Defender (27 page)

Morgan hadn't seen or heard from Ari since they'd said goodbye in Spain, and he'd stewed about it ever since. Now, without a word, here she was in London. But wrapped up in all this? God knows, he'd wanted to track her down, but that wasn't possible. He was an INTREPID agent and no matter what may have developed, it had happened on a mission and the chance of there being any future to it . . . well, he had to put that idea right out of his mind.

Just then, his BlackBerry burred in his jacket pocket. He checked it.

The red envelope icon told him he had mail.

Abraham Johnson, senior civil servant, Companion of the Order of St Michael and St George, and Acting Director General at the Foreign Office, walked back into to the private study of his London residence. The family home was in Exeter. The children were at university there.

Johnson dropped heavily into the plush leather seat at his desk and waited . His gaze fell upon the dark green folder emblazoned with the national emblem of Malfajiri sitting ominously in the centre of the desk. Inside, page upon page chronicled the sequence of events that had resulted in the attempted overthrow of that country. However, the erratic leadership of the rebel leader, Baptiste, was counter to The Renegade Group's original intentions for Malfajiri, specifically the establishment of a stable and enduring government to function in part nership with Renegade. Consideration now turned to an alternate President with plans progressing to arrange a resurgence in rebel violence, ultimately leading to the execution of Baptiste and the return of the exiled, much-feared former President, Doctor Patrice T. Siziba. On assuming the Presidency, Siziba would ensure certain considerations would, as the contract detailed, be made in favour of the Renegade Group of Companies, of which he, Johnson, was a silent partner, although the silence of his association with the Renegade Group did not in any way reflect the extent of his financial interests, which were considerable.

The opportunity to secure the rights to the exploration of oil, gas, copper and gold in key untapped sites throughout Malfajiri would more than make up for the recent setbacks. And while Malfajiri was not totally lost to Renegade, there was no chance of regaining traction without new leadership. Not for a while, at least, and not without drawing attention.

A resurgence of violence and the replacement of Baptiste would be the ideal opportunity for Johnson to redeem himself in the eyes of the Renegade board, that is, the real board, the one that sat well behind, but very much in control of, the public face of the corporation. Johnson thumbed through the file. Latest assessments of oil and gas reserves indicated a potential yield four times greater than original estimates. Success would confirm his appointment to that silent board.

There came a gentle tap on his door. "Come,'' he said.

"Dr Siziba has arrived, Sir. I have him in the sitting room."

"Very well, Richard. Please ensure that we're not disturbed, and tell Mrs. Johnson that if I'm not ready by seven, then she should go on without me. I'll join her at the restaurant later."

"Very good, Sir. Would you like me to show Dr Siziba in?" "No, that's alright. I'll collect him. We'll have coffee in here."

The butler left with a deferential nod. Johnson stood, straightened his jacket and walked out to the sitting room.

Doctor Siziba's eyes were cruel, soulless holes that carried not the slightest hint of warmth or humanity. Nestled deep within shadowy, crater-like sockets, their uncompromising attention bore down with the self-assured air of a man confident that his star was on the rise. Framing them, the skin of his face was a mottled, coffee-brown, angrily pockmarked by years of adolescent acne. Teeth, partially hidden behind full, feminine lips, were stained yellow by nicotine, and a mat of shiny black hair sitting upon an unusually high forehead was combed back in a petrified wave crowning fierce, angular features. The title Doctor was not an office one would naturally associate with this creature. Siziba was a cold, calculating political survivor, reviled in his country, his persuasions feared by his larger, immediate neighbours.

That was all of little consequence to Abraham Johnson.

"It's good of you to join me at such short notice, Doctor Siziba. I trust that you are well and your accommodation comfortable?"

"I am and it is," Siziba replied flatly.

'I'm glad to hear it," Johnson said. They shook hands. It was the briefest of contact. Siziba's hand was in and out of Johnson's with the precision and economy of a stiletto being plunged between ribs.

"Perhaps you would follow me," said Johnson uncomfortably, guiding Siziba back towards an impeccably furnished sitting area within his study. Coffee had been left for them.

Johnson reclined into the sumptuous burgundy leather sofa opposite Siziba and gazed languidly into the dark, vacant eyes of a man who had presided over the murders of many thousands of his countrymen.
It
mattered not to Johnson. Politics had seen Siziba ousted from the Presidency some years ago. Business would see him returned to power.

"So, I think that you would like to discuss some outstanding business with me."

"I would very much. There are things I would like to discuss in order to guide our respective interests to a position of mutual benefit. Mutual benefit, you will agree, is to remain the basis of our arrangement."

"I do agree, and I am interested to hear what you have to say. I'm sure you will appreciate that I have been very disappointed with recent issues. Although, I am confident you are about to allay any concerns that I have." The subtle barb was not lost on Johnson; he had expected a frosty reception.
In
the interests of expediency Siziba had been left out of the original plan that had resulted in Baptiste being identified as the most convenient candidate to ascend to the Presidency. It had been a mistake. But to Johnson, that was all part of the game. One plan hadn't worked so an alternate was required. And the Malfajirian's willingness to talk, despite a bruised ego, was an indication that the man was hungry fot the proposal to proceed.

