Tehran Decree

By

James Scorpio

Published By Smashwords

Copyright © James Scorpio 2010

This book is copyright under the Bern Convention

No reproduction without permission

All rights reserved

Published by Jamscorp Electrobooks 2010

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Disclaimer

This book is a work of fiction, characters, descriptions

and situations incidental in the text are therefore not

intended to slur, or defame in anyway, individuals,

organisations or government authorities.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To Edwina Anne Whitworth for her assistance in the preparation of this novel

PROLOGUE

The government had not done any better since the dismissal of Clement Chester, the Australian New South Wales commissioner of police, in fact, they had well and truly stuffed things up. The latest news broadcast had signaled the release of most hostages, but not the US president, which is what the terrorists wanted anyway. As far as Chester was concerned, the authorities were a lot of limp dicks pissing in the wind, and he was glad to be out of it in his forced resignation.

Although Chester relished his early retirement, the circumstances surrounding it had left a bitter taste in his mouth. Vengeance was a cruel agitator and would not let go of his addled brain. They had humiliated him, all of them, after forty loyal years of service to the police force and the country he loved, the very last thing he needed in his twilight years was a ready made set of political demons.

Every night he would go through the Sydney cross city tunnel fiasco, reenacting the whole damned thing in his head, creating better scenarios that would have worked had he been given another chance, but one could not rewind the past, life wasn’t a rehearsal for something better, it just happened and that was it, take it or leave it.

But he was fortunate in some ways, he had what some psychiatrists might call a split personality, which gave him the ability to divide his personality in half, so that one half was unaware what the other half was doing. Two separate people in the same body; the equivalent of psychological Siamese twins, but even this had its problems.

He suffered long and terrible periods of recrimination due to internal conflict between the two halves, which frequently lead to severe depression.

The two halves were separate all right, but they were not water tight, and they kept knocking on each others doors looking for trouble. As soon as he had closed one door, the other opened, and he found himself struggling to keep both doors closed at the same time. On the few occasions he achieved this it was absolute bliss. The world went away and heavenly peace descended, but it had a short life span, and the demons would come back with a vengeance. It was a contention between some psychiatrists that the struggle between the left and right brain hemispheres was the cause of many mental disorders.

Chester had smoked marijuana cigarettes to alleviate it, but this often made the depression even worse, and of late, suicide had entered his mind to end the terrible struggle and unbearable dark nights.

Strangely, the actual thought of committing suicide temporarily relieved his depression, but it always came back when the brain was cheated of actual reality, it was as if relief could only be satisfied by the physical act of suicide itself.

He pointed the remote, sitting upright and switching through the TV channels, in his favourite patchwork armchair; it was a present from long gone mates and a survivor from his training days at the police academy.

He continued to change the news channels picking out reruns of the worst cases of police ineptitude during the tunnel siege and verbally criticised them between gulps of beer and long draws on his marijuana cigarette. Chester spent most of his free time in his shed away from his wife, so that he could practice and sustain all the bad habits she so despised in him. Most of his evenings were spent this way in a drug induced stupor, enhanced with draughts of alcohol. He did have his lucid periods, during which he carried out all the things he’d missed out on during his drug induced haze. Unfortunately, the distinction between the two periods was becoming dimmer and dimmer, and he was vaguely aware that unless he went cold turkey very soon and stayed that way; it would be the end of him. God had made a complex being all right, but the management part of the brain simply wasn’t competent enough to control it. Had the almighty unwittingly created a monster, a sophisticated Frankenstein monster conjured up from the left over molecules of the universe. Chester, although a roughly hewn male externally, was a delicate and sophisticated thinker in his lucid moments, which unfortunately, were becoming rarer with each day that passed. But he had the forethought and insight to know his wife, Rosey Chester, was now taking the brunt of his gross misdemeanors.

Rosey had taken to charity work and community volunteering in a desperate bid to relieve her frustration, and to secretly get away from her husband of thirty years. He had become all the things she detested in a man; he was bull necked, overweight, scarred with wrinkles and unbearably irascible most of the time. He never dressed formerly anymore, it was either worn jeans or drill shorts, matched by a grubby polo top.

On this particular evening a Ladies Club progressive international dinner was in progress, and it was the sort of thing Rosey Chester loved. The lucky ladies as she referred to her companions, went from one members house to another, tasting a different international dish at each house. The chosen country happened to be France and Rosey had spent many hours cooking French cuisine with all the trimmings. She just loved the French -- classy and culturally savvy, they were everything Clement wasn’t, and she would have given anything to play host to her ladies group. But her house would not be on the list of venues visited, courtesy of Clement who hated visitors impinging on his private life, and in any case, Rosey was ashamed of him. She made a point of prolonging such occasions for as long as possible so that Clement would hopefully be asleep in bed by the time she arrived home.

It was two thirty a.m. by the time the last morsels of her French cuisine and that of her companions had been consumed and Rosey decided enough was enough. Clement should be well and truly tucked up in bed by now. It took nearly another hour before things were cleaned up and pots and pans were assigned to their rightful owners.

Rosey drove the short distance back home and arrived there at three-thirty p.m., and on this occasion, she pulled in the drive way cursing -- the outside light was off, but there was a dull yellow glow in Clement’s shed, with fluctuating light flashes in the side window.

Clement had obviously fallen asleep again in front of the telly, it was just one of a battery of irritating habits he had developed since his abrupt retirement. Rosey was at the end of her tether and had begun to realise that this awkward, drug addicted recluse, was a mere shadow of the man she had married all those years ago.

His habits had been largely hidden during his days at work and had now become fly blown and out of all proportion. Every word he uttered, on the rare occasions when he chose to talk to her, was full of irony and irksome platitudes about the human race and its inevitable decline.

She had agreed with him on numerous occasions but that was never enough for Clement, he wanted to spend evenings discussing, and arguing, over the same points day after day, week after week.

Rosey slammed the door on the Holden Commodore hoping this would wake him, then wrenched the shed door open. The flickering brightness of the TV screen matched against the darkness of the rear of the shed confused her and she peered intently at the old armchair. It was several moments before she realised Clement wasn’t sitting there; she looked beyond, to the rear of the shed.

She was met by an incomprehensible void of shifting forms, which refused to be focussed into a cohesive whole; the scarcity of the pervading light seemed to be creating misleading images of its own.

Shouting his name in frustration she switched on the main light at the side of the door. Three seconds passed before the imagery registered in her cerebellum.

She stiffened in horror; Clement was strung up to the roof of the shed, his head pulled crazily to one side by a hemp rope tied in a rough knot around his neck, a deathly gray pallor bathed his twisted features. Sputum and saliva streaked with blood, dribbled from his open mouth, his expressionless eyes protruded from a bloated misshapen face; she wanted to vomit and cry in the one breath.

An old stool lay on its side a mere six inches from his feet -- once again he had stuffed things up -- botching his own death by slowly strangling himself, instead of the swiftness and finality of a clean spinal severance.

A severe pang of conscience surged through her brain, perhaps she had been too hard on him, her strict upbringing had often resulted in futile arguments, which Clement always lost on moral grounds, causing him great humiliation. He had hidden his despair in self abusive drinking and drug taking. Her heart softened for the first time in years; seeing him for the last time; in this, the ultimate state of self humiliation.

She knew under the depraved behavior patterns he was a good man at heart, who had been knocked from pillar to post, smitten with bad habits he couldn’t control and chewed to pieces by a politically correct system gone mad.

She looked up at him one final time in a prolonged, wistful gaze, and held his cold hand between hers, trying desperately to warm it up -- just a little.

‘Why Clement...why?’

Chapter One

TWO YEARS EARLIER

Lexton, South Australia

Few people would want to be stranded four hundred kilometers from civilisation in the South Australian outback, but the site had been well chosen. The distance was just enough to be isolated and out of sight of an over quizzical public, but still amenable to transport services from the big city. In this sense Lexton Detention Centre was both remote and yet still accessible. The area was dry, sandy-brown dessert, with random dabs of dark green salt bush stretching as far as the eye could see. A merciless sun poured its energy unremittingly over the barren landscape.

It was impossible, as well as highly undesirable, to focus on the penetrating harshness of the solar disc, but the celestial body made up for her insensitivity. At the end of the day as the incandescent disk touched the earth’s horizon, a shimmering display of light and shade erupted. It wavered through intense yellow to glorious gold. Majestically, the gold coalesced to a deep blood red, the display held for perhaps four to five minutes, then dramatically plunged into the earth creating total blackness. Some of the local aboriginals looked upon it as the quenching of the hot sun by the coldness of the South Australian night.

Port Augusta residents described the sunsets as absolutely stunning; like being on the barren moon of a strange planet and watching the sun being eclipsed by the curvature of the moon.

Habib Sharazi had spent the last three years in South Australia, but had never seen any of this. In fact most of the detainees at Lexton detention camp had never seen a South Australian sunset. They were always moved around the camp in closed vehicles and the windows of the compound were all built inwards to prevent contact with the outside.

Most family compounds consisted of round sheet metal, demountable buildings, without windows, reminiscent of circular stone age huts. Adding to the unsavory properties of the environment was an eight metre razor wire fence surrounding the entire compound. Any observer outside the camp would have been perplexed by this, as there were never any detainees to be seen. Inmates were kept locked up all day and deprived of most normal facilities.

It was a bright morning during roll call when Habib Sharazi saw his first chance to escape the ugliness of Lexton. Nothing could be as inhibiting and soul destroying as metal back to back buildings which cut out all semblance of Australiana. The great southern country had much more to offer and being in the dessert without food or water was no deterrent. At least he could die having experienced a modicum of the earthiness and freedom that was the Australian outback...it was worth the risk.

The genesis of a new day infused him with the power to be free whatever the cost. A sudden rush at the razor wire fence, throwing all caution to the winds, actually seemed a rational thing to do at the start of a brand new day. Such rashness was the prerogative of the younger man and it was a natural desire of the human psyche, but it had to be controlled or it could perish in blood, pain, and tears, at the hands of brutal security guards.

He had been through the early morning monitoring many times and had noted what he thought was a possible flaw in the accounting procedure. It was a stand by your beds routine, while the security guard counted and checked off names on a clip board list. Such routines inevitably became boring to both the guard and inmate, but the most interesting thing about the procedure was that it was conducted by one man; such was their confidence in the deterrent effect of isolation and the razor wire fence.

Positioned at the end of the inmate lineup he could just see a portion of the Australian guards head and sleeve with the large initials ACM stitched across it. He was animatedly trying to communicate with a new Arab inmate without much success.

Sharazi knew that ACM meant Australasian Correctional Management and it was part of a partnership called Australasian Correctional Services (ACS), half of which was owned by the giant Australian firm of Hessan, with the other half controlled by a private American security company, run by an American multimillionaire.

They were hand in glove with the US and Australian governments. Living and making money out of the misfortunes of displaced illegal immigrants. It seemed somehow immoral even when confronted with the excesses of militant Islam. He had often wondered how he could ever live as a free Muslim surrounded by the companies of such mighty Western infidels.

The ACM guard was further distracted by the Arab’s wife who pulled determinedly at his sleeve while shouting at him in Arabic and pointing to the check board listing.

Sharazi took his chance slipping quietly behind the row of inmates and out through the half closed door. It was yet another contemptuous assumption through familiarity, that the guard had not bothered to lock the door. Sharazi deftly eased himself out of the door and sprinted across the open ground. It was his first good view of the Australian outback, but it was demarcated by a barrier of light and steel, which ran off into the distance, curving round into a great circle totally enclosing his small world. It was a taste of freedom -- but it is was only a sip from a poisoned vessel.

He searched in vain for a weak point in the barbed fence line. The light glinting off the razor wire partially blinding him as he ran, skirting the metal thorn encrusted spirals -- then a gap of intense light emanated from one side of the fence -- was it a way out? Had Allah given him a signal?

A flurry of raised voices echoed behind him driving him on. He plunged blindly forward, his mouth dry with exertion from the hot dessert air. The loss of precious bodily fluids increased as he began heaving and sweating, with every muscle aching -- there had to be a way through the infernal steel barrier.

He spurred himself on even harder, even though his body began to rebel -- his muscles were twinging and full of pain -- threatening to seize up.

The halo of light grew more intense and he surged towards it -- like a moth diving towards an open flame. It had to be a break in the fence wire. Allah was goading him on to freedom. Then something strange happened, as if he had broken through the barrier, all the pain abruptly disappeared and his body felt like it were floating on a cloud. Fine detail disappeared even with both eyes wide open, sweat stung his eye sockets, and his receptors could only register blurred shapes.

The blinding light totally enveloped him and he stopped abruptly, as if constrained by an invisible hand. A paralysing force abruptly gripped his torso and a burning sensation stabbed at his neck and face.

His body swung freely as if suspended in a heavenly hammock -- it was then he noticed his body was being constrained by bloodied metal barbs.

The pain rudely returned biting into his brain, he could not open his eyes, then he cried out, as spattering red liquid ran down his face and pooled in his lap. The guards dragged him from the wire -- a crumpled heap of deep gashes and bloody streaks -- a paramedic quickly entered the scene and set about patching the gaping wounds in his arms and face.

‘How bad is he?’stutted an out of breath senior security officer.

‘I’m sorry sir, but he’ll need immediate surgery,’ one of the security officers peered warily at the razor wire...each barb was a means of cutting one’s wrist or throat, and there were thousands of them all around the camp perimeter. He lowered his head in a futile attempt to hide a shameful grimace.

‘What the fucking hell are we doing to these retched people?’ the chief officer blurted out in a flurry of emotion; the paramedic responded, gazing alarmingly at the razor wire,

‘I don’t know about that sir, but I do know one thing -- we haven’t thought this through. These people are very familiar with pain and suffering, so a few rolls of razor wire isn’t going to bother them too much.’

‘You’re probably right there, in fact, the razor fence might be just the place to martyr themselves on...after all, Jesus Christ only had a wooden cross and a few rusty nails, and look at the attention he got!’

Chapter Two

White House Washington

President George Frederick Garner had just entered the Oval office for another days hard paper work, which had been piling up after a series of meetings on the worsening war in Iraq. The morning briefing sheet from the director of the CIA lay precisely in middle of his desk as requested by the president. The report was one of the first documents he read on entering the office, as well as a number of other related issues on Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan, and now Pakistan had just joined the list. Such was their importance that they were taking up an increasing amount of his formal work time as well as his informal activities. The US now had three hotbed areas to choose from, plus a possible forth, as well as ever increasing problems on the home front.

The prestige and power of the presidential office had steadily diminished with time, and he could see the day when no one would accept this once highly coveted job, supposedly occupied by the most powerful man in the world -- it was all a lot of hogwash.

He read the briefing quickly, as was his normal habit, then reread the document concentrating on the more important aspects.

An undisclosed British warship had detected several Iranian missile firings in the last four days, whilst these were not unusual, their range and frequency had increased substantially, which was a new and alarming development.

The firings and range increases had been partially confirmed by the American carrier USS Ronald Reagan located in the Arabian Sea just off the coast of Oman.

A compounding factor in this issue had been worrying the president -- due to the increasing militarism and incursions of Iranian paramilitary groups in northern Iraq the US government had increased the troop dispositions in this area to over four thousand. The question was; were the increased Iranian missile firings in response to US troop movements?

Garner booted his laptop and assessed the most recent documentation on Iranian weapons of mass destruction. The CIA document estimated a five to ten year development before Iran could produce a nuclear bomb of its own. Garner knew that this was a best guesstimate based on various reports, false or otherwise, and that it could not be relied upon. No one in the world knew exactly when Iran would become nuclear capable except Iran, and even they couldn’t put a lid on it.

The irony of it all was that Iran could be capable of delivering a nuclear bomb right now and with the ability to wipe out Washington and the White House. If this were correct, the USA was in grave danger, not to mention other supportive states such as Israel and Saudi Arabia.

He peered out of the window at the manicured lawns and well tended shrubbery of the White House gardens, something he often did in order to calm his nerves. The view seemed to be one of the few permanent images he had got used to during his political life on capital hill.

Nature knew how to project a calm image, but even this was becoming a little jaded, middle east politics had become a dangerous tit for tat scenario with a first in winner takes all end game.

An overwhelming passion forced him to concentrate on the ultimate scenario -- stifle the bloody problem with a massive invasion of men and state of the art military equipment, or better still, nuke the fucking place to hell with a hundred nuclear warheads on all the major cities. A radioactive wasteland seemed preferable to a seething Arab state, riddled with hatred, and nuclear weapons pointed at the heart of the United States.

He smiled sardonically at his muse, it was the same old story, smite your enemies before they smite you -- but then there was another ancient story of David and Goliath -- with Iran playing the role of David.

Whatever the outcome there could only be one looser and one winner, but there was a third outcome niggling away at the back of his mind, there could be two losers, with sufficient well placed nuclear weapons they had the capacity to virtually wipe each other out. Truth was there would be no clear winner whatever scenario was played out. He stared for a few moments at the shifty logistics on the computer screen, keying up and down the lines of digits, it was clear, more accurate intelligence was required

He scrolled down the page looking at the missile capabilities of Iran, the information had a similar veracity to the nuclear bomb threat, except that it might be a little more accurate.

It was known that the development of the inter continental Shahab-6 missile system was well on track and its estimated range was a minimum 10,000 kilometers. Such a weapon could reach New York thus annihilating America’s most prestigious city in one stroke. It was also known that Iran had had extensive practical and theoretical assistance from North Korea, China, and Russia, on all aspects of missile development.

Once again, after applying severe logic, it was a case of go in now and administer the coup d’état, or face up to a long drawn out cold war with a possible nuclear holocaust as the outcome.

He sighed for the second time...gone were the days when one could simply swat ones enemy with a few good bombing runs, or a quick nuclear strike banishing them forever. The world was always watching -- such were today’s communicative capabilities -- one could not give little Mohammed a black eye on the sly, without the whole country knowing about it, and if it were two black eyes, then the whole world would know.

He continued scrolling down the reports trying to push away his extraneous thoughts which came charging in each time he picked up a major point from the screen. Iran once again reared its ugly head.

Another significant aspect of the Iranian situation was the discovery by allied vessels of ships heading for Iran which contained an assortment of parts for huge guns, this in itself was of great concern, but even more worrying were the number of vessels running the sanctions gauntlet which had not been detected. The middle east was awash with armaments and the whole world was in danger of drifting into anarchy.

It was a new cold war scenario and one that America didn’t want. It was becoming clear that as long as there were different political ideologies in the world and countries with weapons to pursue them, the USA would always be the standing target. She was the natural leader of the free world, and thus, also the natural enemy of all tyrannical states. Aggression was part of human nature even in the mildest person it was a normal defence mechanism -- violence was a here to stay unless human nature itself were changed. This brought up even more drastic scenarios which bordered on the destruction of homo Sapiens as a species.

Chapter Three

Iran / Iraq Border

It was as thick as cotton wool and as gray as Portland cement in every direction; a wall of impenetrable mist obscured everything.

Major Born had been given strict orders to keep a rigid ten metres from the Iraq / Iran border and to recce the area for insurgent Iranian forces, but never to cross the border into Iran under any circumstances. So far it had been an absolute nightmare, they had started off their ten man patrol along the border in crystal clear weather, and this insidious haze had gradually enveloped them.

Initially, Major Born had not worried too much, after all he had a good compass and a state of the art military GPS device, which informed them of their position within a few metres. In spite of this wonderful piece of technology it was still possible to get lost, and even end up arguing with the directions given by the actual GPS device, especially when all visual senses were cut off by a dense fog. There was a tendency for human intelligence, gained through ones senses to argue with, and even usurp accurate readings from an electronic or a mechanical device. Born yelled back at his second in command.

‘What the hell do you make of this bloody fog lieutenant,’

‘Don’t know sir...I didn’t know they had fogs in Iraq.'

'Neither did I...you don’t suppose it could be artificially induced?’ said Born.

‘You never know sir...could be a new weapon of mass confusion,’ it looked too ethereal to be a sandstorm and yet there seemed to be definite particles flying around, and the men had to cover their mouths to protect their lungs from the fine dust.

‘Could this be a mixture of water vapour and sand? the major queried'

‘I suppose it’s possible sir...beats the shit out of me.’ The more the patrol edged its way along the border the greater the murkiness became.

Major Born was now disorientated and experiencing great difficulty in interpreting the GPS device even though directional parameters were plainly in front of him, his brain would simply not accept them. His mind knew that he had been this way and that, and the right direction was now directly to his left. Mankind was now at odds with one of his most recent technological marvels. Lieutenant Harrison, the second in command, continued straight on following his GPS device.

‘Not that way lieutenant, we need to keep closer to the border line,’ yelled Born tapping his subordinate hard on the shoulder.

‘But the GPS sir?’

‘Fuck the GPS...this is the right way.’

‘But sir, we're going the wrong way,’ Harrison blurted desperately, brandishing his GPS device and pushing it in the Major’s face. Older officers sometimes didn’t take too kindly to new technological kids on the block and Born looked skeptically at his second in command.

‘What was one of the first things you learned in basic training Lieutenant?' Harrison squinted at the Major in disbelief...had this big strapping man started to lose his grip on reality?

‘In case you have forgotten Lieutenant, it was how to follow orders...so shut the fuck-up, and do as you’re told,’ the body of men continued in obedient silence.

An hour elapsed before the fog began to clear and Major Born halted the patrol and retrieved a pair of high power service binoculars. He scanned the horizon in a slow 180 degree sweep before settling on an old farm house some fifty metres away.

Harrison hand-signaled the rest of the platoon to get down and take cover.

The cause of the strange mist then gradually became apparent; piles of fine sand dunes dotted the landscape, Born grabbed a handful of the material and sifted it through his hand.

‘Here’s the culprit lieutenant...this stuffs finer than talcum powder...a moderate wind could soon whip it up’

‘Could be a kieselguhr deposit sir, there’s lots of it around here,’ the fine sand wafted from the Majors grasp as he looked ahead.

‘Never mind the kieselguhr lets check out that farm house up ahead.’ The major circled his arm over his head and the patrol slowly spread out forming a large circle surrounding the house. Harrison gave the hand signal indicating a slow closure on the building.

Major Born refocused the binoculars on the roof of the farmhouse, and stopped abruptly, crouching low, he pointed at the building.

‘What the hell is that?’ Harrison squinted hard at he top of the house trying to follow his commander’s extended finger. A gabel window on the roof seemed to frame a large circular object -- parts of which glinted in the sun.

‘It’s the business end of a large artillery gun sir.’

‘Thanks for confirming that Lieutenant ...I thought I might be hallucinating.'

‘No sir, I concur, but I thought big guns went out with Hitler and his cronies.’

‘No lieutenant, they never did go out of fashion -- in fact, they graduated to firing monster shells, as a matter fact, I recall the US Navy stopping an Iranian ship carrying big gun parts some months ago. That was probably a lucky incident...God knows how many other vessels got through since then. The major’s blue tooth earpiece buzzed.

‘Yeah...’

‘Tale end sir...there’s a supply wagon at the rear of the house sir...its stacked with shells, and the vehicle has the international radiation sign stenciled on it,’ Born looked sharply at Harrison.

‘The radiation sign on a military vehicle -- you know what that means lieutenant?'

‘The trucks radioactive sir!’

‘No, the bloody shells are...looks like we might have stumbled onto a strategic nuclear emplacement.’

‘You mean the gun’s set for firing nuclear shells?’

‘Exactly...know what I think lieutenant?'

‘No...what sir?’

‘We’re standing on hot coals...lets get out the hell out of here pronto!’ Harrison turned round and signaled for the men to retreat, then realised they were surrounded by a rag tag bunch of what seemed to be Iranian paramilitaries.

Major Born pressed an emergency button on his satellite phone. It was then he noticed the reading on the GPS digital display -- they were three kilometers inside the Iranian border

‘Hells fucking bells lieutenant ...we’ve gotta get out of here,’ Born continued to press his communication button finally receiving a distorted reply.

‘HQ...CCB...go ahead Major.’

‘We’re surrounded by Iranian Para’s...they’ve got nuclear shells here and a bloody great gun to fire them...were going to fight our way out,’ Harrison gazed alarmingly at the Major -- Born smiled back, then emptied his carbine in the direction of the Iranians.

Chapter Four

Brigadier Arash Al Zandi responsible for the security of the Iran-Iraque border area sat at his desk massaging his forehead. Born in Tabriz out of the poisoned Tehran limelight, with a cultured upbringing, he was more worldly wise then most of his military contemporaries. He had a deep sense of morality, and could think beyond the obvious with a clear consciousness, which made him special within the Iranian officer cadre.

However, an open minded person tended to be a rare quality in the Iranian Army, but Al Zandi was grateful for it. Unfortunately on this occasion, it had provided him with a strong sense of foreboding as he struggled to understand the message he had just read. He reappraised it for the third time, staring at the heading and trying to make sure it wasn’t some sort of sad joke -- even in Arab countries jokes were sometimes perpetrated, but they were rarely practical jokes.

It had come from the his superior General Hakem Gamela and had been passed down the chain of command via the Supreme Leader’s office in the form of a decree enacted by the Supreme Leader himself.

From the attached preamble it was clear that the supreme number one Muslim of Iran, had finally decided to act. The Americans had not only continuously enacted heavy sanctions over many years, but were now dictating how Iran should run its own country. Not satisfied with this, they were now massing on the Iraq border with the obvious intention of invading Iran.

A preliminary head count indicated that an advanced force of approximately four thousand US armed infidels were in position, just rearing to cross the border. The festering hellhole that was Iraq, would now be perpetuated in Iran, unless drastic and immediate action was undertaken.

Enough was enough, the American aggressors were merely upstarts in a very ancient world -- in their own parlance -- they were green to their gills. Brawling infants in fact, and needed to be taught a severe lesson in world etiquette. One does not harass and destroy ancient civilisations whose great accomplishments were commonplace long before the United States of America was a mere twinkle in the Anglo Saxon’s eye.

The body of US troops would be eliminated the instant they crossed the border using newly acquired nuclear technology, and Iraq would be freed from the imperialist aggressors.

All of this Brigadier Al Zandi could readily relate too, but it was the last part of the decree that he could not come to terms with. He stroked his small mustache and his steel gray eyes twitched in their Persian sockets as the crisis in his mind started to escalate. The furrows in his olive dappled forehead deepened as his brain grappled with the flawed military thinking.

He’d had a few strange orders in his time but this was truly maniacal, he cursed the supreme leader under his breath -- clerics, politicians, whatever their persuasion, should leave the militarily thinking to those most qualified to do so -- didn’t these buggers ever learn. The ample lessons of history were there for all to see; Stalin’s military purges, Hitler's gross interference in strategy; all lead to terrible disasters. They never learned to let the military top brass make the military decisions, particularly on the ground, because ultimately that was where wars were won and lost.

With this in mind Al Zandi continued to peruse the official document.

The majority of terrorist groups who supported and were assisted by the Iranian government were to go onto a special war footing, aimed at abducting the American president, if and when, he set foot on foreign soil. Alternatively, if this could be achieved on US soil by covert insurrectionists, so much the better.

The sole purpose of the exercise was to put the US president on trial for his life in a major Tehran court in front of the whole world. Foreign corespondents would be invited and the trial would be relayed over the Internet in agonising detail designed to make the Americans squirm. The actual execution, also over the Internet, no doubt, didn’t bear thinking about.

Al Zandi swept his eyes over the typed sheet for the forth time just to make sure he grasped its true meaning. Strange orders sometimes did strange things to ones perceptions. The American president was to be seized, preferably alive, and brought back to Iran, regardless of his location at the time of the abduction. He would then be tried in front of a Muslim court for crimes against Islam and the people of Iran. Sentencing would then be carried out in full view of the world media. The propaganda created by this act alone, would be worth many victorious physical battles fought against the American imperialists.

Al Zandi realised it had been proven beyond any doubt in the minds of all Iranians, that the American president had humiliated Allah without the need for a public trail -- which meant only one thing -- the whole process was a gross political sham aimed at ridiculing the US president in the eyes of the world.

To humiliate Allah was to forfeit one’s life. The trail would therefore inevitably culminate in the execution of the US president. Since the execution would be shown live on the Internet it would also give the whole specter a new dimension and create maximum propaganda in the eyes of the world.

The decree preamble pointed out that the whole operation was entirely justified, since it drew direct parallels with the American practice of Rendition; whereby so called Muslim dissidents were secretly removed to another country to be interrogated because the chosen country had no laws against torture. Many of the so called dissidents were considered expendable and tortured to death behind locked doors.

This also had analogous connotations to the German Death Squads (the Einsatzgruppen) who operated in the rear of the German army during the second world war. Then there were the American black opps groups and the huge security firm known as Blackwater, as well as numerous others masqurading as security organisations, supposedly guarding western buildings and diplomats in Iraq. Latest estimates by the Iranian foreign office put the number of armed security contractors working in Iraq at 20 - 30,000 personnel.

All terrorists groups all over the world aligned with Islam were to be advised of the decree and its implications were to be put into effect immediately. It was to be expected that certain secret Muslin groups in the US might eventually kidnap the president just as soon as a window of opportunity occurred. However, other groups in other countries would also get their chance if the president went abroad. Al Zandi was acutely aware that Islam had already given the US a bloody nose in the 9/11 fiasco.

Uncle Sam would not tolerate another gross humiliation on the world stage. The Supreme Leader was digging a very big hole which would eventually cave in, burying the Iranian leadership and countless innocent people. One didn’t taunt one’s enemy and give him no where to hide.

Chapter Five

Australia

Recovery was slow for Sharazi but at least he had rid himself of the terrible confinement of Lexton detention Centre. It had cost him dearly, with a permanently scared body and face, and a deformed left hand, but thanks to Allah, he still lived. Mere cosmetic failings were as nothing in the sea of life and greater things would be accomplished -- he was sure of that.

He soon realised that the past events were more than just a skirmish with fate. In hospital he was a freer man and his injuries conjured up extra perks; sympathy and consideration abounded from nursing staff, and unexpected official visitors. Some of them had actually come from the federal government, desperate to smooth over his ill treatment, and ward off any political embarrassment to the ruling party. Grass roots politics and public sympathy made a wonderful mixture, one feeding off the other. It was a win-win situation boosting the poles, giving the public what they wanted and serving the Islamic cause by helping Sharazi get back on his feet.

They offered him a compensation package which would partly pay for any further cosmetic surgery. However, as with most government initiatives there was a catch, the money could only be spent on medical fees paid to a listed physician specified by the government. The official documentation had named three specialists carefully chosen by government consultants. He was about to consign the forms to the waste bin, when three blurred figures appeared at the entrance to the ward, and came towards him.

Sharazi sat up awkwardly and peered through swollen eyes at the three men now standing at his bedside. Two of them were typical white male bureaucrats with lightweight pressed suits and polished patent leather shoes. Well shaven and groomed to the hilt -- he was clearly a special case.

The third person was very different, he wore a plain robe, headdress and leather sandals, so typical of his Iranian homeland, Sharazi’s curiosity ran wild and he uttered a few phrases in Farsi, the common Iranian language, through bruised lips. This instantly shocked the robed man, and he held up his hand -- then looked at the two white officials.

‘Please Habib, speak English if you can, we must confer in the common tongue of this country,’ one of the officials smiled in an effort to put Sharazi at ease.

‘We understand your predicament,’ he said, ‘and have allowed a fellow Muslim cleric to confer with you. This would normally be strictly off limits to an illegal immigrant, but there seems to be some confusion in your case. Our interpreter,’ he pointed to the man in the turban, ‘Farid Hassan Kazeni, will ask you a few questions about your past and fill you in on future arrangements. We will leave you to confer for thirty minutes then we will return,’ the two white officials left the hospital ward and walked back to their car.

The turbaned man peered with small brown eyes for a few thoughtful moments at the battle scared young man -- as if trying to assess his future potential.

‘I don’t know if you realise it Habib, but you are an extremely lucky young man. You could easily have died from your wounds, in fact, we had another man who did a similar thing, and died within hours of contacting the razor wire.’

‘I see...death of a thousand cutts then,’ Sharazi mumbled offhandedly.

‘Exactly...that’s where you were lucky, your injuries were not quite as great and your treatment was very swift and thorough. You owe the Australian authorities your life’ Sharazi grimaced.

‘If it wasn’t for the Australian authorities I would be here in the first place...I owe them nothing,’ Kazeni frowned, his high forehead creasing in alarm.

‘It might be better if you stopped thinking and obeyed your basic inclinations Habib,’ Sharazi raised a belated smile.

‘Which are?’

‘Humility...eat your humble pie and fall in line with the authorities...that way you will make life a lot easier and you will be able to think more clearly about your future.’

‘Which is?’

“That is what we are about to discuss,’ Kazeni opened a folder he was carrying and produced an official looking printed sheet. His voice dropped slightly and he moved closer to the bed.

‘We haven’t got much time, so if you can fill in that government question form while I brief you in on the exact situation here, we’ll be able to make some progress,' Sharazi squinted at the form and frowned at the personal nature of the questions.

‘Don’t worry about the questions...just tell them what they want to know, or rather, what you think they want to know. It’s just a formality, a bit of government red tape, the form will be buried in some dusty government archive and hopefully never see the light of day again.

In the mean time, don’t tread on their toes, it’ll only make things worse later. Now I don’t know if you realise it, but there will be a general election in Australia within the next month. This is why the government has eased up on the extreme treatment of illegals, particularly doubtful cases such as yourself. I know you speak Farsi and you are an Iranian national -- but I don’t know what your political inclinations are. I need to know now... you can trust me...I will swear to Allah if you wish...so please be

as open and extreme as you like. Whatever you pass on to me will never leave my lips,’ Kazani looked him hard in the face.

‘To whome do you owe allegeance Habib?’ Sharazi shuffled painfully beneath the sheets of his bed.

‘Arrik Akkabar...Allah is Good...Iran’s glory has always been its culture...whatever form that might take,’ said Sharazi earnestly.

‘Give me your hand,’ Kazani pushed a small business card into his palm.

‘Secrete that in your bed...when we leave, go to the toilet, memorise the relevant details and phone number, destroy the card, then contact me when you get out of here.’

Chapter Six

The tension in Brigadier Arash Al Zandi’s brain was almost unbearable, a conflicting military order was the worst nightmare for any commander to enforce, particularly when it pushed the world into a possible nuclear Armageddon.

Zandi, in his mid-forties, his jet-black hair combed straight back, had supported the new hard line regime because he thought the Muslim world needed to reassert itself in the face of ever increasing US global dominance.

But this radical decree had gone beyond all rational expectations -- one could only push the American aggressors so far as past events had shown only too well.

Al Queda had started this horrific, so called holy war, in the name of hard line Islam, much to the consternation of the moderate Muslim countries.

It wasn’t so much the actual attack of 9/11 that worried Al Zandi, but the American reaction to it, which had brought down all hell on Afghanistan and Iraq. This would pale at the side of an all out attack by the US on Iran. So far the Americans had delivered their foreign policy with one hand tied behind their backs, and in some cases two hands. A blatant nuclear confrontation with the worlds greatest nuclear power was shear suicide and would lead to the total destruction of Iran and most of the population.

In spite of all these recriminations Al Zandi’s choice was very bland and simple: either carryout the given orders, or be summarily executed for refusing to enforce them.

He reread the main outlines of the decree and marked off the orders he had to carry out, then keyed-in an unlisted number on his secure phone line and slowly reiterated the orders to his subordinates, taking great care to remove all emotion from his voice.

The higher up you were in the pecking order the more likely your head would be lopped off should an error occur -- the humble soldier in the field was a safer option. A rigid protocol towards ones duty was the only safe line to take in such cases for both soldier and commander. His orders would now enable a direct attack on the US forces should they stray, by design or chance, into Iranian territory; the order included nuclear retaliation.

Strangely, his actions reminded him of a piece of covert advice given to him by his father who was also a higher ranking officer in his day. The words burned into his brain... ‘learn how to suffer fools in very high places and your head will be saved,’ his father had spoken the words to him during his time at the officer training school, when things became tough and insubordination had crossed Al Zandi’s mind. It had saved him from many awkward impasses with superior officers and politicians alike. But now the words were beginning to ring hollow...perhaps it was time to revolt against such fools in high places and treat them like the fools they really were.

Cutting the phone off, he instantly realised he had become nothing more than the Supreme Leader’s unwilling executioner -- this would be the last time such an order would be relayed through him. This time the price for saving one’s head was too high. He suddenly felt extremely vulnerable and terribly alone -- Iran was unsafe and unreliable -- no one could be trusted, least of all any of his military cronies. He’d forgotten what real friendship was all about, and camaraderie between fellow officers was non existent, he now believed that ninety percent of the time it paid to be a skeptic rather than a believer. This was extremely dangerous thinking in an Islamic Republic where total obedience in the armed forces to the Supreme Leader was of paramount importance. Continual turmoil between beliefs and political commitment were beginning to take their toll on his sanity.

Chapter Seven

Sharazi had to admit Australia was a good place to live, freedom and opportunity were virtually unprecedented compared to life in Iran, but his mission was clear cut. Allah was the dominant force in his life, in fact, he had already reiterated many times that he lived because Allah deemed this to be so. How else could he have been spared the terrors of the Lexton detention camp? Then there was the general election which had finally freed him from captivity by the infidel authorities.

He now had a furnished flat and was able to earn a modest living by working two part time jobs in the fast food industry. All of these fortuitous things were not merely chance -- there had to be a higher power involved behind the scenes.

Today would be his full initiation into the Black Islam Brigade BIB, who rigourously taught the Jihad using Osama Bin Ladin’s basic teaching methods taken directly from his Jihad manual.

Farid Kazeni would be his guide since he was familiar with the manual and knew it page by page. He had been working on the manual over the years, updating, improving, and adding new ideas, all with Osama’s blessing.

Weapons and their strategic use in opposition to the infidels was his latest chapter. It was written in theory, but it now had to be proved in practice, and Australia offered some of the best practice terrain in the world, as well as an unprecedented degree of security. Thousands of square kilometers of remote unmonitored hinterland existed -- a virtual carte blanche for covert military manoeuvres.

Kazeny was more than eager to try out some of his revolutionary ideas in the terrorist paradigm, but he needed the sure backing of devoted and well trained fighters. Only when they had thoroughly mastered the principles of the Jihad Manual would they become trusted Mujihadeed warriors.

It had become apparent that the manual lacked certain subjects that the Muslim world had so far chosen to ignore. Kazeny had realised in recent years that far too much dependence had been placed on Allah and his protective cloak. It was often assumed that Allah would protect any righteous Muslim who prayed religiously and obeyed his teachings; this was a case of blind faith.

In the Christian religion it was a case of God helping those who helped themselves. Hateful though it may seem, Muslim leaders would have to adopt this stratagem, as well as other seemingly distasteful ideas. This would form part of his next foray into Qsama’s Jihad Manual, hopefully, with the leaders full blessings. It was an area where he would have to tread very cautiously; a degree of totality would have to be surrendered if Islam were to dominate the world. Perhaps the truly committed warriors would be granted certain exemptions in the eyes of Allah.

Christian authorities could never understand that allegiance with Allah and his fellow Muslims was total. Islam wasn’t just an eastern religion that could be changed or disregarded at will, it was a whole way of life that demanded total compliance, it was instilled into the body and brain, and as such, was inseparable from one’s spiritual and material being. No piece of paper and ad hoc ceremony, so persuasive in the western world, could ever change that unless permitted by Allah.

The word Allah was the Arabic word for God and Islam meant submission to God. Muslims prayed to Allah five times a day; how many times did Christians pray to their God each day? Sharazi smiled to himself, Christianity would be very lucky to glean a few misguided religious zealots on one day each week. Clearly Islam was on the rise, while Christianity was on the decline.

There were two main versions of Islam; the good and righteous faith which devoted Muslin's worshiped and the extreme version which the terrorist mobs had hijacked for their own maligned ideologies. Both were acceptable beliefs in defence of Allah as far as Habib Sharazi and Farid Kazeni were concerned, and BIB represented the latter ideology.

He continued to smile knowingly when he thought of the Islam extremists -- they were like the Christian soldiers of old who came to the Holy Land and murdered Muslin's by the thousands, simply for not believing in Christ, it was they who were the godless infidels. How things had changed -- it was now the Christians turn to die for not believing in Allah -- not that many of them hadn‘t been killed, in fact, thousands had already died at the hands of Muslim extremists, and many more would surely follow.

After prayers in the Mosque Farid Kazeni shared a simple meal of salad and bread rolls with his new recruit, they dined in the open air at the back of a Victorian Mosque in a quite corner of the garden.

‘How do you like the tomatoes Habib...not bad are they...grown in the little green house behind our garage.’ Sharazi smiled politely and nodded his agreement. They were good and they did taste different, fresher than the usual super market variety, and with a tangy tomato flavour about them. Kazeni started to look serious and stared into the distance.

We’ve had word from abroad, the Supreme Leader has started to make amends, he has finalised another decree,’ Sharazi stopped eating and looked intently at his friend. Decrees which came from abroad were nearly always a little worrying from his point of view, he could understand killing infidels if Islam were under direct attack, but initiating such violence without provocation was something else. Kazeni lowered his voice.

‘I’ve no doubt it hasn’t escaped your notice but the Americans have thousands of troops based in Iraq and are massing more soldiers near the Iraq-Iranian border; they could be setting up for an imminent invasion of Iran.’ Kazeni paused for effect, carefully noting the influence his words were having on his protégé.

‘This has already gone too far, and the Supreme Leader has decided that should they move into Iran, the Americans will be annihilated. The US president is behind these moves and is the greatest infidel of them all. He must be punished by whatever means we can muster, and the Supreme Leader has decreed that he be abducted as soon as possible whenever he travels abroad, or in the USA. He is to be taken alive if possible, to be tried in an Islamic court in Iran...that is the gist of the decree.’

Sharazi blew a stream of hot air through pouted lips.

‘That my friend is some decree; I don’t mean to contradict the Supreme Leader, but isn’t this a bit drastic,’ Kazeni silently studied his friends features.

‘You know what these decrees are all about...they are a struggle between the Assembly of Experts and the Supreme Leader. The Assembly is there to examine such decrees and will undoubtedly dismiss this one after suitable deliberation...no expert in his right mind is going to let this decree continue.'

‘I wish I had your confidence Farid but you knew as well as I do that the Council of Experts has never questioned any of the Supreme Leaders decisions since its existence,' Kazeni relented after a little thought.

‘You may be right Habib, the Iranian President has embraced the decree, and he has the political will of the people. No doubt in view of this, all groups have been put on world wide alert -- the US president will be abducted wherever and whenever the opportunity occurs ...unless we receive alternate considerations.’

At that moment Sharazi dipped his head, it meant he now had doubts about what he was getting into, his natural inbuilt beliefs were now resisting the path Kazeni had mapped out. It went deeper than the mere dogmas of Islam or Christianity...it was a feeling, and feelings if they were intense enough, over ruled everything else including the intellect. Despite of all the intense meditation and total compliance with Allah human emotions still came to the surface and would not be quelled. It was the sort of thing that revolutions were all about.

Kazeni touched his lips with a paper tissue, and sipped a little filtered water then stared reflectively at Sharazi.

‘You realise Habib...that we must now prepare, lest we be chosen for the task the Supreme Leader has in mind,’ Sharazi, rather than allow his mentor to see his open expressions, stood and turned -- walked a few paces, and looked at the backdrop of city buildings in the distance. Solemnly he turned and quietly nodded his compliance, inwardly he knew his strong doubts had to be kept in check for the time being -- but sooner or later, they would have their way.

Chapter Eight

Spiral Cafe Canberra

Roger Jansen, CEO of Jansen Associates, Private Investigators, sat at a small round table in the Spiral Cafe in Canberra supping his café latte, and reading the latest government anti-terrorist precautions. It was all well and good, and he applauded the governments initiative, but it did not address the real cause of the problem, such actions merely created a challenge for the ardent insurrectionist. In fact most terrorist groups tended to study government precautions as a training exercise for budding students in terror.

It all boiled down to mental acumen and agility in the long run -- a study for the subconscious to work on -- put the problem to the brain long and hard enough -- and up popped a possible answer the next morning...if you were lucky that is. If the brain could not solve the problem it became lost in the void of neural existence and died a lonely death, somewhat like sending an e-mail to a non existent address...nothing eventuated. Perhaps he was being too much of a smart arse, there was such a thing as too much thinking, after which, action had to take its place.

He looked up from The Canberra Times and thanked God he was no longer in the anti terrorist arena; good old fashioned civilian court cases were much easier, and indeed much safer. Dealing with the tit for tat of human cases made life simpler, these he could understand, and most important of all, they made one feel more human.

Although, he was aware of quite a few fatalities within his portfolio archives, but at least, you knew where and what you were dealing with most of the time. But the insurgent classes were faceless nonentities, murderers, thieves, and killer robots. A man or woman who strapped explosives to their bodies knowing full well that they would be blown to pieces only to find themselves in a Muslim paradise were clearly mentally ill. With this in mind he looked out of the window at the people hurriedly making their way to work and wondered how many of them could be trained to carryout an explosive suicide attack. Taken to its ultimate conclusion this corrupted way of thinking could eventually destroy the whole of humanity -- God had clearly given us too much leniency in our thinking abilities -- far better to be a dumb ass.

No...he would stick to good old human domesticity it was so much more acceptable.

The concept of domesticity caused him to look around the cafe and reappraise the venue, since the word domesticity always conjured up surroundings which echoed people and their most personal proclivities.

From a purely aesthetic point of view the actual ambiance was ghastly. The architectural prints on the wall were ancient, and politically correct to the point of gross inhibition. They reminded him of the past when P&O Lines ran immigrants from the UK to Australia, and it was fashionable for men to smoke brier pipes, and women had long flowing lace neck scarves with large unwieldy hats festooned with frightening steel hair pins.

