risk. We’ll have to evacuate the city,’ said
Niven, the logistics of that within the time frame utterly daunting.

Mortimer nodded. If he was wrong, he wouldn’t want to be held responsible. And if he was right and Darwin wasn’t the target, well, that was the best outcome for Australia.

‘Spike, you realise you’re going to have to get the army in there,’ said Griffin. ‘There’ll be panic, riots.’

‘What army?’ he said, dropping his guard for a moment and sounding just a little despondent. Australia’s forces were committed elsewhere, a long way from home.

‘What about stockpiles of NBC protective suits. Are there any?’ Ferallo asked.

Niven sucked in his top lip and shook his head slowly. No, there weren’t.

‘Perhaps we can help with that,’ said Watson. ‘The US Army’s been pumping them out as a number one priority for several years, since 9/11. If we go through the right channels, we could get a heap brought down here pronto. The same goes for Indonesia.’

‘Darwin has a population of around ninety thousand people,’ said Mortimer. ‘And then there’s Jakarta’s millions. How many spare NBC suits do you think you’ve got lying around?’

‘Perhaps not that many, sir,’ the US Army colonel said quietly.

A picture flashed into Ferallo’s mind. It was the scene in the movie
Titanic
when the realisation comes that there are insufficient life rafts for the numbers of passengers as the ice-cold waters surge through the lower decks.

‘Felix, got anything you’d like to add, or ask?’ Niven said. The analyst was frowning at the pad on his knees.

‘Not really, no,’ he said, looking up and taking the pencil out of his mouth to answer. ‘But I’d like recordings from Kadar Al-Jahani’s interrogation sessions, if that’s possible. Is there anything that might give us even the slightest clue?’

‘No, not really. On several occasions he quoted a number sequence that was first thought to be code for latitude and longitude, but that theory didn’t hold up. Otherwise, nothing. He gave straight answers to straight questions, eventually. And as for recordings, it’s unlikely we’ll get them. But we have transcripts. I have them here for those of you who want them.’

‘That sequence could be interesting,’ said Griffin. Meyer nodded. Something in the analyst’s manner told Niven that Mortimer probably did have something to say, but not in present company.

‘We have two possible targets around fifteen hundred miles apart, and the drone has a range of anywhere between eight hundred and a thousand miles,’ said Niven. ‘If we can’t narrow the target we have no chance whatsoever of finding the terrorist camp. It could, theoretically, be anywhere in the Indonesian archipelago.’ To prove the point, he took a felt-tipped pen and drew a big circle around Jakarta and then Darwin. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is a thousand miles.’

‘Shit,’ said Meyer.

‘Captain Mahisa?’ Niven said.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Sumbawa and Flores are probably worth searching now. Even though Jakarta is a little outside the range of the drone if BI’s base is on either island, it’s only just outside
the range and it’s not unfeasible that the terrorists could have modified the thing.’ He breathed heavily. ‘We could get lucky.’

‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Mahisa. ‘I can assure you the TNI will cooperate fully. Those islands are very large, and it would still take some time to cover them completely.’

‘Time we don’t have,’ Griffin said.

Niven stood. ‘Okay, people, we need leads. And fast. First and foremost, this battle will be won by brain power. On the surface of it, with Kadar Al-Jahani dead, the trail to BI’s camp would appear to have died with him. But somewhere out there is a scrap of information that will take us straight to Babu Islam’s launch site. There has to be. It’s as simple and as complicated as that.’

Ferallo nodded as if Niven had been speaking to her personally. The information they now had could inject new meaning and relevance into intelligence they already possessed. Before she realised it, the meeting was over and Ferallo was standing. She felt light headed, as if she had vertigo standing at the edge of a precipice. The fact that Australia wasn’t her homeland didn’t lessen her fear or anxiety.

‘Can I see you and Graeme for a minute, Spike?’ asked Mortimer as Ferallo, Meyer, Mahisa and the US Army colonel all bundled up their notes and walked briskly from the room, each taking a sealed folder marked ‘First Level Secret’ and containing Kadar Al-Jahani’s interrogation transcripts.