Johnson had done his homework. He'd thoroughly researched the impact of Siziba's return and his ability to control the planned escalation of rebel violence in Malfajiri. Siziba's strength and reputation for cold efficiency was needed to restore order where Baptiste had failed. Johnson needed him as much as he needed Johnson.

"Now, there's something I need you to do for me, Doctor. I presume you still have loyal supporters in Australia?"

* *
*

As their conversation continued inside, across the street and parked a discrete distance from the residence, Senior Constable Dave Ingham checked the digital images he had captured as Siziba had arrived.

He would wait to see what he could get when the man finally left.

Gregory Cornell felt vindicated.

They had finally acknowledged the role he had played and the risks he had taken. He couldn't believe how quickly the ticket had been arranged, business class, and the harbourside hotel room in Sydney sounded perfect. Of course, the cost was that he had one final task to attend to; a meeting which was likely to be disagreeable but, in the scheme of things, a small price to pay to put this whole mess behind him. He would be free of the constant feeling of dread and scrutiny that had threatened to overwhelm him back in London.

Australia would give him time to think, to plan the future.

Cornell knew he could never return to his career with the Foreign Office. He had accepted a substantial amount of money to betray Britain's interests, and while the bloodhounds of Scotland Yard had not yet beaten a path to his door, it could only be a matter of time. The man on the phone had made that point very clear. An early departure from England was the only chance he would have of keeping it that way. But could he slip away from 22 years of Government service without signalling culpability? There had already been far too much attention given to his request for special leave. He'd cited health issues. Still, leave had been approved without impediment. That miserable bastard, Johnson, with his smug patronising expression as he'd said, "Of course, take some leave, Gregory. You've been looking a little frayed around the edges lately. A rest will do you good. I'm sure we'll get by." Bastard!

Of course, Cornell was still oblivious to the fact that Johnson was in fact the anonymous man who had been pulling his strings from the outset. Approving his leave was simply expedient in terms of Johnson achieving other objectives.

Cornell looked at his watch. God, it had only been six hours since they'd departed Heathrow on the 10,000 mile flight to Sydney. There were still hours to go, and a layover at Singapore. He became restless at the prospect of trying to kill time with so much on his mind. He considered watching another movie, and shuffled in his seat to get comfortable when he accidentally bumped the elbow of the man sitting next to him.

'I'm t-terribly sorry," he stammered.

"Don't mention it," came the deep, level reply. American. Texan.

Despite the space available between their business class seats, it was hard not to bump the man. Cornell had already noticed that he was fit. A tanned, muscular arm sat like an oak log across the plush armrest, and the fabric of his beige chinos pulled across equally well-muscled thighs, although the left leg seemed to be sitting awkwardly out into the aisle. He wore a navy blue polo shirt and an expensive looking watch - like one of those diver's watches, Cornell thought - was fastened on a silver bracelet strap on his thick left wrist. His head was shaved to the scalp.

"Gregory Cornell," he offered, not knowing why.

The American's piercing grey-blue eyes levelled at Cornell.

"Dave Sutherland," he replied. "I know who you are, Mr. Cornell. I suggest we order a drink. You and I are about to have a long chat."

The arrivals hall at Perth International Airport was awash with people herded cattle-like into the narrow corrals of the awaiting customs frontier. South African Airlines Flight SA 280 from Johannesburg and QANTAS Flight QF 072 from Singapore had arrived.

An air of general disengagement pervaded the hall. From the endless shuffling queues, each jetlagged face looked on resignedly at the blue uniformed Australian Customs Service officers, who continued to carry out their duties without the slightest alacrity. A standard laconic greeting was offered as weary travelers presented for examination. Passports and declaration cards were reviewed, and, following the usual questions, passports scanned, stamped and entry granted. Those already cleared by the PASSALERT system moved along to baggage collection.

Of course, there were those who drew the adverse attention of the customs officers. Their path took a much less hospitable direction.

With a minimum of fuss, a young couple and a single older man were being led away from two separate kiosks by Protective Service Officers. They were taken through a discrete door at the far corner of the hall, onward, no doubt, to a quiet, isolated room deep within the bowels of the airport. The young couple appeared alarmed, the older man acquiescent. The next few hours would include an uncompromising luggage search, possibly an even more invasive search of their person, followed by an appointment with agents of the Australian Federal Police. It would be all downhill from there.

Christine Day, new to the Australian Customs Service, returned her attention to her immediate charges. She had only been working at Perth's international terminal minus trainer wheels for two weeks, and was in awe of the process.

With unruly tresses of curly brown hair and heavy-set, Christine was a timid, kind person with lots to learn. Her supervisor said she needed to be more demonstrative of her authority. But it was hard, for although she excelled academically on her course, she'd just scraped through on practical examinations.

As she checked and stamped incoming passenger cards and passports against an endless procession of tired and irritable faces, Christine was aware of eyes upon her. And as the hours wore on, she continued her shift with detachment and an increasing lack of sympathy with each face that appeared. Reality. So soon, she was far removed from the smiling, exuberant girl who'd collected her badge and certificate on graduation.

"Next," she called, staring vacantly at the computer screen.

A bandaged hand appeared forwarding a passport, accompanied by the gentle timbre of a voice bidding, "Good evening."

It was the voice of a quietly confident man, unruffled by the trivialities of others. With those two words, Christine's disagreeable mood left, but as she turned from the flickering images on the monitor and looked directly at him, her armour dropped.