A better time in fact, when people actually trusted each other to a larger degree. Secretly, he new this was why he habitually visited the cafe, it gave him a measure of safety and belonging, a feeling of being part of the human race once again. Yes...domesticity was definitely one of his buzz words.

The influx of younger men often made him feel old and out of place. There was a smattering of youthful hairstyles with the mullet cut predominating over the close cropped convict style. He decided that he would hang on to the thin layer of hair covering his pate, rather than resort to the convict shaven style, so reminiscent of the early Australian convict era. Sneakily he squinted at the mass of faces hoping to pick out someone of his own age or older. The man serving coffee behind the counter seemed to be the only one who could have been any where near his own age.

He felt sorry for the man having to sweat it out in a stuffy coffee bar all day in the worst place one could possibly be; behind the counter pumping hot coffee for the working masses.

The odour of brewed coffee drew him back to reality, and the human presence increased as the morning serge of thirsty working commuters invaded the small cafe looking for their caffeine fix. There seemed to be a point at which this conglomeration reached its human comforting best, then it went rapidly down hill.

That time had arrived and he carefully folded the paper in half and put it under his arm -- he would finish it off in greater comfort at the office. Reading the morning papers was an essential part of an investigators life, it highlighted and listed the most popular court cases, and the ebb and flow of human activity, all very essential ingredients in the private detectives portfolio.

He smiled smugly as he thought about the government and its politically intractable problems, and vowed never to get embroiled with another government case...they could pull their own nuts out of the fire from now on.

He switched the television on as he entered his main office and changed the channel to SBS, this was another highly interesting news source and was also compulsory viewing. He checked himself lest he marinated his mind in skepticism. It was a habit he had struggled against in the past, knowing full well that it tended to colour ones thinking. He shook his head, cleared his mind, and refocused on the TV screen.

The US President was addressing a gathering of university students protesting about the war in Iraq. The words of the broadcast were temporarily lost on Jansen as his investigative mind unconsciously studied the placement of security agents around their leading politician. It was another habit he had, of concentrating on the detail surrounding the main focus, rather than the subject at hand. Strangely, the surrounds often gave more clues about the what was happening than the actual propagation of the event itself.

It was easy to pick out each secret service agent. He settled on a female agent clothed in a brown flecked tunic and trousers, then switched to an older male, possible in his forties or even fifties, which seemed a little old for such a demanding job.

Three metres from the older man was a much younger, clean shaven agent, with close cropped hair. He stood out more than the others by virtue of his intent gaze and passionate rendition of the quintessential security man -- without doubt a product of his ever present ego and the American way.

They all obeyed an instilled code of behaviour and appearance setting them apart from everyone else. Non of them looked directly at the president, but scanned the surrounding people instead. It reminded him of a road sign with the central post being the president, and all the signs pointing away from him. All an external observer had to do to target the president was to trace the line of sight back from where all the agents were looking and they would see the big man himself neatly placed in the middle of the scrum. Locating most of the agents was very easy since they were all looking the opposite way to the general public, and if that wasn’t sufficient agent identification, there were many other clues -- all the agents were smart and well dressed, with a tell-tale earpiece, partially hidden by the collar of their suit jackets. A closed palm indicated a concealed miniature microphone, which was periodically brought up to the face for communication purposes. This collection of fine detail indicated a security agent was at work and one would have to be blind not to notice most of this tell tale behaviour.

This seemed to work on two levels -- either they intimidated the would be assassins to abandon their intentions, or it egged them on to greater efforts. Most of the security agents were literally standing targets. It was the latter possibility that intrigued Jansen.

This open tendency of gung-ho political operations showing the world what America was capable of, rather than good covert intelligence planning, always worried Jansen. Surely the Americans were aware of their fine upstanding secret service agents and their obvious presence to the general public (and therefore to their enemies as well).

In Jansen’s experience this overt aggressive stance annoyed the hell out of most antagonist. The whole security planning was clearly based on intimidation rather than covert undermining of their potential antagonists.

Still, this was the American way -- give the buggers an up front picture of your capabilities by concentrating on aggression, which seemed to be actually invoking it in the enemy.

For a determined opposition with terrorist capabilities, it would be a simple matter to pick off each security agent one by one, or even to take out most of them at the same time in one organised sting.

This would hold true, even with a cleared no go zone all around the president, which the Secret Service all ways aimed at anyway.

He took another look at the president who was now preparing to take his leave, and shook his head despairingly just as Lotte, his private secretary, pushed another cup of coffee in his hand. Jansen’s looked up at his attentive secretary -- one could learn a lot from the body language of others.

Chapter Nine

Sydney Australia

Jogging in Sydney’s Domain was one the great pleasures in Kazeni’s life, it kept him fit and active and ready to serve the BIB at a moments notice. It was a cool day and the leaves of the trees in the park were constantly falling. It was good to be alive and to have a life in the service of something that was greater than himself, but if he failed, if something or someone struck him down in his prime...then what?

He hated the idea of a successor or even a second in command, but he liked the idea of a fail safe operation, whereby once his plans were put into effect they would succeed, even if he were deposed.

There were lots of devoted Muslims in the BIB, in fact they were all devoted to the idea of the world wide Islamic state. After all, it was the Christians who first attempted world domination with their religious beliefs and every dog has his day. Christianity had had its day in the sun; it was now Islam's turn to rule the roost. The times were ripe for an Islamic take over, since Christianity was declining rapidly, and churches were having a hard time recruiting new parishioners and retaining the faithful.

The word faithful stuck in his mind and brought him sharply back to his original concerns...that of a suitable successor should he be struck down at a vital moment.

Any man in the group could be a figure head, but there were not so many with the passion and gift of devout leadership. It demanded total obedience to the cause, which was everything, including life itself.

His friend, Habib Sharazi, had shown enormous courage under great duress at Lexton detention camp, he could just as easily have given in to his human frailties, perhaps he had the right qualities.

A more exacting organisation would have to be constructed if the they were to succeed in any of their upcoming endeavors. Each man must know exactly what was expected of him. Sharazi was the natural second in command and possible successor to his leadership.

He stopped and rested at one of the great trees in the Domain and inadvertently looked up at Saint Mary’s Cathedral. The building always annoyed him because it was the centre of Christian worship in Sydney, and in a way, it reminded him of a miniature version of the Agia Sophia in Istanbul, even though the cathedral looked nothing like the Agia Sophia. Which was once a great Christian edifice and had lasted for nearly a thousand years, then fell to the Ottoman Empire and became the greatest mosque to Islam. This one piece of history proved without a doubt that Christianity could and would be overcome.

As sure as Stalingrad was the nemesis of the Third Reich; so the Agia Sofia would symbolise the nemesis of Christianity. How he wished this could happen again right here in Australia one of the youngest countries to be settled under Christian style democracy.

He gazed at the two recently completed spires and noted the lighter, mismatching, yellow sandstone brick work; why did they bother in the face of rapidly withering attendance. It was yet another reminder that Christianity was in decline and ready for Islamic take-over.

He smiled and saluted the cathedral spires, they would of course be demolished under Muslim tenure and replaced by two giant high-tech minarets, which would be seen and heard all over Sydney. Which reminded him about his necessary provisions for the decree, should chance favour the BIB.

He walked slowly along the foliage covered concrete pathways, carefully checking that no one was close by, then keyed an unlisted number into his mobile. A terse, deep male voice, come through.

‘Yep...Hamid speaking’

‘Farid here...I need a few items from the wish list,’ Kazeni reeled off a selection of weapons and associated ammunition, then thought for a few moments.

‘And can you get me three dozen military grade tear gas grenades?' there was a pause and Hamid came back.

‘Three days for the weapons...but we don’t have that sort of grenade in stock at the moment...we’re expecting another consignment from China soon...will send on arrival,’ his mobile went silent, and he continued jogging out of the park towards one of the less reputable Sydney suburbs.

Gas grenades had not been used to any great extent by most of the terrorist groups in the Asia Pacific region, but they were a popular instrument for crowd dispersion by the police forces of numerous countries. Kazeni had made a point of studying police tactics around the world and noted the results of such actions. He had often advocated using police methods against the police themselves, since this often had a shock effect, causing confusion and disorientation. A gas attack followed by a baton charge by terrorists was often the last thing they would expect; give them a taste of their own medicine.

One pointer that was always in favour of the militants was surprise, they could call the shots and dictate the weaponry, and it came as no surprise to find police outgunned in their own country. Many things could be practiced on an equal footing since suitable equipment could now be obtained. Acquiring arms was not a pressing problem for BIB and there were always ready sources available through negotiation and the right price. Weapons were a significant part of world trade both conventional and black-market sales. They tended to even the odds and made a country more powerful globally.

The world was becoming swamped with illegal arms of all kinds and contraband was off loaded from Asian cargo vessels along the east coast of Australia under darkness. Small high powered speedboats collected the booty, then transferred it to on shore safe houses, where it was transported to remote centres in the bush. It was then collected by couriers and distributed to individual active groups. The system had worked well, apart from the odd interception by the police, but this was no great worry since a major part of the law enforcement operations were being deliberately tied down by marijuana plantations in the bush and in private houses. It had taken some time to set up the diversion and it was now working extremely well, but it wouldn’t last forever. Several other police diversions were being conjured up and the latest was blowing up ATM’s with acetylene gas across the country. The money obtained was purely incidental and the dissidents kept the proceeds to fund other diversionary tactics.

Accelerating ATM destruction in all major Australian states was in the pipeline with a view to creating maximum damage to Australian financial centres and economic resources.

A think-tank had been set up in a country residence set back from the main road away from prying eyes. Alternate unsealed dirt roads had been created for a quick get away around the house, should it be necessary. Regular sessions were held with ideas being passed back and forth -- nothing was ruled out -- until after substantial feasibility studies had been made.

Chapter Ten

Pentagon Washington

The Chiefs of Staff were already seated in the Pentagon meeting room when the president entered with the national security advisor, the director of the CIA, and an overweight secretary of defence in close pursuit. The meeting stood, and the president nodded a salutation; the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff then indicated a resumption of seating.

The President carefully arranged a collection of documents in front of him. He perused the papers taking his time, then looked up, studying the array of concerned countenances.

President Garner always preferred a full complement of advisors, so that he could bounce his ideas around the group until he got the best answer. From then onwards he would eliminate as many of his power brokers as possible until he had fleeced the entire room of useful information. He gave new meaning to the phrase ‘picking ones brains’.

Mindful of his veto powers and his last word on all major policies -- his final decision would them be made. Usually this was either in private, or in consultation with one of his closest advisor, which could be almost anyone from the White House gardener to the pet dog.

‘Thank you gentleman for attending this meeting so promptly and at short notice...as most of you are aware, the situation in Iraq has escalated dramatically,’ he gestured to the reports in front of him.

‘It appears that a contingent of our recent troop disposition in Northern Iraq were sent to monitor the border area, when they accidentally crossed the Iranian border at a crucial point.

The ten man patrol discovered a large artillery gun hidden within an old farm house...although this seems trivial by itself gentleman...they also found what appeared to be nuclear shells at the rear of the building. The existence of a big gun and nuclear type shells needs no elaboration for our troop security in Iraq, not to mention the implications for escalation of hostilities,’ the chief of staff grimaced.

‘I presume the patrol is safely back in Iraq sir?’

‘No, I’m afraid not...according to their commander they were surrounded and a shoot-out occurred ...we haven’t heard from them since. We can only assume they were all

eliminated, fortunately the commander managed to get off one last message concerning the nuclear shells.

I don’t need to point out how serious this is, it increases the emergency situation by several levels,’ Garner turned to CIA director Barry Lyons.

‘What’s your latest detailing on this director?’

‘Well as you know sir a number of ships have been intercepted and relieved of their cargo, particularly large artillery gun parts destined for Iran. Britain has a total ban on all resources which could be construed as weapons material. Allied countries are, of course, also following a similar constraint. Moreover, as far as our sanction info goes, we have no reports of strategic nuclear weapons entering Iran.

If such items are in Iran their most probable source is either Russia, China or North Korea -- quite probably a combination of all three.’

‘And their means of transportation?’

‘Well sir, that would most probably be by land or air, and not necessarily by hi-tech methods either. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were imported on the backs of camels across the desert. Remember the ‘Old Silk Road’ from middle east history books...well, they still use those methods to deliver their goods when it suits them.’

‘Yes I’m familiar with the similes Barry, and while were at it, don't forget the Japanese bicycle invasion of Malaya which effectively banished the British from their prize far-east colony, and I loath to mention the Ho Chi Minh trail in Vietnam in relation to the US,’ the president held up his hands to tumultuous laughter.

‘What I really want to know is...has there been any recent interceptions of nuclear material?’

‘No sir, not to our knowledge, there is however another possibility -- they could be home grown,’ Garner frowned melodramatically.

‘Is that likely?’

‘It’s a possibility, but then our knowledge of Iranian capabilities is not one hundred percent,’ the president returned a flat smile.

‘It’s certainly isn’t...nor will it ever be. I think we can safely presume they have been ably assisted by foreign contingents. After all, smart arse American spies in foreign countries stick out like red lip stick on a bald head,’ at the mention of lipstick the president squinted at Ellen Monard, his female national security advisor, a forty five year old graduate of Princeton University, who had collected a string of previous security jobs with various companies, culminating in two stints in the Pentagon as a security administrator.

‘What’s your opinion Ellen?’

‘Well I don’t think they’d be importing lipsticks to scrawl on bold heads,’chided Monard to more waves of guttural laughter.

‘However, I doubt very much that they are home grown items sir...more likely they could have been covertly imported and assembled in Iran.’

‘What about the source?’

‘I’d say most likely North Korea or China Mr. President.’

‘I see...it’s to be expected,’ Garner confessed sadly, ‘what’s the state of the new troop contingent in Northern Iraq?’ The chief of staff for army looked up from his brief.

‘We’re on defcon two at present sir...nothing further has eventuated since we received the patrols last communication -- all indications are that there are no survivors from the skirmish,’the army chief paused then looked Garner clearly in the face.

‘This in itself, is sufficient to declare a state of war sir,’ Garner ignored the remark and looked through the secretary of defense -- there were two main options: either the US could bide its time and wait for Iran to make its next move, or advance to the border in strength and demand an explanation.

The president cast one last glance around table and picked up his notes.

‘Right gentleman...you’ll have my decision shortly.’

The chief of staff for the army, General Sam Williams, suddenly stood upright pushing his chair sharply backwards. His rapid movement surprised his contemporaries, and was all the more remarkable considering his vast bulk. His eighteen stone frame dwarfed his colleagues who peered up at him expecting a verbal blast from hell. He was a dyed in the wool military man who joined the army at a tender age and loved the sting of battle. He had managed to get involved in almost every US conflict since the beginning of the Korean war.

He stared at his civil superior, his beady eyes and shaved head taking on the image of a pained heavyweight boxer cowering under his trainers orders.

‘Excuse me sir, I don’t now if you realise it, but if they have a nuclear artillery capability, they could annihilate the 4000 troops we sent there in a mater of minutes -- a few good salvos would probably be enough,’ Ellen Monard cast a painful glance at the army chief of staff and tried to tone down the rhetoric.

Instinctively the chief of staff turned his bulky head on its well muscled axis and looked forcefully at Monard -- she had unwittingly become the enemy. It was then that Sam Williams noticed for the first time that the security advisor was actually a female, rather than another dummy sitting at the table.

She was wearing a soft textured, lavender blouse, which notably accentuated her femininity; whether this was planned or merely an incidental dress situation Williams was not sure. He felt himself melting under her influence as the concealed White House light played on her blouse, and highlighted her feminine features. She continued her rhetoric gesturing directly at Garner.

‘We must exercise some empathy with them Mr. President...get into their heads and work out what’s driving their motivation,’ Garner reshuffled his notes and nodded agreeably.

‘I realise that, and we will consider all the ramifications.’

‘One other thing Mr. President,’ Williams interjected trying to gain lost ground, ‘please don’t agonise too long...it may cost us our country and our lives,’ Garner produced another perfunctory smile.

‘I know Sam...I know,’ the president turned and left the room leaving a concerted hum as the service chief’s exchanged their concerns.

President Garner had no military experience, and was the product of a privileged corporate upbringing, having been a Harvard graduate and the CEO of three companies prior to entering politics. It was unfortunate that the cold war, and former president Eisenhower, (also a former army general) had tended to set the pace for the top political office during times of military crisis.

An unofficial consensus among the chiefs was that big wars needed big military brass in the top job to resolve them. They preferred a man who could think on a military level, clued up on weaponry, able to liaise with the men in the trenches, and could at least fire a gun.

It was a standard cliché in the working classes that any American citizen could run for, and become, the president of the United States. It was also a known fact in the upper echelons that this was virtually impossible, unless you were a collage educated millionaire, or at least an officer with military honors, and whole lot of political friends in the right places.

Every now and again someone would buck the trend and this usually happened when the public were sick and tired of the incumbent administration; then a really new kid on the block would make it through the quagmire of political propaganda, that ran up and down the country during election year.

Chapter Eleven

President Garner looked at his watch seemingly counting the hours since his meeting with the Chiefs of Staff in the Pentagon. The actual figures didn’t register but Garner knew significant time had passed and a decision was imminent.

It was a perplexing situation and it reminded him of a compressed version of the Cuban missile crisis during the Kennedy administration -- past high tension, and political trauma, was of great value, in that it showed in detail how difficult international problems were finally resolved. Trouble was each new crisis seemed to have its own ingratiating personality and couldn’t be readily cut and dried.

The secretary of defence lay back in his chair and wiped his brow with freshening aloe vera tissue, then supped the remains of his strong coffee -- the two men had been discussing the Iranian crises for the last four hours and had reached a stalemate. The final consensus was that nuclear force could not be used and to put more men and weapons into the field would only antagonise the Iranians into a nuclear confrontation. Withdrawing substantial numbers of troops out of harms way would also have a detrimental effect. The Iranians would interpret this as a gross sign of weakness on the part of the Americans and could precipitate a domino type collapse of US forces around the world. Garner stood at one of the large White House windows looking across the Potomac River thinking about the intractable harshness of war. It was strange how similar the situation was to the first world war when men were stuck in the trenches neither being able to make ground or retreat without substantial losses. Stalemate was almost as bad as loosing a war, however, one thing was painfully obvious, the US forces had to be one hundred percent ready to use nuclear force if and when it was required as a last resort option. A tentative defcon one situation had to be instituted immediately for an American nuclear strike force.

The president learned forward fixing the defence secretary with his gaze.

‘You do realise George that this decision can’t be entirely our own...it could lead to WW3 nuclear style.’

‘Of course sir, I understand that...we’ll confer with the chiefs as soon as we’re ready.’

‘No, what I meant was that our allies must be informed...better still, there advice must be urgently sort. We simply can’t go wiping out strategic sections of the Iranian defence community without at least conferring with our major Allies.’

‘That could mean a covert conference or a video hook up sir.’

‘No George, this must be a face to face meeting, all electronic media no matter how covert is susceptible to corruption. Possibly our best bet is a low key international meeting at short notice in a secure location...by that I mean an area were Iranian missile technology can’t reach.’

‘We could arrange one in Dallas Texas sir, that’s just about out of range,’ Garner glared at his secretary of defence.

‘I do hope you’re joking George...either that or your memory is failing you...that place has a terrible political history’

‘I’m sorry sir...I wasn’t thinking.’

‘Obviously not...its got to be a secure allied country.’

‘Well the only two I can think of off-hand, are New Zealand and Australia, most of the others would be in range of the Iranian missiles. Possibly the best choices would be Canberra, Sydney or Auckland.’

‘I think perhaps we can rule out Canberra -- its a rather obvious capital city, as is Auckland. It’ll have to be Sydney, it’ll give me a chance to check out the ship’s bell at Darling Harbour.’

‘The ship’s bell sir?...Darling Harbour?’

‘Yes, the one former president Bush presented to the National Maritime Museum back in 2001. It’s a good idea for a US president to show interest in the local area,’ Garner touched his nose, ‘lest we forget.’

‘Oh, and I would like to check out one of their new tunnels across the city, they’ve been laying them down like there was no tomorrow...those things make good air raid shelters in case of emergancy...you never know George.’

‘Okay Mr. president...I’ll see the chief of staff, we’ll get a schedule going and give Air Force One a call.’

‘Good, the sooner the better...vice president Jenkins will need to be briefed on his take over as acting president.’

‘Right sir...all on the agenda.’

‘Good!’ Garner stood and held himself upright, the talk seemed to have refreshed him, and he breathed in holding his chin high. The was nothing more refreshing then making a concrete decision during a crisis that one could act on immediately.

Chapter Twelve

Vice Presidents Office

Steven Jenkins had been the US vice president for the last two years and privately declared that it was a straight jacket of a job. The position was limited by the constitution to becoming president on the death or resignation of the incumbent president.

The job had several other purely administrative duties such as casting the deciding vote should the senate become deadlocked, and advising the president on matters of government. It was standard procedure to send the vice president to meet other heads of state and show concern at state funerals in other countries -- when the president’s duties prevented him from attending -- which was quite often.

Politically it was a dead-end, back-room job, for a statesman who shouldered little real ambition, unless of course the president suddenly became indisposed.

The secretary of state Colin Steadman, entered the office and passed the document he had been studying over to the vice president.

‘There sir...the arrangements have been finallised for the president’s visit to Australia,’ Jenkins went slowly down the schedule. Not that it mattered too much, but as acting head of the home government, he had to be made aware of the presidents location and condition on a regular basis.

After the all important meeting with the heads of state of the free world at Government House in Sydney, the president's motorcade would leave via Circular Key and make its way to Darling Harbour. Once there, the president would inspect the ship’s bell at the National Maritime Museum, and spend fifteen minutes with the administrative staff for an official coffee break, where a presentation of a gold miniature of the ship’s bell would be made to the president by the premier of New South Wales.

The motorcade would then progress via the Western Distributor Tunnel, where it would stop directly under the middle of Hyde Park, to allow the president to inspect parts of the tunnel. A ten minute pause had been allowed for this in the schedule. The motorcade would then go immediately to the airport where the president would board Air Force One. All areas covered would be sealed off to the general public by the Australian Federal and State Police for the duration of the visit. As an extra precaution all areas visited by the president would also be inspected by the US secret service fifteen minutes ahead of the motorcade as part of their official duties.

Vice president Jenkins smiled perceptively, it was a tight schedule, but it was a good one, and had just the right amount of panache for the purpose of the visit. A tentative low key release would be made to the media that an important economic forum between allied countries on the future of the global economy would be held in Australia.

‘Air Force One’s takeoff will be one hour from now sir,’ secretary Steadman advised. Jenkins checked his gold Omega watch -- he would be in charge of the day to day running of the country for the short time the president was abroad.

He removed a clip folder from a locked bottom drawer in his desk, and studied a list of items typed on a sheet of A4 paper.

They were all the things he intended to do once Garner had left the country. In spite of the dead-end attributes of the vice president’s’ position, Jenkins was determined to elevate his powers to that of a substantial leader. After all, he would have complete presidential powers while Garner was away.

It was a chance to exert his own special leadership. It wasn’t very often one was given such powers along with the unbridled freedom to implement them. Some men would have reacted negatively -- sitting like a dummy -- frozen with fear, at the thought of having the power to destroy the world within their hands, even if it were largely symbolic.

America was blinded by her own power and the home grown suggestion that she could whip any country on earth. This undoubtedly contributed to her gung-ho approach when confronted by a military crisis.

Even so, one needed balls and the audacity to give the correct orders to the hapless minions surrounding him. Jenkins knew he had these attributes and was more than prepared to use them.

It was sometimes said that whoever occupied the White House had nowhere to hide, Jenkins smiled, and even felt smug about the statement. This was true if one followed the politically correct house rules, but surprisingly, no one had pointed out that it was just as easy to forget these rules and apply your own, just as long as it was done covertly, and with cards pressed close to one’s chest. You can do anything you like, just as long as you do it the right way, and don’t get caught doing it -- was Jenkin’s working philosophy.

Chapter Thirteen

Australia, The Top End

The Three SUV four wheelers were making little headway in the Top End scrub. Driving a vehicle by compass was both an exciting, and a frustrating experience. Open bush terrain was a breeze providing their weren’t too many obstacles, but within the rain forest scrub, it was near impossible, unless one stuck to known tracks, although this did leave a lot of untrodden ground in nature’s hinterland.

They had been travelling for the last two hours in a northeasterly direction towards the Cape. In the lead vehicle Farid Hassan Kazeny, stopped suddenly, alighted, checked his compass, then signaled the others to turn off their engines. Dressed in lightweight cotton track suits and baseball caps the ten men compliantly gathered around Kazeni.

Most were unshaven with half a dozen cultivated beards amongst them, their untidy appearance created an ugliness matched only by natures tangled surrounds. The presence of strangers in khaki track suits in the middle of no-mans-land, suggested a possible paramilitary venture of substantial importance. Kazeni actions only served to highlight this, as he spread his hands in front of him taking in a 180 degree panoramic sweep of the area.

‘This my brothers is the ideal place, we’ll do a quick clean up of the undergrowth, then unload the equipment,’ Kazeni’s ear pricked up as his satellite phone buzzed in the glove compartment of his SUV. He pushed his head through the open window and plucked the mobile up.

‘Hello...’the earpiece hissed with static and a male voice shouted excitedly.

‘You have the US president...in the name of Allah prepare.’ The line instantly dropped out and Kazeni stared absent mindedly at the milling throng of men around him. He looked back at the mobile as if it were an alien instrument.

It was as if Allah had suddenly patted his back and kissed his cheek. He dropped back in the driving seat in a trance and pushed the mobile back in the glove box.

Strangely, he had anticipated something like this to happen, an inner sense had warned him of something big. In fact the preparations he was making at this very moment were based on his intuitive abilities.

There would be time enough to reveal the great news to his men but pressing procedures would have to be completed first. Kazeni quickly recovered from the shock and alighted from the vehicle a changed man ordering his men to unload the vehicles.

The SUV’s were stripped of their cargo and the contents placed in the middle of the small clearing.

A long row of assorted firearms lay on white linen sheets. Habib Sharazi cast a thoughtful gaze at the array of weaponry. He had known from the start that Kazeni was a recruitment agent for the Islamic fundamentalists groups and wanted to see Australia ruled by sharia law. Kazeni’s greatest wish was to see a copy of the Koran on every school desk and in every hotel room. Then would come the old Fascist ritual of book burning, destroying all the bibles in the western world -- by this simple expedient, Christianity would be wiped from the face of the earth.

Sharazi was no stranger to misguided militant causes and weaponry, having witnessed his parents and two brothers shot to pieces in Northern Iraq by over zealous US troops, during one of their many dissident roundups. Since that time weapons had both excited him and filled him with dread. To actually hold in ones hand the power of life and death no matter what your status in life was truly awesome to any young boy who had not yet developed any deep moral sentiments.

But there was something different about these particular weapons laying as they were -- like pristine lamb and lettuce on a pure white table cloth. They had a sleek beauty of their own -- they were all brand knew -- just out of their oil skins.

He went down the line identifying the different types, at the beginning of the row were four Ingram 9 mm Mac 10’s, possibly the worst and most deadly killing machine at close range, then came the ugly ubiquitous AK47, a half dozen of them reposed on the linen sheet. But the biggest surprise of all was a row of eight Russian Dragunov sniper rifles. He recognised these from the sprinkling of rifles he had seen on rooftops in Mosul in Iraq’s north. They were the cream of the Russian sniper’s arsenal, it’s development went back to the killing grounds of Stalingrad, and incorporated all the hard learned lessons gleaned from sniper warfare over the years. The Russians knew they had to find a flaw in the German offensive and sniping was something they could fine tune, which would finally outwit the Nazis.

Although the total sniper kills during World War Two only ran into a few thousand, the overall effect was enormous, since most of these were important officers and technicians essential to the German Wehrmact’s long term success. The Russian’s had hung onto their little successes however meager they seemed at the time, and the Dragunov sniper rifle was the living proof of this. It had been honed and perfected by hundreds of the finest Russian snipers young and old. Life expectancy amongst the chosen few was perilously short, and they were considered dead men walking, but their contribution was incalculable. It was often said by latter-day sniping experts, that it was a weapon created by Russian dead, for the benefit of Russian living.

Sharazi held the weapon between the little fingers of his hands -- it was relatively light and extremely well balanced, it was simple and exceedingly accurate; an engineering work of art, that only a true firearms aficionado could appreciate.

Then came the burning question...why did Kazany need such technically advanced sniper rifles in Australia? Surely the overwhelming strategy would be maximum kill rates; rather than scoring an accurate bulls eye here and there.

Kazeni was always tongue in cheek, he rarely revealed any of his stratagems until the last possible moment. He was a wonderful technician and a born leader, but it was his non communicative approach to every problem that worried Habib. Sharazi was a born killer and would sacrifice the life of anyone for a cause, justified or not, without giving a single word of warning -- he seemed emotionally dead...and yet, once a seed had been sown in his cerebrum it grow until the object of his emotions totally controlled him -- the current object was clearly Allah and all he stood for.

Whilst this was good for the cause, it was absolute disaster for human relationships, and wasn’t this what life was really all about -- effective communication and good relationships, or at least reasonable ones? In spite of their subtle differences the two men became good friends as far as Farid Kazeni’s self orientated ego would allow, but the distrust remained in limbo. Then came the strangest revelation of all...as he pulled back the lower portion of tarpaulin a row of cardboard boxes appeared with stenciled markings along the sides.

He read the bold print...

GRENADES (Tear Gas)

Military Grade x 24 Units.

Military type gas grenades were something new in the Australian terrorist armory and tended to indicate close quarter encounters. They were rarely used in bush terrain as dispersal was a problem, especially in windy conditions, which rendered such weapons largely ineffective. However, when used in limited spaces and rigid confinement, they were excellent inhibitors.

It looked like Kazeni was taking no chances by stocking up on everything he might need -- should the chance of kidnapping the president come his way -- perhaps he knew something nobody else knew.

It was then Kazeni finally retrieved his senses and decided to confide in Sharazi. He came over and slapped his friend on the back.

‘I imagine you’re wondering why I’m going to such lengths my friend?’ Habib decided to grab the bull by the horns and tackle his superior directly

‘Don’t tell me we are the chosen few...’

‘That’s right Habib...the US president is coming to Australia...we have the won the prize...Allah in his wisdom has chosen us to carry out the task. I have suspected this for some time.’

The news left Sharazi in a daze, half of his brain buzzed with excitement, while the other half filled him with dread. Kazeni patted him reassuringly on the back a second time.

‘So my friend, let us make the best of our good fortune. This is a two pronged opportunity that Allah has bequeathed us -- it is a chance to test my latest manual methods and the best reason to do so -- we have been chosen to catch a president. Grab yourself a weapon and lets get on with it.’

Sharezi went through four hours of training in the outback, blindly following his terrorist commander, it was to be the first of many more training sessions in the Top End hinterland.

Chapter Fourteen

The document IN-Tray was bulging on the US vice president’s desk and the house phone buzzed. Jenkins looked at the pile of files and grimaced; there were more files than normal and he suspected a rush had been instituted to get run-of-the-mill documents out of the way before president Garner’s return to duty. It was a known, and an assumed fact, that the vice president was not as clued-up as the president on most current political matters, and a covert procedure was often instituted to go around him.

The internal phone beeped and he plucked the receiver from its rest.

‘Hello, vice president.’

‘Steadman sir...message from the CIA office Iraq. One of the captured insurgents has broken.’

‘No kidding...and his nationality?’

‘He’s Iranian sir, after ten hours of internment he’s revealed that the Supreme Leader of Iran is promulgating a new decree.’

‘I see, what methods of persuasion were the CIA using?’

‘The usual interrogation techniques sir,’ Jenkins laughed and brushed his hair back with his open hand.

‘Really...anything significant?’

‘We have had some very useful results sir.’

‘I’ll bet you have...fill me in.’

‘Well sir, you’re not going to believe this...but the man has revealed in depth, details of the decree.’

‘I see, what are these mysterious details Colin?’ Steadman looked up from his second cup of coffee.

‘There’s a restriction order on them sir.’

‘What sort of restriction?’

‘It’s marked for the presidents eyes only, he has given strict orders for data of this type to be held over until his return...please don’t ask me to overlook it sir.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, this could be an emergancy and the president isn’t here...I am the acting president, therefore I’m instructing you to release the details -- bring the document here immediately.’

‘Garner won’t like it sir...shouldn’t we at least contact him?’

‘No...you’re talking to the current president, and if you don’t release the information I’ll have you removed from duty,’ Steadman grimaced, turned off his cell phone and thought for a moment, then picked up a slim, A4 manila envelope from his restricted tray and grudgingly walked the short distance into Jenkin’s office, placing the folder on his desk. Jenkins smiled impishly.

It had been clear since the early beginnings of the presidency that a rift existed between Garner and Jenkins. The president had given Jenkins the vice presidents job as a means of placating the ambitious senator; knowing full well that his powers would be muted. He was now beginning to realise that this was a grave mistake, Jenkin’s had shown himself to be cunning, devious, and opportunistic. A political hot potato, as Garner often referred to him behind his back -- he was a man who had his own agenda and could not be trusted to toe the line. In response Garner had instituted a hidden procedural schedule within the White House protocol before he left in an attempt to keep Jenkins out of the loop.

The vice president smiled mischievously at the secretary of state.

‘Thank you Colin, I trust you’ll keep me informed of all matters requiring the president’s attention from now on, otherwise, it’ll be your head on a platter,’ Steadman concealed a disparaging smile.

‘Of course sir, that goes without saying,’ Jenkins waited until Steadman returned to his office then opened the envelope.

Chapter Fifteen

Jenkins perused the restricted document in awe, it not only described in detail the Iranian leader’s decree and its deadly conditions, but actually named some of the terrorist leaders in the field.

One problem immediately bugged him; was the information genuine, or was it an elaborate fake? He asked himself the question...why would they fake it? The more he thought about it the more it took on the colour of the truth. Perhaps in their wisdom the Iranian hierarchy had allowed the information to trickle into American hands for reasons of their own. This was clearly a long shot. It wasn’t Iranian style...a bit too subtle for the Islamic hierarchy or the extremist clique.

He pondered the different options open to him. If no action were taken it would be an opportunity lost on complacency, on the other hand, if appropriate action were taken it could result in a monumental political coup. He squinted at the names and particulars moving quickly down the text.

One particular listing stood out of the page, it was a man by the name of Farid Hassan Kazeni, who lead an Australian group. His mobile phone number was clearly displayed after his name. No details of size or armament of this particular group were given.

Although Australia had instituted an armistice on privately held firearms some years ago there were still large numbers of illicit weapons available on the black market. Also the illegal importation of arms into Australia was virtually impossible to contain, due to its extensive coastline, which presented unlimited opportunities for budding arms smugglers as well as illegal immigrants.

The president was in mortal danger, a tentative study had revealed that as good as the secret service were, they would have great difficulty in dealing effectively with an all out attack by a well trained paramilitary force.

Equally, it would be impossible to guard the president with an effective well armed force unless his movement were severely limited. The secret service was simply a mobility compromise and worked well for the average assassin, providing the president was not unduly exposed. But the other alternative continued to plague him, the whole message could be false, few revelations of this magnitude had ever been hacked out of insurgents, even those who were literally tortured to death never revealed so much. Allah certainly had a pronounced strangle hold over his minions.

It could also be a diversion for something far bigger and nastier. But the information could not be ignored -- 9/11 was a gross example of what happens when crucial information was systematically ignored. It also revealed some of the hidden limitations of the human species. Situations were becoming too complex for mere humans to handle effectively. The human anatomy actually needed an additional brain to cope with the worlds ever increasing Information Technology (IT). Massive resources costing billions of dollars and involving millions of people were employed in the security of the country. The lives of whole of the US population were based on this massive technological infrastructure, and yet, in the end, it all boiled down to the whims of one very vulnerable man.

Jenkins sat back in his chair and continued to think about the implications of the information he had just received. Uncannily one of the first things to come to mind, was the British SAS motto.

At one point in his young career he had met a young SAS service man on holiday in the UK. During payment for a round of beers the man had flashed his wallet full of English pound notes. It was his army pay and he wanted to spend as much as possible before he went back to Belize, where money was extraneous to ones needs. But his wallet had something far more interesting to the young Jenkins. It was embellished with a polished SAS cap badge. The simple design and motto imprinted on the metal stuck in his mind. It had remained there throughout his political career and now it had resurfaced. ‘He Who Dares Wins’ it boldly proclaimed, it equated with phrases like: Grasping The Nettle, Taking The Bull By the Horns, Having The Courage Of Ones Convictions etc. Decisive action was what history was all about. It was a role of honour of those who dared to grab power and use it to the full without compunction. Perhaps somehow he could use one of these compelling quotations to further his ends. The whole concept seemed to go with ego and the all American hero, it was the sort of stuff John Wayne movies were made of.

But clearly times had changed rather drastically and new methods of delivery were needed. The six guns had been replaced with the mobile phone and the simplistic reasoning with the computer. Even the dress had changed the cowboy leather jacket and trousers had given way to the clean cut continental suit and the boots and spurs to the latest Italian fashion shoes.

Above all else, Jenkins was a man of the modern age, he was slim and topped the six foot mark with high cheek bones, and a slick of graying hair combed to one side. At fifty-one he considered himself ideally placed to take over the presidency; not too young, not too old, he could easily manage two terms before retiring in comfort as an elder statesman -- unlike some of the 70’s brigade who would be eligible for a pension years before they gained such high office.

Modern clothing attire fitted him like a dream, almost anything looked good on his athletic frame. He was highly aware of this and played it to the core. Dressing well was a hobby with him and he had taken to wearing Giorgione, an Italian label. The name was a new kid on the Washington block -- not that it was new, the clothing firm had existed for over fifty years as a top notch male fashion house in Italy and on the continent.

He liked the supreme slick cut and first class accessories which went with every delectable suit they turned out. No suit was complete without necktie, shirt, and shoes, which were custom matched to all the maestros creations.

A dynamic president abreast with the times was what most people wanted, and this is what they would get.

Chapter Sixteen

David Bourne was a White House steward and busied himself with clearing up coffee cups and other unwanted scraps from the main offices. Part of his training was to be as inconspicuous as possible and not disturb any of the working staff particularly those of high office. He scooped up Jenkin’s paper cup from his desk and was half way out of the room before the vice president looked up from his notes.

‘Just before you go David...I would like a word with you.’

‘Yes sir,’ Bourne stood at a casual attention, his slim, youthful form, blocking the doorway. He turned and smiled slightly, in line with White House courtesy code behaviour, his jet-black hair highlights glinting in the light of the desk lamp.

‘How long have you been with us David?’ said Jenkins patronisingly.

‘Three years sir.’

‘And before that?’Jenkins politely demanded.

‘Before that I was a house waiter at San Brachen School of etiquette.’

‘Really, I know it well...just off 49th street isn’t it?’

‘Yes sir,’ quipped Bourne, trying to conceal a growing disenchantment with the prolonged questioning routine. Jenkins fixed him with a cold stare.

‘Don’t misunderstand my motivation David, but I always thought that hospitality people lacked a certain kind of motivation in the real world.’ Bourne inwardly cringed...was this a personal insult or just a passing observation? He decided to accept the latter lest he sullied the conversation.

‘That’s understandable sir, but our basic driving force is to serve others directly, and of course there are compensations and promotions along the way, just like any other profession.’

‘I see, and what sort of advancement do you envisage in the future David?’

‘I would like to complete my studies at the San Brachen School just as soon as I have sufficient funding sir.’

‘I imagine fees would be rather high at such a prestigious school.’

‘They are sir, in spite of my remuneration here, I still find it hard going.’

‘I suppose you could do with an extra job.’

‘That would be nice sir but all my working hours are taken up.’

‘That’s no problem David, I was thinking of incorporating a few more simple jobs here in the offices -- there would be no additional hours involved,’ Bourne produced a genuine smile for the first time.

‘It’s nothing too demanding, I just want you to discretely retrieve a few files and gather information on your rounds of the offices. You may not be aware of it but a man in your position has far more freedom than a vice president...you have certain privileges we power brokers lack,’ Bourne smiled a little more over a doubtful grimace.

‘But sir, you are the most powerful man in the world. I would have thought nothing was beyond your reach,’Jenkins laughed veraciously.

‘My dear boy, that is a preposterous myth, the person in the street has more power than the president. Virtually everything I do is monitored, and the slightest error is blown out of all proportion. If I were to commit the slightest criminal offence it would almost certainly cost me my job. But you could metaphorically get away with murder and non would be the wiser.’

‘I can see that sir, but how does this apply in our present circumstances?’

‘Simple really, you can pass almost unnoticed throughout the offices as a steward -- whereas my presence would immediately invoke attention. It would be like the Queen shopping at the local grocery store for her veggies,' Bourne gazed warily at his superior.

‘I would not be able to do anything dishonest sir.’

‘Of course not, you’ll just be carrying out politically expedient requests by the acting president, that's all...I merely want you to be my ears and eyes in areas I can’t readily access myself without being noticed.’

‘It would have to be consistent with my duties sir.’

‘And so it will be, we’re all here to serve David, you’d just be looking after the interests of the vice president, or rather acting president, for the good of the country -- it’s as simple as that. Just as matter of interest...I presume you are computer literate?’

‘Yes sir, all students at the etiquette school have to be able to use a computer.’

‘Good...do you know what proxy means?

‘Why yes sir, I believe it refers to assisting someone else in their endeavors.’

‘Very good answer David. However, you would be assisting the vice president of the United States in the performance of his duties,’ Bourne repressed a feeling of conceit.

‘For your first assignment David, I want you to surreptitiously access a few of the main computers in the White House offices,’ Bourne’s eyes lit up in alarm.

‘This is no big deal, such information is not classified, particularly as far as the president is concerned. Do this as covertly as possible, so as not upset the general run of the system...I don’t want you to antagonise any of the senior staff you understand.’

‘Yes sir, I will be as discrete as possible.’

‘That’s my boy, now I have a list of files I’d like you to print out,’ Jenkins handed him a scrap of paper listing several file names.

‘Just bring up those files on screen, print them out, and deliver them to my desk each morning. These files are personal and therefore private, they are White House property and therefore subject to presidential scrutiny, they are not to be shown to anyone else under any circumstances ...understood?’

‘Yes sir...’

‘Also, whatever you do, don’t loose that scrap of paper -- memorise the file numbers then destroy it -- and remember, you are directly serving your country via your president.’

‘Right sir.’

‘Now there is some other information I’d like you to backup and protect,’ Jenkins gave him a printed sheet of A4 paper.

‘That is a schedule of the president Garner’s movements during his tour of Australia. I want you to scan that into the state secretary’s computer, he will be needing it, and while you’re there, just insert the phone number at the bottom of the sheet in his telephone address book. Do you think you can manage all that David?’

‘No problem sir,’ Jenkins slipped a plain envelope into his top pocket.

‘That's your first weeks salary tax free...there’ll be one of those each week, just as long as our little arrangement remains viable,’ Bourne smiled enthusiastically, this was almost like taking candy from a baby. Obviously Jenkins was the rookie president and was simply learning the ropes via a trusted aid. He pushed his chin up a little higher in the air as he strode off, knowing that the most powerful men in the land, was now relying on him.

Chapter Seventeen

The White House lawn was an intense green from its computerised watering and fertilising schedule. It stretched right up to the perimeter gates with Pennsylvania Avenue beyond.

Acting president Jenkins always liked to scan this area before starting work. The view was relaxing, and it removed any anxiety, as well as being an unconscious check on the public who were just beyond the fence line. The potential threat of interlopers was a destabilising force which he preferred to avoid. Political machinations often demanded their own special kind of privacy, and the higher you were on the ladder the more insistent it was.

He stood, pushing his chair aside, and made his way to his office door, stopping just short of the threshold. The vista to his left gave an uninterrupted view of secretary of state Steadman’s office and desk. It was untidy as usual, but homely, and was the sort of room Steadman might have had as a child. In many ways the man had never really grown up and the clutter was an open expression of this. The most recent copy of the Times was a regular artifact on his desk and could often be seen open at the page he had been reading before he rushed off somewhere else to spend his time.

Steadman was a portly, gregarious man, with receding hairline, and large hairy hands. His laid back appearance belied his intellectual acumen, and his main claim to fame was his ability to liaise with virtually anyone in the US political sphere, as well as most foreigners. He spoke four languages and was sometimes used as an ad hoc interpreter.

Unfortunately, he had a number of down sides -- untidiness, carelessness and a tendency for short term memory loss, which had often caused him some embarrassing moments -- he was also known to be a secret drinker. Loosing his spectacles and mobile phone were a common activity and he periodically left his mobile phone in his desk drawer; in spite of being berated by president Garner himself for leaving it laying around.

Jenkins had learned over many years to cultivate a persons good points and to tolerate the bad ones -- especially if the bad ones might be of political value. He had also learned that ones personal politics was neither bad nor good, but merely a means of expediting ones own wishes.

Steadmans office was empty and Jenkins walked the short distance to his desk and opened the side drawer. As expected the Times lay open on his desk top at an article on the State Of Iran. The secretary of state’s phone sat on top of some papers in full view to anyone who cared to look in the drawer.

His IN and OUT trays were bulging and as usual the desk was messy, which was in line with Steadman’s habit of leaving things to the very last moment, then rushing things through.

Jenkins slumped into the plush swivel chair, slipped a thin latex glove on his right hand and picked up the mobile, then keyed in the number of insurgent leader Farid Kazeni which he had memorised from the confessional data sheet. He placed a sheet of tissue over the mouthpiece. It was several minutes before a deep male voice answered.

‘Hello,’ Jenkins held the receiver closer to his mouth and spoke strongly into it.