‘Sure,’ said the defence forces chief.
Thought so.

‘What’s up, mate?’ said Griffin, changing chairs for one closer to the DIO man.

‘Do you mind if I eat? Didn’t go home this morning, missed breakfast and I’m starving bloody hungry.’

‘Me too,’ said Griffin. ‘Might join you.’

Mortimer opened a briefcase and took out a wrinkled brown paper bag with oil stains on it. He removed two slices of stale, buttered bread and sprinkled potato crisps on them, emptied a sachet of tomato sauce onto one slice of bread, and then brought the two slices together.

‘On second thoughts…’ said Griffin.

‘Don’t expect too much from the Americans,’ Mortimer said with a mouth full of chips, butter, tomato sauce and stale bread, ignoring the look of horror on Griffin’s face.

‘I must say, Felix, you’ve been full of good cheer today,’ said Griffin, raising an eyebrow at Niven. Mortimer was known to be a bit of an eccentric. He was forty-seven and apparently still lived with his mum, who, if his lunch was anything to go by, had no positive influence over his diet.

‘Why not?’ asked Niven, not wanting to waste time. ‘What’s on your mind?’

‘They’ve got the world’s biggest Muslim nation under threat at the same time as one of its staunchest allies – us. The United States won’t be going eenie, meanie, miney, mo, wondering which country they’ll pitch in to help. It’ll be Indonesia first, Australia a distant second.’

‘Bullshit,’ Niven barked. ‘We’ve just supported America in Afghanistan, Iraq and West Africa. There has to be some quid pro quo in the relationship.’

‘Don’t count on it,’ Mortimer said.

‘And why not?’ Niven folded his arms tightly across his chest.

‘I think I know where you’re going with this, Felix,’ Griffin said.

‘Well then, can you please let me in on it?’ said Niven.

‘Look, I don’t want to be right about this, Air Marshal, but…we’ve just had two wars within a relatively short period of time perceived by many in the Islamic world to have been religious wars – crusades,’ said Mortimer. ‘All the while, America has been trying to get the message across that it is not anti-Muslim. This little situation of ours will give the US a tailor-made opportunity to make that point. You said it yourself, sir. We’re America’s staunchest ally. If they’re seen to put Indonesia’s welfare above ours, what message will that send to the Islamic world?’

Niven didn’t have to think about it too long. Mortimer was right.
Bloody politics.

‘We shouldn’t count on too many NBC suits finding their way here either. And any protection they offer us will be token. The carrier battle group that just happens to be in Port Darwin at the moment? It’ll be gone tomorrow, steaming full speed towards Jakarta.’

‘What do you think the Americans would do if we invoked our treaty with them – ANZUS?’ Griffin asked.

‘If they think their national interest lies in offering Indonesia assistance over us, they’ll invoke the Nixon Doctrine.’

Niven snorted: the Nixon Doctrine. Richard Nixon’s administration came up with it when the president was trying to extricate the troops from the war in South Vietnam, and began courting the People’s Republic of China. It was a slippery caveat the Americans could fall
back on if a particular treaty didn’t suit its interests of the day. The US had a vast number of defence treaties with nations around the world. The spirit if not the words of these agreements was that America would come to the defence of its allies in time of peril. The Nixon Doctrine allowed the US to send weapons instead of soldiers. Given that an attack on a country was more likely to come from a power with superior numbers of forces the doctrine potentially made a mockery of those treaty obligations.
No wonder they called the guy Tricky Dickie.

‘The Yanks will give us all kinds of excuses about why they can’t come to our aid, to save themselves face but mostly so as not to destabilise treaty relations they have with other nations. I believe they’ll pull out the battle group currently in our waters. They’ll say their aim is to stop the weapon closer to the launch site so that they can rush in and secure any remaining weapons of mass destruction – assuming there are some left over – before they can be used on other targets.’

Niven knew Mortimer was right. ‘Shit,’ he said quietly.

