Craig handed him the manifest. ‘Here, check it out.’
Robert pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head. ‘Okay, we got a whole bunch of pots and furniture. Indoor and outdoor stuff, plus half a dozen snooker tables. Out of Denpasar. Should be pretty straightforward.’
‘Sweet,’ said Craig.
Robert’s mobile struck up a jaunty rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’.
‘When are you going to change the ring on that phone, man?’ Craig shook his head. His partner was a bit of a dag.
‘Never. This way, it’s Christmas all year round.’ Robert let it play, answering it at the last moment. ‘Rightee-ho,’ he said, speaking into it. The officer hitched the phone back on his belt. ‘C’mon, ace, they’re ready for us. Jeez, these guys are getting quicker by the day,’ Robert said, grunting as he stood. Daisy was making figure eights in her expectation of getting on with it. The two agents walked through the dark aisles of containers and back out again into the sun. The container chosen for inspection had been isolated on the dock. They strolled up to it and met representatives from both the stevedoring company and the shipping line. The various forms were signed and in order, so the container was cracked open. The door swung wide with a rusty groan that rang in the men’s ears.
The agents snapped their flashlights on and strode into the darkness, directing Daisy here and there by tugging on her lead. Daisy surged forward, scampering over, through and under the cargo neatly stacked inside.
‘Nice of whoever to leave so much room for us,’ said Craig, swinging the flashlight about.
‘Yeah.’ Robert illuminated the far back end of the container. The air smelled of dry wood and earth. The container would have to be fumigated and any biological nasties eradicated. Daisy snuffled up and down, retracing her steps, but nothing seemed to excite her. They walked to the far end where the air was close and hot, the sun’s power amplified by the metal of the container. The younger man led his dog under a pair of snooker tables. The animal took its time, placing its nose into the cracks and joins, its keen olfactory senses reaching out for the minutest trace of illicit cargo.
‘Nice table,’ said Craig. ‘Look at this — solid mahogany. You know, they just walk into the rainforest and cut this shit down. Jesus,’ he said, envy interwoven with new-age sensitivity to the environmental implications of such behaviour. ‘Did I ever tell you my old man was the local snooker champion?’
‘Nope.’
‘Yeah, used to beat all them rich wankers, the ones who could afford to have a table like this at home. They cost a fortune, these bloody things — and then you’ve got to have a room big enough to put it in. I’ll never earn that sort of money — not doing this shit, anyway.’ He leaned under one of the massive tables and shone his torch up onto the underside. ‘The best ones have slate under the baize,’ Craig said.
‘Yeah,’ said Robert, not really listening. ‘Looks clean.’
‘Only another four hundred containers to go,’ Craig said with some aggravation in his voice, the realisation of his future low net worth well and truly under his skin. ‘C’mon,’ he said, ‘let’s go have some lunch.’
Australian Defence Force HQ, Russell Offices, Canberra, Australia
Gia Ferallo entered the small lecture theatre and found it already crowded. The Australian Defence Force chief, Air Marshal Ted Niven, had called her and her boss, the station director, to the meeting. Ferallo’s superior, however, was in the US, leaving her to carry the can. Ferallo didn’t mind. Responsibility — proving she was capable of handling the job — was good for the career. She took a seat beside the Director-General of ASIS, Graeme Griffin, as Peter Meyer, Director-General of ASIO, Australia’s internal intelligence organisation, walked in with Hugh Greenway, the defence minister. Obviously something serious had developed. Water cooler scuttlebutt said it had something to do with Kadar Al-Jahani. The gathering represented the top military and intelligence personnel in the country — enough brass in the room to cast a couple of cannons. The lights dimmed slightly as Captain Ali Mahisa came in and took a seat, followed by Felix Mortimer from the DIO. There weren’t a lot of pleasantries exchanged, on account of it wasn’t a particularly pleasant occasion.
‘Thank you all for coming.’ Niven stood in front of his seat and turned to face the gathering. ‘I believe you all know each other, with a couple of exceptions,’ he said with the slightest nod at Gia Ferallo. ‘This is Captain Ali Mahisa from Indonesian counter-terrorism. He has flown down from Jakarta at short notice to attend this meeting.’
Mahisa rose from his seat partially, then sat back down.
Ferallo smiled a hello at the Indonesian officer.
‘Also, the officer at the whiteboard is Colonel Hank Watson, NBC expert from the US Army Chemical Corps. He’ll be liaising with us for the foreseeable future.’
Ferallo was curious. Liaising? NBC — nuclear biological and chemical? She noticed the colonel for the first time off to the left, writing something on a whiteboard, his back to the room. From behind, he was not a particularly standout kind of character: short, pear-shaped, shiny bald head spattered with big brown sun freckles. The colonel stopped scribbling and turned to face the assembly. His face was lined and intelligent. He did not appear to be happy. Ferallo could see that the gathering was about to get some bad news. That, she would later recall, was the understatement of the year.
‘A couple of points to set what you’re about to hear in context,’ said Niven in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘As you all know, Kadar Al-Jahani was not killed in Ramallah, but was captured and taken to Guantanamo Bay for questioning. However, he died three days ago while being interrogated. Before he died, though, he cleared up a few questions for us, and left a few others unanswered. We now know, for example, that he and Babu Islam were indeed responsible for the US Embassy bombing.’ The former fighter pilot paused to look at his notes and took a deep breath before continuing.
Ferallo smiled faintly. The Australian had sugar-coated it. More accurately, Kadar had died under torture. But there was something else going on here…
‘There’s no way to soften this, so I’ll just out with it. Before he died, Kadar Al-Jahani revealed that Babu Islam also has in its possession around twenty litres of VX nerve gas, and the means to deliver it.’
Ferallo blinked in disbelief.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said someone. The effect of the air marshal’s statement was like a punch in the solar plexus.
‘Colonel?’ said Niven, motioning to the American officer to take over the briefing.
Watson underlined two very long words on the whiteboard, the squeaking of the felt-tipped pen making the flesh on Ferallo’s arms prickle. ‘S-2-(diisopropylamino)ethyl O-ethyl methylphosphonothioate,’ Watson began, ‘is otherwise known as VX gas. It’s not the most lethal substance known to man, but close enough not to quibble about it. VX is three hundred times more lethal than phosgene, the nerve agent most commonly used in World War I. It’s odourless, virtually colourless and, unlike some other agents, is an excellent adhesive. Once it lands on a surface, it’s almost impossible to remove.
‘The exposure limit for VX is one ten-thousandth of a milligram per cubic metre. Just getting it on your skin is bad enough. Ingest slightly less than you could fit on the head of a pin and, unless you get treatment immediately, you’re dead in a couple of minutes. VX works by binding itself to the enzyme responsible for transmitting signals to the nerves, blocking the signals. Basically, your whole system loses control, goes haywire.
‘The symptoms of VX exposure manifest themselves within minutes or hours, depending on the level of exposure. It’s not a nice way to leave the planet,’ he said, briefly smiling without humour. ‘The symptoms include visions, headaches, runny nose, pressure sensitive skin, nausea, vomiting, nightmares, muscle twitches, cramps, involuntary urination and defecation — all the good things — progressing to convulsions and, ultimately, respiratory failure.