‘Do not terminate this call...I have vital information...do not interrupt, I will only say this once. Listen very carefully...the US president will leave government house on Tuesday 15th, at 2.30pm precisely and enter circular quay, from there he will go to Darling Harbour, stay for fifteen minutes, then proceed to the Western distributor cross city tunnel, he will stop in the tunnel for a three minute inspection, then exit at the south airport turn off.

He will be in the right rear seat of the second car sitting next to the defence secretary...’ The transmission ceased abruptly and Kazeni looked open mouthed at his satellite phone. Allah had perpetuated another message.

This was incredible, it was all beginning to happen, never in his wildest dreams did he ever think that he would finally be the chosen one, let alone receive a direct communication like this out of the blue. The message was simply and succinct, and contained all the necessary information to enable the BIB to abduct the US president on his visit to Sydney.

Who would imagine that such a message could be so casually relayed, in of all places...a Macdonald’s restaurant.

He glanced around at the people munching away at their fast food meals -- his hands began shaking uncontrollably. He had to get home and seek privacy in his rear garden shed; he had less than a week to mount the most important hit any group had ever made in the history of modern Islam. Even 9/11 would pale at the side of the trial and subsequent execution of the US president by the supreme council in Tehran. It would be total fulfillment for the Supreme Leader and the Islamic council...and he, Farid Kazeni, would be the hero who was about to perpetuate it.

With his initial plan of using new tactics gleaned from videos on the US secret service, and the Russians, with their wonderful Dragunov sniper rifles -- nothing could prevent his ultimate success. The amazing serendipity of the occasion was yet another act of Allah -- no less!

Chapter Eighteen

Kazeni checked his mobile phone data -- to his amazement the call came from America, somewhere in the Washington area. Then he recalled the number of possible active terrorist groups in the USA and beamed -- who else could possible obtain such detailed intel at such short notice?

He thanked Allah yet again for the gift of memory and the ability to remember word for word any call which was repeated. He wrote the message down in order, and sketched a map of the Sydney area, marking each place where the motorcade would stop.

He went slowly through the diagram, vividly imagining the surroundings of the Sydney Business District at each stop, and conjured up the peculiarities of the area.

Sydney was such a dynamic city and by 2.30 p.m. it would normally be seething with tourists and shoppers, but the presidential route would be carefully screened off from the public masses by lines of police and concrete barriers. A procedure which in fact would aid the terrorist rather than foil them. Such arrangements tended to restrict the visiting dignitary to a particular time and place; virtually imprisoning the US president within the city. As a protective mechanism it was very restrictive compared to a free lance militia group who literally had the run of the city.

The police cordons and concrete barriers would show the exact path to be taken by the motorcade. Details of the motorcade timing would enable the BIB to locate the exact position of the presidential limousine at any given time, providing the security service and police stuck to their duty schedule, which was almost a forgone conclusion anyway.

Kazeni scanned the diagram dozens of times estimating the difficulties which might be encountered at each venue of the president’s tour. Non of the motorcade stops lended themselves to an easy adduction, there were too many avenues of possible presidential escape, which would undoubtedly be checked out by the US secret service. He placed his mobile in his inside pocket and buckled himself in the driving seat of his Mercedes coup, than made his way along Circular Quay to Government House.Parking a short distance away, he surveyed the impressive building, it looked like a prize turkey just waiting to be plucked and stuffed, but this was an illusion -- within twenty four hours it would be impossible to get within fifty metres of the place. Police were already tentatively erecting huge metal restraining barriers around the streets. He moved on along the Quay and over to Darling Harbour where more police activity was taking place. The Maritime Museum would be riddled with Secret Service and police officers and would be an absolute potential nightmare for any budding insurrectionist.

After this visit the motorcade would head for the Western Distributor, enter the cross city tunnel, and exit at the airport south transit road.

Kazeni continued through the city tunnel and on towards the airport turn off, then drove all the way to the airport. He sat in the international lounge and sipped a cup of coffee and went through the motorcade run again in his head. There didn’t seem to be any simple way a successful abduction could take place en route. He walked around the International airport section, sitting at various food and coffee shop outlets, looking for ways and means of a quick presidential heist and getaway.

However one looked at it, it would be touch and go, there were too many obstacles, too many unknowns, and too many people. It had to be done away from the airport in a safer contained area, a trap, where uninterrupted negotiations could be carried out if necessary.

He got back in his car and retraced his way, going back and forth several times, looking at fine detail, examining obstacles, and most of all, possible dead ends.

There was only one place a successful abduction could take place, and that was in the middle of cross city tunnel near Hyde park. If both ends were blocked, they would have the US president and security officers bottled up, and at their mercy. No force on earth could change it once the situation was accomplished -- the whole thing would be a fait accompli. It reminded him of his humble studies in antiquity and the great generals of the past. The one that stood out most was Hannibal, who coined the phrase,‘we will find a way, or make one.’

The US secret service based their protection methods on an advanced force of trained officers, who swept the path in front of the presidential motorcade, clearing the way of potential hazards, while keeping a reserve contingent in and around the motorcade, shielding the president. It was high security on the run and America’s answer to mobile protection. In theory this was a good basic security method but had a number of faults.

The plain facts were: even if presidents were closely surrounded by the best agents the US could muster, they would still not be totally protected. Total mobile protection was impossible, and any attempt to achieve this, would at best, only be a compromise.

Like any mobile object with its own built-in armament there would be weak points. The best armoured tanks in the world could still be immobilised by the manual attachment of a suitably powerful magnetic mine.

There were many other examples of powerful edifices being destroyed by taking advantage of their hidden weaknesses. It wasn’t so much the amount of armament protection, but the application of devious disabling techniques which defeated the enemy.

Chapter Nineteen

Police HQ Sydney

Police commissioner Chester signed his last official document, attached it to the requisite folder, and placed it in his OUT tray. He leaned back in his chair and sighed, now he could do some free thinking of his own before his next interview with the media.

He could have done without the US president’s impromptu visit, not to mention all the other state leader’s coincidental arrivals -- the security involved was a bloody nightmare. Not just because of budding terrorist groups either, the US president always carried his own secret service detachment with him wherever he went, and unless things were handled very discreetly, clashes often occurred between the secret service and the security forces of other countries.

The Australian federal government and police commissioner had agreed on a number of past occasions that the Secret Service be allowed to control the immediate ground in front and behind the motorcade, thus creating an American security bubble around the president, while the federal police handled the peripheral environs.

The Apex meeting held in Sydney a few years ago was still fresh in his mind. The security was massive and it locked up the city for five days creating one headache after another. Back then the motorcade had twenty vehicles, and a thousand security personnel, but with the current situation being low key, it had been reduced to ten vehicles and less than three hundred security people.

The commissioner's mobile beeped and he pressed the speak button.

‘Hello commissioner here.’

‘Inspector Jarvis speaking sir...the president is leaving Government House in the next three minutes.’

‘Good...we’re on the last leg then... maintain the high level security -- once we get the motorcade to the airport and the president back on Air Force One we can relax a little -- keep up the good work.’

There’s just one other thing sir, one of the US veteran services groups has contacted us, they have bitterly complaining that the airport security is total and there’s no way they can give the president a good send off. The Australian vets would also like to cheer the US commander in chief.’

‘Sorry Jarvis, we can’t do much about airport security around the US contingent, that’s their baby.’

‘One of the vets spokesman suggested the tunnel turn off to the airport might be a good place sir,’ the commissioner blew a stream of hot air through his lips, then stared at a detailed map on his personal monitor, tracing the route with his extended finger. He moved backwards in his swivel chair balancing the pros and cons of the suggestion.

Head of state visitations were always a compromise between Go and No-Go situations and it was this that vexed Chester so much. You couldn’t beat the total lock down method applied without reservation, only this method could guarantee a high degree of safety, but it was ultimately the public and the polliticians who dictated the situation, he was merely a puppet.

Chester threw his hands in the sir and conceded it was better than a lot of winging vets and sympathetic do-gooders clamoring for tabloid headlines after the event.

‘All right, providing they don’t get too close to the police cordon, or the Secret Service officers.’

‘There’s no way they could do that sir, the barriers there are at least three metres high and quite a distance from the highway. The motorcade would pass without even seeing them...they would be left out in the cold.’

‘You’re not suggesting we move the barriers for a few disgruntled veterans are you inspector -- we’re not in the business of promoting minority groups -- our job is security...i.e. protection of the US president’

‘They’re hardly a minority group sir, there are many thousands of our own veterans as well as many others from overseas countries. They do have a significant political clout and media representation. Any denying of their representation might be seen as heavy handed police tactics. It could be blown out of all proportion by the Veterans Organisation.’

‘That may well be inspector, but we can’t just let them take over.’

‘Well I thought we might remove just one barrier sir at the airport exit road and then place a few police officers around them...sort of fence them in with a human chain instead.’

‘All right...do it, but it’s against my better judgment, and as soon as the motorcade passes close it up again.’

‘Understood sir,’ Chester pressed the end-call button on his mobile and mouthed a few chosen words to himself.

‘Bloody vets, always after something, you’d think we owed them the ruddy world,’ Chester hadn’t spent three decades in the police force without learning something about the public at large. He had spent most of that time putting members of the public right and heading off problems created by misinformed, egotistical politicians.

When things went wrong it was nearly always some inconsiderate rat bag trying to get their own way.

Chapter Twenty

Kazeni parked his BMW near Rushcutters Bay and strolled to the small unpretentious park surrounding the Bay’s waterline. He had often went down to the area in earlier days and enjoyed the company of fellow joggers. His favourite stint was to jog up the steep, stone steps, at the west side of the park, which lead up to Potts Point and Kings Cross until it tired him out, then relax completely on his back in the soft grass. There were several grand houses and apartments along the way, and an intimate view of the harbour with its row upon row of top class racing yachts, which added to the exciting aura he felt every time he visited the place. The small nautical enclave was home to many craft who were not only contenders, but winners and runners up, in the world renowned Sydney to Hobart yacht race.

It was special, and he would sit for hours on a summers day taking in the prestigious surrounds, and pretend he was a tycoon lounging in his own back yard. Whenever he wanted to think or dream away his worries, this was his ultimate little paradise, it had all the ingredients in the correct proportions.

There were a number of iconic places in the Sydney environs, all of them memorable and enigmatic in some special way, but for him Rushcutters Bay Park held the trump card. It was a little park by any standards, a patch of green graced with some of the worlds best racing yachts as a backdrop. It was a direct front to Sydney harbour and a buffer to several contrasting suburbs. To the north west was the notorious Kings Cross and Darlinghurst, with the eastern aspect being dominated by the well heeled suburb of Double Bay. But the US president wouldn’t be visiting any of these areas. It was nice to dream and revel in these fascinating suburbs, but cold reality now dictated that he immerse himself in less prestigious places.

He had decided that he would traverse the presidential motorcade route until he had a workable plan -- checking out each feature of the surroundings, and delving into the flaws of the US security schedule. Nothing was perfect and the best security arrangements in the world always had weaknesses -- these would be ruthlessly exploited.

It didn’t matter how long the US secret service spent checking the layout of the suburbs, they would still lack the subtleties of the street wise individual, who actually lived in the city, and knew the peculiarities of Sydney milieu.

Most important of all was the terrorists escape route which had to stretch all the way from the Sydney suburbs to the Iranian capital of Iran -- daunting though it seemed, they had a trump card on their side -- it would be the life of the president of the United States. He would see them through or they would all die in the attempt.

Kazeni took one last look around Rushcutters Bay Park and uncovered his lap top on the passenger seat.

He smiled appreciatively as the computer booted up and went automatically into fast Internet broad band. Surfing the private aircraft charter listings he picking out three fast helicopter machines, which seemed suitable for a fast trip across the country to Darwin. Then checked the private Lear jet companies for a long range aircraft suitable for a small group of people.

He went over the specifications of each aircraft keying in weights, and passenger numbers in relation to fuel capacity, placing the figures in the computer’s calculator. Then he estimated speeds and distances covered with possible fuel stops. He crunched the numbers in his head several times making absolutely sure they were accurate and reliable, even though the computer supposedly supplied accurate data; from past experience he knew that the computer was only as good as the operator and wasn’t always totally reliable.

One thing he liked to do was organise and improvise on the spot; it was a very necessary skill for a successful terrorist. Thinking on ones feet would commence from the word go and continue until the mission was well and truly over.

Tentatively he made two bookings, one for a Lear jet, and the other for a helicopter. In the back pages of his diary he also penciled in two other companies which supplied similar aircraft -- these he would access if the current firm failed him for some unforeseen reasons. Back-ups were essential and well illustrated by the Iranian hostage situation fiasco code named Eagle Claw. The operation resulted in eight American deaths and total humiliation on the world stage. This was largely due to equipment failure, inclement weather and most important of all, lack of efficient back-up. Had a second independent stand by team been available the operation could well have been a great success for the US. Kazeni was determined to learn not only from their own mistakes, but those of the enemy as well.

He had considered tendering the companies between each other for the best offers, but eventually discarded the idea. Time was short and money was not a problem in the devious world of the BIB.

Chapter Twenty-one

White House, Washington

David Bourne dropped a heavy brown envelope in the vice presidents ‘IN’ tray, smiled slightly at his superior, and left the room without a word.

Jenkins finished his coffee, peered around the office area, then carefully slit open the envelope with his silver letter opener. He browsed slowly through the photocopied material stopping at a recent communiqué. He cursed, openly repeating the ‘F’ word several times, the bastards were still cutting him out of the loop. He wasn’t sure if this was the ingrained treatment most vice presidents got when placed in charge during a presidential absence or not. It was akin to a locum doctors position, where people always avoided making an appointment with a locum MD whenever their favourite doctor was on leave.

The only other option was almost certainly personal and he didn’t really care about the reasons, he had his own way of dealing with such things. Contempt was best stemmed by an equal and opposite dose of the same thing and when combined with Fabian like tactics, it was devastatingly successful, the only problem with this approach was that it became addictive, and was the quickest way to a life of self corruption.

In any case, he much preferred being treated with contempt, it tended to clear the air of bullshit and gave him a reason to be irascible. He shrugged off this latest dose of human nature and continued his monitoring.

Most of the info was outdated and run-of-the-mill stuff, but occasionally a gem would be found among the rubble. He stared at the penultimate page from the end. It was an update of the presidential motorcade route in Sydney. A thoughtful Australian commissioner of police had added an extra notation to the security listing.

Apparently, one security barrier at the airport exit end of the cross city tunnel would be briefly removed to allow a group of US and Australian service veterans to cheer and wave farewell to their president in a more personal way. A hasty apology was given by an inspector Jarvis, who pointed out that the vets would be fronted by a row of federal police right up until the moment the presidential motorcade passed by, then the police line would break allowing a gap of several metres to allow both president and veterans to wave to each other. A fifteen second window would be allowed before the police line closed again, thus quickly sealing any possible breach of security.

Jenkins chuckled inwardly, if there was a weakness in security it was always a human one, and humans were wonderfully predictive in their behaviour patterns. He thought about president Garner and his policy of consultation and appeasement with allies -- such sentiments often lead to a similar policy with enemies, and a president with a conscience, was indeed a president with a liability.

Not everyone in the world had a politically correct conscience which bothered them, such exotic sentiments were a rarity in the Islamic militia. In a US president -- it could be fatal.

Chapter Twenty-two

The motorcade passed along Circular Key with the US president smiling profusely at his chief of staff, Jack Magnus, and national security advisor, Ellen Monard, sitting along side him in the back seat of the second car. The conference had hammered out several crucial agreements, the main one being the use of nuclear force against Iran. In the event of nuclear hostilities by Iranian government all parties had agreed after concerted lobbying that the United States would have total carte blanche in the use of nuclear weapons and would be supported by the heads of all governments present.

‘Well I must say that went particularly well Mr. president...total agreement between heads of state...must surely be a first in the history of the civilised world.’

‘You’re damned right it did Jack...they know we’re right. If we don’t all pull together and stand up to these bastards the free world is lost.’

The president smiled profusely and lit up a cigar, even though he didn’t smoke, which immediately provoked a severe coughing fit. He looked through watery, bloodshot eyes, at Ellen Monard.

‘You know Ell’ I kept this cigar especially for this sort of occasion, the First Lady gave it to me for Christmas last year...it was a purely symbolic gesture for my success as president,’ Ellen gazed at it with a mixture of wonder and horror -- it was the biggest gold banded Cuban cigar she’d ever seen.

‘I’m determined to smoke it if it kills me,’ Ellen shook her head in unison with Jack Magnus and immediately saw it as a possible threat to the presidents health and security.

‘Excuse me sir, but you should have kept it in it’s display box, that is definitely a museum piece,' Garner tried to laugh through a choking fit.

‘I hate to say it sir, but it probably will kill you,’ Ellen had often considered that presidents had too much personal power for their own good, and needed a firm hand to guide them from time to time. She was pleased to see Garner dressed in his finest blue suite, with gray ultrafine pinstripe, of all the suites in his vast wardrobe this one suited him the best. A stellar performance could be expected from the president simply because he was wearing his favourite attire.

It was true, over many years of experience in the public gaze, she had learned that clothing was critical, one had to feel the part, and this could only be achieved if clothing and personality complimented each other perfectly -- it was interactive psychology at its best.

In spite of this Garner looked tired and laid his head back, gazing out the window, taking in all the high barriers and lines of yellow fluorescent jacketed police. Occasionally he glimpsed curious pink faced members of the public gawking through restrictive barriers.

The motorcade continued on the scheduled route to the Maritime Museum at Darling Harbour, passing a multitude of wine bars, a plethora of crowded restaurants, and several up market clothing boutiques. Aroma’s of all kinds flashed past his olfactory senses but unfortunately were lost on the over powering cigar stench pervading the car space. The president continued with the monstrous cheroot, taking short puffs and blowing smoke out of the half opened window, dispute polite rebuffs from his impatient security advisor. He finally turned to his chief of staff with a wistful expression.

‘You know...one day, I’m going to come here in cognitio, and give this place the tourist thrashing of its life. When you’re president you get to see nothing but police barriers, security staff and blurred faces. I just want to see the place for what it is...warts and all.’ The driver pushed a clean air button on the fascia panel and a near silent fan started to extract the remnants of the cigar smoke. The president looked askance at the driver as if the very action of cleaning his cigar smoke from the car amounted to the wanton destruction of a sacred substance. He was about to chastise the man, then thought better of it -- president Garner had taken a course in personal paranoia, and how to control such vexations in the face of annoyance. He turned away from the driver and induced a smile which spread across his face like butter on hot toast. The great trick with motorcades and the ever ogling public, was to actively enjoy it, regardless of how your actual feelings were.

The crowds and cheering increased as the motorcade pulled onto the Darling Harbour concourse and slowly made its way to the Museum. American flags abounded with blotches of Australian flags thrown in, providing a glitzy, polka-dot background. A sense of excitement pervaded the president’s limousine and the president continued to smile behind an increasing feeling of sickness in his stomach. ‘Why did stomach disorders have to be so bloody debilitating,’ he mouthed under his breath -- which immediately made him think of his other great affliction the common toothache ?

He instantly brushed it off for the second time, it was the very last thing the USA’s top statesman needed at such an important occasion. He pointed at one of the main museum buildings; he remembered the steel and stone edifice from brochures he’d studied back in the States. The car stopped and Garner alighted, swaying slightly, as the cigar smoking incident took its toll on his brain cells. Determined to make a good impression, he strode up to the Museum entrance, surrounded by a bevy of security men. He felt secure, cocooned with his own human shield, who helped to prop him up, even though his guttural senses were now riding him ragged.

He clung discreetly to his two lateral security agents just in case his visceral reactions got the better of him. A vomiting spree in public was a dreaded faux pas to any politician, especially a US President, and to be avoided at all costs. A discrete water proof vomit bag, carefully folded, had been placed in his side pocket for easy retrieval; but only to be used as an absolute last resort.

Ellen Monard along with a handful of agents brought up the rear keeping close to the president’s back, shielding him from possible assault from behind. Monard pushed her head forward whispering discreetly in the president’s ear.

‘Breath in deeply sir, the air is fresher around the harbour area, it’ll clear the cigar smoke from your lungs,’ Garner did as he was told and breathed in heavily sticking out his chest in the process. His face took on a gray pallor and slowly began to turn white. Garner continued putting on a brave front but realised the damage was done and an incident wasn’t too far away. The horror of the occasion was that he couldn’t turn back without creating a media incident; he had to go on.

The only option left to him was self control. Garner knew it was possible to prevent regurgitation of the stomach content, but it needed intense control via self suggestion, which was the basis of all hypnosis; but in spite of this, sooner or later, the body would probably have its way.

If he could control himself until he managed to get back to the reinforced presidential vehicle; he could throw up for all he was worth. Many underlings would be all too please to clean up after the president; it would be a memory worth saving for the grand kids... ‘Believe it or not...I cleaned up after the president of the United States!’

Chapter Twenty-three

Police Security HQ

Commissioner Clement Chester sat watching the CCTV coverage dressed in his serge blue uniform with rank insignia and ribbon medals, adding a bit of class and a splash of colour to an other wise drab control HQ. The room had been stripped of a swag personnel for the presidential visit in order to give maximum control and coverage at street level. President Garner had picked a bad time to visit Sydney, but he wasn’t to know, that several hundred police had resigned in the last six months over unfair work loads and pay disputes.

The whole event would be a battle of police manipulation, extracting personnel from one place, and using them to plug up another more demanding area. It was a vexatious case of robbing Peter to pay Paul. Chester switched from one camera to the next as the presidential party progressed. His mobile buzzed and he pressed the answer button.

‘Hello HQ...Chester here..’

‘Commander Denison, district four sir...we have a problem...two of the tunnel distributor air exhaust vents are not working.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Near the airport turn-off sir.’

‘Good, that’s some way off yet, the presidential party has just entered the Maritime Museum, so you’re looking at another hour or so before they get anywhere near the turn-off. Get the RTA workmen onto it...keep me informed.’

‘Right away sir.’

Chester was a no nonsense commissioner and would not suffer fools gladly. He was product of the NSW Police Academy and believed strongly in keeping order at all costs, even to the point of man handling the public should they threaten to cross the line. He decried the softening up of control to political correctness and had clashed many times with the police minister. His greatest enemy was own wariness and his once fine police mind had given way to irascibility, which served to cover up his ever increasing indecision and lack of control. He had over heard comments from his front line commanders on a number of occasions who had stooped to calling him ‘Chester the Jester’ behind his back.

The presidential visit was a chance to show his doubters that he could handle such an important occasion, just as he did the Apex meeting a few years back. He switched to the Maritime Museum CCTV camera and watched the president making his speech.

President Garner leaned in towards the ships bell donated by former president Bush and openly admired the artifact, then praised the Australian people for their steadfast and resolute commitment to the coalition of the willing and the cause of freedom. He began to sway a little as an attack of dizziness caused him to grip harder on his nearest security officer’s arm; hardly noticeable to the general public, but Chester spotted it immediately.

He continued speaking forcefully then suddenly stopped in mid-sentance after a muscle contraction rippled up his oesophagus and dumped a quantity of undigested acidic food into his mouth cavity. This was the very thing he feared the most and he quickly used his handkerchief to remove the offending food debris. It was time to cut the speech short and get back to the safety of his limousine, where everything was on hand, including motion sickness pills and bigger vomit bags.

Waving, and forcing a contorted smile, he spoke a few words of farewell and abruptly turned towards the entrance, walking steadily, trying to keep his balance, after another dizzy spell suddenly erupted.

The New South Wales Premier looked agog at his presidential counterpart who’s rapidly receding rear surged towards the large exit doors. He held out his right hand displaying a gold miniature of Bush’s ships bell

waving it for all he was worth. A secret service agent grabbed it and ran after the president. This was one political memento the president just had to have for the sake of entente cordial with Australia.

Chester stared at the CCTV screen, looking at a blurry image of a wobbly president, and checked his watch -- the top man was leaving too early, he should be there for at least another fifteen minutes -- his mobile rang.

‘Hello Chester here.’

‘Change of plan sir, the president has a slight sickness and will not be stopping in the tunnel to inspect the facility,’ Chester broke a sigh of relief; it would never do for the US president to have a choking fit in a tunnel filled with carbon monoxide gases. Under normal conditions the air conditioning was barely adequate anyway. Chester felt a little easier knowing the visit would end just a little sooner than expected.

‘Okay, keep a close watch on the presidential party, let me know the minute they enter the western distributor tunnel,’ Chester’s curiosity got the better of him and he stopped the tape on camera number one and rewound it a few frames, then replayed it in slow motion. He studied the president closely watching his every move and facial inflection. From many years of past experience watching peoples behaviuor during police line-ups, and interviews, Chester had developed the ability to understand peoples body language for what it was, and the president was acting most strangely for a public figure.

So the great man had problems -- was it something he had eaten at the conference table or just the simple psychological excitement of the event. The difference was important -- if it was the food, then it could well be an Australian problem. The politically correct inquiry that would surely follow would be a ruddy nightmare. Chester secretly hoped it might be a mild heart attack, self centred though the thought was, it would keep himself and the authorities out of the shit.

Chapter Twenty-four

The presidential motorcade slowly pulled out of Darling Harbour and headed toward the city tunnel. A man along the way in faded blue jeans and a shabby duffle coat spoke into his mobile.

‘Yes, I was right Farid, the motorcade is heading for the tunnel entrance right now.’

‘You’re sure, our quarry seems to be rushing things, either that, or I’ve got the wrong schedule, maybe something else is bugging them...what is his problem?’

‘The president may be ill, his performance at the Maritime Museum was below par, he cut it short and coughed into his handkerchief.’

‘What’s your estimated time of arrival in the tunnel Habib?’

‘The motorcade seems to have speeded up...at this rate they’ll be in the tunnel in the next ten minutes.’

‘Right, give the last car five minutes into the tunnel then fire your RPG’s up their assess and bring up your men...I’ll alert the vets group at the airport turn off.’

Commissioner Chester watched the motorcade enter the tunnel and looked at his duty sergeant.

‘When are these bloody Yanks going to learn that a motorcade, however well armed it is, is a prime target...they’re sitting ducks. If the rag tag Afghan rebels can finish off dozens of Russian armoured columns, what can a group of determined insurgents do to a presidential motorcade?’

The appearance of the Americans set Chester thinking and he wondered about the type of man Garner was. Since when did a US president worry about its allies to the degree of making an extremely dangerous trip, costing thousands of dollars, just to receive their reassurance that it was okay to nuke the Iranians. It didn’t make a lot of sense to a free thinking man like Chester. At least on the surface it tended to show that Garner was a good man and probably cared about other nations and their people...or did he? Perhaps this was just a bit of baloney and a smart propaganda exercise.

Trouble was, having a good man with scruples as president, wasn’t always a good thing. The time would come when the USA needed a president who could wield a big stick and actually use it, without worrying about collateral damage. Compassion was one thing, but US political security was quite another. But...there was another more obvious reason for his unprecedented trip. Perhaps the man felt so insecure in his reasoning, that he had to get world approval before he could act.

Chester’s mobile crackled.

‘Hello HQ here, Chester speaking.’

‘The motorcade is nearly half way through the tunnel sir.’

‘Okay continue monitoring,’ Chester turned to his duty officer.

‘We’re in luck Sergeant, the president has a bug and they’re cutting back on the timing, they’ll be out of the distributor in ten to fifteen minutes,’ Chester’s mobile continued buzzing.

‘Hello Chester...’

‘Hello sir, we’ve got problems with the air ventilation shafts...all of them are out of order.’

‘What...that can’t be...whats the bloody problem?’there was a pregnant silence.

‘They’ve been interfered with sir.’

‘What do you mean interfered with commander?’

‘The two that have just been inspected have hardened cement all over the fan motors and blades...they’re useless.’

‘For fuck sakes commander, get your men onto this, someone is trying to stuff the ruddy system up. Take another ten men from barrier duty and get them into the tunnel pronto,’ this was the first hiccup that pointed to possible trouble along the way; suction fans didn’t grow cement vests on their own, especially in a sensitive area on the presidential route.

Chester barked another order down the phone.

‘Seal off the tunnel completely from the public...now!’

Chester felt the first pangs of fear raising slowly in his chest they were the sort of feelings that gave an elderly man a cardiac arrest. It was one thing Chester had noted in his long career as a front line policeman and later as a commissioner. Panic drove rough shod over the heart muscle causing it to beat faster to keep up the pace, and if it didn’t keep up it became erratic, and if this continued too long, the heart finally gave up the struggle. It was a fight or flight adrenaline pumping situation which was strictly for the younger, fitter policeman. The only real answer was to quit the situation immediately and find a calm environment. Toilet facilities were ideal, in fact, more often than not, the only way out of an impossible situation was behind locked doors with ones head between the knees, but this was the equivalent of running in the face of the enemy -- a court marshal offence in the military

Chester sat down and deliberately calmed himself with direct suggestions and a special cigarette he kept for such occasions. He lit the reefer and blew smoke at the no smoking sign muttering under his breath..

‘Stuff the political correctness...this is strictly medicinal.’ At the start to the cross city tunnel the police cordon closed in preventing any other traffic from gaining access.

Police barriers were being hastily moved in position to completely block the entrance from the general public.

In a ground floor car park two blocks away two SUV’s with heavy steel bull bars were revving their engines. Habib Sharazi gave the signal over his mobile for his men to move in.

They drove the short distance to the tunnel scattering several police officers who got in the way. Then revved up even more, smashing through the metal barriers the police had just erected, they were no match for the heavy bull bars which easily swept them aside.

The two SUV’s charged into the tunnel stopping some thirty metres from the last presidential vehicle -- two men jumped out of the SUV-- each man fired a rocket propelled grenade into the rear of the motorcade.

The last two vehicles shot in the air in a fiery cascade and landed upside down, scattering astounded secret service agents in all directions. Two of the vehicles burst into flames creating toxic black smoke, apart from a rolling fire ball, it was possibly the worst hazard encountered in a confined tunnel. One of the US agents had the forethought to quickly apply a portable CO2 extinguisher to the fires. Heavy black smoke would have effected everyone in the limited space rendering most weapons less effective.

Several of Habib’s men took up well protected positions at the side of the tunnel and deliberately avoided firing at the agents until the fires were out, then began to pick off the US agents, one at time, with their Russian Dragunov sniper rifles.

At police HQ Chester keyed in the chief US security officer’s mobile number in the lead car. ‘Hello sir...Chester here...just checking, is everything okay there.’

‘Yes everything is just fine commissioner, we’ll be out of the tunnel in the next five minutes.’ The chief was about to close the line when an enormous rumbling sound came from the rear of the convoy. Bits and pieces of hot metal bounced off the walls filling the tunnel area with sparks and black smoke. A blast of hot air charged through the tunnel severely vibrating the line of remaining security vehicles. The chief turned in his seat straining his neck -- he looked hard at his second in command.

‘We’re being hit.’

‘Looks like it sir...what do you think?’

‘We make a run for it -- it would be madness to take them on in this tunnel -- heaven knows what weaponry they might have. We’ll be out in no time the exit is just up ahead.’

At the distributor exit the group of war veterans were getting ready to cheer their president, and the police line eased off slightly, to allow them to get a better view of the limousines when they exited the tunnel entrance.

Instead of waving flags the veterans produced Uzi machine pistols hidden in their jackets and sprayed the police line with nine millimeter rounds, sending police officers to the ground.

Farid Kazeni charged into the tunnel waving his men on. Once inside they applied special eye drops to their eyes and donned respiratory face masks. Three of the terrorist stood just inside the tunnel and repeatedly fired batches of tear gas grenades into the blackness of the tunnel exit. Clouds of dense white smoke filled the entrance reducing visibility to near zero.

The American security chief in the lead car touched his blue tooth earpiece and gave an order to the motorcade.

‘We’re going to make a run for it, after three counts I will accelerate, follow me as closely as you can.’

The chief counted to three into his blue tooth head set and put his foot hard on the accellerator -- almost in the same instant he stamped on the brakes as hard as he could. A mere thirty metres away a ghostly line of a dozen terrorist emerged from the opaque white gas cloud, with RPG grenade launches pointing directly at the motorcade.

The lead car had traveled some thirty feet before stopping instantly in its tracks after ripping its rubber tires to shreds and belching clouds of acrid smoke. This completely blinded the second presidential limousine which hit the back of the lead vehicle with a deafening thud.

The senior security driver came close to hitting the wind screen in spite of his belt restraint, but set off the driver airbag instead. It filled the front seat with a great hiss in less than two seconds. The president and his two high ranking companions were lodged on the edge of their seats suspended by their safety belts. The other cars in the motorcade barely managed to avoid hitting each other by millimeters. The wisdom of Ellen Monard insisting they all wear their safety belts was the best move the motorcade had made so far. She had once befriended Princes Diana and was mindful of how important the humble safety belt was. They all sat back in their seats except for president Garner, who remained on the edge of his seat, fumbling with a vomit bag, which he filled to capacity after only one attempt.

Monard reached over the president with a box of tissues and gently cleaned up his face while offering soothing comments in his ear. She was surprised how bad he actually looked, his face was deathly white, and his eyes bloodshot. The cigar smoking incident had severely upset his system -- he was now a very sick man.

Although badly shook-up by the sudden attack and unexpected halting of their vehicles -- the bevy of service agents got out of their limousines and took cover behind them -- rather than remaining in the cars were they were sitting ducks for snipers. Several of the agents slowly crept towards the presidential car in order to defend the president from further attack. Some of the agents began firing in the direction of the terrorists. The chief in the lead car shouted into his earpiece.

‘Don’t spare the fire power...we need to get out of here.’ The driver in the second car turned round and peered over the back seat; the president was prone on the long seat with his security advisor wiping his brow with damp paper tissues. Ellen Monard was grappling with a small oxygen cylinder and fixing the mask to Garners face as shots ricocheted off the tiled tunnel walls. Kazeni crouched down with three of his men.

‘We’ve got them pinned down...spread out and continue using the Dragunov rifles,’ the firing continued unabated with the security agents gradually moving toward the presidential car. Several more shots rang out and three of the security agents went down -- shot in the head by sniper bullets. Clumps of NSW police, most of them armed with Glock pistols, were pinned down along the sides of the tunnel. A few bodies and wounded policeman lay unattended along the way. Each time a brave constable stuck his head out of line it was shot off by an eager BIB marksman. Glock pistols were good everyday hand guns, but near useless where accurate, sharp shooting, in a poor visibility environment was required.

The kill rate continued as the terrorist contingent applied their newly honed sniper skills with the state-of-the-art, Russian rifles; at this rate it was just a matter of time before every policeman and US security agent would be picked off. Being cornered in a tunnel with a superior armed opposing force was the worst case scenario for the secret service. With the president in tow, service tactics were based on hit and run procedures, not a prolonged, static shoot out. A stalemate started to set in with the odd opportunistic shot being fired. Another thirty minutes elapsed as one after another service agent succumbed to opportunistic strikes by the Draganov sniper rifle. Brenda Jones a sergeant in the New south Wales police was pinned to the wall with three other police officers unable to move. The whole mess was a

horrible stalemate for a woman who had been used to achievement throughout her seven years in the police force. Her father had been a chief constable who had worked his way up the ranks largely by aggressive organising and daring do. Now it was Brenda’s turn to show them who was boss. She squinted around a 180 degree arc, crouched down, then ran like hell across the tunnel to the nearest US security contingent. A volley of nine millimeter rounds passed within inches of her head. Two agents huddled next to the fifth and sixth SUV’s welcomed her.

She spent nearly an hour firing opportunistic shots at the BIB finally wounding one man carrying a RPG launcher. Determined to even the odds she stepped out from behind the SUV and fired off her last three rounds at the man killing him instantly.

It was her last act as the BIB terrorist fired off his grenade as he fell to the ground. The rocket destroyed both SUV’s killing Brenda and two other US agents.

Only three agents were left crouching near the first car leaving just four other agents still inside their vehicles. One of the terrorist leveled his RPG launcher at the first car and fired a grenade. The vehicle lifted off the floor and exploded in flames killing the chief security agent, and his driver. The ear splitting blast echoed down the tunnel deafening anyone in ear shot.

Fresh air had now become a luxury in the confined corridor, all of the air conditioners were out at the airport turnoff end of the tunnel. Smoke continued to swirl around the vehicles and several had their conditioners running on the engine, which only added to the external

pollution. The sickly smell of concentrated carbon monoxide had now been somewhat muted by the choking stench of cordite and burning plastic. Death by smoke inhalation had taken over from the sniper’s bullets. Police began to loose their protective cover at the sides of the tunnel walls as respiratory difficulties gave way to coughing fits which revealed their locations. Bodies began to pile up and suicide at the hands of a BIB marksman was preferable to being choked to death by the build up of poisonous fumes. A number of police tried to make a run for the airport end of the tunnel only to be gunned down by unseen, gas masked, BIB men.

Chapter Twenty-five

Commisshioner Chester continued switching from one CCTV camera to another, desperately trying to locate the chief security agent, and the presidential limousine. The whole tunnel area was a black hole with dense swirls of gray smoke obscuring everything in the tunnel.. Occasionally fleeting figures would appear and just as quickly disappear. Dark twisted shapes came into view and then vanished as the fog enveloped them. It was impossible to decipher which vehicle was which amongst the tangled wreckage.

His mobile buzzed and he snatched it from the consul.

‘Chester here...’

‘Agent number 23 sir in the presidential car ...we’re just about finished commissioner...they have the president surrounded...can you send in your best men now.’

Chester dropped his mobile and stared blankly at the array of seventeen-inch CRT TV screens -- the worst possible nightmare was staring him in the face. He smirked at the American’s remark and silently mouthed his next statement.

‘Send in our best men?...they’re already in there you bloody idiot!’

It was like playing chess with the lights off. The whole thing was the province of the younger man who could think quickly on his feet...or perhaps that of the older man with a calm head and clear thinking; coupled with vast experience in violent confrontations.

He squinted more intensely at the instrumentation in front of him -- a bank of foggy CRT displays exhibiting incomprehensible images -- it represented his personal big picture of the destruction of the presidential motorcade. After all the work and careful planning which had gone into the protection of the president it had all come down to this -- a bunch of amateur terrorists had beaten them at their own game. It was yet another humiliating defeat the world would not forget, particularly the Islamic extremist countries.

He stared in anguish at the blurred illegible CCTV images. Why, oh bloody why, had they not took his advice and upgraded to modern, hi-tech video cameras, which would have given them a clearer view of the mess now confronting them? And where were the HD LCD Monitors he‘d thrown in for good measure. In spite of all the well thought out recommendations over the years, they had been completely ignored, even though some of them had been marked in red as an absolute necessity.

Standing in the monitor room was like staring into a row of black holes on a foggy winters day. Even so, it wasn’t too difficult to see the periodic piles of black objects scattered along the roadside, which turned out to be dead bodies, most of them secret service agents and policeman, with the odd terrorist here and there. They wouldn’t be the only dead after the event -- many heads would roll as a result of this international debacle. Chester was only too aware that his head would be top of the list.

The Sydney streets were clogged with tourists who had better camera equipment in their mobile phones than the police HQ had dotted along the tunnel. How on earth could they fight well armed, hi-tech terrorists, with useless outdated equipment.

A red light blinked periodically on the computer consul indicating that the cameras were recording events in the tunnel. Chester smiled, it wouldn’t be much of a TV show when they came to playing back the video shots, and there would certainly be a bloated inquiry over the incident. Unfortunately, the images would be run through by lower ranks, and assessed by area commanders. The politicians, who were in a position of real influence, rarely saw a good police CCTV video playback. If they did, it would tell then how abominably poor the quality was on police CRT video monitors. Chester himself had often said it would be difficult to identify your own mother staring directly into the camera from a distance of two feet. They were used for their scare factor, but good identification of human features was often a problem. They had long been a bit of a joke with the criminal element and the police alike. He was tempted to smash every outmoded CRT display with the nearest heavy object.

He was reluctant to pass on the message to higher authority because he would run into a wall of bureaucracy, which was designed to give him the run around, and in any case, it didn’t really matter anymore since the siege was practically over, with the terrorist having the upper hand from start to finish.

The HQ desk phone rang, just in time to save the consul displays from being smashed, and Chester leaned over picking up the receiver.

‘Hello...’

‘Police Minister here commissioner...I’ve just heard these ruddy terrorists have the upper hand, is that true?’

‘I’m afraid it is sir,’ Chester replied in a barely audible voice, shot with emotion and suppressed anger.

‘I see...’said the minister, in a scathing tone that made Chester flinch inwardly.

‘Don’t worry sir, I’ll have several hundred men in there post haste, we’re converging on both ends of the tunnel.’ Chester felt like a nazi general in Hitler’s bunker promising more men when non actually existed on paper.

‘They will not get out of there alive sir.’

‘No, and neither will the president at that rate. We’re having an emergency meeting at government house with major luminaries in the cabinet, put someone with a bit of gumption in charge, and tell them to hold the situation...don’t go charging in willy nilly, keep your men out of the tunnel...then get yourself over here right now,’ Chester cut the call, his heart in his mouth, then squinted seethingly at the CRT displays, and smiled perceptively -- they would be one of his leading excuse for total systemic failure.

There were of course other valid ingrained reasons for failure in the line of fire. Inexperienced Sydney police had never been through an all out terrorist attack on their city before. Neither had they had any specific counter terrorist training which might have equipped them better to deal with the tunnel hijack and subsequent massacre.

Their poor performance could be put down to their first terrorist baptism of fire -- the drawing of first blood -- they were hardly battle hardened troops and had many lessons to learn. On top of all that police turnover was alarmingly high and necessitated the use of near green recruits. There was a big difference between a civilian police force armed with politicaly correct inhibiting regulations and modest hand guns, compared to a free reining paramilitary force like the BIB, armed with a range of sophisticated weapons specifically chosen for the situation at hand.

Chapter Twenty-six

Acting president Jenkins frowned at the massive pile of documents in his IN tray, it was becoming a little too much to bear after a hard morning with staffers and a rash of irksome domestic problems. Although exhilarating as it was to be the most powerful man in the world, the incessant work load came as somewhat of a shock to him, and decisions seemed to be taking forever. There was clearly too much consultation between himself and an endless procession of different parties representing different causes. What ever happened to free will, when a president could issue an order that would be carried out immediately, and be devoid of gross interference by jumped up intermediaries

The emergency phone on the left of his desk rang and he peered at the device in surprise -- it was the first time the phone had ever rung since his inauguration into the White house.

‘Hello president Jenkins speaking.’

‘Hello sir, FBI director Australia...we have an emergency, the president has been kidnapped by a group of terrorists in the cross city tunnel in Australia.’ Jenkins looked at the phone receiver with a mixture of shock and expectation. After a few moments he found his voice and deliberately kept it low key.

‘Really...what about the secret service contingent over there, aren't they supposed to be protecting him?’

‘They did sir...most of them are now dead.’

‘You’ll have to put our men onto this director.’

‘Not that simple sir...Australian sovereignty is in the way.’

‘Well at least try -- we are allies I believe.’

‘Yes sir, one would hope so,’ the line went silent as the acting president stood deep in thought for several moments. Care had to be taken in the way things were handled from now on -- every step would be critical.

‘Now listen to me director, the Iranian Leader has issued a Decree, they have captured the president in order to put him on trail in Tehran in front of the world. There is no way they are going to let him go, in fact, any hard attempt to free him will almost certainly result in his death.’

‘That’s a fair assumption sir.’

‘Let’s treat it as a fact, then the only way we can come out of this on top is to use the situation to our advantage.’

‘I quite agree sir, but how?’

‘In the American embassy over there in Australia, is a special set of bullet shaped phials in a sealed box in the safe for just such an occasion as this.’

‘You don’t say, I wasn’t aware of that sir.’

‘Actually, boxes of this particular bullet are now common to most US embassies throughout the world. It was a covert decision made by a former president in case of an emergency. It has been on hold since its inception some years ago, its success depends entirely on its secrecy and this is why you are not aware of it director. I think now is the time for its release.

What I’m about to reveal to you is top secret director, I trust you will maintain correct protocol and keep it that way. Do you remember the Iranian hostage affair, where a number of our US personnel were captured and detained?’

‘Yes I do sir, wasn’t that on president Carter’s watch.’

‘It was...and we were powerless at the time. It was the most humiliating incident in the history of the United States military. It is something a great country like ours does not forget easily, and so, we had to learn from this shameful event.’

‘That’s right sir...and it also was the most frustrating thing ever to happen to any US government.’

‘It certainly was, and these special hi-tech bullets will address that situation somewhat, they have the highest possible classification...and once again, I’m reminding you of that director.

‘Are they a new take on cyanide capsules sir...does it have a code classification?’

‘Not quite that negative, but they’re the next best thing, they consists of a specially designed plastic bullet containing a micro transmitter, which when fired into the body penetrates the muscle and remains there undetected. They leave only a tiny pinprick in the skin which rapidly heals. You’ll find the relevant details listed under classified code number DS302’

‘And there purpose sir?

‘They are a marker consisting of a tiny, but highly powerful solid state signal generator. They also have an extra bio-active component which dissolves in the body tissues. The device activates the minute it enters the body. Any person harbouring such a device can now be detected anywhere in the world using one of our specially equipped drone aircraft. It will be near impossible to hide such captives from our airborne detectors ’

‘And the bio-active component sir...what does that do?’

‘It assists in the rapid healing of the entry wound and acts as a powerful anesthetic in the immediate area as well as possessing other physiological properties.’

‘But how can that help in our current situation sir?’

‘It’s simple really...your job will be to get one of these bullets implanted into the president before the terrorists whisk him away. The president should feel virtually nothing as the ultra slim bullet enters his tissues. There is a special silenced air gun in the arms cabinet within the embassy, the Ambassador has the only key. The weapon must be fired within a range of 30 metres for effective penetration.

Unfortunately, like all secret weapons it needs testing, preferable in secret by an unwilling participant who knows nothing of the device or its capabilities. Ideally the test case or victim should be totally unaware that he is the recipient of this insidious device after insertion.’