Annabelle Gilbert stood up against the plate-glass window. The view from her rented apartment presented a northerly aspect of the beach called ‘Glamorama’ by the locals. It was easy to see why. The bodies on their designer-motif towels were all gym toned, well-defined abs and silicon implants – both the men and the women. It was an easy downhill
walk to the small crescent of white sand. The sun was shining and it was a beautiful day. She should be out enjoying it, only there was an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Is this really where I should be?

The salary they paid her was embarrassing and the promises that went with it were, she had to admit, exciting. So why did she feel she’d lost something in the deal? Annabelle Gilbert knew exactly what she’d lost. Or rather,
who
she’d lost. She told herself repeatedly that she hadn’t given Tom away for the sake of a career move. Only, the reasons for ending her relationship now seemed unimportant. Annabelle had been prepared to live with Tom’s choices before they were engaged, so why not after it?

And then there was Saunders. She knew exactly what he wanted from her, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with her ability to read the news. Still, she’d allowed herself to be seduced by his crap – perhaps because it fed her ego. Naturally, she’d kept her real feelings about Saunders to herself because it was in her interest to do so. It was called playing the game. Annabelle Gilbert gazed out the window at all the self-absorbed people working on their tans and felt utterly alone. It occurred to her that she was fitting right in.

Carrie, an accountant for a large appliance retailer, went to a bash held by their newly appointed advertising agency. There she met Simon, a photographer, who was utterly
different to the men she knew, professionally and socially. He was unshaved, unruly and unbelievably sexy. There were vodka shots provided – a first for her normally stuffy employer – and she’d had a couple too many, on purpose. Simon had cocaine in his pocket and eyes that smouldered under a tangled mop of thick black hair. They’d ended up having sex in the toilets – it was a night of firsts for Carrie – his hand covering her mouth as she came, her boss in the cubicle next door.

That was a fortnight ago. She’d hoped he’d call and the previous night, he did. He explained that he was having a dinner party and apologised for the lateness of the invitation. He wanted her to bring her best-looking blonde friend. Apparently, he had a buddy going through a divorce who needed to know that there were other fish in the sea. And he liked blonde fish.

Simon flung open the door. ‘You look good enough to eat,’ he said, running his eyes down the sheath she’d sprayed on. ‘Come in and have a line, babydoll.’ She tasted the cocaine on his tongue as he kissed her. A shudder of excitement passed through her – the memory of their last meeting. He gestured towards a ceramic tile lying on a nearby side table. She touched it. The tile had been heated to keep the small pyramid of white powder heaped on it dry. A generous line had already been separated from this mother lode, and a straw was provided. ‘Now, that’s what I call a welcome,’ she said to herself, picking up the straw. She held her hair back and hoovered the line into a nostril. It tickled the back of her throat and her gums instantly went numb, a shudder running over her scalp, down her spine and into her legs. Simon handed her a
flute of champagne, and went back to the kitchen. ‘Make yourself at home, babydoll. Just got a few final things to do in the kitchen. Although, God knows, the last thing we’ll feel like doing is eating,’ he said with a laugh.

Carrie took the opportunity to look around. Simon lived well. His home consisted of two large terraces with the adjoining wall knocked out. It was all open plan: big spaces, high ceilings, pools of halogen lighting. Down one end was a syc, photographer-speak for a big concave egg, surrounded by expensive camera gear – the work space. Up the other end was a chef’s kitchen, all stainless steel and European brand names. A Bang & Olufsen sound system, as much modern sculpture as hi-fi, stood beside a long, low, L-shaped leather couch and a low Balinese coffee table carved with Hindu motifs, design, photographic and fashion magazines scattered artfully about. She looked for the bedroom, a tingling sensation between her legs.
Was it the drug or the memory of the party…?
She found it at the top of a set of stairs artfully built into a wall; the individual steps had no railing and seemed to hang unsupported in the air.

The bedroom overlooked the studio. On the walls were black and white portraits of beautiful women and various, perfectly proportioned nudes in erotic poses. ‘Your trophy room?’ she called out.

‘I don’t see your photo up there yet,’ he said quietly, holding her from behind, slipping his hand inside the front of her dress and cupping her breast.

