The sound of the outboard motor screaming at full power and the noisy spooling of the cable onto a drum brought Duat abruptly back to the present. He looked down the runway. The Sword of Allah was accelerating quickly and then, suddenly, it appeared to go almost straight up like a missile. The cable fizzed as it snaked through a metal guide and, when the drone was overhead, Hendra yelled, ‘Now!’ Unang flicked a lever that set the motor’s gearbox to neutral. The sudden release of tension on the cable allowed its hook to release from the drone. The aircraft’s Rotax engine was now on its own. Through a remote control box, Hendra set the aircraft on a slow turn over the water and lined it up on the runway. The test was a success.
‘Hendra, we launch in two weeks. Pray for a break in the weather,’ Duat said, turning away. Convulsions gripped his stomach. He stumbled into the scrub and vomited.
Central Intelligence Agency, Australia bureau, US Embassy, Canberra
‘Well, how does the seed grow, my friend?’
‘(static)…a sapling that grows daily. Soon it will be a large tree that bears fruit…(static)’
‘(static)…heard all this before…(static)…will be edible? There have been attempts in the past to cultivate this area profitably…(static)’
‘(static)…and so is the climate today. Also, as you know, caring for the tree as it grows takes money…(static)’
‘Allah be praised.’
‘As I said, there would be a lot of money to be made…(static)…expert banker in Sydney…’
Ferallo read through the transcript from Kadar Al-Jahani’s meeting in Rome. It was redolent with double meaning, especially now with the benefit of hindsight. But a trail to the terrorists’ encampment still eluded them. Where were these bastards hiding? The men Kadar had met with at the coffee shop had all died in the battle in which Kadar had been captured. The phone on Ferallo’s desk rang. She picked it up impatiently. ‘I’m sorry but didn’t I ask to have my calls held?…I know, everyone says they’re important…Okay, okay, put her through. Sorry, before you go, what’s her name? Skye Reinhardt? And she’s from the Manila bureau, you say?’
Jenny Tadzic’s internal alarm bells were ringing loud and clear. Angie was now long overdue. Foreign Affairs confirmed that she had entered Thailand — which Tadzic knew anyway because of the postcards — but could not confirm that she had departed Thailand. Tadzic’s suspicion that Angie had crossed illegally into Myanmar via one of the innumerable drug trails and trekked to General Trip’s fields had hardened into firm belief. If she was right, Angie was dead.
But that was not her only worry. Reports were still coming in from police forces up and down the east coast that even more of the killer heroin had flooded the market. The death toll from it was frighteningly high, and increasing. Word on the street was that the heroin had been dumped in Australia, which also brought the cost of a hit way down and increased the market penetration. Someone obviously wanted to make a quick buck. Tests revealed that this heroin had unbelievably high levels of purity, up around seventy to eighty percent compared to the usual twenty percent. This made it lethal, addicts unwittingly giving themselves massive, deadly doses. Customs had no idea how the drug was getting in because, as one particularly testy agent had told her, ‘If we knew how it was getting in, we’d bloody stop it, wouldn’t we?’ Tadzic had to admit, she was getting desperate. The phone rang. ‘Hello, Jenny Tadzic, T triple C.’ The voice down the line was unfamiliar.
‘Hello, Jenny. We’ve met. Gia Ferallo, CIA,’ said the voice through the phone.
‘Yes, Ms Ferallo. I remember. How goes it?’
‘Good. Call me Gia. I hate the “Miz” thing — sounds like it’s short for “miserable”. What are you doing tomorrow morning? Care to spend the day up in Sydney?’
Tadzic listened intently for the next five minutes, without saying a word. When she finally hung up, her palms were sweating and her heart was beating against her ribs. This was the break they’d been praying for.
Sydney, Australia
The royal suite at the Shangri-La on Sydney Harbour suited Jeff Kalas’s idea of the idyllic lifestyle: luxury, exclusivity, and service. The bedroom was vast, three times the size of any he had slept in before, and beautifully furnished in the modern, comfortable style. A huge plate-glass window filled with the golden light of the sun’s first rays, and it framed the arch of the Sydney Harbour Bridge rearing up like a rampant steel monster. He lay on the vast bed and stretched out, feeling like a king.
The suite was deliciously quiet. No screaming at recalcitrant teenagers to get up and get dressed. No mutt to walk. No wife to avoid. Being single was absolute bliss. The blast of a horn from a large cruise ship departing the quay below managed to penetrate the room’s soundproofing.
Kalas had walked out on his family after eighteen years of marriage, taking nothing. What did he care? He could buy anything he wanted now, anyway. Just to reassure himself that his life had finally changed for the better, Kalas reached under his bed, pulled out the PowerBook, and pressed the on button. He had configured the laptop to automatically connect to the Internet. This new wireless chip set was worth it, he told himself. And then he laughed out loud. Worth it? The vast sums of money he had recently acquired had utterly repositioned his sense of worth. Hardship was a thing of the past.
The appropriate icon began flashing, indicating connection. He keyed in the site he wanted to visit: First Lucerne. A few more keystrokes and Kalas was reviewing his account balance. He started to quietly hum a children’s song, one he used to sing to his when they were little: The king was in the counting-house counting out his money. The queen was in the parlour, eating bread and honey…He gave a sigh of satisfaction when all those beautiful zeros materialised. He flipped the lid down on the laptop, sending the computer to sleep, and slid it back under the bed.
His bag was packed. All he had to do was shower, have breakfast and then catch the Philippine Airlines flight to Manila. He closed his eyes and conjured a picture of Skye in a state of suitable undress. He smiled to himself. Life and love were now as one. He was the luckiest man he knew.
The doorbell rang. It was loud, installed to be responded to rather than ignored. The sound ripped him out of his daydream. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said, annoyed. He swung his legs off the bed and put his arms into the thick terry towelling robe provided. Somehow, they’d managed to embroider his initials — what did they call that, his ‘monogram’? — onto the pocket. The doorbell rang again, impatiently. ‘Coming, coming,’ he said as he walked past the grand piano and ran his finger down the keys.
Kalas looked through the peephole. He saw a young, Italian-looking woman in a maid’s outfit. She was standing behind a tray covered with various silver domes.