‘But how on earth are we going to test it sir...and what possible use is this device in the present situation?’

‘I would have thought that might have been obvious director. By a lucky or unlucky coincidence, depending on your point of view, president Garner is now in the most favorable situation possible for the testing of the DS 302 device.’

‘You actually intend to use it on the president sir.’

‘Of course, any politician in a position of influence wouldn’t hesitate to use it in the field. It is actually nothing more than the electronic human equivalent of a sophisticated animal marker device one might use on a pet dog or cat.

‘Your letting the terrorists take the president then sir?’

‘Yes, since they will kill the president anyway if we try to stop them, he is now lost to us, so we use the situation to our advantage -- what was the that saying by Dale Carnage?’

‘I don’t know sir, a bit before my time.’

‘Something about turning a lemon into a lemonade...that is what we will do director. Anyway, you must now find a good marksman over there, get him into the tunnel, and fire one of the marker bullets into the president before the terrorists whisk him away to Iran...that way we’ll be able to track them right to their HQ. It is therefore essential that they are allowed to get a away with the president -- make sure you get this over to the Australian authorities.’

‘Then what sir?’

‘Just as soon as we have found their head quarters via the drone aircraft detector, and established that the government hierarchy is present, we’ll nuke the bloody hell out of them.’

The FBI director checked himself against a strong desire to vigorously protest; instead, allowing himself a gross contraction of his facial muscles

‘Their is another problem here sir...the president has all the secret codes and security of our country embedded in his brain. What if they decide to torture him to death -- I can’t see the president holding out for very long -- he’s not a hard chore military type, they’ll have a field day.’

‘The only answer to that director, is to eliminated the president on the spot -- would you like to take responsibility for that?

‘No sir...that’s unthinkable.’

‘Good, then we proceed as stated. In any case, the embedded bullet will have it’s own slow release, euthanasia device built in. The president is not likely to last long enough for a full scale torture session.

Now, we haven’t got much time director, so get onto this immediately. I want this done, if the Australian authorities can’t handle it, then we’ll fly out a special FBI HRT team.’

‘A Hostage Response Team sir -- but that will seriously jeopardize our relationship with the Australians, we are already straining the friendship now.’

‘I see...perhaps a direct call to the Australian PM might do the job.’

‘Please sir, let me do my job, I won’t let them move president Garner until the device had been embedded.’

‘All right, but let them know exactly what we want, just remember, he is the US President and therefore our total responsibility. Give me a buzz as soon as a successful implantation has occurred.'

Chapter Twenty-seven

The meeting was in full swing as Chester was shown into the large dinning room at government house. Faces around a long table peered at the new man, most with undisguised antagonism.

The table talk died down as Chester took his seat opposite Bruce Jones, the police minister. He recognised most of the faces present; there was a subdued prime minister sitting at the head of the table flanked by the American ambassador, a large stately man with lots of grey hair and an expressionless face, next to him was the NSW premier, a rather bland man of average height, with a balding crown, dressed in his ubiquitous brown pin striped suit. The defence minister, George Granger was the tallest, and possibly the smartest man in the room, with his delectable Italian double breasted suit, matching pale salmon shirt, and deep crimson silk cravat. He was always blessed with a rosy face and permanent grin. Granger sat on the right side of the premier, adjacent to him were two other immaculately dressed men he hadn’t seen before.

The prime minister looked directly at Chester.

‘We’ve been discussing the situation commissioner and the senior FBI attaché in Canberra, Director Harry Lincoln,’ the PM gestured towards one of the strangers, ‘would like to bring in an FBI antiterrorist task force at this point,’ Chester went rigid and blood drained from his face. ‘I’m sorry prime minister, but while I’m commissioner, the American FBI will not be actively involved in this situation. This is Australia, and we have our own crime fighting resources. I have every confidence the situation will be resolved the Australian way,’ the FBI director glowered at Chester.

‘All due respects commissioner we have followed your basic planning and look at the mess we’re in,’ Chester glared openly at the director by way of return.

‘You may have over looked the fact sir but most of your secret service officers are now laying dead in the western distributor tunnel and they were the last line of defence for the president,’ the FBI director’s constrained demeanor burst its banks.

‘And that commissioner, may well be do to your bumbling lack of external support...where the hell were your men when the fireworks started?’ Chester’s reply was quick and to the point.

‘It’s just as well we didn’t send too many of our men in, otherwise it would have been a blood bath, with the president as one of the first casualties. It’s a bit of clear thinking we want now...not more body bags,’ the police minister gently pulled Chester to one side and whispered in his ear.

‘I would like a word with you afterwards commissioner please wait in the ante-room.' Chester stood upright, turned sullenly, and left the room. Closing the door quietly behind him, he turned and sat heavily on a polished oak bench in the porch way, which normally provided seating for prospective interviewees at government house.

The inevitable clash with political forces beyond his control had occurred. He faced what most commanders in the field face just before their imminent defeat. Too many of his men were in the wrong place at the wrong time, thousands of police scattered along the highways and byways propping up useless barriers and intimidating the public. With only a handful in the western distributor tunnel crying their eyes out and choking to death on Jihad induced smoke bombs.

It was the sacrificial lamb routine all over again, but this time it looked like they really would sacrifice him on the political alter of the damned, in order to placate the rulers of the world. It was a sad end to a gallant man who had given the Australian Police forty years of his life. His past life began to flash through his mind; the glorious events, the sordid happenings, and the down right obscene, all mashed up together in the wildest action movie that would put the best of the thriller DVD’s to shame. This little charade didn’t really matter to Chester, it was just another little speed bump along the way, no doubt there would many others before he was through. Such political rigmarole's were actually becoming a bit of a bore.

He looked around the austere room with its faded sepia photos of the early construction stages of the harbour bridge, and past governor generals, with smug expressions all framed in government regulated brown oak frames.

Well they could just stuff it all up their assess he’d had enough of there politically correct hypocrisy.

He laughed out loud at his thoughts -- they had the info on him at HQ, it was the thickest dossier of any serving commissioner on file, all of it good and righteous stuff, but they didn’t know half of it, he was a secret marijuana smoker. He rolled his own and had a hidden supply always at hand in an inner pocket.

He pulled out a thin leather wallet and extracted a perfectly rolled marijuana cigarrette and lit it. Taking a deep draw, he blew the smoke at the ‘no smoking’ sign, and laughed again.

‘To hell with the bloody lot of them,’ he knew that governments were just a farce -- a contrived template for the control of peoples lives. All governments were corrupt no matter what their political persuasion, it all boiled down to the fact that all humans were corrupt, and so their little offspring's carried the same seeds with them in whatever they did. All authoritative systems were just a matter of degree, some being worse than others, but it was control that resided at the core of all such hierarchies.

But once you had been through the system and found all the holes, it wasn’t too hard to hack into it, and carve out your own little niche.

He drew more deeply on his reefer and his craggy face congealed into a smug smile. If only they knew his real past it would put hairs on their metaphorical chests. The amount of security information accessible to a police commissioner was enormous, in fact, with a little improvisation it was virtually limitless.

Chapter Twenty-eight

In the large meeting room FBI director Harry Lincoln gestured dramatically with his open hands as if symbolically embracing all participants at the table.

‘I’m sorry about all this prime minister, but we do have the president of America locked up in that tunnel, and it is our statutory duty to protect him. We also need to enact certain things with the president which must remain confidential,’ the defense minister beamed and lent forward in his seat.

‘It looks like we might have to use the SAS on this job,’ alarm flared in Bruce Jone’s eyes

‘The SAS is the last thing we need...that would simply put the heat up several notches, what we need now is communication, not more confrontation,’ the defence minister looked down his nose.

‘They’ve got the US president for Christ sakes,’ he snorted.

‘We are all aware of that, however, since you mention the SAS, there is a former commander I remember rather well, a Roger Jansen...I think he may be able to help us,’ the NSW premier began to slowly shake his head.

‘What can one man do? Unless he is some sort of superman.’

‘Possibly a lot more than a mob of milling police officers choking their lungs out in the cross city tunnel. He runs a private investigative agency in Canberra, and has substantial live terrorist experience, ’ the premier’s face lit up.

‘It’s not Roger Jansen of Roger the dodger fame is it?’

‘That’a him premier...its the same man who single handedly purged the police force of its corrupt commissioner and police minister, then wound up the Great Swiss Bank robbery case,’ the premier’s brow creased yet again.

‘But wasn’t he also court martialed and given a stiff prison sentence for striking a superior officer in Afghanistan.'

‘Yes, premier, right again...obviously a slight misunderstanding -- anyway, he has the sort of hands on terrorist experience we desperately need at this moment. If anyone can negotiate with the Muslim extremists in the tunnel, then he’s our man,’ the premier forced a smile for the first time.

‘I hope you’re right minister because another stuff-up like this isn’t going to create an Australian hero.’

‘That may be so sir, but Jansen is still our best bet at the moment.’

‘Can we get him over here in time.’

‘Might take a couple of hours if we do it now.’

‘That’s too long...’

‘What about the Canberra International Airport, can we get him on a fast jet from there? A private or military aircraft will do, after all, it is national emergency,' the defence minister jerked out a well worn note book from an inside pocket. Looking guilty he ran off the number for the airport control offices.

‘That’s the managers number...I’m buggered if a can commit it to memory -- short term memory loss you know,’ he touched his temple suggesting a developing streak of senility.

‘About the fastest jet around at the moment would be a VIP Learjet 60, she’ll do 600mph with a push, get him on one of them, and he’ll be here in no time,’the PM frowned.

‘Isn’t there something faster than that? I believe we have several Joint Strike Fighters the Lockheed Martin F-35 comes to mind.’

‘But they are single strike fighters sir,’

‘Be that as it may...but I do believe they are adaptable twin seaters if necessary. I do recall that provision in the specifications.’

‘We’ll go for that then sir,’the PM nodded.

‘Good,’ Jones keyed in Jansen’s business number; the former commander came on line almost immediately.

‘Hello, Canberra Investigative Agency...Jansen here.’

‘Hello commander, defence minister speaking, we need your expertise immediately,’ a strained silence pervaded the line.

‘I’m sorry minister, but we only take private cases, I’m sure you could find a perfectly good government investigator, there are many highly qualified people who specialise in public service cases.’

‘It’s not your investigative prowess we want Roger...its your profound anti terrorist expertise,’ a second spell of awkward silence followed. The New South Wales premier’s face turned sour.

‘Look, we’re wasting our bloody time talking with this jumped up, quasi-legal maverick, put your best, high ranking officer in the field now,’ the PM suddenly felt the need to intervene.

‘Give me the phone...I’ll have a word with him,’ he clutched the phone authoritatively.

‘Hello Roger, it’s the PM here...we’re in desperate straights, we need a highly qualified man who can think on his feet. This is not about private, or public sectors, or egos -- it’s about your country, it’s about perceived cowardice and heroism in the face of your fellow men. As your PM, I am asking you to take on this job,’ the PM let the message sink in.

Jansen sat mortified -- it was the last thing he wanted to do -- sandwiched between the PM and the BIB it was an impossible situation and one he just couldn’t refuse.

The reply came back slowly and deliberately.

“I understand sir...you have my full attention,’the PM turned to the defence minister.

‘Get him here...now!’

Chapter Twenty-nine

The secretary of state tapped on the Oval office door and came barging in red faced and sweating. He stood in front of Jenkins desk puffing like a tractor engine, gathering his spent energy, and trying desperately to sharpen his wits before a planned confrontation which didn’t quite fire on time.

‘Please excuse me for disturbing you sir -- but what the hell is this new directive glibly writing off president Garner, we’re all well aware of your instant proclivity to jump into the presidents shoes...but isn’t this going a little too far.’

‘I’m sorry you find it a little disturbing Colin, but it is common ruling that the vice president becomes acting president during the president’s absences, especially when he’s abroad and at risk. I might also point out that if the president is no longer capable of carrying out his duties no matter where he is, then by the twenty-fifth amendment, the vice president takes over the president’s duties totally...and if the situation continues beyond all reasonable expectations...then the vice president is officially sworn in as president of the United States of America.’

‘Pardon my observations sir, but me thinks that perhaps you’re too good an actor.’

‘Well Mr. Secretary, you might just have to swallow your words, because the president is now in the hands of Jihad terrorists, and his chances of survival are extremely remote.

‘How very convenient Mr. Acting President.’

‘You know your trouble don’t you Colin...you are not a realist. In this job, above all else, we have to be realists, because if you have your head in the clouds, you’ll continue to crash headlong into reality. So unless you have something positive to add to the discussion I suggest you leave this office now,’ Steadman glared menacingly at Jenkins intending to fire off a list of nasty expletives, his better self changed his mind and he executed a smart about turn, sucked in a huge quantity of air, and stormed out of the office.

Chapter Thirty

White House

The coffee was still a little too hot for Jenkins taste and he set the fine porcelain mug down in the middle of the table mat. It just obscured the colourful White House logo printed in the centre of the paper mat. His phone beeped in its amplifying cradle and his female secretary’s voice came through loud and clear.

‘The national security advisor is here sir.’

‘Good, tell him to come straight through.’ A beaming security advisor strode into the oval office holding out his right hand, the president grasped it warmly but with some reservation. A smiling James Holden tended to be a worrying security advisor, simply because he had a habit of always putting a positive spin on the gravest of problems. His expression suddenly became more serious as he put his hand in his pocket and produced a security disk. He popped it into the desk recorder and pressed play.

‘I think you should here this Mr. President,’ a distorted voice crackled over the speakers

‘Do not terminate this call...I have vital information...do not interrupt, I will only say this once. Listen very carefully...the US president will leave government house on Tuesday 15th, at 2.30pm precisely and enter circular quay, from there he will go to Darling Harbour, stay for fifteen minutes, then proceed to the Western distributor cross city tunnel, then exit at the south airport turn off. He will be in right rear seat of the second car sitting next to the defence secretary...’

Jenkins sat in silence apparently pondering the gist of what he had just heard. He squinted coyly at his advisor.

‘Where did you get this recording James?’

‘It was a snag sir, the national security agency pulled it from US outgoing transmissions...it was traced back to Washington,’ Holden lowered his voice, ‘it came from the White House Mr. President,’ Jenkins noticeably stiffened.

‘I presume this is genuine material,’ Holden smiled one of his disarming smiles.

‘Would I joke about a thing like this to the president?’

‘Have you checked its credibility?’

‘It is without question sir -- in fact it came from a mobile in this very building.’

‘What mobile?’ Holden quickly turned his head, as if to check that they were alone, and began to whisper.

‘The mobile is registered with the secretary of state sir,’ Jenkins fell back in his chair seemingly shocked by the revelation.

‘Who knows about this?’

‘You, me, and few close NSA telecommunication technicians. What I don’t understand sir, is why a man in his position would make such a stupid call directly from the white house offices on his own mobile...it’s just plain crazy!’

‘Have you applied voice recognition to the message?’

‘We’re working on it, but it might be difficult to pinpoint the culprit, the wave characteristics have been suppressed to mask the voice, in any case the evidence points to the secretary of state sir...and it might still be possible to match the wave form with the secretary if we compare two similar dubbed voice recordings, Jenkins peered intently at James Holden as if he had revealed a state secret.

‘Indeed, let me ask you a simple question James, which would you consider to be the most powerful attribute of human nature...emotions, or intellect?’

‘Well, I’d go for the intellect sir.’

‘Really, well you could be wrong there, did you know that the vast majority of crimes are perpetuated on an emotional basis? All sexual type offenses are emotional -- greed is another common offence based on emotions. Put a man on drugs, and given the chance, he will blow the whole world to hell just to continue his supply.’

‘And your point sir?’

‘We need to look at the human emotive factor here, because the intellectual factor is clearly missing in this case. I suggest you recheck your info, and then we’ll put the FBI onto it, but keep this under wraps until we are sure this is a bon fida security breech.’

‘What about the Attorney General sir, shouldn’t he be aware of this sir?’

‘Not at this stage James...if the media gets hold of this we could have a political time bomb on our hands -- lets not forget the lessons of Watergate. Even a good practical joke is no longer a joke in the paranoid world we now live in.’

‘I take your point sir...we’ll sit on it for awhile, but you do realize we can’t let this get away from us?’

‘I do James...but I think we should at least let the smoke clear a little before jumping in at the deep end. After all, our quarry has given this country a very large slice of his life, and a career in tatters topped off with a hefty prison sentence could well be fatal for an older man.’

Chapter Thirty-one

Government House Sydney

The defence minister checked his watch and smiled sympathetically at an agitated prime minister. The agonising wait and the continued progression of a nasty uncontrolled situation were more that the PM could stand. He could no longer hide his anxiety and he stood and began pacing the room. For the first time in his career the defence minister felt sorry for the PM and he tried to calm his superior.

‘I’m sure we’ll get on top of it sir...Jansen should be here within the next thirty minutes,’the desk phone rang and the police minister answered.’

‘Commander Steve Denison speaking sir, the BIB have just given us an ultimatum -- we’ve got thirty minutes to completely clear the tunnel of police both ends or they’ll shoot the chief of staff. Apparently a private helicopter will land at the tunnel airport turn off; we are to give them total safe passage, or they’ll shoot the president and the security advisor as well,’ the PM took the phone again.

‘Look commander, tell them we completely agree with the their requests, but they must give us time to put them into effect,’ The FBI director wriggled uncomfortably in his chair and looked earnestly at the PM.

‘Please excuse this interruption prime minister but we have to establish a procedure before we can allow the terrorists to move the president.’

‘I see, what do you have in mind director...they are about to shoot the chief of staff and maybe the president as well.’ The FBI director shook his head in symbolic defiance.

‘We can’t let them take the president just yet...we have an alternate plan.’ Australia’s FBI boss straightened his stance and adopted a serious demeanor. He carefully outlined president Jenkin’s instructions regarding the marker bullet, and the need to embed it in president Garner. The PM smiled inwardly...this was typical US gung ho stuff, so reminiscent of CIA covert procedures.

‘Well he’s your president director, we’ll see what we can do,’ he turned toward the defence minister,

‘What do you know about Jansen’s military capabilities?’

‘Most of it sir, I have his personal file here...and yes, he is a first class marksman.’

‘Good, we’ll brief him the minute he gets here and get someone to ready the rifle and accessories, we have no time to waste.’

Cross City Tunnel Sydney

A sea of blackness with a fowl smelling, residual fog, permeated the tunnel at both ends. Trapped in between was a 60 by 39 metre area of fluorescent light, augmented by car headlights. There were now only four service agents: two in the presidential car, and two crouching behind the black Lincoln limousine.

The president and personnel entourage had armed themselves as a last resort using emergency weaponry carried in a special compartment within the presidential limousine. Garner stared bleary eyed at the latest brand new US automatic pistol which had never been used in combat before. The point had arrived whereby the secret service could longer effectively defend the president. Eight months previously Garner had personally instructed the secret service director to insert emergency weaponry within his limousine, specifically for his own personal use, should all else fail, little realising that he might now have to use it. He continued to stare at the weapon with the impulsive thought of using it on himself.

After all, it would solve all their problems in one simple finale, since the whole damned business depended on his being kidnapped alive.

The commander of the secret service contingent turned around in the presidential vehicle and addressed the president.

‘It’s hopeless sir, unless we concede they’ll kill us all one by one until they get you.’

President Garner looked at the crumpled figure of his chief of staff and then glanced at his wide eyed security advisor.

‘What do you think we should do guys -- shall we give in peacefully or what?’ Ellen Monard blinked mechanically, trying her best to pull herself together.

‘It depends what they have in mind sir...if they just want to kill us, they would have done it by now, we’re a sitting duck for that rocket launcher.’

The president looked at his personal secret service agent sitting in the rear with his pistol drawn ready to defend his boss. He put his hand on his shoulder.

I didn’t want to instigate this Steve, but I think now is the time,’ the agent nodded knowingly, replaced his gun in its holster and removed his jacket.

Government House Lawn

A police helicopter landed just two metres short of the driveway on the carefully manicured lawns of government House, Roger Jansen jumped out, laying his head low to avoid spinning rotor blades. Seconds later he was standing in front of the defence and police ministers with the PM shaking his hand, the FBI director hovered sullenly in the back ground.

‘Welcome commander Jansen, we’re terribly pushed for time so I’ll hand you directly over to Harry Lincoln the FBI director for briefing,’ Lincoln quickly explained the situation and the acting US presidents plan for using the marker bullets on president Garner. Jansen couldn’t suppress a laugh and likened it to the embedding of an identity capsule into a pet dog. In a way he admired the Americans for their forthright objectivity and lack of emotional sentimentality, but worried about the political and moral implications of implanting their top politician with a device, which spelt almost certain death for the ailing president. Still, they had their duties and he had his, it was just a matter of putting the two together.

The PM finally stepped forward, and took Jansen by the arm, speaking quietly in his ear, as he lead him to the door.

‘We are very grateful for this commander,’ Jansen grimaced slightly.

‘Maybe I shouldn’t be asking this sir, but why haven’t we picked them all off with sniper fire?’ The FBI director looked meekly at Jansen and reluctantly answered his question.

‘Because commander, they thought of the idea first, as a result the secret service has been practically annihilated by BIB sniper fire. The president’s life is now very much in danger...beyond that, lets just say some things are better left unsaid,’ Jansen pursed his lips and looked straight ahead.

‘Right then -- lets do it gentlemen,’the defence minister issued a few more instructions.

‘We’ll take you in at the old Hyde Park railway end, there’s a disused rail tunnel leading to a steel door which opens half way along the cross city tunnel. Its normally kept locked for security purposes, its handy for maintenance of the tunnel and the odd emergency. Jansen smiled wryly.

‘You mean like this one sir?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Good, well we’ve certainly got the odd emergency sir,’chided Jansen, trying to make light of the situation. The PM smiled a genuine smile and shook Jansen’s hand.

‘I wish you the best of luck commander, we are all counting on you,’ Jansen raised his own feeble smile which came out looking like a twisted grimace. The defence minister lead him into the outer office where a police car and a sergeant stood waiting.

‘We’ve organised sergeant June Thompson to go with you, she has extensive experience in Sydney’s old railway tunnels. Jansen shook hands with the forty year old female sergeant who wore a gray denim overall, with her hair tucked under a matching ski hat, she looked pleased to be in the loop.

They both climbed in the car and headed for northern entrance to Hyde Park dodging a build up of traffic along the way, Jansen ran the police vehicle up the curb and onto the park turf, stopping the car in the middle of the Domain and cutting out further traffic hassles.

Taking cloth kit bags from the boot, Jansen locked the car and Sergeant Thomson lead the way across the park, and down the subway steps, moving into a side tunnel, which came within fifty metres of the cross city tunnel. A large rusting steel door blocked their way.

Sergeant Thompson patted the door...’Beyond this sir, is a partly finished passage, which leads directly into the cross city tunnel; there’s another steel door at the end of it, there’s no lighting beyond this point.’

‘Okay sergeant, open her up,’ Thompson inserted a key in the large pad lock securing the door and pulled the lock from the retaining steel flanges. They both grasped the handles attached to the door and pulled as hard as they could -- the door barely moved. Jansen retrieved a crowbar from his kit bag and shoved it in the gap between the two doors.

‘You pull as hard as you can sergeant ...at the count of three,’ Jansen counted to three and rammed the crowbar harder in the small opening, jacking it open with all the force he could muster. The right hand door groaned like a bass organ pipe as it scraped along the rough cement floor -- a drastic demarcation appeared where the concrete slab ended and raw brown earth began. Jansen peered into the dark void and shone his flashlight down the burrow like passage.

‘I see what you mean by an unfinished work,’ the air was dank with an odorous tinge of mold, ancient cobwebs littered the uneven roof and pools of moisture dotted the floor. Thompson sniffed the air gracefully and grimaced, ’That’s residual tear gas sir...its managed to get onto the disused tunnel.

‘You’ve better smell than I have sergeant, I can’t detect a thing.’

‘Maybe its because your male sir...we women tend to have a nose for scents.’

‘That’s just as well sergeant, we might just need it at yon end,’ he pulled the lift hand door open, and they both wearily made their way down the passage.

Chapter Thirty-two

The second steel door was coated in dowdy battleship gray with paint peeling off in large streaks; rust stains corroded the metal, even though this door had obviously received much better care than its cousin. Jansen likened the rust pattern to a Jackson Pollack painting he’d seen in a Canberra art exhibition -- nature did have some hidden talents of her own he mused. Thompson used the same key to open the verdigris coated padlock. Water vapour and traffic pollution had taken its toll on the fixture. Jansen looked solemnly at the sergeant.

‘We’d better kill our flashlights, I’d hate to get shot at this stage.’

They struggled with the door in the inky blackness and a shaft of fluorescent light from the city tunnel found its way in. Reflections from off white tiles on the city tunnel walls cast scintillating flashes of light off the steel door. Jansen crept into the tunnel keeping closely pressed to the walls. He motioned Thompson to follow.

The scene was absolute devastation, with twisted and blackened vehicles running the length of the tunnel road way. It was the equal of the worst scenes of any global war he had ever witnessed -- a veritable microcosmic Armageddon

Mist and vapour tainted with cordite filled the air. Bodies, most of then in black jump outfits and police uniforms, peppered the roadway. The occasional terrorist corpse stood out by way of its casual attire and unshaven countenance.

Jansen checked his bearings, they had obviously entered half way along the city tunnel, and the action, if any, was further up front. He could see two silhouetted figures approaching and he drew his Glock pistol for the first time.

The leading figure whispered as he approached... ‘We’re police officers commander...don’t shoot.’

It was commander Steve Dennison of the federal police who had been expecting Jansen and sergeant Thompson.

‘You’re just in time commander, we have a lull situation, they have given us thirty minutes to.clear the tunnel or they’ll shoot the US chief of staff, and we only have fifteen minutes left.’

‘I see, can I speak to the leader of BIB.’

‘Yes we have him on mobile...just press re-dial,’ Jansen pressed the re-dial button and listened intently. The earpiece crackled and an accented, impatient, male voice came over the line.

‘Hello...we’re still waiting for confirmation of our demands.’

‘This is commander Roger Jansen speaking, we are conforming with your request, but we have a problem.’

‘Well you’d better bloody well solve it then hadn’t you, or it’s good-bye to the American bigwigs.’

‘You must understand...we can’t just let you go like that. We must at least have some conformation that you have the American president...for all we know he may be dead.’

‘He will be if you don’t stop wasting time.’

‘Please let us see him in the flesh; we will not come any closer than ten metres...I give you my word,’ Farid Kazeni laughed harshly into his mobile.

‘You are in no position to demand anything commander. Now get the fucking tunnel exit cleared or we will shoot the chief of staff, the security advisor, and the four security agents we have captured.’

‘Listen to me...we are both rational men, you want the president, we accept that one hundred percent, and we are willing to give you total freedom of action to wherever you want...if that is Tehran, then you have carte blanch all the way there. All we ask is that you let all other hostages free in exchange,’ Kazeni stiffened and held his pistol to the Ellen Monard’s head and started to squeeze the trigger. Sharazi laid his hand softly on Kazeni’s shoulder.

‘Don’t shoot her Farid...this will only escalate matters and harden their resolve. We have the president -- he is our ticket to Tehran -- as long as we have their top man we will be safe.

Kazeni stared at his number two with a mixture of hate and frustration. He detested ambivalent situations but he knew Sharazi was right, in spite of the standard tactics of the BIB when dealing with hostages.

The BIB had duplicated most of the FBI procedures, and they had taken them from FBI information releases over the years. The important ones were rigorously applied, especially two of them: .keep the opposition off balance by keeping communication short and succinct, and the second was supremely simple - let them know who was in charge.

Kazeni had smirked often enough over the FBI public domain news issues, which revealed their tactics and methods in most situations...they thought they were so bloody smart, but it was collective conceit by way of bragging to the public, which gave their secrets away.

Paradoxically, the more hostages you had, the poorer were your chances of getting away cleanly. It was a fine balance and anything which provoked its stability could be fatal.

Kazeni relaxed his grip on Ellen Monard and spoke firmly into his mobile.

‘We have a deal commander, but it will be done on our terms. You will immediately clear the tunnel exit and allow our helicopter to land on the freeway. All hostages will be retained until we reach the helicopter. You will allow us total free passage out of your country and safe passage to Tehran; any interference will result in the presidents instant death.’

‘Agreed,’ Jansen hastily replied, ‘but you must let all other hostages free...I personally guarantee you free exit direct to Tehran. But first we must check that you actually have the president alive and well,’ Kazeni immediately cocked his weapon and put it to the president’s head. Sharazi placed his arm once again on his leaders shoulder.

‘We have the president, these extra hostages will only slow us down. Let us now get out of here while we still can,’ Kazeni remained stony faced and shoved his weapon into the presidents neck.

‘All right, but this guy stays glued to me dead or alive.’

Jansen squinted at his sergeant and commander Jones.

‘You two advance towards the president’s car and check that he is okay, don’t go any nearer then five metres,’ Dennison pulled a face.

‘Where are you going commander?’ Jansen produced the high power, silenced air rifle, from his back pack.

‘I’m hoping for a bulls eye...keep them occupied for at least four minutes,’ he crouched low and scurried behind the nearest burnt out motorcade vehicle, then made his way slowly towards the lead car.

He could see the two terrorists near the bonnet of the president’s large bullet proof Lincoln limousine. A tassel haired man with gray beard had a mobile to his ear and a gun pointing at the two US politicians. The second man was younger, with shaved hair and pock marked face, he held the president in an arm lock with a pistol in his back. There were two disarmed security agents laying on the floor their hands behind their heads. Both were bleeding from face and head wounds received from several severe pistol whippings.

Ellen Monard had a profoundly shocked air about her features and stared morosely at the floor. The chief of staff, the largest man in the group, crouched over her and held her hand, seemingly comforting her.

Jensen moved silently amongst the vehicle wreckage until he had a good view of the president’s rear, but remained well hidden from the terrorists. He took careful aim at the US politicians buttocks, which were just level with the Lincoln limousines bonnet. The car was heavilly marked with shrapnel, and bullet holes, which had ricochetted off the special armour.

Easing off the trigger of the rifle for a second sighting, he wiped his sweat coated hands on paper tissue from his jump suit pocket. It was then he had a sudden brain wave as his hand brushed against his holstered Glock pistol.

He was at that moment in target range and two dissidents stood with their backs against him -- it would be a simple matter to shoot both men in the back in quick succession with his Glock, then rescue the hostages in one final swoop.

He checked himself -- was this an ego impulse -- the egotistical desire to save the day and be top dog regardless of the effect on others.

More seconds ticked by as Jansen went through his possible options keeping his ego in mind. He’d been focusing on the immediate action, but his peripheral vision revealed Sergeant Thompsom and commander Johns directly in his line of fire. A check around the tunnel also revealed groups of men with RPG’s standing in the background at either end of the tunnel, as well as police personnel at the rear of them.

Any attempt at a violent rescue would almost certainly end in a catastrophic shoot out between all parties. It was actually possible to save the president from BIB’s clutches and his subsequent trial -- but the price in police lives would be too high, which lead to his next question. How many lives was a US president worth?

The question lingered in his brain as he took careful aim at the president’s glutimus maximus muscles and the answer to the question forced him to squeeze the trigger.

There was a faint pop and the president suddenly dropped a little, as if his legs had temporarily given way. Ellen Monard snapped out of her morbid trance and propped the president up with her right arm. The president smiled weakly, reassuring her with a pat of his hand, that he was okay,’ Jansen beamed, the FBI director was right, the special bullets had the propensity to enter tissue without provoking excessive pain. Garner must have accepted the slight stabbing feeling in his buttock as a symptom of his general condition.

Jack Magnus stared hard at Monard as the president’s legs started to buckle again and a dark stain appeared down his trouser leg. Liquid began to pool around his shoes.Monard returned his stare and whispered in his ear.

‘Sorry sir...but bodily functions continue 24/7 even for a president,’ Garner felt a twinge of embarrassment as he caught the small talk between his remaining staff members. He was now waxing and waning between basic consciousness and a semi-stuporose state. Although still aware of his surroundings; he found it difficult to communicate verbally.

The close presence of his female security advisor was reassuring along with the comforting aroma of her L’Oréal perfume as it wafted past his nostrils. Involuntarily his lungs expended and he breathed in deeply savouring the relaxing scent.

Jansen took one last lingering look at the situation, then pressed the re-dial button on his mobile phone. The prime minister answered.

‘HQ, PM here...’

‘Hello sir, the bullet has been successfully embedded,’ Jansen could hear shoots of joy at the other end of the line as the PM passed on the news. It was as if the whole ghastly incident had suddenly been solved, when in fact, the crisis had hardly begun.

‘You can tell the police minister to get everybody out of the tunnel immediately,’commander Jones passed on the order and signalled to the terrorist that the way would be clear for them to go. Kazeny and Sharazi looked relieved and seized the president, dragging him between them towards the tunnels western exit.

Jack Magnus and Ellen Monard reluctantly let go of their top man; both with tears in their eyes. Garner, his face drawn and body sagging, showed no emotion as he was swept away from his last civilized anchorage point, his fate now cast to the machinations of the BIB.

Magnus and Monard both walked into the arms of sergeant Thomson and commander Jones, hugging each other as the BIB horde exited the tunnel. Three of the secret service agents joined the group as they comforted each other. For the Australian authorities the worst was now over, but for the Americans, the worst was yet to come.

Jansen watched the two terrorists drag the president down the tunnel, followed by the rest of the BIB team shouting and shaking their RPG launchers and machine guns in the air in triumph. They had won their battle with the Australian authorities but the price had been high...too high for the Americans, recrimination, accusation and retaliation would now follow.

Chapter Thirty-three

President Jenkins stood at the head of the table in the White House situation room along with the joint chiefs of staff, the military chiefs, the directors of the CIA, FBI and the National Security Agency.

To his right were the acting White House chief of staff and security advisor, both newly appointed yes men, virtually without portfolio, as far as the rest of the luminaries were concerned. Jenkins had now taken to raising hands in all important vote issues, with the full knowledge that he had the numbers. He read out the latest communiqué from Australia.

The terrorists or Black Islamic Brigade (BIB), as they are now openly calling themselves -- no reference to skin colour by the way -- are flying out of Australia with the US president in a chartered Lear Jet. The aircraft has been modified to carry extra fuel tanks, and they will be landing away from public terminals. The jet will refuel at Darwin, Singapore, and Muscat, before finally landing in Tehran,’ the chief of the air force jerked his head in Jenkin’s direction.

‘We can have a fully functional fighter force with refuelable air support ready to go in thirty minutes sir.’

‘Good, but at this stage we need something a little less drastic, we’ll just keep the fighter force on hold for the moment,’ the air force chief bit his lip

‘Thankfully the presidential security advisor and chief of staff were spared and will be flying back to the US in a few days time,’ a subdued cheer erupted around the table, it was the only bit of good news from the entire hostage debacle.

‘Now gentleman, at last we have some measure of control. We will of course be shadowing the Learjet all the way to the Iranian border, from there onwards, the president will be lost to us in mind and body, however his location will still be accessible to us. As you are all aware by now we have applied the classified high-tech DS302 monitoring device to the president -- he is now unwittingly our virtual ears and eyes,’ Jenkin’s squinted sharply at his air force chief.

‘What are our nuclear options in this case general.’

‘Well sir, the most sensible response might be a small to medium tactical nuclear device. This would wipe out most substantial buildings within a radius of one kilometer and create one hundred percent fatalities at five hundred metres around ground zero.’

‘I see, that would be a good tit for tat political counter measure for the elimination of 4000 US troops and the abduction of the president, and if that isn’t a multiple act of war against the United States I don’t know what is,’ the joint chief frowned dramatically.

‘What we do need now is a suitable target option sir.’

‘We have one...our president has unequivocally volunteered. By the time we’re in position to deliver the weapon he’ll be on trial in Iran,’ the defence chief looked up from his notes.

‘But surely Mr. president, you don’t intend to unleash this on the Iranian general assembly. All the members of the supreme council, the Supreme Leader and the president will all be annihilated.’

‘Exactly -- casualties of war -- the Iranians next stop could well be a nuclear attack on Washington. With just one clean strike we can wipe out the whole Iranian leadership before they do the same to us,’ the chief of the army shook his head in bewilderment.

‘Couldn’t we just tell them not to put the president on trial or they’ll all burn in hell.’

‘Look George, we’re not playing tiddlywinks, we will probably never get a chance like this again. One quick surgical strike is all we need, and its all over. The main contender in the axis of evil will be vanquished forever,’the chief of the air force brightened and leaned forward in his chair.

‘Possibly the best way to deliver such a strike sir is by a remote controlled drone aircraft.’

‘You mean a hi-tech flying bomb -- a drone with a lethal payload in it’s nose.’

‘Exactly sir, we could bring it in on a low trajectory and home in on the DS302 homing device, then terminate it on contact with the target,’ Jenkins looked perceptively at his air force chief.

‘I presume this would be a conventional explosive device with a limited destructive capacity.’

‘Yes sir...we wouldn’t want to kill too many civilians,' Jenkin’s frowned.

‘The whole purpose of this exercise is to produce maximum casualties rates in order to wipe out the ruling Iranian elite. If we can’t achieve that, there is no point in continuing with the project. Of course it needs to be a surgical strike, but we need a weapon with a powerful killing range, the deaths of a few civilians is inevitable,’ Jerkins pondered for a short while on his next statement.

‘We will of course have to occupy the country and set up a regime favourable to the United States. The national security director suddenly perked up...

‘Is that wise sir...it could result in a new Asian conflagration involving all the Muslim states.’

‘I have considered that director, and if we silence the ruling Iranian elite, then, we have no choice but to invade on a temporary basis. There will be a need to initially bomb Iran’s nuclear facility at Bushier on the coast, to prevent it from falling into enemy hands.’

‘But this is initially an economic agreement with Russia and Iran sir...the debt is enormous...it is certain to infuriate the Russians.’

‘True, but since this facility is being funded by the Russians, they will want some input here...it gives them an excuse to put troops into Iran...which of course is the last thing we want. If the facility is destroyed then there is less chance of Russian troops being sent there.’

‘I can’t agree with that sir...isn’t this also a good reason to send Russian troops into Iran -- this will come back to haunt us sir,’ Jenkins smiled knowingly,

‘Doesn’t every significant policy decision do that, one way or another? I might as well say what we’re all thinking anyway; Iran is better off as a controlled low-tech nation, rather than an out of control high-tech nation. Bare in mind gentleman, Iran is also designated as one of the controlling partners in the axis of evil, if we remove the major partner, it will break up this vicious axis.’

The national security director looked more flustered than usual, and forcefully twisted his features, as if he desperately wanted to get something off his mind.

‘There’s an ancient Jewish proverb Mr. president...‘if you live for revenge dig a grave for two,’ Jenkins stifled a sneer.

‘Well in that case director, we’d better dig graves for the entire American nation, because every hot blooded American worth his or her salt will want a killing over this.’

Chapter Thirty-four

The modified Lear Jet 60 carrying the BIB terrorists now had an effective nonstop range of 5000 miles, nearly three times its normal capacity. The downside to this dramatic upgrade was a reduction in speed of 100 mph to 490 mph and large modified fuel tanks. The aircraft was now on the penultimate leg of its flight with Muscat as the next refueling stop.

Kazeni and Sharazi sat directly opposite president Garner who was handcuffed to the seat with the rest of the BIB who were bedded down in the rear of the plane.

Kazeni took a concerted interest in his victim for the first time, after reading an article in one of the planes in-flight magazines stowed away in the front pocket of his seat . His continual staring began to annoy Garner, and he tried hard not to show displeasure in his face. Kazeni began to compare a photo of the president in the magazine with the real thing in front of him.

So this was the prize -- the president of the United States -- his face was ashen and his blue tinged lips were trembling. He looked anything but the ultimate leader of the western world. He seemed much older then his media photos and TV appearances. The makeup crew must have done a cracking job on what seemed to be a rapidly ageing man.

Stripped of his presidential powers, and now a mere non entity, he was little more than a tragic figure head, but considering the faith and kudos the Americans placed in their leader, he had to be kept alive and kicking for the big payoff in Tehran, and indeed, the world, once they had him on trial.

Kazeni’s interest began to subside after a disappointing appraisal of America’s top man, he was just too ordinary, except for one thing, his nose was slightly different to his photo image, this unremarkable flaw rekindled his interest.

He continued squinting silently at Garner, then suddenly took hold of his lapels, yanking him upright. His hand cuffs snagged on the seat arm causing Garner to yell in pain. Kazeni quickly removed them and tossed them on the floor. He brought his pistol close to Garner’s face then slashed it across his nose, breaking it in two places, blood poured out of both nostrils. Garner clutched his nose with both hands to stem the bleeding. He ripped a handkerchief from his top pocket and smothered his face with the generous linen material. Kazeni laughed outrageously.

‘I’ve always wanted to break the American president’s nose,’ Sharazi looked grimly at his boss.

‘Don’t do that Farid...we need him in pristine condition for the trial,’ Kazeni arranged his features into a sly grin.

‘We don’t really need to put him on trial at all,’ puzzlement crossed Sharazi’s face, and Kazeni decided it was time to elaborate.

‘You do realise who we have here: the Americans want him so badly they would go to war and sacrifice the lives of thousands of their young men. The political coup is so great that the supreme leader of Iran would pay a king’s ransom just to put him on trial in front of the whole world.’

‘What is your point Farid?’

‘To us he is just another man, and not a particularly great one either -- but a king’s ransom would repay us handsomely for our troubles,’ Sharazi squinted at his companion with uncomprehending eyes.

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘I’m suggesting we sell him to the highest bidder...be it the Americans or the Supreme Leader,’ Sharazi walked away, shaking his head in bewilderment, he turned abruptly.

‘We can’t do this...it is not Allah’s will.’

‘No Habib, it is my will,’ for the first time Sharazi was seeing Kazeni’s true personality.

‘We will be annihilated when we get to Tehran.’

‘We’re not going to Tehran.’

‘Where then,’ Sharazi demanded in astonishment.

‘We’re stopping at Muscat...then we will go to a safe house on the outskirts of the city. There is a place ready waiting for us,’ Sharazi raised his head in surprise.

‘You have planned this from the very beginning Farid,’ Kazeni frowned.

‘Lets not get too politically correct Habib...we are all human with human needs.

‘But your promises and devotion to Allah and the Jihad,'

‘That’s wonderful stuff if you like a cause to cling to, but it’s not for me. It never has been and never will be, my emotional needs have always come first. Of course, I will die for a cause, but that cause must be greater than life itself. For me Allah is a mere mental contrivance which takes away your mind and allows others to manipulate you. If I am to die then it must be something that satisfies both my intellectual and emotional criteria, and that something is freedom.’

‘So you think that freedom is greater than life itself?’

‘Without freedom life is merely existence, but to exist with total freedom is paradise on earth.’

‘But surely to die for Allah is paradise in heaven,’ he looked perceptively at Sharazi.

‘Believe that if you will Habib...but remember, death is the end of the physical world, and if there is no heaven, then you are bound for eternal oblivion.

From now on we follow a different course, the US and Iranian authorities will be given fresh instructions. The first country to offer fifty billion dollars will get the president. However, if the other country offers a higher sum, then they will get America’s top man.’

Sharazi turned away not wanting further discourse with the man who was once his mentor and had now turned into a greedy non believer -- worse than the infidels they had taken the president from.

He made his way to the rear of the aircraft and wrenched the toilet door open looking for space to brood. Sitting on the latrine outlet, he stared into the polished steel mirror, looking for a sign from Allah. Anything, to guide him, for his faith had been badly mauled by a man he once admired, a man whose devotion and commitment had seemed absolute.

The harder he stared into the mirror the more inanimate his image became -- like looking at a dummy in a tailors shop. Life had all but drained from his face -- the only thing that seemed out of place was the stubby plastic aerial on his satellite phone, which swung loosely from his breast pocket.

It was the only thing in the mirror image that craved attention, because of its movement, and it was the only thing that could get him out of the mess he was in -- Allah had given him a sign. The phone was his only contact with the outside world and the only thing that could change the predicament he was in. He keyed in the Australian police number, the one they had used to speak to the Australian police in the tunnel, it was the only number he could vividly remember off by heart. A long pause and a man with an Australian accent came on the line.

‘Hello, commander Steve Dennison speaking.’

‘Hello commander, this is Habib Sharazi...I am one of the terrorist who abducted the president in the tunnel. Please, I beg of you, to put me in touch with someone of high authority now,’ at the other end Dennison fumbled nervously with his phone and cleared his throat.

‘Give me your mobile number,’ Sharazi quickly ran off the mobile number. A sudden urgent tap on the toilet door unnerved him.

‘Hurry please, I have to go’ someone shouted outside the door in Farsi.

‘A few more minutes please,’ he shouted back in Farsi.

His mobile sounded alarmingly as another louder voice came on the phone..

‘Hello police minister Jones here.’

‘Hello this is Habib Sharazi minister.You must listen to me carefully if you want the US president back. Farid Kazeni has changed the conditions, he wants a ransom of at least fifty billion dollars US for the president from the US or Iran. But if one of them outbids the other he will give them the president.

We are landing at Muscat and we will take the president to a hiding place on the outskirts of the city. Please send a team of competent armed men if you wish to rescue the president. I will try to keep you informed and let you know where we are,’ Sharazi pressed the end call key on his phone, flushed the toilet, then opened the door.

A member of the BIB stood just outside and gave Sharazi a mock smile.

‘Was it a big one Habib?’

‘Yes...’he expanded his open hands, ‘it was that big, I pray to Allah it doesn't land in a Muslin's lap,’ his fellow terrorist entered the toilet smiling effusively.