His presence surprised her as she hadn’t heard his footsteps. ‘Does that mean I haven’t acquired “trophy” status yet?’ she said, moving away from him, but wanting instead
to turn around, unzip his fly and take him in her mouth – if only to prove that she could be every bit as bad and unpredictable as him.

‘We’ll see. We’re going to have a night you and your girlfriend won’t forget. When’s she coming, by the way? And what’s her name? Is she hot?’

‘Questions, questions. When’s
your
friend coming? Is
he
hot?’ she countered.

‘Oh, got a call just before you arrived. Problems with the ex. He can’t make it, so…it’ll just be the three of us.’ She looked down and saw that an old shearer’s table, the one old piece in the room, had been set for three.

Carrie wanted to believe him, but it felt too set up.
Just the three of us…
And then the doorbell rang.

‘Her name’s Anna,’ said Carrie, calling after him as he ran to answer it.

Simon took the steps two at a time and reached the front door, picking up a flute of champagne from the kitchen on the way, before the bell rang again. ‘Ah, you must be Anna,’ he said as she walked in, exchanging her coat for the glass. ‘Carrie’s here. Now we can par-
tay
.’

Carrie noted that Anna was wearing her prowling attire: a sheer, backless dress – very short – high-heeled shoes and a long leather coat. ‘Ooh,’ said Anna with a giggle as she stepped lightly into the room, her heels clattering on the parquet floor. ‘Nice place.’

Carrie could see from Simon’s body language that he was also impressed by what he saw. ‘I’m told it’s a bit sterile,’ he said in an attempt to be dismissive.

‘I like it,’ said Anna looking around.

‘Hello, girlfriend,’ Carrie said. She gave her friend a hug
and a peck on the cheek. ‘You’re late.’Anna was always late.

Simon’s mobile rang. ‘Alright, that must be the courier,’ he said, rubbing his hands together before opening the text message. ‘Yeah, waiting out front.’ Carrie glanced at Anna with the slightest wrinkle between her perfectly shaped eyebrows.
Courier?
Simon grabbed a wad of cash off the kitchen bench and placed his hand on Carrie’s arse as he kissed her. ‘Back in a second, babydoll,’ he said in her ear. ‘Keep it warm. Give Anna a line.’ The door closed behind him, leaving Carrie and Anna on their own.

‘He’s cute,’ said Anna, putting down her empty flute.

‘He’s mine,’ said Carrie, half jokingly, narrowing her eyes.

‘Did I hear the word “line” mentioned?’ Anna said, ignoring the warning.

‘There’s something for you on the tile over there.’ Carrie pointed at the side table. ‘Simon’s friend pulled out. Looks like it’s just the three of us.’

Anna picked up the straw and snorted the line in one fluid, practised movement. She dipped a finger in the mound of white powder and then ran it around her gums. She shivered. ‘Good quality. Oh well, I can think of worse ways to spend an evening.’ The Bang & Olufsen changed CDs automatically, swapping blues for Nina Simone as Anna took herself on a tour of the surroundings. Carrie sat on the couch with a fresh glass of champagne, closed her eyes and thought of sex with Simon.

Moments later, a key sounded in the lock and Simon swaggered through the front door holding a little bag of blue-white powder high, in triumph. ‘Don’t crowd me, ladies,’ he said. ‘There’s enough for all.’

‘Do you do portraits, Simon?’ Anna called out from the bedroom, admiring the work on the walls.

‘No. The pay’s ratshit. Do pack shots mainly, for ad agencies.’ He reached into the back of the fridge and pulled out a plastic container. ‘Carrie,’ he said, beckoning her over with a finger. ‘Check this out.’

Carrie got up off the couch and walked into the kitchen. The bag Simon had collected now sat on the bench. It contained a fine, brilliant white powder. Not coke. It was something else. Simon opened the container. Inside was a plastic bag full of new disposable hypodermic syringes, a small bottle of saline solution, a professional tourniquet and sterilising swabs. The complete kit. ‘Have you ever done scag, babydoll?’ he asked.