Sharazi sat in the back of the aircraft out of Kazeni’s sight and began to think about the situation he found himself in. Everything had suddenly changed, Farid had turned everything on its head -- he, Habib Sharazi, was now a police informant, and worst of all, he had betrayed Allah according to BIB beliefs. Instead of being a BIB terrorist he was now a traitor to the cause and to himself, but Allah would surely forgive a man who betrayed a non believer.

Chapter Thirty-five

Ex-commishioner Clement Chester was a tin shed man, and spent long periods in his large corrugated building at the rear of his Balmain house. Rosey his wife had gone to the Ladies Club International Night with one of her best cooking creations and would not be back until 12 midnight.

It was all good news for Clement as he followed the news and footy channels on his computer. He had recently purchased a TV tuner stick which gave easy access to most TV channels via his XP laptop computer.

The Tunnel terrorist attack by BIB was all over, the news and the presidential hostage situation the authorities had waxed and waned over had created one compromising stuff up after another. They now had the temerity to blame him for the tunnel debacle which had left at least eighty police and over hundred and fifty secret service men dead and they were still picking up the pieces.

He had watched the progress of the incident ever since his dismissal on all the news channels, faithfully recording the ones he couldn’t watch immediately. They had not done any better since they had dismissed him, the NSW commissioner of police, in fact, they had well and truly buggered things up. The latest news broadcast had signaled the release of most hostages but not the US president, which is what the terrorists wanted anyway.

They were a lot of limp dicks pissing in the wind and he was glad to be out of it in his forced retirement.

Although he relished his retirement the circumstances surrounding it had left a bitter taste in his mouth. Vengeance was a cruel agitator and would not let go of his addled brain. They had humiliated him, all of them, after forty loyal years of service to the police force. The very last thing one needed in retirement was a ready made set of demons.

Every night he would go through the tunnel fiasco reenacting the whole damned thing in his mind, creating better scenarios that would have worked had he been given another chance, but one could not rewind reality, life wasn’t a rehearsal for something better -- it just happened and that was it -- take it or leave it.

He had long and terrible periods of recrimination which frequently lead to severe depression and had smoked marijuana cigarettes to alleviate it, but this often made the depression even worse...and of late, suicide had entered his mind to end the unbearable dark nights.

Strangely, the actual thought of committing suicide temporarily relieved his depression, but it always came back when the brain was cheated of actual reality, it was as if relief could only be satisfied by the physical act of suicide itself.

Switching through the TV channels, he pointing the remote, sitting upright in his patchwork armchair, a survivor from his training days at the police academy.

He continued to change channels picking out the worst cases of police ineptitude during the tunnel siege and verbally criticised them between sups of beer and long draws on his marijuana cigarette.

The TV image started to fade as if someone was draining the power. He slowly stood up swaying from side to side and reached for the adjustment dial. No sooner had he increased the brightness when the shed door burst open. Two men dressed in police blue track suites stood in the doorway. The taller of the two stepped forward.

‘We’ve just come to tuck you in bed sir,’ he sniped, with a strong hint of sarcasm. The two men closed the door behind them. Chester stared morosely at the two men, he thought he recognised one of them as a constable he had disciplined on several occasions. Used to handling the lower rank and file he stood his ground and confidently confronted them.

‘What are you two buggers doing here, shouldn’t you two be cleaning up the bloody mess in the tunnel?’

‘We have a bit of a mess to clean up here first sir,’ one of the men moved quickly around the back of the police chief, and before Chester could utter another word there was a tight cord around his neck. The second man smiled in his face while the other pulled the cord a little tighter.

‘This is a something we should have done years ago sir...afterall you’ve certainly earned it.’ Big as he was Chester was no match for the agility of the younger men. He choked and struggled but the blackness gradually moved in. His thoughts became jumbled, but in a short lucid moment he remembered once, long ago, on a police college defence course, that it was possible to remain conscious for a short time without blood entering the brain, providing one willed it by self suggestion.

The cord tightened and Chester remained conscious for the next three seconds, then his body went limp, and the younger man let go as Chester slithered to the floor, the cord buried deep within his trachea

~ ~ ~

Rosey Chester didn’t get back home until one p.m., she pulled in the drive way cursing -- the outside light was off but there was a dull yellow glow in Clement’s shed, with fluctuating light flashes in the side window.

Clement had fallen asleep again in front of the telly, it was just one of a battery of irksome habits he had developed since his abrupt retirement. Rosey was at the end of her tether and had begun to wonder if this awkward recluse was the actual man she had married all those years ago. His habits had been largely hidden during his days at work and had now become fly blown and out of all proportion.

She slammed the door on the Holden Commodore hoping this would wake him, then wrenched the shed door open. The varying brightness of the TV screen matched against the darkness of the rear of the shed confused her and she peered intently at the old armchair. It was several moments before she realised Clement wasn’t sitting there; she looked beyond, to the rear of the shed.

She was met by an incomprehensible void of shifting forms, which refused to be focussed into a cohesive whole. The scarcity of the pervading light seemed to be creating misleading images of its own.

Shouting his name in frustration she switched on the main light at the side of the door.

Her face crumpled in horror: Clement was strung up to the roof of the shed, his head pulled crazily to one side by a plastic cord tied in a rough knot, a deathly gray pallor bathed his twisted features. Sputum and bloodied saliva dribbled from his open mouth and she wanted to vomit and cry in the one breath.

An old stool lay on its side a mere six inches from his feet, apparently he had once again he had stuffed things up, botching his own death by slowly strangling himself instead of the swiftness, and finality of spinal severance.

She looked up at him one final time in a prolonged wistful gaze, and held his cold hand between hers, trying desperately top warm it up...just a little.

‘Why Clement...why...?’

Chapter Thirty-six

Pentagon Washington

THE CHIEF OF the Airforce Harold Wiseman stood outside the office door of the chief of the Army; tapped on the door, and walked in. The army chief got up from behind his desk a welcoming smile stretched over his well worn features.

‘Hi, Harold, glad you could make it,’ the chief of army, George Feltnam, clasped Harold’s hand and forearm in a sincere salutation.

‘Now what is it that you couldn’t tell me over the phone my friend?’ Harold lowered his head as if in mock despair.

‘I have a burgeoning problem which is eating the hell out of my viscera.’

‘Nothing can be that bad surely...have you tried sodium bicarbonate?’ Wiseman ignored the frivolous but well intended remark.

‘He’s virtually changed the government from top to bottom,’ Feltnam listened attentively and continued with his jocular remarks.

‘Who has...I’ll have him court marshaled immediately,’ Feltman then laughed openly in an attempt to defuse the serious atmosphere.

‘It’s no laughing matter George...we’ve got problems. The real president is in the hands of terrorists about to be put on trial for his life in Iran. The White House chief of staff and the presidents security adviser have all been written off, and the secretary of state has been relieved on serious charges of treason...who the hell is next?

I tell you George, this bloody acting president is systematically replacing all the senior members of the cabinet -- now he’s bringing in his own ‘Yes’ men. All this, and not a primary election in site, hardly democracy is it?’

‘It’s real politics Harold...ours is not to reason why, we’re here to simply defend the USA as the president sees fit and he is the commander in chief.’

‘I know, that’s what worries the shit out of me. He’s already deployed a secret weapon without directly consulting us.’

‘What would that be?’

‘The DS302 micro homing bullet...its an advanced marker for a military strike.’

‘Its the first I’ve heard of it.’

‘That doesn't surprise me George, it is, or was, a profoundly secret device. I know he’s the commander in chief, but if he’s going to keep ignoring his generals superior professional knowledge, he’ll end up duplicating Hitler. While that doesn't really bother me, what does, is the fact that he’ll drag us all down with him. Don’t forget the patsy in these things is always a senior military man. I know he hasn’t done anything blatantly illegal yet, but he sure is skating on thin ice.’

‘But you’ve got to admire the man Harold, he’s using his powers to the hilt and then some, he’s quite the most dynamic president ever to occupy the White House.'

‘He’s also the one of the most frightening and corrupt presidents to occupy the White House.’

‘Aren’t they all corrupt in some way...this is Machiavellian politics, he does this because he can, and the president can be a bloody tyrant if he chooses to be.’

‘May I suggest that you open your eyes George...the bloody man is single and openly fraternises with the junior admin staff.’

‘All the better Harold, perhaps he’s looking for a suitable partner in his presidential quest.’

‘That I can understand if the junior staff were females but he seems to fancy the younger men too. The last thing we want is a bloody sex scandal involving the presidential

office whether it be hetero or homosexual.’

‘Aren’t you going a bit overboard Harold, after all the man is only human, and don’t forget sex is merely a normal bodily function like urination, defecation or sneezing.’

‘Well if you feel that way I’d close your eyes George for what is coming, because it could just stretch your mind to breaking point -- the bigger the man, the bigger the fuck-up. And don’t forget, once he gets enough cronies behind him, he’ll perform a top down clean out that’ll make the shit house cleaner cringe.

My advice to you George is watch your back if you value your position. Destroy every piece of info and file that might incriminate you in any way, that even includes e-mail's and dodgy coffee club payments.

The man is a bloody parasite -- you may recall from your basic biology schooling the parasitic wasp, which lays its eggs in the caterpillar's body -- they hatch and eat their host alive. That’s what Jenkins is doing to the American political system.’

‘I think your taking this far too literally Harold; my advice is to take a good holiday, go to Tahiti, or Hawaii and relax, forget all about politics for the next three weeks,’ Wiseman collapsed in his chair and stared at the ceiling reflecting on his friends remarks. Perhaps his companion was right, even if going on leave at such a critical moment in time might mean his removal as chief of the Air Force.

Maybe it was time he considered retirement, politics had become a rat racy shooting gallery, with himself now in the firing line.

Chapter Thirty-seven

Tehran, Iranian Military HQ

A fine sweat had built up on Brigadier Al Zandi’s face as he worked through his exercise routine on his three thousand dollar tread mill. The machine was a state of the art apparatus imported direct from the UK ordered directly from a health magazine he regularly subscribed to. He had lovingly assembled it piece by piece and built his daily exercise routine around it. The elaborate contraption dominated his office space.

A great fan of all things quintessentially British, he had noted the recent phenomenal strides they had made in the sporting arena -- beating some of the best athletes in the world during the Olympic Games, after a lack luster fifty years in the doldrums. This was the sort of progress he liked to see in a country which had previously lost its standing in world athletics. It was good to see any country doing well in any endeavor, even if that country was a potential enemy.

A word in his ear by one of this close friends living in London, told him that fifty percent of the British success had been attributed to this same tread mill, with its electronically tuned exercise routines. The machine could also be programmed to ones metabolism and physiological needs on a weekly basis.

The phone on his desk rang repeatedly but Al Zandi ignored it, concentrating on the rhythm set by his machine, which stipulated no interruptions were to be allowed during exercise. It was three hours later, during a computer filing transfer procedure, when the phone rang again. He allowed three rings then picked up the receiver.

‘Hello, Brigadier Al Zandi speaking.’

‘Hello, General Hakem Gamela...where have you been, I’ve been trying to contact you urgently.

‘I’m sorry sir, but I’ve had a bad attack of diarrhea.’

‘I see...well you’d better get rid of it before we decide to get rid of the person harbouring it.’

‘Yes sir, I have consulted the doctor.’

‘Good, now for your information Al Zandi, the decree has been changed. Apparently the supreme leader in conjunction with the Iranian president have reached a more satisfactory conclusion on the conditions of the decree. This has also been sanctioned by the National Security Council.

Just about now you should find a revamped version in the e-mail box of your computer,’ Al Zandi clicked on his mail and scrolled down the list clicking on the e-mail marked ‘Decree Mod.’

He looked long and hard at the message; his eyes brightened, the content was much more logical and he could see the mitigating input of the security council and possibly the president. But it was still extremely confrontational, and in his eyes...quite mad.

It had taken a long time but he was beginning to see why the western leaders and the Iranian leadership could not get on with each other. The Arab world lacked a certain entente cordiale. It was surely time for a drastic change in policy, if we really wanted to defeat the western democracies, the Muslim hierarchy had to beat the West at their own game.

A shrill noise came over his receiver as General Hakem Gamela whistled hard down the phone line. Al Zandi quickly pulled it away from his ear.

‘Are you still there Zandi...or have you had another attack of diarrhea,’ Zandi rubbed his ear and squinted menacingly at the receiver. This was the very thing that was wrong with the whole Iranian system, too much hate and antagonism...they couldn’t get on with each other let alone foreign nationals.

‘Yes sir, I’m still here,’ Al Zandi added hastily

‘Good, this still means you have to keep a ridged watch on the border areas -- make sure your men are up to the job.’

‘Yes sir!’

Chapter Thirty-eight

Government House NSW

Defence Minister Bruce Jones looked grimly at the PM. ‘These men have killed dozens of our own police and American security agents, kidnapped the US president, destroyed at least eight highly expensive limousines and we let them go sir!’

‘We had no choice Bruce -- it’s basically an American operation and they must ultimately call the shots, they will of course be shadowing the Learjet.’

‘A fat lot of good that will do, it might have made more sense to shoot them all, including the president -- it would at least have prevented a world wide trial and further humiliation on an unprecedented scale. They’re going to execute the president anyway,’ Jone’s mobile buzzed and he flopped into one of the comfy leather chairs adjacent to the long table before answering.

‘Hello police minister Jones here,’ Jone’s hand tightened around his mobile as the call continued. His face lightened, then darkened, and he stared at the floor as the caller terminated the connection. He folded his mobile, dropping it in his jacket pocket, then looked solemnly at the PM.

‘Everything has changed sir...that was a call came from the BIB Lear jet, Kazeni has done a back flip...he wants to sell the president back to the highest bidder his bottom price is fifty billion US dollars. He’s staked out Iran and the US to bid against each other.

‘Really, well that’s a turn up for the books -- an Iranian sponsored terrorist group holding their hostage up for ransom to the Iranian government. My, my, heads will roll should the Iranians ever catch up with them.

Actually it doesn’t surprise me, what does surprise me is why he didn’t try it on much sooner.’

‘You know how it is with these hot headed fundamentalists sir, he’s just figured out how valuable his catch is...it’s policy on the run.

The Lear jet is landing at Muscat in the next few hours and they’re taking the president to a hiding place on the outskirts of the city.Habib Sharazi has promised to keep in touch with us.’

‘Right, better inform the Americans, they look like being up for a another hefty bill.’

‘No doubt this will annoy them even more sir.

‘I’m sure it will, the BIB have beaten the best security organisation in the world and made mugs of the Americans on the international stage. The Yanks are now looking in our direction, they probably think its our fault, and I’m inclined to agree.’

‘We did our best sir...well at least some of us did.’

‘There lies the problem Bruce...our best was not good enough..’

‘However, ours is not to reason why, we may not be totally powerless,’the PM pressed his re-dial button and Jansen’s mobile lit up.

‘Hello Jansen here.’

‘Hello commander, PM...can you get to government house as soon as possible?’

‘Yes sir, I’m on my way,’

The PM looked mischievously at his defence minister. ‘On second thoughts we might just delay informing the Americans of the change in plans until we’re up and running.’

‘Is that wise sir, we’re already straining the leash.’

‘It is very wise Bruce...sometimes golden opportunities come our way and if we don’t grab them instantly they are lost forever. So, the sooner we get organised the better, hopefully it will make us look good in their eyes...then we’ll tell them’

The PM sat down with the defence and police ministers while a disgruntled US ambassador and FBI director left for the American Embassy without being told of the latest change in terrorist plans. Jansen made the short trip to government house in record time, in a flashing police car driven by an experienced police driver.

He burst into the meeting room on his arrival to find the three men in deep discussion. The conversation stopped instantly and all eyes turned toward him. The PM smiled enthusiastically which immediately put Jansen on his guard.

‘Come in commander...take your coat off and join us, we were about to drink to our recent success ’Jansen peered suspiciously at the three political heavy weights, and gingerly arranged his coat around the back of a well appointed leather chair, while the PM poured out three double whiskies from a bottle of Johnny Walker. He squirted a modicum of soda water in the third glass and handed it to the commander.

Jansen’s face took on a surprised frown; the PM seemed to have his measure in the drinks department, which was both good and bad. Good because paying attention to ones personal habits was a sign of respect -- bad because familiarity tended to breed contempt. Secretly, Jansen despised most politicians, it was a profession that brought out the worst in human propensities. There was a time when had considered joining their ranks until he realised how corrupt politics and politicians could be. There were very few, if any, governments in the world who could truthfully boast that they were free of corruption.

The term had come up so often in his business dealings that had decided to pin the term down once and for all. The Macquarie Dictionary listing gave an all embracing definition as follows: dishonest; without integrity; guilty of dishonesty; debased in character; deprived; perverted; wicked; putrid; infected; tainted...and so it went on, and on, and on.

With all these definitive words it was clearly very hard to be free of corruption. But Jansen knew instinctively what corruption really meant within government circles and could detect it the minute it reared its ugly head.

Chapter Thirty-nine

The PM gazed out of the window looking across the expanse of Sydney harbour, it was a view he had always loved since he was a five year old. His mother had taken him there from their humble weather board home in Bankstown. It was his first visit to the big smoke, and the thrill of it still resided in his memory, almost as clear as if it were yesterday. Sydney was at that time the epitome of freedom, a democratic city on a quintessential harbour; the envy of the whole world; and he had to admit nothing had really changed over the intervening years.

He allowed himself a few more voyeuristic moments of indulgence before turning round and addressing Jansen.

‘The situation has changed commander, we are now looking at a grand ransom demand from the BIB,’ the PM explained in detail what had transpired.

‘What I should make clear from the outset commander, is the fact, that this is no longer our ball game, and we should completely wash our hands of the whole unsavory incident.’

‘Isn’t that a bit of cop out sir?’the PM’s eyes bored into Jansen.

‘What I’m also saying commander, is that we should now leave the whole thing to the Americans, after all, it was their doing which brought this thing on in the first place,’ Jansen nodded compliantly and finished off his whisky.

‘Is this what we’re celebrating sir?’

‘Not quite...we’re celebrating the fact that we managed to remove the terrorists from Australian soil without incurring further fatalities. Heaven only knows what would have happened had the army or the FBI had their way,’ Jansen refilled his glass adding the mandatory squirt of soda.

‘In that case sir, I’ll drink to that,’ the PM cleared his throat.

‘Still, in spite of this, we find ourselves to be the scapegoat in this sorry little saga. The Americans haven’t said anything yet, but when you have your political ear to the ground, it is obvious to me that they blame us, at least in part for the situation.

So what I’m proposing is that we help pull their nuts out of the fire. It is about time Australia stopped being politically correct and grabbed the bull by the horns instead of passing the buck.

I want you and a team of SAS officers to snatch the US president from under the noses of the BIB extremist,’ the colour drained from Jansen’s face, and he finished his drink in one gulp, then quickly refilled the glass, this time without the soda water.

‘But they must be in Muscat by now sir, it’ll take us weeks to pull a trained team together and get them to the Arabian peninsula.’

‘Not if you pick the most experienced men you can find from the SAS pool commander...right now! I have the utmost confidence in the elite forces capabilities.’

‘But Muscat is thousands of kilometers away across the globe -- God knows where they’ll be by the time we arrive.’

‘No problem commander, Muscat is 11,681 kilometers from Sydney as the crow fly's, and the government has recently took delivery of a Dassault Falcon 7X private jet.

Its purpose is to get VIP’s or emergency teams as quickly as possible to any place in the world. You and your proposed team represent an emergency team as far as Australia is concerned. In fact you will be the first personnel to use it.

The Falcon 7X aircraft is capable of 900 kilometers/hour and has a range of 11,000 kilometers, with extra fuel aboard, she can fly non stop to Muscat in just over fifteen hours providing the weather holds.

The ball is in your court now commander, if you get your team together post haste, you’ll be in time for tomorrow’s breakfast in Muscat,’ the PM smiled politely and squinted at his watch.

‘The clock is ticking Roger, and your plane awaits you. So when you’re ready to go -- give me a buzz immediately,’ the house phone rang and the PM picked it up.

‘Hello PM here..’

'Parliamentary secretary speaking sir...just had a call from the NSW police, Clement Chester has committed suicide,’ a flash of confusion followed by disbelief passed across the PM’s countenance as he tried to come to grips with this latest broadside.

‘Oh my god, that’s all we need...why on earth did he have to do it now?

‘You know sir...the usual problems.’

‘No, I don’t know the usual problems...perhaps you could enlighten me.’

‘Well as you know sir, he was dismissed recently from the force and he’s taken it rather badly, according to his doctor he was extremely depressed. Apparently he was on a course of Prozac.’

‘When did this occur?’

‘Two days ago sir on Monday evening, his wife found him hanging in the shed.’

‘I see...my heart feels for him and his wife. However, it was a known fact in higher circles, that Clement was a closet marijuana user -- I suspect it may well have tipped balance. Even so, I’m afraid we’re going to have to

give him a State funeral right in the middle of the worst international bloody crisis since the last world war.’

‘Do you want me to put the wheels in motion sir?’

‘Yes, go ahead, inform his wife, then continue with the service arrangements...don’t skimp any of the formalities. Just remember, a State funeral is a political statement whoever it happens to be; it reminds the electorate that the government is doing its job. And the better the funeral pomp and ceremony -- the more it will impress the voters.’

‘Oh, and don’t forget, have a large Australian flag draped over his coffin, after all, he did serve the country on the front line of the police force.’

‘I’m not so sure we can do that sir, without his wife's permission, she may have the last say,’ the PM snapped back.

‘Well do what you can, and bear in mind, this will be a State Government funded ceremony.’

Chapter Forty

A mere two hours had elapsed since acting president Jenkins had held the last emergency meeting in the situation room. The meeting now included the full National Security Council, with newly appointed Attorney General, Claudia Lithgo, a no nonsense former womens lobby group advocate, with a string of high profile public service appointments to her credit. She was a natural career woman with years and years of hands on experience in the public arena.

She liked the fact that the assembly was on a twenty four hour alert with staff taking strict rotating roster breaks; it was preferable to bed sitting a lonely up market luxury flat that she had rented for the last five years. It was a hard lesson to learn, but money and prestige did not necessarily cure loneliness; in some ways it worsened the situation. A powerful woman drove many men away and she found herself constantly trying to adjust her ego in order to gain headway with the opposite sex. Bullying merely resulted in the same reaction from her male counterparts, worst still, this finally banished many men from the intimate relationship she so desperately needed.

Over the last few months she had discovered a simple secret which seemed to resolve the situation a little. It came from the holy bible directly from Jesus himself...treat others as you would wish to be treated yourself...if only all politicians adhered to this simple rule. She vowed to put the home truth into practice on every possible occasion. Jenkins sat at the head of the table gently massaging his forehead while the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff conferred with the military chiefs on a personal level.

After a prolonged discussion he approached the president, said a few private words in his ear, and passed on the notes he had been taking. Jenkins looked at each sheet in turn, solemnly noted the contents, then picked up his mug of coffee and drank several large gulps.

‘Your attention please ladies and gentleman, it is a contention between the military chiefs that we skip the low level guided drone aircraft and replace it with a MOAB GBU-43/B weapon. For your information the contraction MOAB stands for Massive Ordinance Air blast Bomb, or if you like, the Mother Of All Bombs. It is a massive conventional high explosive air blast bomb, and is the most powerful non-nuclear weapon ever designed by the United States.’

The attorney general looked disturbed by this revelation and leaned forward in her chair to get a more prominent view of the president.

‘Excuse me sir, but wasn’t the drone our guidance system for some other weapon...I mean a massive bomb is probably the least accurate means we have at our disposal.’

‘Point taken Claudia, however you interjected a little too soon, the bomb will be dropped at high altitude from a C-130 some distance from the target. And...I’m sure most of you are aware of the recent development designated as the JDAM bomb system,’ Jenkins paused, and looked at the Navy Chief who in turn, peered at his open information folder.

‘Thank you Mr. President...the JDAM refers to the Joint Direct Attack Munition...sorry about the convoluted acronym, but it comes from an initative of the US Air force and US Navy which uses a guidance kit to convert gravity or ordinary bombs into all weather “smart” munitions. In other words they turn an ordinary bomb into an accurate guided missile,’ Claudia Lithgo looked puzzled.

‘How on earth can you make a dumb bomb into a guided missile?’

‘JDAM does this by guiding the bomb to its target JDAM isn’t a weapon it is a bolt-on guidance upgrade for an unguided gravity bomb. It has a range of up to 15 nautical miles from the point of release.

The MOAB weapon we have in mind is guided by global positioning and is extremely accurate. Also, since it only employs conventional high explosives, it avoids the radioactive contamination of a nuclear a device.

The C-130 transport aircraft has long range reception facilities and will be able to pick up president Garner’s signal -- the bomber crew will simply translate the signal into GPS co-ordinates for the JDAM enabled MOAB bomb.’

‘But what about the C-130 sir -- its a pretty big target, the Iranian air defence will soon be onto it?’observed Claudia.

‘The C-130 has excellent air protection against air to air missiles and will be flying at very high altitudes; it will be protected part of the way by fighter aircraft. Also the weapon will be released before it reaches the actual target’ Claudia pouted her lips and stuck her nose in the air; an indication of dissatisfaction, and the fact that she was still not done with the questions.

‘Is this bomb powerful enough to destroy the Iranian power elite in one go sir?’

‘Well its blast radius is 150 yards and the massive shock wave will destroy at least nine city blocks.’

‘When are we going to pull this off Mr. President?,’ snapped an impatient chairman of the joint chiefs.

‘The operation will commence the minute the Lear jet touches Iranian airspace. We’re not going to be in a desperate hurry over this thing Mr. Chairman, but what we do need is reasonable accuracy. We’ll only get one go at this.’

Chapter Forty-one

The third round of coffee was being poured into the cups of the National Security Council delegates when two messages came through almost simultaneously.

Jenkins put them through to the speaker system. The first was from the strategic air command HQ, responsible for monitoring the Lear jet’s progress.

‘Hello Mr. president, the terrorist aircraft has changed course it appears to be heading for Muscat International airport. We have received no indication from the plane as to its intentions or final destination. The BIB are not communicating with us at the present time,’ the second message followed immediately.

‘To American communiqué HQ message from Australian government. Lear jet has changed course, now heading for Muscat International airport. Terrorist demands have changed, they now want a minimum of fifty billion dollars for the release of the president. Apparently this also applies to the Iranian government as well. This message has been received from Habib Sharazi second in command BIB on an emergency line.’

Startled looks from the NSC members were exchanged all round, finally settling on the president. Jenkins stood at the head of the conference table, swaying slightly from side to side, trying to take in the gravity of the two messages. His plans for the take over of the presidency on a more permanent basis, and political glory against the Iranians had suddenly crashed into an impassable brick wall. This was way beyond anything he had expected -- why had they changed their agenda so drastically. The only Muslim terrorists he new were totally committed to the Jihad against the west. It was unprecedented, the very idea of a devout Muslim insurgent demanding money for the release of such an important western figure was totally out of out of kilter with American thinking, not to mention Islamic thoughts on the problem.

Abduction of a head of state for money was the ultimate self centered act of an heathen -- the exact opposite of a suicidal Muslim extremist -- the bastards had turned themselves into common criminals in the blink of an eye. Human nature in all its greedy ramifications did inhabit Islamic fundamentalist thinking after all.

The chairman of the joint chiefs was the first to find his voice. ‘But this is wonderful news sir...president Garner is saved, all we have to do is pay them off and the crisis is at an end,’ Jenkins looked straight through the chairman, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. In spite of the chairman’s elevated position in the White House pecking order, the man looked like a simpleton in Jenkin’s eyes -- he shot a despicable grimace in the chairman’s direction.

‘Of course it’s not over, fifty billion dollars is not exactly peanuts, it’ll make one hell of a dent in our gross national product, and if the BIB in their misaligned thinking increase the ransom money, then we could be paying considerably more. In fact, there seems to be no end to what they might demand once we start negotiating...not that we ever will.

No Mr. chairman, the answer is a thousand times no, we can’t pay that sort of money for a doomed president,’ the chairman turned in Jenkins direction.

‘You said a doomed president sir.’

‘Yes...a doomed president...the DS302 micro homing device which now resides in his body has a lethal partner. It contains a built-in, plutonium pellet, it consists of finely divided plutonium in a ultra-slow release capsule. I estimate president Garner will be dead in a matter of one to two weeks at the most.’ All faces at the conference table, most of then clearly in shock, were once again riveted on the president. The attorney general broke the silence.

‘But this is a travesty Mr. president, you have withheld this piece of vital information from the National Security Council, this is a deliberate act of deception and malice designed to kill the incumbent president,’ Jenkins smiled sardonically. He looked around the table -- every pair of eyes projected the same look -- they formed the collective stare of a ‘guilty of murder’ jury, Jenkins shrugged off the tension.

‘As I pointed out some time ago ladies and gentleman, this device is classified top secret and as president and commander-in-chief of the armed forces, I have the right to withhold certain information on specific weaponry, providing I can justify the withholding of that information.’ The FBI director fixed Jenkins with a piercing gaze.

‘Than go ahead Mr. president, justify this apparent act of bureaucratic homicide.'

‘You must realise that this is a case of not only just being the president, but also setting a precedent as the commander in chief by striking while the iron is hot,’ the CIA director spontaneously chimed in.

‘Well you’ve certainly done that sir...trouble is, you’ve wiped out president Garner in the process,’ Jenkins continued unruffled.

‘The incumbent president was about to face trial for his life at the hands of the Muslin elite...need I point out that the outcome would inevitably be a guilty one. We can only guess at the sort of punishment that would have been meted out to president Garner in front of the whole world. No doubt it would have been video streamed over the Internet in graphic detail,’ Claudia Lithgo craned her neck forward directly under Jenkin’s face.

‘And so, you arranged this mandatory act of euthanasia.’

‘Of course, what else was I supposed to do...allow the president to be executed over the Internet for all the world to see? Let them cut his head off like some barbaric medieval act of butchery? Let’s face it, there is no way they would ever have returned the president alive at that time,’ Claudia Lithgo looked knowingly at the FBI director, he nodded -- there appeared to be a possible case to answer. Jenkins stood his ground, silently eyeing his peers, unmoved by their revelations.

‘I know what you are all thinking...this could be a series of impeachable offences. Go ahead, bring in the devil as your advocate, but be it on your heads.’

Chapter Forty-two

Sunday would have have been a very welcome respite for the National Security Council, but it wouldn’t be this Sunday. Muslim terrorist groups didn’t rest on the Christian Sabbath. Jenkins had used this to ensure that there would no slacking -- America had dropped the ball far too often in the past. One only had to go back to the 1940’s and the Japanese Peal Harbour debacle to see the results of such inaction. And if that wasn’t enough, a recounting of the many maligned forays of the CIA would more than drive the point home. America was a great country, but she was young, and suffered from a severe lack of anthropological experience on the world stage -- especially in the ways of eastern countries. She had no big brother to guide her, only her British and Irish fore bearers, who had their own idiosyncratic ways, which were not necessarily those of contemporary America. She was a dynamic country, standing on her own, and had to break new ground regardless of the consequences.

Misaligned foreign policies had all too often come to grief; the product of lack of knowledge and home grown corruption. But one thing was clear to the acting president, regardless of the skin colour or the language uttered, human nature was the same the world over.

From now on this would be the basic truism that would drive US policy forward, and if gut feelings and their subsequent reaction were the order of the day -- then so be it -- all the dilly dallying, political correctness, and smug do gooders, would ultimately achieve nothing.

Jenkins studied the now defunct, outline plan of the proposed nuclear Drone bombing of Tehran, set out in front of him on hastily typed sheets -- it now seemed the JDAM-MOAB set up had smothered the idea at birth.

However, the project was about to be shelved temporarily, but still kept in readiness, in case NSC changed its mind over the latest weaponry update. He had turned things over repeatedly over the last four hours, taking each possible alternate scenario to its ultimate conclusion. Logically, there would be no room for error, and yet chance and nature had a horrible way of twisting finalities. Out of continued frustration, Jenkins suddenly gestured wildly with both hands, waking every one out of their Sunday complacency.

‘Bastards...’ he blurted, ‘we’ll send the modified MAOB to Muscat and drop it on their co-ordinates...we’ll burn the fuckers to hell!’ the NSC chairman looked up, eyes now wide open, as if the Devil had just struck him on his balding crown.

‘But sir, president Garner might still be...’Jenkins cut him off instantly

‘He’s a dead man walking; he will soon be suffering now from the effects of the plutonium; we would merely be delivering a finale of mercy. Even if we did manage to retrieve the president, undoubtedly at great cost, it would take a very sophisticated surgical operation to remove the plutonium in tact from his body. We’re talking about trillions of radioactive metallic atoms, once they percolate the system the victim is doomed. It takes only a tiny fraction of a gram to completely destroy the bodies physiology,’ the NSC Chairman irritably pushed his chair back.

‘Can we get back to the bomb sir, it could be quite catastrophic on the surrounding population.’

'Collateral damage in times of war Mr.Chairman, we have no choice, either we put up with the biggest humiliation in political history of the United States, or we simply annihilate them.’

He stabbed dramatically at the papers in front of him.

‘Put this into effect immediately, then let me know the moment the MAOB is detonated.’

The CIA director suddenly interjected.

‘There’s a new page on the Al Jazeera web site sir,’ The chairman of the joint chiefs manipulated the keys on the nearest lap top, putting the Arabic Internet news channel on the large plasma display above the conference table. A page of Arabic text filled the screen and the chairman scrolled down to reveal an English translation.

‘The US President may be returned to America provided 50 Billion dollars is paid into an account stipulated by the BIB. If however the Iranian authorities are prepared to increase this amount the US president will be handed over to them.’

Jenkins paused and studied the belated message; the Arab media had obviously somehow got hold of information from some unknown source.

Sam Williams offered another possible alternative.

‘We could send in a black opps group sir and call off the MOAB initiative, we have several groups within striking distance of Muscat, ’ Jenkins slapped the table hard and growled back.

‘Don’t pre-empt my instructions...I’m the commander in chief here -- the plan remains -- we just have to modify it a little. As soon as we have a fix on the Muscat location of the BIB, go in with the C130, and drop the JDAM- MOAB on the coordinates,’ the secretary of defence all but fell off his chair in astonishment as he finally realised Jenkins was deadly serious after all.

‘But sir, we’re dealing with the biggest conventional bomb ever made...as I’m sure you are aware, this thing will level all buildings within a 150 yard radius. That may not seem very much but it is a huge area. Then of course there’s the collateral damage all over the place, we may well kill thousands of innocent people,’ Jenkins looked hard at the secretary of defence.

‘I just told you Lee to stop making policy, that’s my job, and I said drop the MOAB on the fucking BIB. Now if you can’t follow simple orders then piss off, and I’ll get someone who will,’ the tension shot through the roof and room immediately fell silent. Boswell buried his red face in his notes blotting out the surroundings.

The Army and air force chiefs flashed concerned glances to each other. The last thing they needed was an out of control president, or a virtual dictator who slashed his advisors aside with a mighty swipe of his razor sharp tongue.

The unbearable silence continued for several more moments and Jenkins slowly sat down in his chair, realising that he had lost his temper for a few seconds.

He looked around the table without meeting one sympathetic glance -- all eyes were averted -- this only served to fuel his anger, but his personal shame overcame it and he spoke in a quiet measured voice.

‘Look, ladies and gentlemen, I can only reiterate the fact that we are dealing with unprincipled thugs who would not hesitate to kill every last American on this planet. Dropping the MOAB weapon may well horrify you as will the possible consequences. But, by carrying out this simple act, we prevent them putting the president on trial for his life, or having to pay out the horrendous sum of 50 billion US dollars, or any of a dozen other highly revolting things that they may well come up with before we’ve finished.

234

God only knows what they’ll do with that sort of money, if they decide to reinvest it in terrorism, or .perhaps another nuclear plant at Bushehr, or as many AK 47’s as the Russians can make in a lifetime, or a dozen IBM’s to drop on New York and Washington...there’s literally no end to it

Why can’t you gentlemen get it into your heads -- this is a different war -- it’s unabated Armageddon on the run. The MOAB option is a bargain worth considering, and that ladies and gentleman, is what we are going to do!’

Chapter Forty-three

The BIB Lear jet had just received landing instructions from Muscat International airport and was approaching the runway. Airport authorities had been told to allow a private transfer to city transport for an important group of VIP’s visiting the city; they were to be allowed complete carte blanche of the airport facilities and surrounds.

Three SUV’s were lined up on the northern concourse of Muscat International airport, waiting for the Lear jet as it came in to land. The jet landed smoothly and taxied towards the SUV’s, stopping some five metres short of the nearest vehicle.

Farid Kazeni was the first out brandishing his M10 machine pistol, he quickly opened the doors on the three vehicles and directed Sharazi and the president into the first SUV. The rest of the BIB occupied the other two vehicles. Kazeni had given strict instructions that the airport buildings were to be avoided and side airfield gates were to be used. He took the wheel of the first SUV putting his foot on the accelerator and headed for the nearest opening, within seconds they were on the highway, heading for the outskirts of Muscat.

High rise buildings gradually gave way to classy family residences, which slowly petered out to mud built dwellings that seemed to go on for ever.

It was still stuffy inside the vehicle even with the vehicle air conditioning working full blast. Outside it was scorching hot with temperatures in the mid forties.

Sharazi pushed a bottle of spring water to his dry lips and took several large gulps. He squinted at the president huddled between two of his men in the back seat. He looked terrible, with a pronounced white pallor, his hands were trembling, sweat ran down his face puddling around his open shirt. His eyes remained shut -- he had not opened them since leaving the plane. He was obviously in shut down mode, the mind had gone into total denial and his brain wouldn’t have a bar of it, reality had become too hard to comprehend.

A glimmer of compassion squeezed its way into Sharazi’s emotions, and he reached back pushing the bottle in the president’s face.

‘Here Mr. president...take a swig,’ Garner tried to force his eyes open as he grappled with the bottle. Sharazi pushed harder as the president sucked on the open spout, guzzling nearly half of the water. He pushed the bottle away, coughing and spluttering, until his eyes burst open in relief. The musty stench of the surrounding company, who had not washed for several days, met his nostrils. It was enough to trigger a visceral reaction, but he was lucky, his body was so exhausted that it abandoned the effort required to throw-up, and he collapsed back into his sweaty seat, drooling a stream of water and salvia to the floor.

Sharazi wiped the bottle top with a distastful grimace, and passed it to Kazeni, who took several sips while keeping his eyes glued to the road. He seemed to be assessing their position in relation to landmarks as the vehicle passed several dilapidated road signs.

‘Where are we going Farid?’

‘There’s a place I know, I have a friend who has a large mud-brick warehouse out of town.’

‘Will this be the drop off point for the ransom?’

‘Not necessarily...you do ask a lot of questions Habib... things will be given on a need-to-know basis only,’ Sharazi gazed at the huge dust cloud the convoy was generating, which only made him feel more insecure. It was clear Kazeni still didn’t trust him. There were still many things his shifty taskmaster wasn’t telling him. One of them was the attendant dust cloud they were generating. The Americans were undoubtedly still monitoring their progress, and the dust cloud was a highly effective marker, especially from the air -- not only from high flying aircraft, but no doubt, also from their sophisticated space satellite cameras.

He looked at Kazeni as the concept registered in the unconscious part of his brain...they had changed coordinates because the US spy apparatus would have traced then to Tehran HQ. Undoubtedly the Supreme Leader, once again in his so called supreme wisdom, would have been a sitting duck, should the US decide to eliminate him. His deductive processes were working overtime-- he was beginning to read Kazeni’s mind.

A large red brick building appeared on the left side of the road, it was offset some twenty metres with a large mud-baked driveway alongside. A raised concourse ran the full length of the building, facilitating loaded and unloading of large trailers and trucks. Kazeni pulled in to the driveway and stopped halfway along the concourse, adjacent to a set of concrete steps.

The other SVU’s pulled up behind each other and followed Kazeni into the warehouse through a side door. Sharazi dragged president Garner into the building.

It was full of second hand cars in various conditions of decay. Someone was using a metal grinder in the midst of the cars, with showers of sparks landed in all directions. Sharazi stared in horror at the display and wondered how many of the old vehicles still held deadly reservoirs of petrol.

An internal office with windows occupied one corner of the building. Two men sat at a large desk talking and drinking fruit juice, from a large two door refrigerator standing against the wall. A large fan wafted the air around, assisting a small breeze coming through a side window. The men opened the office door and ushered the visitors in. Kazeni reeled off a string of orders and the rest of the BIB moved back out of the office and quickly deployed themselves around the building. Kazeni, and Shazazi sat on a long dilapidated divan with Garner propped up between them.

Kazeni shook hands with the men and introduced Sharazi. Both men had several days of stubble growth and wore tattered overalls soaked with grease and oil stains.

The older of the two men stared curiously at president Garner, whose eyes were shut, with his head down on his chest. Finally the old man spoke in accented English.

‘So this is the great United States President...what on earth have you done with him...the man is half dead,’ he pulled Garner’s head back with a jerk.

‘Are you sure this is the American president?’

‘As positive as we can be...straight from the American motorcade, and extracted directly from the presidential limousine,' the old man laughed mockingly.

‘We have to be sure,’ he put his face close to Garner’s, checking each hair follicle and skin blemish, looking for telltale evidence of plastic surgery. He pulled Garner’s head violently to the right side, and peered under the chin and neck line, then wrenched it to the left.

‘Well he seems to be clear at least he hasn’t had any facial procedures,’ his eyes came to rest on a small scar under the left ear, hardly discernible, but a possible means of identification from a good media photograph or video shot of the American president.

A dog began barking outside the building; Kazeni looked up in alarm.

‘I’ll have a look,’ said Sharazi reassuringly. He made his way to the back door, moved outside, and onto a small verandah at the back of the warehouse. A quick visual confirmed the area was deserted -- it was a window of opportunity.

He punched the radial key on his satellite phone and waited for a response to the Australian police number. A faint digital purr indicated connection was in progress.

The electronic buzz stopped abruptly, static took over, time stood still. It was agonizing waiting for an answer. The back door abruptly bust open, and Kazeni stood in the door way, antagonism spread across his face. Sharazi barely manage to hide his mobile behind his back.

‘Did you see anything?’ he snapped. Sharazi raised a half smile.

‘No, a think we scared the poor thing off,’ Kazeni grumbled and turned to go back. Sharizi stood a little closer to the verandah rail

‘You’d better come back into the building Habib, we’ve got things to discuss,’ Habib gently dropped his mobile over the side of the rail and walked slowly back into the warehouse -- a later retrieval would have to suffice.

Chapter Forty-four

The organ in St. Marys Cathedral in central Sydney played ‘Abide with me’ as another group of mourners entered the central aisle. The congregation was carefully monitored by plain clothes ASIO agents who mingled inconspicuously with the public. Agents were carefully screened for their nondescript appearance, and what seemed like a middle-aged obese lady, or a little old man with a white cane, could well be a skilled ASIO watcher.

The prime minister sat to the right of the front row of seats, his head slightly elevated, eyes fixed on the pine coffin of former police commissioner Clement Chester. Funerals always brought a tear to the PM’s eyes it was an unconscious reaction from the depths of his childhood. His mother died of cancer when he was only five years old and he could remember crying endlessly, day after day, praying that heaven would send his mother back if he cried long enough. It was the most traumatic thing in his life and he still shed a tear when the last image of his mother came back to haunt him. The cathedral organ began playing softly ‘Jesu Joy of Man’s’ Desiring which only assisted his tear ducts to perform their specialised functions.

The Coroner had given a verdict of accidental death whilst the victim’s mind was disturbed, which wasn’t quite the same as a planned suicide, or a planned murder for that matter. The unnecessary dragging up of unsavoury material which may have had serious political repercussions, as well as detrimental effects on the reputation of the NSW and Federal police forces, was deemed inappropriate at this time. It was the least anyone could have done under the circumstances.

The PM thought about Chester’s messy finale and meandered through two hymns and most of the Chester’s Eulogy -- then it happened.

His mobile phone buzzed alarmingly, the PM stood up red faced and dashed down the aisle and out of the cathedral. He’d forgotten to turn off the offending item, or had he, he remembered deliberately keeping the phone on, reminding himself that he was the prime minister, and this was another ongoing bloody crisis.

Two plain clothes men followed him at a distance as he groped in his pocket, pulling out his annoying mobile, and making his way to the corner of a large stone buttress.

‘Hello PM...’

‘Hello sir...Jansen here, you did ask me to give you a buzz when I was ready...I’ve assembled a team of six SAS men and we’re about to board the aircraft,’ the PM’s eyes lit up and he smiled for the first time since the start of the day.

‘Excellent, you’ve made my day commander, may I now suggest you proceed with all haste, and do bear in mind there’s a hell of a lot riding on this. By the way, the defence minister will be your immediate controller, he has substancial SAS experience, he will remain in contact with you throughout by satellite phone. I know its unconventional, but this is an unconventional foray and the minister does have significant military experience. Also he is in direct contact with me at all times, so we have gone to a lot of trouble to dispense with as much red tape as possible,' he could hear a muted rendition of Onward Christian Soldiers on the large organ and suddenly realised that was the cue for the coffin exit from the cathedral.

‘I will let you go now commander. I wish you bon voyage and good hunting,’ the PM folded his phone, breathed a much needed sigh of relief, and walked quickly back just in time to see the coffin being slowly carried out of the cathedral towards the hearse. He had missed his place as chief coffin bearer.

There were a few strange looks from some of the higher luminaries as he appeared at the side of the coffin. A speech to the nation and part of the eulogy had gone wanting, with the PM nowhere to be seen when he was needed. The Treasurer had to be called in to complete the PM’s speech. He bowed his head as the coffin passed, kissed his hand and placed it on the side of the pine wood, then whispered to himself...Good-bye my dear friend,’ and in an even fainter wisper...‘and bloody good riddance!'

Muscat

Several hours of fault free flying brought Jansen and his team within sight of the middle eastern city without making a fuel stop. After ten minutes hassle with flight controllers the team finally landed at Muscat International The jet came in low, a sleek white bird, her fuselage embellished from to tail with a slick black stripe. No other insignia indicated her service classification or nationality. She was a smart plane on the outside but very utilitarian on the inside. A dedicated machine for the job in hand, she could be quickly striped back to her bare metal infrastructure for bulky cargo handling or drastic range increase.

Jansen praised the new Dassault 7X aircraft and applauded the Australian government for purchasing the plane for special purposes. It was a superb machine for covert, off-the-cuff, global missions, requiring lots of discretion. The aircraft taxied within fifty metres of the airport buildings and came to a gentle stop. Jansen peered at the surroundings his feelings heightened by the obvious increase in external temperature. A cloying reaction began to form in his stomach as he pondered what the future might hold for them. He rubbed the window of the small sixteen seater airport bus which delivered them to the check-in area to get a better view of the facilities.

The team sat in the airport lounge having their first and last beer before taking on the BIB in earnest. Jansen went to a quite part of the bar and pressed the re-dial button on his satellite phone which called up the defence minister.

‘We’ve arrived sir, where do we go from here?’

‘Right commander...listen carefully, while I give you the latest satellite coordinates, courtesy of their GPS setup,’ The minister reeled off the figures, while Jansen traced them on a miniature map of the Muscat area.

The spot was some way out from the city centre, and he ran his finger along 86 Street from the city to an ill defined road called 8665 Ln, where the coordinates coalesced at the end of a small ill defined road ending in the middle of the dessert. A thin graduated red line ran close by, which turned out to be an oil pipeline according to the map legend.

He muttered under his breath...’Thank god for the GPS system, otherwise I don’t know where we’d be,’defence minister Hayes caught the remark.

‘You can say that again commander, its pretty wild out there, which is just as well...it will save civilian lives when the firing starts. I would assume, that there is some sort of building at the end of that road commander.’

‘I hope so, may be its an oasis.’

‘We should be so lucky commander...more likely a cesspool I would say.’

‘Thanks for the coordinates sir, I think they’ll prove most helpful’

‘Good, I’ll let you know if they change, also there should be three hire cars parked in the airport lot with yellow stickers on the front windscreen marked MG, courtesy of the Oman government...you’ll find the keys at the airport reception desk -- just show the man your passport and quote the code Matilda 2233...best of luck commander.’

Jansen went back to the airport lounge, had a long swallow of beer, then looked around at the motley team he had chosen straight from army records. On the whole he was a good judge of character but it strongly depended on the physical presence of the person and their subsequent body language.

Knowing how inaccurate army records were he wondered what sort of men he had actually taken on. One could never glean the measure of a soldier merely from the written word of an indifferent commanding officer. Often remarks were placed willy nilly into the records, either for the administrative convenience of filling up the page, or just for something to say about the person in that particular battalion. Army records were like weather statistics -- they were mean averages -- with mean being the operative word. No gentle small talk, where one could pick up vital clues as to the character of the man who made them, you were either black or white, and very anonymous

To know a soldier one had to literally live with him over a reasonable period of time. This was especially true in the heat of battle and at awkward times which demanded significant performance. One never knew if the man you stood next to was a coward until that vital moment in time.

Jansen finished his beer, picked up the keys, and took one last look around the airport lounge and thought about possible future outcomes...this could be the last he would see of polite civilisation for some time. A little reflection was always helpful before heading off into battle providing it wasn’t negative -- then it could be fatal.

He made peace with himself and wondered why he never really made peace with god, then dismissed the insistent idea that he must be some sort of atheist.

Nothing could be further from the truth; he had been a good student at school, and attended all the religious knowledge classes with the occasional attendance at Sunday school with his peers.

It was just that the religious teachings demanded previous assumptions like the acceptance of a supreme God, the Holy Trinity, the Virgin Birth and many other preconceived beliefs that were just not very scientific.

But there was a God all right, and he, she, or it, was way beyond anything we could conjure up from simple mythology, folklore, religion or paganism. Humans, like everything else, were a property of the cosmos and subject to its laws; such laws could not be waved aside for the sake of one individual -- God, or no God.

The bar tender picked up Jansen’s empty beer glass and mumbled something in a thick accent indicating a refill. Jansen shook his head and turned towards his men.

It was time for action and the simple pleasures of life would now be put aside.

A hand signal indicated ‘move-out’ as he headed towards the car park followed by his team. Jansen inspected the two government station wagons and sudan, he tossed the keys in the air and smiled profusely. They had got it right, all the vehicles were white, of recent vintage, and seemed to be in good condition. In the absence of a correctly camouflaged vehicle, white was as good as anything in dessert surrounds, it reflected the heat and could be camouflaged with camel dung if necessary.

He removed a pair of army issue binoculars from his back pack and surveyed the surrounding hilly terrain. Looking intensely at the colour variations in the sand dunes and mountain scenery. He averaged out the predominant colour which turned out to be an earthy yellow leaning towards plain khaki. It was pleasing, since the cotton fatigues he’d chosen for his men almost matched the surroundings, so far there had been several good omens if one believed in such mindsets.

Studying photo albums of colour shots of the Sultanate of Oman and the Muscat surrounds had been useful after all. There was only one thing that worried him and that was the winding dirt roads into the Muscat hinterland. Lots of precarious twists and turns around the hills and mountains, which not only seemed dangerous for a driving point of view, but also, were ambush death traps for unwary infidels.

SAS Sergeant Fred Worsley removed a larger map from his thigh pocket and spread on the bonnet of the sudan. He squinted hard at the map, then at Jansen. Some sort of cover for a paramilitary team, be it terrain or buildings, was virtually essential once the action started.

‘There’s not a lot to go on sir unless you like sand, sea and air,’ Jansen smiled sardonically.

‘Well, the less the complexity the greater the ease.’

‘Lets hope so sir, but we still need some sort of terrestrial guidance,' Jansen nodded and peered hard at the Australian and Oman government issue map, looking for a publication date or some vintage sign.

‘I don't think we can give this map too much credence sergeant. Probably the best thing to do is to ignore the graphic distractions and follow our own inclinations.

Jensen felt at ease with Sergeant Worsely he was clearly a military man who had spent most of his life with the army. Such experience came over in his actions, body language, and verbal syntax, the man lived and breathed the armed services. Built like a Centurion tank with a powerful torso and robust musculature to back it up -- he was every mans idea of the archetypal army sergeant. He didn’t need to be repeatedly told what to do -- his actions automatically kicked-in for the occasion at hand -- Jansen was grateful for this and allowed him significant leeway. The men were in place in double quick time and the convoy carefully made its way out of Muscat using the basic map coordinates and GSP readings. Worsely peered intently at the side of the road.

‘There is one thing sir.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Booby traps! I think we should be very cautious sir. I don’t want to cause undue alarm but a high percentage of fatalities in Afghanistan have been cause by road side bombs and the like.’

‘I take your point sergeant ...we’ll proceed slowly,’ this gave Jansen an even greater measure of comfort knowing that Worsely had first hand experience of dissident techniques -- it was good to have a man who could read the eastern mind.

The almost total lack of scenery, and the ever present sea of white sand, was both debilitating and depressing. It seemed to go on forever and Jansen found himself comparing it with the Australian outback, but even the worst of Aussie environs could not keep pace with the utter vacuity of continuous white sand. At least Australia had salt bush and various other hardy plants which broke up monotonous scenery.

Several times he began to nod off, and each time he woke he looked directly at Worsely, wondering if the monotonous conditions were also affecting his driving ability. The man was as alert as ever which drew even greater admiration from Jansen.

Two hours later the vehicles pulled in behind a string of sand dunes. Jansen lifted the pair of binoculars from his pack and focused them on a large brown building at the end of an unsealed road.

‘That looks like a strong possibility, its sitting dead on our coordinates,' Worsely took his own glasses and closely scanned the front of the building. It was the only significant building in the vicinity, apart from a collection of dilapidated mud houses scattered along the road side.

‘It’s hard to miss sir -- what do you think -- go in now, or wait till nightfall?’

‘We’ll have to go in now, that place will be virtually invisible in the dark, there’s no street lights or any other lighting around the place, and we’ve got no night vision equipment. We’ll be shooting each other in the blackness, and I don’t fancy spending the night here.’

Jansen hadn’t considered a confrontation in the dark -- especially a planned one. It was the folly of follies, the military and undercover work were full of major disasters that had occurred in dark places. The US Iranian disaster involving helicopter carriers and troops preparing for a hostage siege during president Carter’s watch came easily to mind. It was a terrible disaster killing a large portion of the undercover team. And the worst part was that the whole ruddy world knew about it -- it was in every major newspaper and on every TV station on the planet. It was abundantly clear that poor visibility in the dark was the main culprit. However good soldiers were, and however well trained, they simply weren’t supermen, and didn’t have infra red eyes in the back of their heads.

The incident undoubtedly sullied Carter’s presidency and destroyed any hopes he had of a second term in office His standing with the American public was never to be the same. It served to remind them that voting a peanut farmer into the White House may not have been such a good thing after all.

Jansen’s thoughts shifted closer to home, with the deaths of several crack Australian SAS personnel in a two helicopter gun-ship collision, also in the dark during a training exercise. Action and pitch blackness just didn’t go together, and as obvious as this statement was, some commanders actually seemed to think the two were mutually compatible.

It was this sort of thinking which killed men and added to the enemy’s chances of winning. Success on the battle field demanded a clear down to earth grasp on reality and yet -- many battles were actually won by taking risks which contradicted reality.

Jansen was adamant about battle conditions, and if any fighting were to be done, it would have to be in broad daylight, and preferable on his own terms.

Chapter Forty-five

The Large brown building looked innocent enough, stuck in the middle of no where, which seemed to be an Arab trait when it came to wholesale business premises. Periodic buzzing and clanking noises came from the centre of the building suggesting a possible workshop site. Jansen nodded at Worsely and signaled with his hands for a closer recognisance.

Sergeant Worsely did his best SAS low level crawl up to the side of the building and then skirted the entire premises, checking windows and entry doors. He touched his blue tooth earpiece and whispered into it.

‘No obvious visible activity, there are eight small windows and three entry doors. The east side door is flanked by a large roll up door and loading bay. This is possibly the easiest and quickest way in. There are periodic noises from inside...no apparent guards,’

Jansen replied, ‘okay, you and I will take the side door adjacent to the roller door. The rest of us will fan out into two groups and take the other two side doors.’ Jansen gave the signal to advance and the SAS team closed in on the warehouse stealthily jockeying for the best positions of entry.

Jansen went through the side door and nestled below the bonnet of an old car -- Worsely quickly joined him. It was obviously a large automotive repair shop judging by the number of vehicles occupying the whole ground floor of the building.

A group of men stood behind the grimy windows of an internal office in the corner of the building; they seemed to be arguing in Arabic and gesticulating to a man sitting on a couch.

Jansen raised his hand directing Worsely to cover the side of the building, then crouched and moved quickly to the office, he stood to one side, and Worsely readied himself to gate-crash the office door.

Suddenly a burst of machine gun fire echoed from the far side of the warehouse; the team had finally made contact with the BIB guards. The men in the office stopped arguing and stared into the warehouse gloom, Jansen fired a high burst from his MAC10 SMG smashing the glass and kicking in the door.

Worsely brought up the rear leveling his SMG at the surprised BIB leadership; caught entirely off guard they reluctantly raised their hands. Jansen new the hand raising was only a show and the slightest error on his part would instantly be taken advantage of.

He took a quick slanted look at the man on the couch -- was this disheveled heap of rag and bones really the US president? His face was pure white and shriveled, like that of a dead man, a condition he attributed to BIB treatment.

Jansen’s internal viscera reacted and an involuntary peristalsis ran the length of his gastro intestinal tract. The feeling was never very pleasant and his primordial instincts begged him to open fire, it was the safest way to relieve such unpleasantness. At that moment his mobile buzzed, and he ripped it from his top pocket.

‘Jansen here,’he eye balled the four Arabs as he held the mobile close to his ear.

‘Hayes speaking...get the hell out of there now!’ The message came over the line like an electric shock...the defence minister had shouted it down the line causing Jansen to pull his mobile sharply away from his ear. Hayes continued speaking loudly in an urgent voice.

‘The hostage they have is not president Garner, he is a secret service stand-in and he is dying from plutonium poisoning,’ Jansen spun round and took another look at the presidential stand-in. He was certainly dying and was probably already dead, and come to think of it, he didn’t look very much like the US president either.

‘You’ve got to get out of there now...the US airforce has homed a MOAB weapon on your coordinates -- you’ve got about five minutes to run 150 yards,’ Jansen’s brain latched onto the acronym, MOAB it signified Massive Ordinance Air Blast Bomb, it was the biggest conventional bomb in the world. He looked at Worsely in a state of panic and yelled.

‘Lets get out of here now,’ he turned and bolted through the door, yelling at the top of his voice to his men, as he exited the warehouse. His team followed within striking distance of his rear end.

Kazeni stared at Sharazi, then Garner, who was now completely laid out on the couch, saliva dribbling from his open mouth -- the rigidity was obvious -- he was undeniably dead.

‘Why have the infidels run away, what are they afraid of...does the president have the pox?’

The older man reiterated his earlier remarks.

‘He is not the president...I know, I have been within several feet of the man in the flesh,’ Kazeni gazed into space...‘how could this be? The man was extracted straight from the presidential limousine in the Sydney cross city tunnel, a switch was all but impossible.’

‘You said it was all but impossible -- that means it may have been possible...they could have switched the president earlier before you got to the presidential limousine.' The older man suddenly brightened and pulled a video cassette from a back shelf of the office.

‘This my friends was recorded from CBS TV only six weeks ago during a presidential address,’ he inserted the tape into an old video player and turned on a diminutive black and white TV; streaks of white electronic noise filled the screen accompanied by an intermittent hiss which drowned out any coherent audio.

A panoramic view of reporters and media personal suddenly appeared with Garner’s voice in the back ground. The camera panned to the speaker standing at the rostrum and went in for a close up. Garner’s face filled the screen. The old man screeched shaking his arms in the air.

‘There I told you...how can that lump of shit on the couch be the president. There was a vague resemblance but the close up features were clearly not those of Garner.

Kazeni pondering a little longer...was this why the pursuit team had run away...because they had just received a call which told them Garner was not the real president, or were the reasons for their sudden departure more insidious?

Sharazi’s eyes suddenly lit-up in terror as his brain sifted through possible alternatives.

‘We should get out of here...I think we’re going to be bombed,’ Kazeni grabbed him by the arm. ‘It may be too late to run, we’ll have to protect ourselves here,’ he dropped dramatically onto one knee feeling with his fingers along the dirt encrusted floor, and grappled with a wooden slab, lifting a trapdoor in the floor. A shaft ran into the ground and both men quickly disappeared below floor level. The two other insurgents watched in amusement. The older man put his finger to his head and turned it like a corkscrew, he laughed, and spoke to his companion in Farsi. ‘They’re all crazy...even Americans are not stupid enough to bomb a worthless warehouse. I think we should...’his words were instantly erased, and his body vapourised as the MOAB exploded directly over the building.

A massive fire ball surged through the area and consumed everything within a fifty metre radius, it was abruptly followed by a shock wave, which leveled the whole block and every upright object in the vicinity

A perfectly flattened area appeared where the warehouse had once resided, and an enormous particle cloud fogged the sky for hundreds of metres in all directions.

For Jansen and his team it was a race against time, and one, that logically, the team couldn’t possibly win as they raced like hell for their lives. It was amazing how much space one could be traversed when one’s life depended on it.

Jansen felt the heat flash on the back of his neck and through the flak jacket he was wearing, as if someone had applied a blow torch to his flesh. Momentarily he looked back to see a huge black cloud heading towards him in slow motion. It wasn’t the first time he’d experienced the slowing down of human reactions during a life threatening incident. He wasn’t quite sure if it was reality or the mind, or perhaps a combination of the two, which gave rise to the slow motion phenomena.

Ironically at that precise moment he thought about Albert Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, time contraction, and the human subjectivity of such observations. It was strange how ones perceptions changed when a massive dose of adrenaline was dumped into the blood stream.

He pushed harder on his limbs trying to get the last ounce of energy into his muscles, paradoxically the more effort he put in, the stiffer his muscles became and the slower his forward motion. The ground gave way beneath him, and a sense of weightlessness took hold. Impulsively, he had the presence of mind to clap his hands over his ears, as the deafening sound wave passed over him. His body plunged head first into a large sand dune blacking everything out. A prolonged silence ensued, and his senses no longer seemed to be responding to outside forces. For a few indelible moments Jansen could not make out whether he was alive or dead, and he struggled to lift his head out of the sand. It was the faint drone of large jet aircraft overhead that finally gave him back his senses.

Pulling his head out of the sand and gazing into the void he could just make out a tiny silver reflection of a high altitude bomber, and its tell tale vapour trails, which marked its position in the sky. This must have been the view Japanese survivors of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki after the Americans dropped the atom bomb on their cities. Humans were an inquisitive species and always compared their circumstances to incidents in the past.

As he turned his head earthward he thought he saw movement. A flash in the sand dunes just east of the dirt road, possibly a reflection off a vehicle windscreen as it moved out of sight...or even an hallucination after the gross assault on his senses.

Chapter Forty-six

Jenkins looked at the Washington monument from his desk window, he had often admired its symbolic overtones, it was one of the many artifacts around the capital that was quintessentially American, and that was the way he liked it. Anything that sybolised America’s greatness was good -- good for moral, good for the country, good for its enemies and ultimately good for the world from an American point of view.

Without America what would the world be? The thought stuck in his throat -- it was unthinkable! His laptop was open on his desk with a hot cup of his favourite coffee next to it. He scrolled down the screen to his software planner and browsed the entries.

They were a list of accomplishments along with dates of achievement; it was literally a CV of his goals for the past ten years. A superlative diary to be gloated over, this is what made life so worth while. It was all about accomplishments -- scraps of extraordinary happenings which he happily fed to his ego, it breathed new life into his existence as the ultimate force in world politics.

A smug smile was in order as he added his latest demand to his prestigious wish list. He typed it in bold letters...

Sunday CEREMONY

1/ Inauguration as President of the United States.

It went well with the rest of the list and was in fact the culmination of all his efforts over the years. There seemed to be little point in being the US president by default only, after all, a de facto president was just an ad hoc fill-in position. It just had to be the real thing signed and approved by the law makers and public alike.

Pouring himself a large bourbon, he eased a modicum of soda water down the side of the glass, swirled it around, and drank it in one large gulp. He lifted the house phone and dialed his personal secretary.

‘Hello Harry, president Jenkins speaking,’ he intoned with conviction, ‘how are the preparations coming along for the official inauguration?’

‘The chief justice has been informed and we’ll be conducting the ceremony at the Capital’s West Front in line with previous inaugurations sir.’

‘Good...I was just thinking about that Harry...due to the current situation, might it be wiser to conduct it inside the Capital building.’

‘Yes Mr. President, that is possible, I follow your reasoning, that will make the security arrangements a little easier, but we may have difficulty fitting everyone into the building.’

‘It should be simple enough Harry, just cull the list until we can get them all in...after all it is the inauguration of the president that’s important, not the number of resident guests, and in any case, the whole rigmarole is only a formality.’

‘True, but what a wondrous formality sir, its not everyday one becomes the president of the United States. I know the ceremony can be a little unnerving, but look at it as symbol of recognition by your peers sir. A procedure which indemnifies you as the most prestigious and influential man in the world,’ Jenkins smiled serenely -- hearing this accolade directly from one of his peers was sheer joy.

‘You do have a point there Harry, thank you that positive spin...I await my fate.’

‘Right sir...I’ll give you a call when we’re ready for you.’

‘Excellent,’ Jenkin’s poured himself another bourbon and sat back in his large upholstered chair. His eyes scanned the well appointed office area, these were the wings, the place where future presidents waited for their que to become the US president -- the so called most powerful man in the world.

He was aware that many people in the cabinet and associated areas were resentful of his sudden rise to the most coveted political position in America. Although this was the grand achievement in his life he felt uneasy. There was still something nagging away at the back of his brain, which he couldn’t nail down. Being a full blown hands on politician, this was hard for him to understand. Men in high positions were supposed to know everything and be able to handle almost anything, be super human in fact, in the eyes of the public. His mind wondered on to government as a working entity in its own right.

Governments were delicate, unpredictable, and tended to be unstable by virtue of the fact that they depended on the human element which controlled them. Politics was the name of the rat racy manipulation that went on relentlessly for the control of society, and was the thing that drove government. And in politics, all was fair in love, and war. By its very nature politics tended to skirt the law, and in some countries it was the absolute law. But so far, he had out foxed his contemporaries fair and square, and that was all the politics he needed.

The inauguration would finally remove all doubts about his authority and all the non conformists would have to be removed from cabinet and any other associated public offices. The president was the commander in chief, full stop, and that was true in all important areas as far as he were concerned.

Chapter Forty-seven

He was on his third glass of bourbon and feeling pleasantly relaxed, when his mobile buzzed. In spite of his modest inebriation, it jolted his composure, and he snatched the mobile from his desk.

‘Hello...Jenkins...’

‘You’re on sir...show time in five minutes...’ Jenkins folded up his mobile, took several deep breaths, and finished his forth bourbon. He had developed a taste and tolerance for fine spirit which fell just short of alcoholism. He knew when the stage had been reached, his body told him so in many subtle ways, and he had practiced the exact cut off point over the years. If there was such a thing as a controlled alcoholic -- then it was he, Steven Jenkin’s, who was the ultimate living example. He licked his spirit salved lips and made his way to the capital building. He could hear the hum and banter of the mass of people as he entered the back transepts of the large building.

A sudden thought crept up on him as he climbed the steps towards the rostrum and the supporting luminaries.

He was single...a single president was almost unheard of...you had to be married to be president. It dented his mind set from positive to negative. Thirty seconds remained for the preamble and oath taking to take place. He had to find an alternate positive thought...then he remembered the 15th US president, James Buchanon, he was a president who was never married, and quite possibly, there might have been a few others? He scalded himself for not knowing the US presidential lineage and associated details. It was the one thing people might expect him to know, but such trivia was never one of his good points.

Staring at the faces in the crowded room, he forced a smile, and a modest cheer erupted from a group of well wishers gathered at the front of the assembly. He stood next to the rostrum and the chief justice caught his eye with a solemn gaze. A short pause and the chief justice began to speak authoritatively into the microphone.

‘Repeat after me...I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully..., he knew the oath of affirmation back to front and felt like reeling it off in double time, ‘execute the Office of the President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.’

He had just reached the word ‘ability’ when several loud gun shots near the side entry doors interrupted the proceedings.

Jenkins squinted aggressively at a group of men and women who had just entered the room. The leading man was waving a revolver in the air and shouting.

‘Stop the inauguration -- it’s illegal,’ Jenkin’s stared incredulously at the shouting man. ABC, CBS and CNN news channel cameras at the front of the proceedings jostled each other for a close up of Jenkins, catching his scowling mannerism and the smallest beads of sweat on his brow.

Then they switched to the man leading the insurrectionists, his face seemed more than familiar. He was waving a small pistol -- it was Garner, president Garner...he stood a mere two metres from the rostrum with the revolver aimed at the man about to be inaugurated -- Jenkin’s reacted immediately pointing his finger at him..

‘Arrest that man before he shoots someone,’ two policeman moved in from the side lines and stood in total bewilderment as they recognised their former president. Garner pushed himself forward still brandishing the revolver.

‘I‘m afraid you are the one who is under arrest,’ Garner snapped contemptuously at Jenkins.

Jenkins peered more closely at the entourage surrounding Garner. Ellen Monard the National Security Advisor stood at Garner’s side with the FBI Director and the Attorney General standing behind them. Jenkins was beside himself trying to find the right words to fit the unprecedented occasion which confronted him.

‘But this is impossible, the MOAB strike, and the plutonium implant...they would have...’ Jenkins stopped abruptly, suddenly realising he might be incriminating himself. Garner lowered the revolver.

‘I’ll finish that sentence for you...they would have killed me...but they didn’t. In spite of your deceptions and your dirty politics your plan has failed,’ Jenkins rapidly back peddled and tried to resume his composure.

‘I have carried out my duties to the best of my ability, if there is any fault here it is yours sir,’ he continued his finger pointing.

‘How do we know you are not some impostor masquerading as the former president?’ Garner squirmed a little and vented a sarcastic smile.

‘There is one thing you were not aware of Steven, I had a double. A specially trained secret service agent who resembled me in features and build,’ he turned and placed his hand on Ellen Monard’s shoulder.

‘I owe this kind lady my life. It was Ellen who first noticed this similarity and suggested I use him as a double in risky situations...the man was highly agreeable. And why not...it fulfilled his oath of allegiance to a tee. To serve and protect the president of the United States...this job he fulfilled one hundred percent, which is a lot more than I can say for you, vice president Jenkins.’

‘If that is true sir, where is this security agent?’

‘You know the answer to that...the man is vapourised into millions of particles; the result of your foolhardy MAOB debacle in Muscat.’

‘It was necessary, we did our utmost to protect the interests of the United States, and the American people.’

‘You certainly did that, but you forgot to protect your president. I have the security services to thank for my life. However, there was a stage in this horrible business when I thought my time was at an end,’ Jenkin’s stance noticeably softened.

‘When was that sir?’

‘We were in the tunnel trapped in the presidential limousine with rounds flying in all directions and secret service personnel dying in their droves. There were only minutes to spare before the terrorists turned on the limousine. Thankfully, the vehicle was bullet proofed, but the real horror was the rocket propelled grenades they were carrying --. one direct hit and we would all be finished.

‘But this is incredible Mr. President, let me be one of the first to congratulate you and welcome you back.’ Jenkin’s extended his right hand in an elaborate show of false concern. Garner ignored it.

‘You are not one of the first to welcome me back actually...you are one of the last,’ A pretentious smile flickered across the vice president’s face.

‘I understand your attitude sir...but you must remember, politics is a very serious game...their can be no long lasting sentiments based on evanescent emotions. You’re back, alive, and well, this is a victory for America, we have outwitted them at there own game. How on earth did you managed to pull it off so convincingly?’

‘By sheer good fortune, security agent James Black, my double, happened to be sitting in the front passenger seat. I was partially predisposed due to a cigar smoking incident, which I bitterly regret, and I was prostrate in the back of the car.

James crawled over the back seat, offered his total allegiance, and we swapped lapel badges and wallets, then I struggled into the front passenger seat. I did my best to act and look like a security guard. The terrorists fell for it completely and I was able to escape,’ Jenkins smiled triumphantly, faking his emotions, and trying his best to emulate a better relationship between the two men.

‘End of story then sir?’

‘Not quite...there’s the little matter of your strange behaviour during the crisis,’ Jenkins frowned.

‘My strange behaviour?’

‘Yes...you dropped a MOAB device in order to kill one man...that man was me!’

‘But you were already dying of plutonium poisoning ...once the Iranian’s had you at their mercy they would have tortured you for weeks, creating untold suffering, and then they would have chopped your head off over the Internet for all the world to see.’

‘No, I think not, you had to end your own suffering. Knowing that I might still be alive drove you to distraction. You couldn’t stand the idea that I might just survive and return as your president, so you compensated for your fears. By dropping the biggest bomb you could lay your hands on, knowing the no one could possibly emerge alive...especially the president of the United States.

Lets face it Steven, your lust for power knows no bounds it’s turned you into a psychopathic madman. A man prepared to kill any number of people in order to be the most powerful man in on earth.’

‘You can say and think what you like sir, your prerogative, but you’re overlooking one thing, as vice president it is my duty to take over the president’s job should he be unable to perform his duties. As far as we were concerned you were a prisoner without volition; the moment the presidential motorcade entered the Sydney cross city tunnel. So lets face it Frederick, you were in no position to run the country.’

Jenkins was right, according to the 25th amendment he had every right to take over, and run the country as he saw fit -- even to the point of disposing of the entrapped president -- even though this may have amounted to bureaucratic assassination.

The plutonium poisoning and the MOAB incident, excessive as they were, could in all probability be legally justified in a court of law. But these were Machiavellian tactics and not the sort of thing morally responsible democratic countries should be practicing, but being morally responsible wasn’t real politics. It was Machiavelli himself who said...Force and prudence are the might of all governments that ever have been or will be in the world. Jenkins had certainly used force but it was his twisted prudence that worried Garner.

Jenkins forced a flat smile, ‘We’re both grossly overwrought over this horrible business Mr. president...may I suggest we allow ourselves a cooling off period,’ Garner looked sharply at Jenkins then reluctantly nodded. At this stage it would undoubtedly be extreme folly to try to impeach Jenkins for his inept handling of what was a really difficult situation -- there had to be another way -- there was, but it would have to wait a more favorable time

The current political turmoil also forbade any prolonged infighting as this would severely weaken the government at a time when it needed to be at its strongest.

Chapter Forty-eight

Five minutes had elapsed before Jansen finally regained most of his senses and took a good look around taking note of his bearings. It was flat, virtually everything that had been standing had been leveled, random piles of blackened rubble were all that remained of the warehouse. It was a scene straight from hell and nothing could possibly have lived through the massive onslaught

It was strangely silent, as if somehow nature had made a mistake, and was sulking with embarrassment in the background not wanting to show herself -- then unexpectedly, the silence began to vibrate -- humming, like a subdued penny whistle it permeated the backdrop. Nature was cooking up one of her favourite tricks in this part of her domain. Repeated through time immemorial she was in the throes of perpetuating a sandstorm, perhaps in a half hearted attempt to cover up the ugly hinterland scaring. Storms of this nature came in different grades and different ways. Some just sprang up instantly out of nowhere, others gradually made their way on stage.

Judging by the intermittent nature of the phenomena this one could be either type, it was hard to tell. It could take hours to mature into a death trap, or appear full blown in an the next instant. He put both hands to his mouth and repeatedly shouted as loud as he could sending the words to all and sundry.

‘Hello...is anyone still alive!’

Slowly his team began to surface, as sand covered objects arose from the desert surrounds, and dusted themselves off.

Jansen made a quick head count -- by a miracle of middle eastern quackery everyone was still alive. He tugged at his inside pocket and hoped that the explosion had not damaged his satellite phone too much. He pressed the direct line button which would put him in touch with defence minister Hayes.

The phone put out a scratchy series of beeps above the static. A long pause and a faint voice came over the line

‘Hello Hayes here...’

‘Hold your horses sir, I can hardly hear you,’ Jansen moved around and manipulated the phone to get a better reception.

‘Hello Jansen speaking...it’s all over sir...the Yanks have blown everything to bloody hell with their MOAB bomb. There isn’t a stick of wood still standing here,’ defence minister Hayes came over loud and clear as he shouted into the phone.

‘It’s not all over commander...you need to find evidence.’

‘Evidence? Evidence of what sir?’

‘The bodies of Farid Kazeni and Habib Sharazi.’

‘Your bloody joking sir...the largest piece of human tissue here would be about as big as a finger nail, most of it would have been vapourised, with a lot of luck you might just find a little finger to go with the nail.’

‘I’ll make it clear for you commander, the PM wants evidence that we were the first on the scene, and it was us who finally cornered the BIB in the warehouse. He wants a political feather in Australia’s cap...something to show the Americans that we metaphorically pulled their nuts out of the fire, then perhaps they’ll stop blaming us for the this whole bloody debacle.’

‘Got your message sir...I’ll do my best,’ Jansen looked around and scanned the debris field. It was immediately obvious that no one could heave possibly survived the detonation. There wasn’t even a respectable pile of bricks to hide behind and the tallest debris pile was no more that a foot high. Jansen collected his men together.

‘The Yanks have done a fantastic demolition job lads however, we’re going to comb the area for human artifacts. That means we need to collect anything that is remotely human, including personal effects...especially personal effects that identify a particular person, such as wallet, driving licence, credit cards, love letters,etc.’ And we’d better start now the last thing we need is to get caught up in a ferocious sand storm.

Over the next hour a pile of blackened, amorphous objects, and burnt clothing began to accumulate. Then the first charcoal coated, human head, appeared on top of the pile. The skull seemed to be the hardest anatomical artifact to fragment, even for a MOAB device

The head count continued until six of the grizzly items dominated the debri. All the heads were so mutilated and burnt that it was virtually impossible to identify them by visual recognition alone. A small pile of personal items began to accumulate next to the human heads.

Sergeant Worsely used his SAS jack knife to dig below the compacted layer of rubble in the middle of the warehouse ruins -- trying to find the administration office the BIB were using before the MOAB blast.

The knife struck something hard and he rapidly cleared the rubbish around it. He shouted to Jansen.

‘I’ve found a tiled area sir...could be the admin office.’ Worsely recalled that the floor area of the main building consisted of patches of concrete slab, interspersed with compacted earth, but there was also a tiled floor in the administration office.

Jansen looked around the immediate debris field for signs of human habitation, there just had to be some evidence of BIB presence, they could not have gotten out of the admin office before the MOAB struck.

When the numbers were crunched, there were a number of human skulls missing, but there was also the possibility they could have been totally vapourised in the sustained heat flash, which must have desimated the entire building.

Interestingly, non of the peripheral evidence seemed to belong to hierarchical BIB members.

There was only one other possibility. The two men looked at each other and Worsely emulated an arcane smiled.

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking sir?’

‘Of course, we’re both men of the world...so lets shift some of this rubbish and see if we can find the entrance to the tunnel they must have used.’

The team worked feverishly to move as much material from the tiled area as soon as possible; thirty five minutes later a square four by four metres had been cleared.

It was still difficult to see the splices between the tiles and Worsely fashioned a crude sweeping brush made from paper sheets and cardboard. He proceeded to sweep the entire area. Jansen watched intently as the tile pattern started to form. Some of the gaps were irregular with serrated edges where the ground was uneven, it was obviously a rough tilling job. Then he noticed that six of the tiles were neatly placed together as if they had been stuck to a wooden board or concrete slab. Jansen looked at his men and pointed to the array of tiles on the floor.

‘This is it gentleman...I’ll lay ten to one this is the entrance to a cellar.’ Many corporate warehouses and buildings had cellars in Muscat. Cold rooms were often incorporated for the storage provisions and supplies as well as residences for wealthier Arabs and their families. Prolonged forty degree heat tended to become an insufferable impasse, even for some of the Arab population.

Jansen glanced toward the sun, shielded his eyes, then looked at Worsely.

‘Did you see that?’

‘What sir?’

‘Movement over younder...looked like a dung coloured vehicle,’Jansen pointed towards the road in the distance.

‘Nothing there sir.’

'That's strange sergeant, I could swear there was a vehicle just disappearing near the horizon.’

‘Not likely sir...probably a car or truck turning off the road heading south.’

‘I’d like to agree with you sergeant...except something like that has happened two or three times lately...its a bit too surrealistic for my liking. I get the impression it’s a vehicle trying hard not be seen by us.’

‘You mean we’re being observed.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Your imagining things commander, the desert does that sometimes...it plays tricks on your senses. What with the heat, the endless terrain and possible mirage effects,’Jansen grimaced warily -- from his own personal experiences over many forays, in extreme conditions, he knew it was possible for the mind to make blatant mistakes of judgment. Light had its own behaviuor patterns and the brain had limited perceptibility -- it also had the ability to create graphic detail which did not actually exist in reality.

‘Okay sergeant, you may be right...I’ll try to relax. Lets get on with the excavation.’

Chapter Forty-nine

The team swept all traces of sand from the floor and Worsely wafted his hands across the top of the tiled slab indicating the need to check for booby traps. He whispered to the team.

‘They could still be down there and they could still be alive...so no unnecessary noise,’ after several minutes of careful digging and clearing the top surface, the tiled concrete slab was checked for wires, and carefully lifted from its mooring.

A musty smell emanated from the exposed shaft, and Jansen peered down into a dank, black-hole. A makeshift rusting steel ladder receded into the darkness.

Jansen put his finger to his lips indicating continued silence and caution.

Worsely strained at the chance to go first, such adrenaline charged actions were his forte and he had lost non of his youthful daring do. He slung his Mac 10 over his shoulder and pulled out the Beretta 92F automatic pistol he always carried during his many sorties. He descended the steel ladder with one hand and kept the cocked Berretta poised for action in the other.

Sergeants in the SAS and in the army generally always seemed to be large men and Worsely was no exception. His broad shouldered, six foot frame, filled the shaft space more than adequately. Jansen and the rest of the troop watched with baited breath as the ground slowly swallowed him up. Finally his mauve berry vanished in the black shaft and the team above were reduced to audio contact only.

The minutes went by and the silence started to nag at Jansen’s nerves. Had they silently captured him? He turned over the choices in his head -- there were only two. Go down and find out...or throw a splinter grenade down the shaft, then go in.

A metallic clatter made its way up the steel ladder and Jansen shone his torch down into the void. Worsely was standing at the bottom of the shaft banging his pistol on the sides of the ladder, his large round, unshaven face grinning from ear to ear.

‘Come on down sir...its okay.’

The team descended the shaft and found themselves in a small ante-room which opened into a larger store room. Air vents were built into each corner of the room which continued up into the ceiling.

Jansen stopped short as he saw the two bodies at the far end of the room. The BIB hierarchy were in the cellar all right -- but they were all very dead.

One was propped up against the cellar wall, a distant gaze frozen on his glazed eyes. He recognised the corpse as that of Farid Kazeni. The second body was laying on an old couch, eyes closed, as if in a peaceful sleep. It was Habib Sharazi -- there were no obvious marks on the bodies and no blood shed.

Jansen looked at the air vents in each corner of the room. They obviously went up to the surface; probably terminating as grated openings in, or outside the main building.

Worsely picked at the bodies with the barrel of his Mac 10 machine gun.

‘What do you think sir, asphyxia?'

‘Could be...or the opposite.’

‘The opposite?’

‘Yes sergeant, the insurgence of highly compressed hot air into the confines of the room, via the air ventilation shafts when the MOAB detonated.’ He had seen this effect when people were confined to a building that had been repeatedly bombed with high explosives.

It reminded him of a conference he attended at the Australian Defence Force Academy (ADFA) in his early SAS days, during which, they screened an old film showing the effects of an induced firestorm using high explosives. People killed by this method showed no sign of external injury. The simple act of breathing had killed them all; the superheated air molecules from the heat blast had roasted the alveoli in their lungs and prevented gas exchange with the blood. The damage was all internal and had caused instant death.

‘Well sir, it seems we’ve got all the evidence we need,’ Jansen slowly nodded in agreement.

‘Good we’d better contact Hayes,’ he suddenly realised he had left his satellite phone in the SVU.

‘No problem sir,’ an SAS corporal prompted, ‘ I’ll get it for you,’he dashed off, scaled the metal ladder in a flash, and headed in the direction of the vehicle.

Breathing hard, he wrenched the front door open, and stuck his head in the vehicle, reaching over the seat to retrieve the phone.

Jansen and the crew surfaced from the cellar just as the corporal stuck his head in the vehicle. Jansen’s peripheral vision suddenly brightened and a blast of hot air spun him to the ground as the lead SVU exploded in a fireball. The vehicle leapt ten metres into the air and dropped back to earth with a monumental crunch. Chunks of charred human flesh peppered the area around the SUV. Silence returned to the dessert as the team took in the unexpected horror, gazing at the wrecked vehicle and at each other.

Worsely muttered a few words.

‘I think you may have been right about that mystery vehicle sir,’

‘That’s for sure sergeant...somebody dosen’t like us...the sooner we leave here the better,’ Jansen peered forlornly at the remains of the brave corporal -- smoking remnants, that more than likely, should have been him.

The event itself was a brutal shock, but the implications could well be much greater, it put Jansen into covert thinking mode.

The only way this could have happened was by the careful planting of a bomb in the lead SUV. Whoever carried it out wanted the top leadership wiped out. It implied that someone with prior knowledge of the operation was involved. Corruption had reared its ugly head again, it was a disease which afflicted large, and small organisations alike. It was a human malady which always lurked in the background however careful internal security was.

Chapter Fifty

Two days remained before the state funeral of former police commissioner Clement Chester and Rosey Chester had finally come to terms with the disposal of Clement’s numerous personal effects. Most of his clothing had been anonymously given to St. Vincent de Paul, and she cried bitterly, as she watched the van disappear down the road.

It seemed so cruel and inhuman, like disposing of a cherished part of one’s life, after all, it was only one step up from the garbage dump.

His extensive library of books had faired a lot better having been donated to a dozen different writers groups and libraries for dispersion around the literary community. Now it was time to get to the bottom of the barrel and clear out Clement’s shed completely. Rosey had purposely left this unsavoury task till last, knowing that his beloved citadel, as he called it, was one ghastly rubbish dump of second hand bric-a-brac.

She stared out of the kitchen window at the metal edifice residing in the back yard, wishing she could just put it out with the wheely bin. It was the scene of Clement’s demise and represented all he stood for in his private life. She no longer considered their personal life together -- that had long since vanished, with familiarity turning into the inevitable contempt for each other. Rosey knew that this was the end product of many marriages, but still there was that tiny ember of passion, which had held the marriage together over the years. This was what would sustain her as she opened the kitchen door which lead to Clement’s shed.

Unwittingly, she took several deep breaths, as if to fortify herself for a difficult and dangerous task ahead. She moved cautiously around the large, custom-built, galvinised construction, pulling a wheely bin behind her and almost blindly dropping items directly into it. She had considered hiring disposal companies to rid herself of Clement’s rubbish, but soon realised the folly of exposing a former police commissioners private effects to a gullible open armed public. The media would have a field day.

Involuntary tears flowed down her cheeks as she went about the grueling task. Strangely, she now felt little emotion for Clement -- the bodily grieving process had gone into overdrive automatically, without asking her permission, and had almost run its course.

The relief was enormous and seemed to give her renewed impetus to complete the job; in spite of having to continually dip into a box of tissues.

She gave the wheely bin an extra tug as it stuck fast on a large object beneath the workbench. Pushing the bin backwards revealed a large metal tool box with a hefty brass padlock keeping the lid securely locked.

Digging deep into her weighted apron pocket she pulled out a large bunch of keys that Chester kept on a hook in the kitchen. Fumbling and trying to insert a likely key frayed her emotions even more and created a nervous tick in her right eye.

She sat back on a small stool closed her eyes and rested them for several minutes. Tiredness combined with emotional outburst was the most decimating of human foibles. Finally she looked at the large box with renewed determination and studied the bunch of keys once more.

Six attempts later she opened the unwieldy padlock with the correct key. She struggled to lift the lid, only to find a pair of smelly leather boots, on top of a pile of type written paper sheets tied together with string. Under the papers was a hand bound, plain covered book. She took aim at the wheely bin with the intention of instant disposal. Anything Clement read in private was bound to be extremely decadent in every sense of the word. She lifted the book and papers with boots on top, leveled the smelly package over the wheely, and let go.

It hit the bottom of the bin with a satisfying thud, which metaphorically said -- good riddance to bad rubbish. She couldn’t resist one last look at the objects and she peered intently into the bin. Black typed headings and obscure diagrams met her gaze. Whatever it was Clement had written he had certainly spent a lot of his spare time on it. If it were hearsay rubbish or pornographic material it certainly didn’t look like it.

Her basic instincts abruptly intervened and told her to retrieve the object -- at least discreetly assertain what it actually contained. She bent nearly double, groveling in the bottom of the bin, her waist acting as a leverage and her legs propelling her downwards. She managed to painfully straightened up with the book in her right hand. Opening the cover, she read the large printed title at the front...

‘MY LIFE AS A FAKE COPPER’

By

Police Commissioner Clement Chester

‘Fake copper,’she mouthed to herself, ‘what was he on about?’she made her way back to the kitchen, made herself a coffee and browsed the pages, reading little bits here and there, then thumbed through the complete volume. It was a total expose of his life from his first day at the police academy to within weeks of his death. She could now see that the accompanying manuscript pages were a continuation of the book -- a sort of part two, or sequel.

Clement, apparently, had not been wasting his time in the shed, but had secretly been writing his life story, cupboard skeletons and all. She felt an involuntary ripple move up her gastric tract, knowing the sort of free thinking, irascible man, Clement was, gave her nervous paroxysms that she couldn’t easily control. Whatever the contents were they would be forever connected with her -- after all, she was the woman who had married this pariah of a policeman. Her immediate instincts told her to burn it, but her conscience rebelled, there was no fire place in the house, it would have to be burnt outside in full view of the nabours, and in any case, this may not be the only copy in existence. She relented as her baser instincts forced her to read on.

The book revealed a complex life of dishonesty and criminal activity that she was totally unaware of, but this was only a part of Clement’s secret life.

The book was a truly unabridged autobiography of Clement Chester during his time in the police force...now a biography, she reminded herself, as she thumbed through the pages. It was dynamite...the kind of stuff which destroyed peoples lives and brought governments to their knees -- she thought for awhile -- and made lots of money as a sleazy best seller.

This was Clement’s legacy to her...his life’s work, just waiting to be aired to the public at large. But the real hair raising tidbits were in the manuscript pages.

It contained strange hieroglyphic maps which turned out to be tunnels in and around Sydney. Clement had been an expert on tunnel excavations and knew more about their condition and location than any other person in Australia. In his privileged position as a policeman of forty years, he had managed to build up a vast knowledge of Sydney’s underground earthworks as well as a few others on the surface.

There were a whole range of red ink lines depicting unknown tunnels that had been lost to the modern world. The diagrams resembled a collection of spider webs with interlacing passageways of different thickness. And the most surprising thing of all, was a detailed description of St. Peters Bank, and the two ancient tunnels which ran directly beneath it. This was followed by a plan describing how to carryout a robbery of the Bank linked to a diagram of the basement areas. Only a person with inside knowledge could have mapped out the inner sanctums of such a building. She remembered that Clement had often carried out security inspections of several banks during his tenure as police commissioner. Offering advice and directions on the best way to run and handle a secure safe deposit facility as well as subterranean bank vaults.