Carrie shook her head. ‘Heroin? No way. Never,’ she said emphatically.

‘I have,’ said Anna, breezing into the kitchen. ‘It’s amazing.’

‘You bitch. You never told me that,’ said Carrie, surprised.

‘Look, Carrie, all the negative hype about heroin? It’s just bullshit put out to scare people,’ Simon said, tapping a measure of powder into a stainless-steel eggcup and adding saline to it.

‘It
is
amazing,’ said Anna, repeating herself. ‘And I knew you’d disapprove. That’s why I never told you.’

‘This stuff is first class,’ pronounced Simon. ‘You believe only half of what the dealers tell you, of course – there’s always some sales pitch or other. But this vitamin H looks like the real McCoy,’ he said, heating the underside of the eggcup with a lighter flame to cook the solution.
‘You want to go first, Anna?’ said Simon, sucking the fluid into a thin syringe.

‘Sure,’ she said, holding out her arm. Simon put the syringe between his teeth while he wrapped the tourniquet around her arm just above the elbow joint, and tightened it. He found a vein in the crook of her arm, tapped it, then wiped it with a swab. The injection was administered an instant later while Anna turned away. ‘Hey, you’re good, honey,’ she said. ‘I didn’t even feel that.’

‘Your turn, babydoll,’ said Simon, preparing the next hit with a clean hypodermic.

Carrie shook her head. ‘No way, Jose,’ she said, not altogether convincingly. ‘You okay, Anna?’ she asked. Her friend had sagged against the kitchen bench.

‘Oh, man,’ Anna said, eyes closed, head back, ‘it’s like I’ve been cold and someone has wrapped a warm blanket around me, but all on the inside. Do yourself a favour…’

Carrie didn’t want to, but at the same time she did. The internal battle being fought was between her conservative upbringing and a little girl’s fear of needles, and her desire to ‘fit in’ with Simon. He had cornered her and attacked her weakest link – her desire to be accepted, loved. That, and Carrie wanted sex with him, badly. ‘Okay,’ she said, turning her head away and holding out an arm. ‘Do it to me, baby, uh-huh, uh-huh.’

‘You can bet on that,’ he said.

Carrie felt the pressure of the tourniquet and the swab, followed by the lightest pinprick. And then the drug followed, flowing through her system, sweeping away her cares and inhibitions like debris on a flood tide. She opened her eyes after what seemed only a minute. Anna
and Simon were naked. Anna was now lying back on the kitchen bench, legs up in the air as Simon fucked her. Carrie mentally shrugged and let her dress fall from her shoulders.
My turn, sugar…
The photos on Simon’s bedroom wall swam into her mind and she realised that the women were all like her and Anna – salt and pepper – and that the women were photographed in pairs. This was Simon’s
thing
, sex with two women at the same time, the ménage à trois. Ordinarily, a realisation such as this would have propelled her indignantly to the front door. But that part of her brain had been banished to a faraway land. Carrie looked at Anna and Simon and decided they were the two most beautiful people in the world, and that she wanted them both inside her. She moved behind Simon, and hugged him and held his cock as he thrust into her best friend. He turned and kissed her.

The flood continued to rise within Carrie until it arrived in her throat and began to swell. Her temperature soared, a white-hot burning within, melting her core. A certain sensation told her Simon was now fucking her from behind, but she couldn’t
feel
anything. Carrie looked down on Anna and saw that she hadn’t moved off the kitchen bench. Anna’s stomach heaved and the vomit, mostly champagne, erupted from her lips. Carrie staggered, unable to keep her legs under her, collapsing to the floor.

Simon knew something was seriously wrong. The courier had warned him about the stuff’s purity. But they all lied about their gear, didn’t they, to increase the anticipation and the price? Anna’s eyes were open, blank and staring, and the puking had stopped.
Oh shit, oh shit.
Simon hesitated for a few minutes, trying to think of an alternative to ringing the emergency number on the phone, thinking of the police, his career, about everything, in fact, except about the two naked women dying from an overdose in his designer kitchen.