An apprehensive Rosy went back to the shed, and peered into the gloom with a new perspective, her seemingly nondescript husband, and his hidden life, had taken on a whole new perspective.

She shivered involuntarily as a deep foreboding gripped her -- what else would she find in Clements citadel? Opening the toolbox she squinted at the bottom, which seemed to be covered by a dark layer of sacking material. Retrieving a pair of long shears from the tool display board she plucked the sacking from the tool box.

Bundles of hundred dollar notes covered the entire bottom of the chest. It was more money than she had ever seen in her life -- several minutes elapsed before she got over the shock and stopped staring at the bank notes. She took a bundle from the bottom and slowly flicked through it, counting each note, then counted the other bundles in the bottom of the container. After a prolonged calculation in her head, she came up with a figure -- there was at least ten million dollars in pristine notes within the tool box.

It wasn’t difficult to work out where the money may have come from. She was sure the amount stated in the newspapers about a bank robbery at the time was in the tens of millions. If this were the case where was the rest of it?

Thinking about the recent past...there was a bank robbery involving St. Peters bank, but it received only minor coverage in the newspapers due to the abduction of the US president in the cross city tunnel. Strangely, Clement never mentioned the bank robbery, even though he often talked about the latest criminal cases in the papers.

She was seized by an irrational impulse...remembering that Clement had left everything in his will to her -- did this include millions of dollars in bank notes from the robbery of St. Peters Bank?’

Dropped the sacking back over the money she closed the lid, locked the shed door, and went back into the kitchen.

Squeezing another coffee out of the coffee making machine, she sat at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. This was all too much, a long thinking session was needed before any further action could be taken. Her emotions were in tatters and deep thinking was out of the question, she resolved to take several codeine tablets with a glass of hot milk before retiring.

It wasn’t everyday that a long standing police commissioner, sacked for incompetence, ended up robbing a bank and then committed suicide.

She considered the newspaper article which reported the bank robbery and how it was over shadowed by the presidential abduction. Normally such an event would have commanded the front page of most of the national newspapers.

Booting up Clement’s computer she went to the news pages looking for past articles on the robbery. Several small articles appeared in the middle pages of most papers, with one large article in a Sydney tabloid.

She quickly read it through...apparently fifty million dollars had just disappeared from one of the underground security vaults. A mishmash of extraneous thoughts invaded her head all clamoring for attention. Her prime urges prompted her to take the money and run, it would give her a new life, and save her from a grieving nightmare for the rest of her life. She wasn’t a young woman anymore, and who the hell wanted a broken down sixty year old, ex-police commissioner's wife anyway.

She could fade away from the scene and go abroad unnoticed. Visit the capitals of the world in her own time, maybe take a world cruise in the Queen Elizabeth 2 or perhaps the newer Victoria Cunard liner. Romance floated through her mind, but she gently moved it aside...another long term relationship with a man like Clement was not on the cards. It would have to be a simple liaison with no strings attached just to allay her loneliness. The warm thoughts were exhilarating for a short while, but her conscience soon came charging in. They would trace the money back to her and she would be arrested and spend the rest of her life in prison.

She scrolled back to the beginning of the article and squinted at the amount that had been stolen...50 million dollars, and yet there was only ten million in the tool chest -- for the second time the question came surging back -- where was the rest?

The mystery was just one of dozens of nagging questions with no answers in sight. Perhaps the answers to all here problems were in Clement’s unabridged biography? She quickly waded through the heavy book once again, stopping at what she thought might be an interesting relevant chapter to her unanswered questions -- there was nothing specific -- most of it was exposes of political malpractice -- with a bevy of names she was unfamiliar with. Occasionally a well known name would crop up which shocked her. She turned to the back page and noticed a large asterisk followed by a short note in Clement’s hand writing; it said that the Valley of the Kings in Egypt was like a modest rabbit warren when compared to the rampant totality of the Sydney tunnel network. The book clearly demanded a dedicated read to get the big picture.

She breathed a heavy sigh, it was time to make a hot cup of milk, and take her codeine. Then hopefully, fall asleep reading Clement’s candid life story -- it had been one hell of a day, and now it would be one hell of a night.

Chapter Fifty-one

A week had passed since the MOAB bombing incident and Jansen and his team had returned with the bodies of the BIB top brass and their personal details. Hopefully they had managed to pip the Americans at the post.

The debriefing preliminaries to be held at government house were underway when Jansen arrived. He was thirty minutes late due to a Sydney traffic grid lock; such things had become a daily occurrence, and were in fact a handy excuse for lateness. He apologised profusely to the row of stern countenances which greeted him in the main conference room. They really were taking this little nondescript skirmish a little too seriously, he thought. A short informal heart to heart chat with the defence minister was all that was needed. Although he had to admit that personally he preferred to rigorously question his own clients, but could not stand being roasted himself.

A second confusing issue was how they managed to start a debriefing session without himself (the star player) being present. In spite of all the inconsistencies, they all sat together stiff upper lip fashion, shuffling papers between each other; all avoided eye contact with him as he entered the room.

He recognised most of the luminaries: there was the director of ASIO, Steve Deakin, sitting at the far end of the table, then the governor general, next came the prime minister, and then the defence minister. The paper shuffling suddenly ceased as if on some predefined cue, and the room went deathly quiet. The quiet continued for several moments, until the defence minister looked down at his notes, then pursed his lips.

‘We are all in awe of what you have done commander; you have successfully completed an extremely difficult operation with a minimum of casualties and the loss of only one life on our side, please accept our sincere thanks and congratulations for a job well done.

However, the operation is still ongoing, there are a number of other issues which have eventuated since you’ve been abroad commander.

I’m sure you are aware of the fact that you and your crew came very close to being annihilated by the release of a MOAB aerial bomb from a USAF bomber. This was released in spite of information relayed to the American defence department that we had a SWAT team in direct contact with the BIB terrorists. In spite of that, president Jenkins ordered the MOAB to be dropped immediately, stating that collateral casualties were inevitable during times of war regardless of who the victims were.

As a third generation Australian, I find this behaviour totally unacceptable, even if the man is the acting president of United States,’ Jansen smiled inwardly...these were strong words indeed coming from a federal minister.

‘I see sir, a case of no confidence in the Australian forces then?’

‘I think it goes a little deeper than that commander...lets just say that one man on the ground needed to be eradicated at all costs,’ Jansen’s ears pricked up.

‘Really, I won’t embarrass you by asking who that individual is sir,’ a repressed smile flashed across the defence minister’s face.’

‘Thank you commander...over to you prime minister,’ the PM peered at his notes and cleared his throat.

‘We might have rid the world of eight terrorists and created the biggest bomb crater in Muscat, but we also seem to have opened a can of worms in the process.

Apparently eighteen terrorists entered the cross city tunnel, but only nine came out according to the police inquiry over the tunnel siege. To all intents and purposes these men just vanished. Also, another interesting event occurred just after the presidential abduction. The St. Peters Bank on Elizabeth Street was robbed of fifty million dollars from an underground vault,’ the PM glanced at the ASIO director at the top of the table.

‘I think the director would now like a word with you in private commander about the situation,’ the ASIO director stood and gestured towards a side door.

They entered a small drawing room specially reserved for secure discussions. Jansen was pleasantly surprised by the plush interior and quality furnishings. It seemed that if you were going to have a secure covert little chat then you might as well have it in comfort.

Jansen eyed the well upholstered divan with view to occupying it, unfortunately the director pulled out a chair at a central table and beckoned him towards it. He then strode to the drinks cabinet.

‘What are you having commander...whiskey, port...sherry?’

‘Just a small whiskey for me sir...with a splash of soda,’ the director took his time getting the drinks then sauntered over placing them gently on the table.

The two men sat facing each other while the director placed a folder of notes on the table. Jansen patiently nursed his whiskey taking the odd sip and growing increasingly suspicious of the whole proceedings.

Deakin did the usual paper shuffling between gulps of whiskey -- as if he were playing for time in order to pick up enough courage to say something unpleasant. Finally

he fixed Jansen with a serious grimace.

‘It seems we have a number of seemingly unrelated pieces of information commander. St. Peters Bank on Elizabeth Street was robbed of fifty million dollars during the cross city tunnel siege and our former police commissioner, Clement Chester, was a closet expert on Sydney’s warren of underground tunnels. He was a man in a privileged position with too many crooked secrets. As if that wasn’t interesting enough, as the PM pointed out, eighteen of the BIB terrorists entered the tunnel, but only nine came out.

We have all made up some pretty clever scenarios out of all this commander, as you might well imagine...all of them pretty hairy.’

‘I see sir, so you now want my version?’

‘Sort of, except we want you to make a extensive private investigation of the whole matter and report back to us. I must stress the necessity of absolute security during, and after the investigation, as well as the need for expediency in delivering results.’ Jansen had a sudden violent rush of déjà vu. The last thing he wanted was yet another government posting designed to pull their nuts out of the fire.

‘So what you really want sir, is an official printable version, suitable for consumption by the press and public’

‘That’s right, but do remember commander, these things have a habit of throwing up embarrassing situations. The political tight rope is always dangerously unpredictable -- we have these little secrets in order to protect, not only ourselves, but also the public at large. How would you like the press to print the fact that your great grandmother was a lesbian and fraternised with Lord Nelson?’

‘Point taken sir, but lets just leave out rampant cover ups can we?’

‘Well we can try commander, but you know human nature...it’s very over rated,’ Jansen found himself unconsciously nodding in agreement.

‘There are no hard and fast rules in true politics commander; the good politician will go down to the wire without breaking the law and then some, in order to achieve the required results.’

The director placed a typed sheet on the table and pushed it towards him.

‘That commander, is all the facts we have so far on the case,’ Jansen peered quizzically at the flimsy information.

'I'm sorry we can’t give you any more, but as I’m sure you are aware, we have been hard pressed on all fronts with this case -- what with Chester resigning leaving a rudderless police force, and the incessant demands of the Americans for security compliance in with their own protocol, and our own struggle to protect Australian sovereignty. We simply haven’t had the skilled staff to cope with it all.’ Jansen took a second look at the typed sheet it listed the three major anomalies: Chester’s Sydney tunnel expertise, the disappearance of nine BIB members in the tunnel and the fifty million dollar bank robbery. At least it spelled out the main problems and tentatively pointed towards the possible course of action one should take to solve them. The ASIO director took another sip of whiskey and pointed his glass towards the info sheet.

‘We owe some sort of resolution to the Americans...the operation you have just carried out didn’t bring us a lot of glory. It was the least we can do; after all Australia was well placed to carry out such an operation without raising the suspicions and dire of the rest of the world,’ Jansen cast a curious glance at the Deakin..

‘You Know...I don’t know who is the more corrupt, us or the fucking Yanks -- this is not really about Australia and glory, or the rest of the world, is it sir?’

‘Of course it is commander,’ Deakin hastily added with a twisted smile, that made his laugh lines stand out, and forced the wrinkles on his forehead to compete. Jansen was more than familiar with the type of perfunctory grimace -- most politicians seemed to have it in abundance.

Deakin looked up from his notes the strain on his face was beginning to show.

‘I think that will do for today Commander...just keep in touch with your usual report.’ Jansen took his leave silently exiting the building deep in thought. Deakin watched him go wondering if they had chosen the right man for the job afterall.

Abruptly one of the side doors opened and a parliamentary secretary walk in with a clutch of typed papers placing them in front of the ASIO director.

‘Sorry to bother you sir, but two of the national dailies are running a story saying that we have messed up and brought back the wrong man.’

‘I presume they are referring to the US president who we now know was a US security agent vapourised in the MOAB blast.’

‘Couldn’t we put a ‘D’ notice on this sort of speculation or something sir?’

‘You mean invoke a dusty old UK caveat from the spy era. I think not, the Australian D notice system organisation hasn’t had a meeting since 1982, better to let the tabloids stew in their own juices. After all, speculation is what the world and democracy is all about , and in any case theoretically, we didn’t bring back the wrong guy, we brought back who we wanted to bring back.

‘And who would that be sir?’ Deakin touched his nose and smiled.

‘Let’s not forget our democratic roots, the government’s job is running the country for the people who put them there, it is not there to gag the press because of a few speculative articles.

ChapterFifty-two

Jenkins had a great scenic travel plan, which he used to transcend reality when the going got tough. Washington to Tenerife, then Cape Town, with a quick fuel stop at Mauritius, followed by a longer haul, using extra fuel tanks to Hobart in his private jet. A quick check through customs, then straight to The Queens Palace Hotel in his special Mercedes-Benz E-Class hire car -- it was a wonderful escape route to instant obscurity. Situated in outback, south west Tasmania, the hotel had a fantastic panoramic view of Cradle Mountain and the wild national park hinterland -- it was one of the best natural views Tasmania could provide. But the full vista was only available from suite 24, a collection of delightfully appointed rooms Jenkins always insisted on when he visited the Apple Isle.

The exclusive enclave had a huge stretch glass window which revealed the true beauty of the southern rain forest. He would spend three to four weeks luxuriating in the complex, then explore and potter around the wilderness in complete peace and privacy.

It amounted to the Lord of Manor syndrome as some psychiatrists referred to it. He would imagine himself as a gentleman of substance (which he was) living in a grand manor (The Queens Palace Hotel) and roaming and exploring his large estate (Cradle Mountain National Park). It was the perfect place to be if you wanted solace and a thinking ambiance, as well as the sort of hideaway a wounded fox might willingly crawl into.

In spite of the rampant tourism of late, Tasmania was still one of natures few pristine haunts, Jenkins loved the sunsets the evening stenches and the primordial cacophony generated by unspoiled rain forest.

Chapter Fifty-three

It was one of the oldest public libraries in Sydney and specialised in back copies of obscure magazines, comics and daily Sydney newspapers. Housed in a derelict factory which had been repeatedly refurbished and refitted with metal shelving and storage cabinets. Multiple layers of paint showed their way through the walls as coarse textures which seemed to be virtually holding up the building.

Most people saw the library as an old fashioned world, cocooned in the present, with modernity desperately trying to find its way in. It boasted that most of its literary acquisitions went right back to the very first issues and all the way up to the present day. One could spend a quiet hour going back in time for a modest fee in complete privacy.

Rosey Chester was one patron the library could depend on, and she would often scroll through back copies of several different Sydney newspapers and magazines for her Ladies Club historical assignments.

Browsing the back issues of the newspapers was such a nostalgic delight and she used it as a fix for her sagging mental state. She often drank a coffee from a paper cup purchased at a Macdonalds cafe from across the road and dipped her arrowroot biscuits in the hot liquid. There were no restrictions on drinking and eating in the library just as long as any messes were cleaned up. It was so different from the stuffiness of the major literary institutions where any display of human propensity drew instant condemnation from staff and patrons alike.

She would often browse without reference to the year of publication of the newspaper. It wasn’t so much the dates that interested her, but the actual content which stimulated her memory banks, sending her off into paroxysms of long lost reverie.

She suddenly stopped at the middle page of one of the papers -- then went back two pages -- the hair on her neck began to stand on end and her pulse quickened.

There was a grainy black and white photograph showing a newly appointed vice president Jenkins dinning in a famous American restaurant with the Australian Police Commissioner Clement Chester, sitting next to him. She looked up the date at the top of newspaper -- it was exactly four years ago -- in fact, just about the time Chester went to the USA on a FBI training course for senior police officers.

The two must have met up in the States during Clement’s FBI course...clearly he knew the man quite well. Clement often talked about police business and frequently raked over ‘under-the-carpet’ issues, as well as high security political matters, most of which was classified material. She had often berated him for telling her secret tid bits, but Clement dismissed it, telling her he just had to tell someone to get it off his chest.

She stared long and hard at the image of Jenkins; it was a good photo and a good likeness. He was confident with the poise of a man of power who knew exactly what he wanted, and where he was going in life. This contrasted with Clement who looked tired and twisted; like a man tainted with a thousand shabby deals. She quickly returned her attention to Jenkins, who was so much easier on the eyes.

It was common knowledge in Australian political circles that Jenkins was a Machiavellian basket case and would stop at nothing to further his grip on power. This was amply demonstrated by his antics during the presidential abduction.

She carefully folded the newspaper, went to the counter, paid her fee, smiled and thanked the attendant.

Chapter Fifty-four

Standing on the pavement outside the library Rosey Chester watched the traffic go by and studied the shoppers in singles and clusters fussing around the shops, and wished she were one of them. Anyone would...that is, anyone who had a normal life. She craved banal normality, that precious commodity that everyone took for granted, until their world was turned upside-down.

She walked further down the street and stopped at ‘Nostalgia Incorporated’ an old fashioned cinema which specialised in screening old golden movies from the Hollywood era. It was run by the same people who ran the Library.

Cary Grant and Gary Cooper films were being shown alternatively all day long. She ran her eyes down the program listing which was fixed behind glass to the outside wall.

The following week it was a trio movie event with Dan Daily, Richard Windmark and Glen Ford screened alternately all day for a week. It was a fascinating line up but she still felt terribly unsettled. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d sat through an old movie with unseeing eyes, while her mind went through more pressing scenarios in her head.

The trouble with a movie was that it demanded one’s attention or the plot would be irretrievable lost. But everybody had a secret internal life that went on relentlessly unobserved. It was like being at the bottom of the sea where strange creatures lurked with hidden life cycles taking part in inexplicable events amongst alien environments. Maybe it was time we went back to the sea from whence we came before our earthly atmosphere died of asphyxia.

Taking took another look at the long list of nostalgic films it became apparent that she was in for some internal journeys of her own. Nostalgia Incorporated was the wrong place at the wrong time.

She drove home, took her coat off, made a cup of tea, and sat next to Clements laptop computer on his private desk. She clicked on Clements private e-mail button and a swag of unread mails filled the screen. Some of them were obscene, others were in a coded language. The whole sordid build up of evidence now had her seething. Out of disgust she highlighted the whole page and deleted the lot. Making herself a second cup of tea, she laced it with brandy, and slowly sipped the alcoholic beverage, taking in the intoxicating vapour.

The wall phone buzzed and she lifted the receiver.

‘Hello Chester residence...’

‘Hello Mrs Chester...let me offer you my sincere condolences on the untimely death of your husband,’ the polite male voice had a distinct American accent.

‘Thank you sir...may I ask who is speaking?’ There was a pronounced delay, and the man continued.

‘It’s vice president Jenkins marm speaking from Tasmania. I’m enjoying a lazy day beside the pool in your great country as part of my annual vacation down under,’ Rosey almost dropped the phone.

‘I’m awfully sorry to impose on you at this time, but I wondered if I might be allowed to attend your husbands funeral. I would be absolutely delighted...if perhaps, I could be one of the coffin bearers. It would be entirely unofficial and my identity would not be released to the media. I would be traveling incommunicado with a handful of security agents at a distance -- the whole thing would be entirely low key of course,’ in spite of Jenkin’s unsavory reputation Rosey was swept off her feet by his charming rhetoric.

Here was a man of great status who knew how to treat a woman -- expensive flowers, perfume, jewelry, diamonds, magical outings, all flashed through her mind as Jenkin’s voice bathed her auditory senses.

For the first time in several days she smiled longingly to herself. Where there was contact, there was hope, and a possible association with such a powerful man was worth cultivating. Rosey had gotten used to being carried around by a man of some standing -- she loved the perks and the luxurious living that usually came with it, and had learned the lesson -- that being hard on a man, simply resulted in him being hard on her -- it sometimes paid to be a soft touch.

‘Of course you can be a coffin bearer Mr. Vice president, I’m sure Clement would be delighted if he were still around,’ she soothed in her most compliant voice

‘Call me Frederick its less formal.’

‘All right Frederick it is...if I can be of any further assistance please feel free, all you have to do is ask,’ Jenkins lingered a little on her last words, and continued with his customary charm.

‘There is one little thing Rosey, which I would like to convey to you in the utmost confidence, your husband and I were very close buddies. He also had many sincere acquaintances in the American security services, unfortunately this was in contrast to the Australian police service. There were a number of people in the Australian sphere who were hell bent on removing him from the top position for purely selfish reasons,’ Rosey smiled at the thoughts passing through her mind, Frederick didn’t know the half of it, several pathetic assassination attempts had been made on him during his long career -- Clement had made a point of hushing them up.

‘I hope you don’t mind Rosey, but for this reason I took it upon myself to find out who had been allocated coffin bearer duties at Clement’s funeral. I was told six of the forces ablest policemen were arbitrarily assigned to this most important duty. Is this true?’

‘Yes, it is Frederick...you see, I didn’t know a lot of Clement’s friends, he was a bit of a secretive man, and I was at a loss as to who might take on these duties, so the police minister simply assigned suitable policeman from the officer pool. I must admit, it was a blessing at the time. I was too emotional, and it relieved me of making decisions I simply couldn’t make.’

‘I understand perfectly Rosey having been in similar positions during my tenure as vice president. May I make another suggestion?’

‘By all means Frederick, please do.’

‘Would it be too much of a travesty if I suggested that these anonymous police officers, who would probably have no inkling of how great a man Clement was in life, be replaced by my own security men -- who new Clement for the man he really was,’ Rosey thought about it for a while and tears began welling in her eyes, it was a drastic request, but undoubtedly Clement would probably have wanted it.

She’d had a good marriage over the last forty five years and Clement was basically a good man to her, but a great deal of what Frederick had said was true. Clement did not have many real friends in the Australian police force. In fact he had more enemies than friends and Frederick’s kind offer seemed all the more humanitarian under the circumstances. Finally after another quite weep, more out of self pity than sorrow, she conceded.

‘Yes Frederick...I don’t see any great objection to that. I’ll speak to the police minister...after all, the final word regarding the funeral details is mine.’

‘Thank you Rosey...you’re a darling,’ Jenkins terminated the call, replaced the receiver, and poured himself a double Scotch from a complementary bottle provided by the Tasmanian hotel.

He had chosen a plush hotel on the outskirts of Launceston, because it was in his opinion, the best hotel in Tasmania. An added attraction to the luxury was the high degree of discretion exercised by the staff. It was possible for most celebrities to visit Australia largest and most intriguing island state, without the media knowing anything about it. It acted as a sort of back door to the great outback and coastal cities This is why he had made six previous holiday visits to the Island State, staying at the same hotel in complete anonymity. Australia was a mere nights sailing away in a luxurious suite with views which faced outward to the Great Australian Bight. Flying was quicker but it lacked the romantic sentiments of a night at sea on a modern sailing ship.

He booted up his laptop and then keyed a two digit number on his mobile.

‘Hello Eric...get in here will you,’ the security agent on duty in the hotel lounge made it to Jenkin’s room in seconds.

‘I‘m pleased to say Eric, that we have gained access to the depositary, I’m putting you and the other agents on coffin bearer’s duties, complete the airline booking to Sydney. Let the others know, will you,’ Eric dutifully left the room. Jenkins made a few notes on his lap top then finished his Scotch.

Tomorrow would be a special day when friends would get together for the last time, dead or otherwise, precious acquaintances and resources would be renewed, and unfinished business completed with vigour.

Chapter Fifty-five

Jansen sat in the Canberra office of Jansen Associates, Private Investigators, working over the typed sheet the ASIO director had given him. Whether he liked it or not he was now working for the government once again on another case with intractable possibilities. Irksome though it was, it did have its benefits, (in spite of government standard fees which were inviolable) by way of regular guaranteed account payments. Although private clients paid higher fees they were often unreliable in paying them.

Jeff Dutton, his second in command, rapped on the door and walked in carrying to two steaming coffees, placing one directly under Jansen’s nose.

‘Thought you might like a break sir,’ Jansen took in the coffee aroma.

‘Excellent, you have great predictive capabilities Jeff,’ he took a short sip of coffee and gazed thoughtfully out of the window.

‘Did you ever meet Clement Chester, the police commissioner, Jeff?’

‘Only once sir...I was on traffic duty at the time and his wife was parked in ridiculous spot just outside the Clarion Point hotel in a no parking zone. I asked her to move the vehicle just as Chester came out of the hotel.

He put his hand on my arm, and said I’ll take it from here constable, then simply drove off. He always struck me as a cantankerous overbearing sort of man.

‘Yes, that’s the impression he gave me, except he was also a very secretive man, kept things to himself for future use,’ Jansen finished his coffee and stuck his finger on the typed sheet.

‘This government case is going to be complicated, I can sense it -- get your coat Jeff, we’re off to the national library to join up few dots.’ Fifteen minutes later the two men were deeply embroiled in text books and maps of the Sydney tunnel network. Jansen tutted to himself as he started to peruse the tenth map of the tunnels under the city. Not one of them showed a tunnel directly under St. Peters bank, in fact, the nearest was several hundred metres away. Jansen looked inquisitively at Dutton.

‘This is what I mean about Chester, no bloody public information on the hidden tunnel system beneath Sydney. The man was supposedly an expert and a commissioner of police, but he never revealed any of this to the community at large. Every piece of information was a prisoner once it passed his gaze. No doubt, he learned earlier on in his career, that knowledge is power. What he didn’t learn was that a lot of knowledge can sometimes be fatal. The man was a law unto himself -- I wonder what other secrets he was privy to.’

‘After forty years as a police commissioner it could well be highly significant sir.’

‘Lets find out a few more secrets shall we?’ Jansen accessed the library computer and looked up the major national newspapers for the period of the presidential tunnel abduction.

Several papers reported the St. Peters Bank robbery but only one gave a short report of the mechanics of the actual robbery. Apparently no entry tunnel from the out side of the vault was ever found, and the large safe was blown by the expert placement of semtex gel, placed in a ribbon around the locking mechanism. Whoever did it knew exactly what they were doing. ‘We need more information on the Sydney tunnels sir.

‘There’s only one thing for it Jeff we’ll have pay Mrs. Chester a call...I didn’t want do it at this early stage...one should never interview a grieving woman just after her husband’s death,’ Jansen keyed in Mrs Chester’s number on his mobile.

‘Hello Mrs Chester...sorry to bother you, but we’ve been assigned to the cross city tunnel presidential abduction case. Yes, it’s commander Jansen speaking and we would like to ask you a few relevant questions. I see...nothing over the phone...right we’ll be there then,’ Jansen clicked off his mobile and squinted at Dutton.

‘She won’t speak over the phone, but she’ll see us at home this afternoon, so you’d better get your overnight bag packed Jeff, we’re off to Sydney for a few days.’

Chapter Fifty-six

The two private investigators sat on the sumptuous sofa while Rosey Chester made a pot of tea. The Chester’s best room was homely and very clean with bountiful brick a brack adorning the walls and furniture. It seemed that Mrs Chester was an avid collector of fine bone china -- it was everywhere, with royal pieces taking pride of place.

Rosey finely came in from the kitchen smiling from ear to ear carrying a full tray of cups and saucers with a teapot in the middle. This immediately shocked Jansen...it was almost as if she was rejoicing the demise of her husband, or she was bravely hiding her tortured emotions behind a beguiling smile. Jansen decided to test his assumptions.

‘I understand your husband was an expert on the Sydney tunnels ...particularly the less well know ones,’ she relaxed her smile a little.

‘Yes, Clement was an expert on many things...it was one of his hobbies, he had what you might call a lust for knowledge. He used to say he was filling his cup before he passed on...making sure he got his moneys worth at the final hour.’

‘You don’t happen to have any information on these hidden tunnels; we’ve scanned a couple of libraries for more data on this; all we could find were maps of existing tunnels.’

‘No commander, you won’t find any...Clement was very protective of his discoveries, they were secret treasures to him -- like something you keep to yourself and admire in private,’ She rummaged in a set of draws and produced a pile of yellowing A4 pages. She dropped them on the coffee table.

‘They might answer your question commander,’ Jansen slowly thumbed through them and stopped at a set of diagrams showing a skeletal map of Sydney with red lines superimposed on top of it, depicting tunnels around the city. It looked like a huge ball of red wool scribbled over the map of Sydney -- there were literally dozens of tunnels. All of them were numbered and marked with depth indicators; it was a moles guide to the real Sydney underground. Clement had obviously been busy in his retirement -- he had turned his tunnels into roads to riches. As if to confirm Jansen’s hidden thoughts Rosey pulled open the bottom drawer of the cabinet -- it was full to the brim with wads of fifty dollar bills -- she pointed to the display.

‘There’s nearly ten million dollars in there commander,’ Jansen breathed in deeply then directed a stream of air through pouted lips.

‘My my, Clement was indeed a secret man,’ Jansen hesitated before asking the next question; he looked Rosey square in the face.

‘Would that be part of the robbery proceeds from St. Peters Bank by any chance?’ Rosey cast a wicked smile.

‘It could be...I’m not sure, I found it in Clement’s tool box beneath his work bench.’

‘I trust you’re going to hand it in to the authorities?’ Rosey glanced possessively at the drawer full of bills.

‘Not really commander...I’m keeping it -- it represents Clements legacy for spending forty harrowing years in the police force.’

‘But you can’t do that Mrs. Chester...it’s illegal proceeds.’

‘I don’t care what you call it Commander...it’s mine.’

‘Not very clever Mrs. Chester, you’ll have a SWAT team down on you before you could start your get away vehicle.’

‘I don’t think so commander,’ she took a plain bound book from the mantle piece and gave it to Jansen.

‘Before you do anything else just take a good squint at that,’ Jansen read the printed title on the front cover.

MY LIFE AS A FAKE COPPER

By

Police Commissioner

Clement Chester

He slowly flipped through the pages reading different passages as he went. As well as parts of Chester’s personal life, it was a virtual expose of the rampant corruptions of the police force, and the Australian government over the past forty years.

Jansen continued perusing paragraphs here and there taking in the significant points -- he looked grimly at Rosey.

‘This is absolute dynamite!’

‘Exactly commander.’

‘Is this the only copy you have Mrs. Chester?’

‘Do I really look that green commander? An exact copy

of the book has been lodged with a major British publisher in the UK. If anything happens to me or my ten million dollars, the book will be published, and distributed around the world. Tell that to your political bigwigs.’

‘You’ve made your point Mrs. Chester, I will pass on your candid information. However, there is a little favour I would like to ask of you...may I have a copy of the Sydney tunnel maps?’

‘You may, I thought you might be needing the map, so I took a photocopy. You can have it on one condition,’ Jansen stared warily at Chester’s shifty spouse. ‘What would that be Mrs. Chester?

‘It is for your eyes only...destroy it when you have used 321

it, it is copyright material and belongs to Chester’s estate. If you publish it without my consent I’ll take you to court,’ Jansen looked at Dutton, she had them over a barrel, this was nothing less than superlative blackmail.

Mrs. Chester had suddenly turned into a very impressionable lady indeed. She reminded Jansen of Edgar Hoover, the man who had black mailed and manipulated a glut of successive US presidents, and managed to hold on to his job until the day he died. He was one of the very few men who managed to rise above the cut throat world of politics by the simple expediency of blackmail.

However, Mrs. Chester’s machinations were of secondary importance and the case at hand was the prime consideration. A feeling of distrust erupted deep within his gut; such feelings in the past had often proven to be true.

It was time to go, lest they succumbed to further manipulation at the hands of an expert. They both politely said their good-byes to Mrs. Chester -- Dutton opened the car door for his boss then took the drivers seat. A persistent frown creased his features and he momentarily looked at Jansen.

‘It beats me sir, how a man like Chester in such a prestigious position, could be a patriot and a traitor in the one breath.’

‘That’s because he actually had no scruples, it seems to me that the man has always been a bit of a rogue element, and the only way you can switch on and off like that, is to compartmentalise everything -- don’t let your right hand know what your left hand is doing -- that kind of mentality. I’ve a strange feeling Mrs. Chester is of the same ilk.’

‘A sort of multiple personality type sir.’

‘Let’s just say they are great actors, able to turn it on or off as desired....how do you think some of these people con the public so successfully -- it’s not just public gullibility.'

‘No sir...but it does help,’ Jansen smiled perceptively, turned the car into a parking lot, and extracted the tunnel map Mrs. Chester had given him, opening it out on his lap.

Chapter Fifty-seven

Old tunnels below Sydney’s business district were more numerous than most people realised. However, many of the cities retirees and streetwise individuals were aware of the Circular Key tunnel, which ran between the Key and the Public Library, and was used during the second world war as a nerve centre for the Army, Air force and Navy, to defend Sydney. It’s major claim to fame was the Japanese submarine invasion. The order to drop depth chargers was issued from this underground centre. Another significant tunnel resided under the Town Hall, and was used as a command post for plotting aircraft movements.

Jansen laboured over the tunnel map trying to visualise relative positions of the Tunnels in relation to St. Peters Bank. Non of the existing tunnels offered any proximity to the Bank, and to get anywhere near the Vault it would have required a monumental underground excavation. He deliberately ignored the red lines placed there by Clement Chester which only compounded the tangled mass of squiggles.

Jeff Dutton had been working for the past three days on a transparent sheet of cellophane and had plotted all the recent excavations including the Sydney Harbour, Lane Cove and Cross City Tunnels. He laid the sheet over Chester’s map and both men gazed thoughtfully at the new configuration.

Dutton suddenly stabbed the map with his index finger.

‘There sir,’ Dutton traced his finger along the cross city tunnel and onto a red line which went under the Bank. Jansen carefully checked the jumble of depth figures. There was significant variation but they were within a few metres of each other and could have been used to connect with the position of the banks vault. A couple of hours hard digging could have created an entry point to the vault. Dutton looked up from the map, a puzzled expression about his features.

‘But according to the newspapers there was no entry point into the vault.’

‘True Jeff...but that doesn't mean they didn’t gain entry.’

‘You think that this is an inside job then sir?’

‘Sort of, and in spite of evidence to the contrary...I think it was carried out through information given to the BIB via commissioner Chester, by way of his exclusive knowledge of the Sydney tunnels. Another thing to bear in mind is that Mrs. Chester may be privy to this, and possibly even compliant...I think they are both secret crooks. One thing I’m certain of...corruption comes with age. That is not to say every elderly person is a secret crook.’ Dutton smiled naively.

‘Of course not sir.’

‘But some people tend to go that way and Rosey is just as much a bank robber as her husband.’

‘You’re joking sir.’

No, I’m afraid not, the problem is familiarity, one becomes bored with the same repetitive procedures human life hands out, and a change is as good as a tonic, even if it is grossly dishonest. As a matter of fact it’s probably the dishonesty which gives the situation its edge.

Also Mrs. Chester has shown us that not only is she a secretive woman, but she is also capable of anything, and so was Chester -- not your average police couple.’

‘But why and how would Chester be in league with the BIB?’

‘Fact is stranger than fiction Jeff. A highly placed policeman usually has enormous clout with his contemporaries and the public generally. What most people overlook is the human factor...such people are just 326

as vulnerable to criminal activity as anyone else. The man was a closet drug addict and his moral sense was well and truly burnt-out -- nothing was theoretically beyond his reach. BIB obviously had some sort of hold over him and I suspect that hold could very well have been his drug addiction.

If you want to solve a perplexing problem concerning an individual you should first look at his, or her, Achilles heel, and there are plenty of choices here, it’s usually drugs, sex, greed or power. But at the bottom of it all Jeff, is our old favourite...money, which is what were going to attempt to sort out next,’

Chapter Fifty-eight

Harry Cutts had been manager of the St. Peters Bank for the last ten years and had never experienced such a strange robbery in his life; there was simply no precedence. Initially, he was most upset when it was suggested that the job must have been carried out from the inside. The police had searched his home, accessed his bank account, and every other investment he had, and minutely examined his telephone records going back several months, as well as interviewing every staff member in great detail.

Cutts was aware that his large build and huge hands often intimidated people, and tried to compensate for this by trying to appear less daunting. Even so, the police saw him as the usual corrupt male bank employee, they took his finger prints and a front and side view photo.

Desperate as the police were to make an arrest, they simply couldn’t find any evidence. It was as Cutts had suspected all along, they wanted a scapegoat and a bank manager was as good as any. The same procedure ensued for all of his bank staff and the slightest sniff of dishonesty brought on even more investigative procedures. The police finally gave up in frustration when they finally realised it was a clever inside job involving outside resources and was beyond their capabilities. It began to take shape as one of Sydney’s great criminal mysteries and there was no shortage of such incidents in the metropolitan area.

A special investigator named Commander Roger Jansen was due any minute for a tour of the beleaguered bank with a particular emphasise on the under ground storage vault.

Cutts finished his morning coffee as the intercom on his desk buzzed.

‘Commander Jansen is here sir.’

‘Good, send him straight in.’

Jensen came in and shook hands with the manager who also shook hands with Dutton. The three men sat around the manager’s desk -- Cutts managed a pleasant smile.

‘You’re just in time for morning coffee commander,’ Jansen raised his hand and returned the smile.

‘Thank you Mr. Cutts, but we had our fortification a little earlier,’ Jansen couldn’t help noticing how big a man Cutts was, he must have been a good six and a half feet in his bear feet.

‘In that case commander we could proceed to the underground vault.’

Jansen surreptitiously surveyed the surroundings as they made there way to the vault, taking particular notice of any building alterations and recent renovations.

A small lift lead directly to the small room containing the large steel safe. The lift was intolerably slow and must have been the first lift installed on completion of the original building. Its maximum capacity stipulated only six persons at a time, which prompted a question from Jansen.

‘The lift is very slow Mr. Cutts...is it used for the regular transmission of money to and from the bank?’

‘Not really commander, the vault is used for longer term storage of high denomination notes of fifty dollar notes and upwards; it is only used periodically by the staff. It is a deposition area prior to distribution to other branches and is one of a number of storage areas around the Sydney business district.’

Finally the lift came to a bumpy halt at the basement room which housed the large safe. Cutts pulled the metal lattice door open and stood aside to let them pass.

The damage to the safe was immediately obvious as they entered the room. The handle and opening mechanism were encrusted with a large black carbon deposit. A significant amount of explosive had been used to dislodge the door and it was hanging at a crazy angle of thirty degrees from the normal. Whoever had carried it out knew exactly what they were doing. Cutts pointed to the mangled door.

‘As you can see Commnader...they certainly weren’t amateurs.

‘Apparently not, and that’s rather more worrying, because this sort of technical expertise makes them safe blowing professionals,' Jansen continued his discreet monitoring of the surroundings.

‘It seems odd Mr. Cutts that there is only one entry point down here. I suppose the police were aware of that,’ Cutts suddenly looked flustered and he wiped his sweaty hands on his pocket handkerchief.

‘You can say that again commander...the ruddy police have turned the place upside down and searched everything within half a mile of the place. They even searched private dwellings looking for cellars and hidden cubby holes,’ he sat down in a plastic chair at the side of the vault and wiped the gathering perspiration from his forehead. Behind a frustrated grimace he pointed to the lift.

‘That lift is always locked and I have the only key...it’s still here in my wallet.’ He produced his wallet and removed a large brass Yale key.

‘This is the impossible robbery commander.’

‘Well if you’re not involved Mr. Cutts, you could well be right. However, as all rational people would agree, there is no such thing as the impossible robbery, or the perfect robbery. They, whoever they are, have made errors and left clues. It is our job to find these, and find

them we will,’ said Jansen running his index finger across the carbon deposit on the safe door and studying its composition close up.

Chapter Fifty-nine

A tray of tea and biscuits had been brought down to the vault on the instructions of Mr. Cutts, who still resided on the only chair in the small room.

During his careful scanning of the of the decor Jansen noticed the flimsy plastic chair was beginning to sag under the bank managers great weight. The man was obviously used to sitting for long periods in his office, and his body now insisted that he sit down at every opportunity. It had become a battle with himself with the bodies desires winning most times.

Something else caught Jansen’s eye, he went over to the chair, took out a tissue from a small pack he always carried, and scraped off a brown stain from side of the chair.

‘This might just be your answer Mr. Cutts,’ Jansen rolled over the brown, soil-like grains with his finger.

‘You know...it’s the little things in life which tell the biggest stories. This sandy soil is the sort of stuff the whole of Sydney is built on. He looked up at the ceiling of the room, with its pastel yellow acrylic coating, and then at the adjacent off-white tiled walls. They formed a mild, unobtrusive contrast, and helped to lighten what would otherwise have been a very dark and dingy room.

Jansen finally stared at the bank manager.

‘Is this room reinforced Mr. Cutts?’

‘Not in the impregnable sense...there’s a layer of crushed stone covered with concrete, both approximately ten centimetres thick.’

‘Not much protection for a substantial bank vault Mr. Cutts.’

‘True, but don’t overlook the fact that the whole exterior of the room is solid earth commander and don’t forget there is no evidence of a tunnel in this room,’ Jansen wiped the soil residue from his fingers.

‘I have to disagree with you there Mr. Cutts -- everything points to an external tunnel. This plastic chair has soil residue on it and was probably used during the robbery.

‘That doesn't mean a thing commander...that mark could have been there for years.’

‘It seems pretty fresh to me Mr. Cutts, also I have carefully examined this room visually, and there seems to be no evidence of a direct break in...except perhaps for that penultimate row of tiles up there,’ Jansen pointed to the corner of the room directly above the safe.

‘If you look very carefully you will see that the tile gap is slightly wider...perhaps only a millimeter or so. And if you follow the gap around, it continues to form a square approximately fifty centimeters in length; just about right for your average man to squeeze through. May I borrow your chair Mr. Cutts?’ the bank manger grimaced and reluctantly gave up his chair.

‘Give us a hand will you Jeff,’ Jansen pulled the chair up to the wall, and with Dutton’s assistance climbed onto it,’ he took a fifty cent piece from his pocket and started

to tap along the line of tiles. A series of dull clicks resonated around the room as he worked his way along the wall. Then suddenly the click became hollow as he moved down to the next row of tiles.

‘That’s it gentlemen, this part of the wall is hollow. Do you have a screwdriver or penknife around the place?’ Dutton moved forward and produced a set of keys.

‘I have a miniature penknife on my key ring sir,’ he passed the key ring over. Jansen inserted the blade between the tiles, and gently levered them way from the wall, working his way around the gap. Finally he lifted a square piece of hardboard away from the wall and handed it to Dutton. The three men studied the artifact in amazement -- it was a well crafted hardboard square with tiles stuck to one side. A series of spring clips had been screwed around the edges with a handle fixed to the middle. It was clearly a device for accurately blocking off a tunnel from the opening, so that the robbers could go back down the tunnel from whence they came, and not be detected. Jansen took a second look at the tiles and thought for a while, then remembered that two boxes of tiles were stored under the bench in Chester’s shed.

‘Do you have any overalls here Mr. Cutts.’

‘Not really, but we do have grey house coats for the cleaning staff commander.’

‘Good...could we borrow a couple?’

Chapter Sixty

Jansen stood on the plastic chair and pulled himself into the tunnel, he turned around and held is arm out towards Dutton,

‘Come on Jeff...your turn,’ Dutton grasped Jansen’s arm and heaved himself into the opening. The bank manager then passed them two large flashlights kept for emergency during blackouts. Jansen smiled at the manager.

‘Ring the police if we’re not back in an hour,’ Cutts smiled back.

‘Right you are commander...and the best of luck!’

Dutton shone his light the length of the tunnel; it reminded him of a gigantic worm hole, with dangling roots and cobweb entanglements throughout its length.

Jansen studied the technical aspects and pondered the age of the rudimentary earthworks. It was round, just like the modern cutting of a mole tunnel machine, and yet it had the distinct scars of a hand made edifice. It certainly wasn’t a recent excavation judging by the grotesque collection of cobwebs, and miniature lime stone stalagmites. And yet parts of it were of recent origin seemingly designed to widen the orifice as it approached the bank vault.

It increased in girth appreciably as the two men continued along the floor of the tunnel, and they were now able to stand full height.

There were small dribbles of moisture, and larger riverlets curving down the side of the dampened earth. Droplets fell from stalagmites making tiny splashing noises in the shallow puddles along the ground.

They were the result of occasional heavy Sydney rain storms percolating through the ashfelt jungle above. The tunnel began to curve gently, then suddenly turned sharply and continued for another thirty metres, before branching out into a small round amphitheatre.

A concrete, breeze-block wall partitioned the northern end, and Jansen figured it was the main containment partition to the cross city tunnel. Confirmation came from the heavy droning noise of traffic emanating from beyond the concrete wall. In the middle of the edifice was a sheet of hardboard waist high. It had a tell tale handle screwed to the middle of it. Dutton grasped the handle and gave it a hard tug.

The board came away revealing a direct opening in the wall, and the bitumen road surface of what appeared to be an elaborate underpass. Vehicles raced along creating clouds of carbon monoxide gas -- it was the cross city tunnel in all its glory. Jansen looked back at the crude opening they had just struggled along. This was clearly one tunnel offshoot the irascible Chester had kept strictly to himself, but to be fair to the man, the whole information assemblage Chester was privy to would probably corrupt anybody. And in any case the whole ruddy world seemed to be heading for total corruption. This would probably be the end case for the human race -- death by corruption. The more advanced and complicated life became the more difficult it was to live a normal life for the average person in the street. Eventually it would become virtually intolerable for the human race to exist on any sensible level. The inevitable cliché -- power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely repeatedly reared its ugly head.

One only had to look at Africa and the gross state of humanity on that continent. In spite of the fact that Africa had everything going for it by way of mineral resources, space and agricultural potential -- it was an absolute bloody mess in human terms.

Chapter Sixty-one

Jansen sat in the bar of the Millers Arms, situated under the Sydney Harbour Bridge in the Rocks, studying the array of fizzy alcoholic drinks with their bright translucent colours. It was obvious why they were displayed at the back of the bar right in front of the customer’s eyes. Flushed with money on Friday night, and out for a good time, who could resist such a bedeviling sensuous display. Small wonder teenagers went for them wholesale...a colourful, sweet tasting drink, riddled with alcohol. It was manna from heaven tothe young mind, but a bloody nightmare to the police who had to pick up the pieces afterwards.

He had to admit the classy packing did pull on ones basic desires and was tempted to try one before Jeff Dutton arrived from the coroner's office with a report on Chester’s post mortem. The bar display took him back to the old days when most respectable bars often had a mirror you could look into.

In a twisted, conceited sort of way, it was nice to check up on oneself to see how one looked after five or six schooners. But nature gradually pulled the wool over one’s eyes, and progressively dulled one’s senses until it was hard to see the mirror at all, let alone who was in it. He felt sad, it was getting progressively harder to find the traditional pub in the city where beer was the dominant drink. Times changed, life moved on, and public houses were businesses just like all the others, and if the younger set wanted fizzy alcoholic drinks, then they were the prime fare. He looked solemnly into his beer as if it were about to disappear, then quickly drank the whole glass dry.

Dutton came in with his note book at the ready and quietly sat next to his boss. He thumbed through the pages then stopped half way through the book.

‘Chester’s funeral is tomorrow at ten a.m. sir...you did ask me to remind you.’

‘Thanks Jeff, and the type?’

‘He’ll be buried in the coffin with all the trimmings,’

‘No cremation then?’

‘No, Mrs. Chester is very much a traditionalist.’

‘Thank god for that then...I had visions of having to stop a destructive cremation.’

‘No need sir,’ Dutton gave him an envelope

‘Speaking of Mrs. Chester Jeff, we’ll have to see her again, we’ve just got to take a good look at Chester’s shed. Jensen keyed in Mrs. Chester’s number on his mobile.

‘Hello, Mrs. Chester here.’

‘Hello, it’s Roger Jansen her again Mrs. Chester, please forgive me for bothering you yet again, but I wonder if we could possibly take a look at Clement’s shed.’ There was a pause and Mrs. Chester asked how soon he could get there, Jansen smiled triumphantly, she had tentatively agreed.

‘We could be there in ten minutes.’

‘Well I’m on my way out for a hair appointment commander, but I could leave the shed door open...Just lock up when you go, there’s a key in the flower pot next to the shed.’

‘Right you are Mrs. Chester...thank you so much,’ Jansen gave Dutton the car keys as they left the Millers Arms.

‘You’d better drive Jeff...I wouldn’t trust myself even though I’ve only had one schooner,' Dutton looked mischievously at his boss.

‘A very sensible decision sir,’ Jansen smiled inwardly and slowly opened the envelope, taking out the coroner’s report sheet.

It was a conventional report with all the usual remarks and pathological assessments, followed by a predictable conclusion -- suicide while the balance of the mind was deranged. It seemed to be nicely tied up with no lose ends A good perfunctionary job, like stuffing a chicken and cooking it at the correct temperature and timing it in an electric oven, and getting a predictably good result.

He put the envelope back in his pocket and methodically patted it as Dutton drove into the driveway and parked in front to of Chester’s shed. It was one more thing out of the way...or was it?

Even post mortem's were not totally reliable. Past experience had revealed numerous inconsistencies in such cases requiring the ultimate corporeal carve up.

Unless the case was an absolute foolproof, cut and dried job, such results should be treated with due caution, especially if there was any hanky panky involved in the case.

Chapter Sixty-two

A little judicious fishing in the flower pot produced the padlock key and Jansen quickly removed the open lock and pulled Chester’s shed door open. A strong musty odor wafted past him and Dutton covered his face with his hands. An image of the offal pit at the local garbage dump passed through his mind.

‘Maybe we should put the air conditioner on first before going in sir.’

‘A good idea Jeff...but lets be a little cautious here, it could disturb the contents...we could still find critical clues, even though the police have been through it. I think we’ll just make do with the light,’ Dutton flicked the switch and a dingy scene sprang to life. The police had certainly made their presence felt by scattering things all over the place, including tools of all shapes and sizes.

It was as if they had deliberately fudged the crime scene to prevent anyone who came after from gleaning any fresh evidence.

‘Perhaps it’s Mrs. Chester’s way of spring cleaning the place sir?’

‘I doubt it...I rather think she might have gone one step further and thrown all of it in the garbage bin -- the whole mess smells of rancid vindictiveness to me.’

Jansen slowly gazed at the roof scanning it from end to end. He came back to the middle where a lone piece of cord dangled from a centre beam tied by a double knot. To one side on the floor of the shed, was an over turned metal stool. This was clearly the scene of the supposed suicidal hanging.

There was little else which could have produced further enlightenment on the case, and Jansen refocused his eyes on the scant evidence. Meager though it was, it held several vital clues, and Jansen squinted once again at the coroner's report. One thing that usually gave some degree of accuracy were the blood tests, invariably carried out on most post mortem victims. He compared the report figures with a standard list of physiological norms he carried with him on a small laminated paper the size of a credit card. He went carefully down the list of standard values.

The amount of alcohol and isotropic drugs were extremely high -- too high in fact to be compatible with the physical evidence.

Jansen righted the metal stool, stepped onto it, reached up, and struggled to untie the cord from the beam -- after a valiant effort, he finally pulled the cord down and gave it to Dutton.

‘I want you to get up on this step Jeff and re-tie the cord, the way it was,’ Dutton frowned quizzically, then move forward, confidently looking at the task as a challenge of his capabilities.

‘No problem sir,’ he pulled the cord taunt and mounted the metal steps, almost over balancing as he did so, then slung the cord over the beam. He then proceeded to tie a double knot, but missed his footing on the small platform area of the steps. He made a second attempt and managed to tie one lose knot, then struggled again to keep his balance as he attempted the second knot. Finally after another laboured session he stepped off the stool and surveyed his handy work.

‘There sir...childs play!’

‘I don’t think so Jeff...lets face it, you made a hard job of it, and you’re a relatively young man,’ Jansen tugged at the cord several times finally undoing the two knots and pulling the cord away again.

‘You couldn’t hang a skinned rabbit with that knot sergeant ’

‘But Chester would be more deliberate and determined than me sir.’

‘I doubt that Jeff...you see he would be so pissed and infused with cannabis, that I doubt whether he could even have balanced on the step, let alone tie two sturdy knots and then hang himself. If he did, it would have been more like a lucky accident than a planned suicidal exercise. Also bear in mind he was an old, retired man, well into his sixties...may be even seventy something. In fact I think he was probably so bad, I doubt he could even walk the length of the shed without falling over.’

‘I see your point sir...you think he was murdered?’

‘Without a doubt, unless of course his wife carried out an assisted euthanasia. I personally doubt that very much, having met her in the flesh.’

‘Well that throws a monumental spanner in the works sir.’

‘It certainly does sergeant, but it also provides us with much more cannon fodder to play with...things are never what they seem...even if they do look cut and dried.’

Chapter Sixty-three

Jansen had just strapped himself in to this car when his mobile buzzed.

‘Hello, Jansen.’

‘It’s Steve Deakin here commander,’ Jansen instantly recognised the ASIO director’s piecing voice, ‘any progress commander?’

‘Lots sir, it seems Chester has written a wonderful biography riddled with exposes about the government and the police force.’

‘How much of it is false and how much is true?’

‘There’s so much sir, I wouldn’t know where to begin and I suspect it’s all true, down to the last detail. It is Chester’s confession to the world, and something he desperately needed to get

off his chest. It was also his pièce de réistance, or his magnum opus if you like, against the establishment.

‘Where did he keep this sordid tome...according to the police the place was thoroughly searched when they found his body?’

‘That may be sir, but I suspect the police probably didn’t do a real good job. Apparently, his wife found the book in a tool chest while she was cleaning out his shed. Another point they seem to have missed is that Chester knew the Sydney tunnel system better than anyone else in the world. His father took him around the numerous tunnels when he was a boy, and there are in fact, many more tunnels that only Chester knew about.’

‘These tunnels...are they lost to us then?’

‘Fortunately, no they aren't sir -- in Chester’s biography there’s a whole lot of maps -- interestingly, there is one map showing how to get from the cross city tunnel to St. Peters Bank.’

‘That’s probably a bit of a coincidence?'

‘I’m afraid it isn’t sir -- you see Clement Chester’s biography pulled no punches, he has revealed in his book a plan to rob St. Peters Bank. Not only that, I have just been down the very tunnel that was used by the BIB to rob the Bank. It opens up within the cross city tunnel about half way along the distributor concourse.’

‘Really, how did they manage to hide it?’

‘Well sir, the opening was covered by a large sheet of hard board, which had been tiled on one side so that it matched the tunnel decor.

I suspect they robbed the bank during the height of the presidential siege via this tunnel, then made their way back to the distributor. But before they entered the cross city freeway, they probably stayed in the tunnel and waited until the coast was clear.’

‘So the BIB has the $50 mill then?’

‘Not quite sir...it seems Chester acquired ten million which is now in possession of his wife, and I must warn you sir, she is determined to keep the money or else.’

‘Or else what?’

‘Or else she will publish Chester’s book -- which will demolish the present government and most of the police hierarchy as well...not to mention a goodly number of retired high ranking officers.'

“I see...look, I think we have no choice here but to relay this immediately to higher office...Mrs. Chester may even be considering publishing that book regardless. It could well make her a millionaire over night. We have a political hot potato on our hands -- can you get in touch with her now commander, while I pass this info on to safer hands. Tell her to hold everything -- tell her we will consider any proposition she has in mind.’

‘I will...but one small point here...I don’t think it’s wise to pass the information on at this stage sir. We could be acting a little too prematurely...give me a few more days.’

‘All right commander, I’ll bow to your superior knowledge and experience, but sooner or later we’re going to have to pass it on.’

‘Thank you sir for your patience,’ Jensen cut the call and keyed in Mrs. Chester’s number.

‘Hello Mrs. Chester, this is commander Jansen again, sorry to bother you but an important matter has surfaced. You remember our little talk on Chester’s biography.

‘Yes commander, and I meant what I said, the book is in London under lock and key, and can be published at the drop of a hat.’

‘I fully appreciate that Mrs. Chester...but all I wish to say is...hold everything...please don’t quote me, but we may be able to offer you the earth, providing you don’t publish Clement’s book,’ a raucous laugh erupted at the other end of the line.

‘Well you can take it from me commander, it will be the earth, and a damn site more, unless you get back to me in short order. I’ve a vice president to entertain.'

‘A vice president -- who would that be Mrs. Chester?’

‘Non other than the United States Vice president Frederick Jenkins.’

‘Really, what is he doing here?’Jansen sat back in his car seat, his brain went into overdrive, and his face turned pale.

‘He’s come to see his old friend Clement for a last farewell word or two.’

‘You mean Clement was a friend of Jenkins?’

‘He certainly was commander they were in the Power Play Club together.’

‘The Power Play Club?’

‘Yes, it’s an exclusive private club in New York, only men of real power may become members, they all share their power play secrets. Most of the US presidents were members and quite a few other well known dignitaries.'

‘I see...and Jenkins is on a private visit to attend the funeral then?’

'That's right commander, and he wishes to remain anonymous, along with his secret service entourage; please don’t mention his visit to anyone.’

‘No I won’t -- I trust they’ll all be at the funeral then Mrs. Chester.’

‘Yes...but I won’t be there...funerals always upset me terribly. I will say my good-byes to Clement before they take the coffin away,’ her voice wavered and she sobbed.

‘Thank god for those boys,’ she said endearingly.

‘What boys?’

‘The lads of the US secret service, they have volunteered to take Clement’s body away,’ more sobs filled the earpiece.

‘They kindly offered to be coffin bearers, and I thanked them with all my heart,’ she broke down completely and pressed the ‘end-call’ button.

Jensen thought about Mrs. Chester’s revealations for a while, then keyed in Duttons number.

‘Hello Jeff, can you get to the Sydney Town Hall pronto -- we’re going to a funeral,’ Jansen closed his mobile, watched the rain spatter on his windscreen, then unfolded his mobile and keyed in the police minister’s number.

‘Hello sir...commander Jansen here, I understand the American secret service are filling in as coffin bearers for Clement’s funeral.’

‘That’s right commander, it wasn’t my idea, Mrs. Chester insisted they take over. I would have preferred our own chosen officers, after all they’re the men who served under commissioner Chester -- but she insisted.’

‘Where are these men now sir.’

‘Well they’ve been reassigned to other duties of course.’

‘Could you get then back together at the funeral sir discreetly armed with Glock pistols.’

‘Now look commander, we’re supposed to be having a very civil ceremony known as a state funeral, it is a national ceremony of some importance. I don’t want armed police intimidating or harassing any of the mourners especially the VIP’s’

‘That’s all right sir, the men would be discreetly parked outside the cathedral.’

‘They had better be...I presume you have a very good reason for this gung-ho display commander...because if you haven’t, you’ll be off the case quicker then you can say kiss my arse.’

‘I understand sir, but I have a terrible gut feeling about this funeral. I believe it to be a set up.’

‘A set up for what?’

‘I don’t know yet, I only have a part of the puzzle, and there are some little pieces missing.’

‘All right commander, I’ll have them deployed around the cathedral, but don’t forget, this is a national occasion and it will be televised live all over Australia, as well as possible global coverage.’

Chapter Sixty-four

Mrs. Chester had resigned herself to spending the day in the best room, sitting comfortably on her leather suite and occasionally praying for Clement’s soul in front of a small crucifix on the sideboard. She needed a little coaxing to bring herself into the right mood to grieve her husband of forty years -- it was a long time, and she had often wondered if it had been worth it. Still, she had made her bed, and she now had to lie in it, as usual.

Her senses were sluggish and somehow she couldn’t bring herself to feel bereaved, even after four decades with the man she was supposed to have loved. She seemed to need a kick start...something that evoked her feelings. Incense seemed to be appropriate, it played directly on the olfactory senses, and smell was one of her preferred brain stimulating organs. She just loved perfume and had a huge collection of all the prominent perfumery products.

She lit several sticks of incense pushing them into a holder, then put the box back into the top drawer of the cabinet.

It was then she noticed the large envelope on the cabinet, it had been delivered the previous day but she hadn’t had time to open it. She ripped the top off and pulled out the contents -- it was Clement’s police association tie and badge rolled up in a set of white handkerchiefs accompanied by a scribbled not from the funeral parlor.

To Mrs. Chester

Sorry to worry you with small details, but you left these things in the office. I’m sure they would be of sentimental value to you at this time.

Kind Regards

Staff

Thorpe and Wardle

It had been Clement’s express wish that he be buried with in his best suit and police association badge and tie. She threw her hands in the air, looked in the mirror, and mouthed a few words at the reflection.

‘My god, you stupid buggers, Clement isn’t wearing his official Police Association badge and tie,’ She had left express instructions to enclose the items in the coffin next to Chester’s heart. Some silly assistant had forgot to pass on the instructions.

She looked at her watch trying to work out where Clement would be at this particular moment -- her subconscious provided a double pronged answer -- he would be locked in the coffin at the cathedral in the middle of his funeral service, or...he might still be at the funeral parlour awaiting shipment. She shoved the tie and badge in her hand bag, dashed down to the garage, jumped in the SUV, revved up the engine, and pulled out into the traffic.

Chapter Sixty-five

The prestigeous funeral directors of Thorpe and Wardle had been through a busy week, with several well healed cadavers to deal with. The senior director, Arnold Benton, had just put the phone down after yet another elaborate funeral arrangement for the following week.

It was an apprehensive time and he felt obliged to pour himself a double Scotch from his office drinks cabinet. The internal intercom buzzed and the receptionist passed on a message.

‘There’s a Mrs. Chester here to see you sir urgently.’

‘Thank you Susan, tell her to come straight in will you.’

Mrs. Chester came bounding in and stood bolt upright in front of him.

‘I’m sick to the back teeth of telling other people how to do their fucking jobs Mr. Benton. I clearly informed the staff here to dress Clement in his best suit and police association tie, and to fix his association badge on his left lapel next to his heart. Non of this had been done -- are all your staff bloody stupid or something?’ Benton tried to smile sympathetically and reached for the internal phone

‘Before you issue any more pointless orders...is my husband Chester still here?’ Benton stared open mouthed at the woman he had done business with over the last two weeks. A distinct character change had occurred. Instead of the polite intellectual female he’d gotten used to, he was now confronted by a glaring, overbearing, foul mouthed woman. He forced himself to reply in his usual funeral directors dignified voice.

‘I’m sure there’s a perfectly rational explanation Mrs. Chester -- your husband’s body left here over half and hour ago -- as you can see, his coffin is resting in the nave of St. Mary’s cathedral,’ he pointed to the large panel LCD TV monitor situated on the wall some three metres above Benton’s desk, which was tuned into the state funeral service.

Mrs. Chester stood transfixed, her eyes glued to the TV panel. It was a service she never wanted to see, but her trained mind completely overruled any squeamishness she might have had. She had been trained by her mother to abhor improper dress in anyone, especially her own husband, who had specifically requested his best suit, tie and badge, to be worn at his own funeral.

She turned and scowled at Benton, then took off, slamming the door behind her. In seconds she was on the freeway pumping the accelerator, and shouting obscenities at any vehicle that got in her way. St. Mary’s was still some distance away and Sydney’s notorious traffic build up had already begun.

Chapter Sixty-six

The sky was diffuse grey and a fine drizzle settled in on Sydney’s business centre, wetting the pavements into slippery sheets, the city hummed with activity. Strangely, inclement weather was welcome by many people, since it set the stage for a sad, but memorable funeral. How many people actually remembered a grand funeral on a hot summers day -- it was the wet foggy days that stuck in ones memory. Funerals had that tinge of horror about them, it symbolised death -- the last act of nature against the arrogance of mankind. It demonstrated who ultimately ruled the roost. It was so decisive, so final, so unalterable. Nature went on her irrevocable course regardless of what men did; mankind was a temporary phenomena, but nature was as permanent as you could get in this physical world.

St. Mary’s cathedral symbolised all of this with her twin, two toned spires, glistened above the melee of people who continued to arrive for the state funeral of Sydney’s most well known lawman. To the people in the street, Commissioner Clement Chester was a saint, and woe betide anyone who spoke differently, but the police and government had a different story to tell -- but it didn’t matter. In the long run public sentiment said it all and the man who had sold his soul to cannabis and the BIB, would now dominate the nations media and their conscience.

It didn’t end there, for even in death, and given the right circumstances, he could bring down the government and destroy Sydney’s police force from the top down or the bottom up. And the irony of it all was that he would now be afforded the grand state funeral of a super hero. Political expediency could collectively change the morals of a nation or turn a monumental falsehood into an inviolable truth.

At Sydney airport the drizzle had increased to a steady downpour and some flights had been delayed due to the rough weather -- only designated VIP flights had priority.

Vice President Jenkins and his entourage had pulled a few sensitive strings and his flight from Tasmania was one of the last to be allowed to land.

Jenkins declined both an official and a full media reception and landed some distance from the airport buildings. Three hired limousines met the 747C and whisked the entourage away to a private customs screening, and one of Sydney’s five star hotels within cruising distance of St. Mary’s Cathedral.

The funeral service had just commenced as Jenkin’s and his security detail quietly made their way into the lofty cathedral. The police minister had discreetly briefed the officers on duty to allow the Americans free access within reason. Duty security clearance officers were bombarded with US photo ID’s as the Americans solemnly walked in and lined up at the back of the cathedral.

The holy edifice was crammed with police officials and political luminaries. Celebrities abounded and it was amazing how many well heeled high flyers Chester just happened to know during his life time.

The Archbishop of Sydney gave a short introductory eulogy, allowing more time for the many tributes, and personal dedications, by a host of well wishes still to come.

The strained notes of Chester’s favourite hymn reverberated around the huge nave and the congregation spontaneously burst into song.

Abide with me fast falls the evening tide

The darkness deepens Lord with me abide...

Many eyes and faces in the congregation began to sparkle as light caught the myriad flow of tears. The hymn itself evoked deep emotions particularly in the elderly members of the parish. Perhaps it was because most seniors began to realise their days on earth were numbered after all, and their demise was now rapidly approaching -- it was something to cry about -- since death didn’t happen everyday...but it would surely happen to them in the near future.

Even the police minister shed a few genuine tears -- not because he cared for the plight of Clement Chester, but because he wanted an excuse to cry and let out his own pent-up emotions.

It was Beatle, Ringo Starr, who said he felt that fans used the Beatles as an excuse to go mad, and release their inhibited emotions, rather than pay homage to their music. Many people did exactly the same thing that day and used the occasion to relieve themselves of their emotional baggage. If one person openly shed tears then it was okay for the next person to do so, and this had the usual human knock on effect all the way down the line -- until, as they say, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

It was during this poignant moment that Mrs. Chester chose to enter the cathedral armed with Clement’s police association tie and lapel badge. Without these adornments Chester was improperly dressed in a public place and this was the ultimate faux pas in her eyes. She stopped in her tracks; the coffin lid was well and truly screwed down with a peripheral row of high quality brass screws, which skirted the edge of the coffin lid. She rummaged in her hand bag, producing an over size nail file, and continued on her relentless march towards Clement’s coffin.

‘By hook or by crook he’ll be properly dressed,’ she mouthed to herself as she reached the coffin. Gaining a foot hold on the bier, with supreme effort, she levered herself on top of the coffin, and began to unscrew the brass screws with her nail file one by one.

Jenkins stared at her in horror along with the whole congregation. He looked sharply at his secret service agents, and flicked his head towards the coffin, indicating Mrs. Chester’s prompt removal. Several of the agents converged on the coffin trying desperately to grab her -- she lashed out with the nail file drawing blood from two of the men.

Jenkins had developed his own simple body language with his closet minders and he eyeballed his agents again flicking his head towards the large doors, indicating complete removal of the coffin to the hearse outside. The agents formed up three on each side of the coffin and lifted it and Mrs. Chester off the bier, then began an unsteady march toward the great doors, with Mrs. Chester kicking her legs and squealing as she held on to the coffin lid.

She continued undaunted on her relentlessly quest to dress Clement in his badge and tie; she was now down to the last eight brass screws. The lid showed signs of movement and she turned and started to pull at the top end where Clement’s upper torso resided.

Jenkins moved forward, his attention anchored on Mrs. Chester’s antics, he got to the top of the aisle blocking the exit. Suddenly he dropped down into the semi crouch position, looked quickly around him, then pulled a service pistol from a concealed body holster.

The coffin lid was beginning to vibrate and threatened to detach itself from the body of the coffin. Jenkins clipped a pencil laser site to the top of his pistol and took careful aim, locating the laser dot on Mrs. Chester’s bust, then fired off a volley of shots at her.

She squealed again as the bullets tore through her chest and propelled her backwards into the milling crowd of onlookers.

Jenkins quickly concealed his pistol and ushered his men and the coffin out of the cathedral. A group of police with their weapons drawn closed in on the entrance.

Jenkins held up his arm and pointed into the cathedral.

‘Quickly...there’s a mad man in there...’ The police rushed in as the congregation rushed out, creating a writhing mass of humanity blocking the great doorway.

The bearers hurried down the steps and pushed the coffin into the hearse, Jenkins signaled his men towards the motorcade.

‘Follow me,’ he snorted, as he climbed into the front seat of the hearse. Jenkin’s put the large automatic vehicle in drive and pressed the accelerator to the floor. The back wheels squealed alarmingly generating a huge volume of acrid white smoke. This summoned a multitude of angry police officers who came charging out of the cathedral doors, their guns drawn. Several shots were fired at the smoke-screened vehicle as it turned into St. Mary’s Road and disappeared behind the cathedral. It was quickly followed by three other heavy, black Sudan's, packed with secret service agents.

Chapter Sixty-seven

Jansen parked his car opposite the cathedral and squinted incredulously at the milling crowd outside. Decimated flowers and wreaths were scattered all around. Men and police were arguing, woman were crying and throwing their arms in the air. Armed police were scattered everywhere trying to control the brawling congregation.

Jansen looked at his Sergeant.

‘That must have been some funeral.’

‘I’d say so sir...takes me back to the Irish troubles.’

‘You were there then sergeant?'

‘Hell no, but we watched it at college on telly, and did a comprehension exercise on the worst riots over there.’

A plain clothes police officer spotted Jansen and came over.

‘Hello commander, we’ve just had an incredible incident here...someone has shot Mrs. Chester during the service, and the US vice president, along with his security agents, have just hijacked Clement Chester’s coffin,’ Jenkins looked intently at the officer. The statement by itself sounded like a ridiculous sick joke, but if Jenkins had hijacked Chester’s coffin, there was one hell of a bloody good reason for it.

Jensen pulled his gun and fired into the air -- it gave him the attention he needed.

‘Stop this stupid squabbling -- the man responsible for all this has just hijacked Chester’s coffin,’ he looked at the plain clothes officer, ‘get your men together...we’re going after Jenkins -- which way did he go?’

‘He turned into St. Mary’s Road and onto Crown Street. I’d say he was heading for the Pacific Highway.’

‘Good, then let’s get after him,’ Jansen got back in his car and half smiled at Dutton sitting in the front seat.

‘At last, it seems our impeccable vice president has made his first disastrous move, he’s stooped to body snatching,’ Dutton returned the smile, rubbed his chin and gunned the car ignition.

It was fifteen minutes later after some tricky driving in precarious Sydney traffic that Jansen caught his first sighting of the hearse and accompanying black secret service SUVs. It always seemed strange to him that the choice of a secret service vehicle was always a black, highly polished SUV. This was about as anonymous as a pink convertible in a funeral procession and actually made it easier for him to keep tabs on the vehicle.

Jansen checked the line of vehicles in the harbour tunnel as they neared the exit. There were at least six police vehicles behind him and another six in front, with no hearse in sight.

Jenkin’s three car motorcade had made its way through the harbour tunnel exit just as the traffic came to a stop. Three minutes later they were cruising at substantial speed along the Pacific Highway.

Chapter Sixty-eight

Sunlight glinted off the highly polished stainless steel tank of Brian Ralph’s pristine 3.5 thousand litre petrol tanker. It was exactly one week since it came out of the manufacturers workshop sparkling brand new. Custom made according to Ralphs specifications; it looked like a giant silver bullet with its sleek stainless steel lines and gleaming crimson fitments. After trading in his last rig in he still owed $200,000 dollars on the super tanker.

Today was his first consignment involving the rig, with a full tank of 3.5 megalitres of premium grade petrol, destined for two service stations along the Pacific Highway. It was his proudest moment and his fifteen year old son Raymond had come along to support him on his special day.

Traffic was heavy on Cleveland Road, as it always was in the middle of the week, and Ralph took his time making sure his rig didn’t receive its first scrape on the vehicle’s inaugural run.

In spite of the enormous amount of flammable payload in his rear, Ralph felt safe in his expertly made state-of-the-art tanker. The seats were well upholstered and comfortable, but not overly so -- falling asleep at the wheel was discouraged by a special sensor situated at the top of the windscreen, which detected a specific change in eye movements. He smiled at Raymond, thinking he was a chip off the old block, as the traffic began to thin out towards the end of Cleveland Road, where a large traffic island directed them onto the Pacific Highway.

Ralph could hardly remember a time when he didn’t want to be a truck driver. The ambition went right back to his early years in juniors at Paramatta school.

He could remember playing with his ‘Dinky’ dump trucks in the sand pit and around the school playground. Untold hours were spent shunting little piles of sand to and fro from pit to playground. A year later a new kid named Tim Wilson entered the school and joined him in the sand pit. He brought along his prize possession -- a shiny new ‘Dinkey’ petrol tanker with the words ESSO embellished along the side in midnight blue. This was something different; a truck with a giant petrol tank on the back of it -- this would the toy he would fall in love with for the rest of his life.

Ralph made a deal with ‘Willo’ the kid who had the best Dinkey toy in school. It took two dump trucks, a bag of marbles and a box of licorice allsorts to take the miniature tanker away from Willo, who drove a very hard bargain.

Ralph had no regrets even though he was now reduced to one Dinkey toy, and even this was on very shaky ground. As one boy after another tried to rest it away from him via a game of marbles or conkers...Ralph would have non of it.

He looked around the cabin of his new truck admiring the plush leather seating and full instrument fascia panel. Opening the glove compartment he gazed at the battered Dinkey petrol tanker laying on its side, its role had changed over the years, it was now his lucky charm, and as long as the toy remained with him he knew he was safe. It had been on innumerable trips with him and he never missed a delivery without his precious Dinkey tanker. Having been comforted by his lucky charm he closed the glove box and looked up ahead.

The large traffic island which would take him onto the Pacific Highway was now just fifty yards away and it was now time to concentrate. Such islands could be a great danger for long petrol trailers unless the driver handled the rig carefully, jackknifing a new trailer was the last thing he needed. The traffic began to slow and Ralph handed his son a large red apple to keep him occupied while he concentrated on the handling the big petrol rig.

‘So far, so good son...we’ll be onto the highway in a couple of ticks,’ his son beamed as he sank his teeth into the polished apple.

Ralph applied the brakes just before entering the island producing a satisfying hiss as he operated the brake pedal. It was then he noticed a large black vehicle approaching the island at a prodigious speed with a convoy of other vehicles locked onto its rear.

Nervous pulses ran down his oesophagus and culminated in his stomach initiating a backward ripple. He’d encountered scenarios like this before and knew that they nearly always ended in disaster. His mind went into overdrive...there was no way the vehicle would be able to stop safely before it reached the island. A series of past fatal incidents flashed through his brain -- scenarios that had remained fixed in his mind on account of their tragic horrors. They goaded him on, as if to say...get out of this one if you can!

Somehow he had to get the trailer out of the way. It was impossible to reverse with all the traffic backed up in his rear. With only a few precious seconds left an instant decision was needed.

Ralph pushed his foot on the accelerator and twisted the steering wheel hard to the right as he tried to negotiate the island at high speed. Both actions created an over correction and Ralph struggled to correct it. Fear intervened and wiped out any rational thinking, as the rig hit a ballard, and knocked over a large street lamp, trapping the tanker across the traffic island. Petrol spilled out from a large hole in the belly of the huge steel tank -- it was the dreaded tanker accident Ralph had feared the most, a jackknife across one of Sydney’s major traffic intersections was the ultimate petrol tanker faux pas.

‘Silly bastard,’ shouted Jenkins as the tanker loomed large in the hearse’s windscreen. The tires howled and whined as he pumped the brakes. The coffin shot forward smashing the glass and metal dividing screen and missed Jenkins by millimeters.

The hearse wasn’t designed for speed or emergency stops, and lightweight brakes fitted to the vehicle were no match for the inertial mass of a runaway coffin filled to capacity with Chester’s obese corpse.

An ear splitting screech and a retort, that only God could have created, shook the area for miles around. The heavy coffin conveyance went straight through the tanker splitting it in two and showering petrol fifty feet into the air, soaking everything within thirty feet of the traffic island.

Jenkins, strapped in the wreck and barely alive, looked up at the sky through blooded eyes and blackened face. He squelched in premium grade petrol, which floated up to his chest. Above his head a light fixture dangled precariously swinging to and fro -- abruptly it snapped and hit the curb creating the tinniest of sparks -- but it was enough to cause the next monumental detonation.

Jansen and the police motorcade were thirty yards away when the eruption occurred. A blinding flash followed by intense heat were the first deadly harbingers to arrive. Anyone in eye contact was temporarily blinded by the flash and then deafened by the huge explosion. Finally a huge gust of hot air singed everyone's eyebrows within thirty feet of the centre of the blast. The heat built up as the massive pile up of machinery and combustibles combined to produce a gigantic fireball, melting the bitumen and blanketing the area with choking black smoke. Several of the following SUV’s were caught up in the mayhem and plied into the burning mass of vehicles. The sudden impact and disorientation of the incident caught many of the security detail off guard, and all of Jerkin's secret service personnel were promptly incinerated as well as dozens of other people in the vicinity.

The furnace like conditions burnt and singed trees, cars and people. Many of the street lights exploded as flames licked away at the their vitals. Traffic was grid locked for hundreds of metres in all directions making it almost impossible for many people to flee the scene. One vehicle after another caught fire and the flames started to spread along the lines of the traffic like a slow Dynamite fuse. Fire engines and ambulances were fighting to get through to the center of the conflagration. Wreckage and debris cluttered the area, glass was scattered everywhere, burnt metal parts littered the gutter. Pools of hot water and glycol smoked away as the coolant of a multitude of broken radiators shed their precious fluids. All glass windows within a fifty yard radius were completely blown in. The massive black smoke cloud from burning tanker fuel began to turn day into night and the air became near impossible to breath. People covered their faces with tissues, handkerchiefs, scarves and any thing that would protect their airways from the fowl stench of burning rubber and fuel oil. Every other person brandished a mobile phone and was either speaking animatedly into it or snapping endless photo’s for posterity or possible media exploitation.

There was nothing like a messy disaster, it attracted people like bears to honey. Whole areas of the road and pavement were crowded with gawkers and ghoolish onlookers, who actually jostled each other for a better view. Some thought it was the set of a new action movie; such was the popularity of Sydney as one of the action movie capitals of the world.

Jansen shook his head in disgust, then realised he was one of the onlookers himself, just an extra in a real life movie set that portrayed life as it really was. TV news helicopters massed at the scene, perilously close to each other, trying to get the best overall views

It was amazing how quickly news spread, only twenty minutes ago, it was just a normal traffic area totally devoid of any sensational views. Now there was no shortage of media personnel, cameras abounded from different TV stations and newspapers, with paparazzi photographers tagging along, hoping to get at least one sensational shot, which might make them a small fortune.

Jansen sat in the driving seat of his car and looked at Dutton as the apocalyptic scene rapidly unfolded.

‘I’ll bet the US vice president didn’t expect such a warm welcome from one of his staunchest of allies,’ said Jansen behind a sneaky smile.

‘Well he certainly earned it sir.’

‘I hope you’ve got lots of spare time Jeff...because we’re going to need it for the debriefing report and write up,’ Dutton smiled a skeptical smile, it would read like a thriller, but the necessary politically correct police writing methodology would ruin it. It would become unreadable to all but the keenest criminology student. He wished that he could write it his own way just once. At least it would have given vent to a long felt expression of personal freedom.

Chapter Sixty-nine

Sunday morning was normally a rest day for political indulgences, unless there was a good reason to think otherwise. But the PM had deliberately fixed the meeting date to confound the media, whilst also, discretely beefing up the security around Kirribilli House.

Jensen had parked his car in a public area and made his way to the PM’s residence. He showed his identity card at the front gates and walked slowly up to the house. Mrs. Ashcroft, the Kirribilli house keeper, opened the door almost immediately, as Jensen was about to ring the door bell.

‘Please come in commander, they’re expecting you on the terrace,’ Jansen stepped over the threshold and looked around the old house, both eyes wide open, it had the ambiance and smell of statesmanship, and yet at the same time seemed terribly domesticated. Family heirlooms, candid black and white photos, some with a tinge of sepia from a bygone age, dominated the main rooms.

The house keeper renewed her smile and directed him through the house and into the rear gardens, where a group of men were talking quietly.

There didn’t seem to be any undue increase in security, and the media was totally absent, although this was almost certainly an illusion.

Jensen recognised all four men present as he stepped onto the patio with an outstretched hand towards the PM, who was talking with the defence minister. To the left of the terrace amongst the roses was the ASIO Director and the Governor General, admiring and discussing the pros and cons of large rose gardens in public spaces. The PM introduced the other politicians and directed them towards the shaded garden area.

. It was down to business as they all took their places at the polished glass table, which had been tastefully covered by a patterned lace table cloth; a turn of the millennium present from Nottingham city council in the UK .

Jensen handed the PM his written report along with other relevant documents, a deliberately constrained smile graced his features.

‘It’s all there sir,’ the PM looked sullen as he accepted the large manilla envelope.

‘I’m sure its all there commander. However, before we proceed, I would like to hear your own personal story first -- and commander, don’t pull any punches,’

‘Right sir, as you wish,’ Jansen took a sip of lemon tea and touched his lips with his napkin. He looked into the garden vista conjuring up the right expressive sentiments.

‘What we have here sir is a criminal triad of unprecedented dimensions. To the person in the street unfamiliar with the political machinations of the present day, it would be quite unbelievable.

Vice president Jenkin’s made a deal with Muslim extremist Farid Kazeni over the phone. For thirty million dollars he gave Kazeni the complete itinerary of US president Garner’s visit to Australia.

Kazeni then contacted police commissioner Chester and arranged to pay him ten million dollers if he gave them secret tunnel information and allowed them free passage through the tunnels during the siege,’ The PM stared intensely at Jansen

‘So Chester sold his soul for ten million dollars?’

‘Not quite sir...Chester was strongly addicted to marihuana and Kazeni was his supplier. He got all the drugs he needed for free, provided he left the BIB alone. Of course he had to make it all look legitimate, and so he botched the tunnel siege so that the BIB would get away with it.’

‘But how does Jenkin’s fit into this, surely he wouldn’t sacrifice his career and betray his country for a mere thirty million.

‘Stranger things have happened sir, but you’ve got to realise that Jenkins was politically driven and power mad. He had spent millions on his political campaigns over the years and was now heavily in debt. Indebtedness would be his ruination if the public found out about it, and so he was desperate for money,’ at the mention of money, the ASIO director’s normally bland features brightened.

‘Speaking of money commander we know 10 million is in Rosey Chester possesion...but we’re not sure about where the rest is?’

Jansen smiled knowingly and walked over to the drinks tray, poured himself a whiskey, adding a splash of soda.

He sat down in front of the ASIO director.

‘At the moment sir, this is just a good theory. Clement Chester was murdered and strung up by the BIB, while his wife was at a Ladies Club meeting...he had become a liability to their cause and was therefore expendable.

The BIB planned the terrorist operation right down to the finest detail. The moment they realised the police commissioner could be bought with drugs, and the US vice president with money, they played it for all it was worth.

Jenkins arranged a low key visit to Australia to pick up the money the BIB owed him,’ the defence minister finished his coffee and interjected.

‘But surely commander he could have simply had it credited in an account in the US without leaving the country.’

‘True he could, but Jenkins was ever cautious of his high profile position, and any account dealings would have left an electronic trail,’ the PM frowned.

‘So it was cash in the hand then commander.’

‘That’s right, except Jenkins didn’t even want to dirty his hands with the cash, so he instructed they convert it into diamonds, which were so much easier to hide.’

The governor general rubbed his chin. ‘Why didn’t the BIB just keep all the money,’ Jansen smiled impishly.

‘You mean double cross the US vice president...I don’t think so sir. There was no way the BIB could have stood up to the most powerful man in the world, who was both United States president, and as corrupt as they were.

Jenkins was more than capable of annihilating the BIB, he could easily have arranged a preemptive strike behind their backs at anytime.

Ever the resourceful man, he arranged for two possible outcomes to cover his back. His first great ambition was to be permanent president of the United States by removing Garner at the first opportunity, and he almost succeeded. But when that failed he had a ready made second plan. He made a deal with the BIB, and insisted they pay him for the information he gave them in diamonds.’

The PM helped himself to a double whiskey and topped the glass up with tonic water. He surveyed his immaculate collection of roses, strolled around the upper garden terraces, turned round and squinted at Jensen.

‘Jenkins had it made then!’

‘Apparently...unfortunately for him he finally bumped into reality.’

‘So where did they make the diamond drop then commander?’

‘Once again sir, Jenkins cautious nature came into play. Since the BIB had easy access to Clement Chester, dead or alive, Jenkins suggested that they arrange a dead drop in Chester’s coffin.’ The governor general had so far listened with growing incredulity.

‘You mean they stowed the forty million dollars worth of diamonds beneath Chester’s dead body...and they were there throughout the entire funeral service?’

‘Yes, but they were actually in his coat pockets, both were stuffed to the brim with white diamonds,’ the PM took another large gulp of whiskey and tonic and initiated a doubtful grimace.

‘How do you know this commander?’ Jensen picked up his attaché case opened it and took out two black velvet bags.

He deposited the contents on the table. Two large clumps of soiled gem stones covered in carbonised fabric occupied the centre of the table.

‘I’m afraid Chester’s dead body and the Vice president were both incinerated in the fireball following the crash. But these babies weren’t,’ Jansen ran his fingers through the slimy collection of carbonised debris and tarnished stones.

Suddenly realising the enormity of it all, the PM grasped the manilla envelope and held it firmly to his chest.

‘So the official story is all in here then commander?’

‘That’s right sir...a complete write-up’

The PM abruptly turned and walked into the house then keyed in a number on the phone. Jansen gazed at the governor general his curiosity getting the better of him.

‘What’s the PM doing sir?

“He’s probably talking to the media right now, putting a positive spin on things,’ the ASIO director looked contemptuously at the governor.

‘You mean he’s covering his own arse.’

‘So much for Sunday meetings without the media,’ Jansen muttered. His mobile buzzed and Dutton’s voice came through the earpiece.

‘There’s a call from the Canberra office sir, an urgent case has come up.’

‘Right Jeff, be with you in a tick,’ Jansen looked around at the gardens, it was a lovely place for Sunday tea, but politics had spoilt the ambiance, and as far as he were concerned, the tea party was over. He gazed at the PM still avidly talking on the phone and turned to the others.

‘Well it seems he’s got what he wants...my regards to you gentleman, and please excuse my absence to the PM, but I have a security firm to run in Canberra,’ Jansen smiled politely, sprinted across the well manicured lawns and paused briefly at the gate to flash his security card.

Chapter Seventy

It began to rain as Jansen reached his car; he quickly slipped behind the steering wheel.

‘Thank god that’s over.’

‘You gave the PM the reports then sir?’

‘Yes...he’s playing politics with them at this moment.’

‘What did he say about the Clement Chester life story expose?’

‘Nothing, I was about to brief him on Chester’s biography when he shot off with the reports...eager to disseminate the info to the world and pull his own chestnuts out of the fire. That means he won’t be privy to the caveat Mrs. Chester sent me.’

‘The caveat sir?’Jansen dipped into his inside pocket and produced a DL sized envelope addressed to himself.

There was a massage written on the back of the envelope, it said...

Commander Jansen: Open Only On My Death

Mrs. Rosey Chester

Jansen passed the Letter to Dutton, he opened it out and read the first line...

To Commander Roger Jansen

My Dear Commander

I know you are a trustworthy man...my senses tell me this, and they are never wrong. I trust your judgment implicitly -- over the last few months my own judgment has been seriously wavering. I’m afraid Alzheimer's disease is beginning to take its toll and I can’t remember things like I used to. This being the case, I decided to put a caveat on publishing Clement’s life story. I feel that my days here without Clement are numbered, and I could pass on at any moment.

I have therefore instructed the publishers, via the caveat, to follow your instructions as to whether to publish the book or not. The choice is yours...I’m sorry to put this burden on you commander, but your mind is much clearer than mine. I can no longer make a clear decision, and there is too much political wrangling for my liking.

I wish you all the luck with this case, but please remember, when you come to judge Clement Chester. Every stick has two ends and they point in opposite directions, but they fuse in the middle. Clement was like that stick, he was no worse or better than most other men...he was just terribly misunderstood.

Kindest Regards

Rosey Chester

Dutton looked searchingly at Jansen.

‘Are you going to stop its publication sir?

‘Hardly Jeff -- would you prevent the callapse of a government knowing it was full of corrupt, conniving weasels.’

‘Probably not sir.’

‘In any case, who am I to stand in the way of truth; if I were to prevent the book being published, I would be just as guilty as those about to be exposed. Truth is the only true reality, everything else is rubbish.’

‘The big wigs aren't going to like it sir.’

‘That’s unfortunate, and by the way, I forgot one other thing about truth...it’s also a bitter pill to swallow.’

‘Meaning exactly what?’

‘I was thinking of the rather strange SUV incident in the dessert just after the MOAB was dropped.’

‘Oh yes, you never did explain that sir.’

‘It makes for some very interesting deductions...you see there are only three places that this nasty event could have originated.

The Americans, the Muscat authorities, and the Australian government.

I have already ruled out the Americans, since I doubt very much if they knew we were even in Muscat...and even if they did, why would they bother to blow up the SUV of an anonymous SAS commander?’

As for the Muscat authorities...well they did sanction the project. The only other reason could have been a terrorist hit by BIB supporters. This also strikes me as very doubtful.’

‘But that only leaves the Australian government sir.’

‘I’m afraid it does Jeff. It seems they may have sent an assassin who monitored our progress to make sure I wouldn’t return.’

‘But why would they sanction the assassination of their own commander?’

‘Your not thinking politically sergeant. First they send me on a suicidal mission in order to put a feather in the Australian slouch hat, knowing full well that I might not return alive. They hoped I might have been killed during the skirmish with BIB, or at least have been blown to hell by the MOAB detonation.

When both of these actions failed, they had a hired killer already in place, who sneaked a bomb in the lead SUV, hoping I would be blown to hell the minute I opened the door.’

‘And the reason for all this sir?’

‘Simple really...I’m what they call in political circles a loose cannon...great on the battle field killing the enemy, but an absolute disaster in the cut throat field of politics. Many a hero has met his end in planned collateral damage -- except this time it didn’t work -- some other poor devil paid the price.’

'Shouldn't you report this to the authorities sir?’

‘Don’t be silly Jeff...it would be like complaining about the behaviour of al queda to Osama bin Ladin. But never mind, dear old Rosey Chester has given us the perfect political weapon -- Clement’s biography, and what a wonderful expose it is. We’ll get the publishers to print millions of copies and flood the whole bloody world with them -- then we’ll sit back in our easy chairs and watch the fun.’

...END...

EPILOGUE

In America and throughout the world an infamous legend was about to be created and vice president Frederick Jenkins would go down in history as the only United States vice president ever to plan and instigate a major Australian bank robbery, and be incinerated along with the proceeds, which by sheer good fortune had been converted into diamonds.

It would give new meaning to the well known phrases, Great men are almost always bad men...power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. However, Charles Dickens, the great 19th century author, may have ventured a little closer to the truth when he said, ‘Man is a mystery to himself and a mystery to others.’

~ ~ ~

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