Sword of Allah (15 page)

‘Our man from the DEA,’ said the general, grabbing one
of the bamboo bars and giving it a shake. The assistant with the hypodermics hopped down from the truck and began his work. ‘My two other current guests are tourists, so they claim, bushwalkers out for a stroll. Their papers were in order, but they took the wrong bush trail.
Mea culpa
.’ The general held his hands out apologetically, as if he had no choice in the matter.

The captives realised that there were outside people present and fought their way through the drug to consciousness. One of them, a woman, began to beg to be released, sobbing. Duat had started to think that perhaps the general was no more than a fat, wealthy degenerate. The sight of these cages brutally ended that impression. General Trip was a killer without a cause, save for the accumulation of wealth.

‘The chemical structure of opiates is similar to compounds derived from a naturally produced amino-acid pituitary hormone called beta-lipotropin,’ said the general, reassuming the mantle of the chemistry graduate. ‘When released, it splits to form met-enkephalin, gamma endorphin and beta endorphin. Opiate molecules, having a similar structure to these hormones, attach themselves to the endorphin’s nerve receptor sites in the pleasure centre of the brain, bringing about an analgesic effect.’

The man lying in filth on the floor of the cage beside Duat stirred sluggishly as the assistant administered the drug, injecting it into his toe. The green eyes blinked twice and then rolled back into his skull. A stalactite of drool hung from his mouth.

‘Basically, when the body experiences pain, endorphins are released as a protective reaction, relieving discomfort.
Opiates work in the same way, mimicking high levels of endorphins and so producing intense euphoria. In short, the worse we treat our guests here, the better time they have of it. And from the looks of things, they are enjoying themselves immensely.’

Duat reminded himself that these victims were all infidels and, therefore, not worthy of Allah’s mercy. He felt no pity for the captives.

The man with the bald head jumped up and the trucks began to move slowly past the rest of the cages. Several cages contained the decomposing remains of other guests who had enjoyed the general’s drug-induced hospitality for too long. The final two cages contained Duat’s bodyguards, unharmed and undrugged, but heavily bound and gagged, their eyes wide saucers of fear.

Duat glanced warily at the general. Was he too about to be seized and caged by the spider beside him? The general held open his hand and the man with the bald head placed something in his palm with an almost imperceptible nod. He rolled the pink uncut crystals around with his thumb. ‘Just as you said, Duat, slightly more than five million US dollars. I am so pleased that now we be friends and can do business.’

Gia Ferallo and Atticus Monroe sifted through the photographs, transcripts, circulars and other papers stamped
‘
Secret’.

Ferallo and Monroe were two of the agency’s brightest up-and-coming stars. Ferallo had been instrumental in shutting down a major cocaine smuggling organisation headed by a former US senator with marital links to Colombia. Her Mediterranean appearance and linguistic skills had enabled her to pass herself off to the Colombian connection as a rich émigré from Argentina, eager to augment her wealth with an import–export business. The fact that both the ex-senator and the drug baron were falling over each other to take her to bed had also helped her get inside the operation. CIA HQ at Langley, Virginia, was impressed and Ferallo was put on the fast track.

Monroe also had an interesting story. In his former life he’d played half a season for the Atlanta Falcons as a defensive back. A tackle that left him with a crushed vertebra and torn cruciate ligament also left him with the risk of being a cripple for the rest of his life. He had no option but to give away the game completely. At the time, it was difficult to know who was more depressed about the career-ending injury – his team-mates, the team’s management, or his growing legion of fans. Atticus had been a major find, able to run the hundred in a shade over ten, and it seemed he would be going all the way. ‘That’s football,’ the surgeons had said when they told him nothing could be done. There was no consolation prize. He was a star, and then he was nothing.

Atticus didn’t think about it much these days. Things had turned around pretty fast. He was a football player with a brain, a political science/history major who’d won the university prizes in his final year. Out of the blue, the CIA approached him to be an analyst. It was something
he’d never considered, but he’d liked the notion of it – James Bond and so forth. But, tied to a desk with paperwork, it wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d earned the reputation of being a crack shot after winning the interagency pistol marksmanship competition two years running, and had struck up quite a few friendships with field officers. Monroe liked the sound of what they did, in general terms at least. Mostly their work was shrouded in secrecy. He asked his section chief for a transfer, did the battery of psych tests, and found himself at CIA Station Prague, Czech Republic. Monroe quickly earned himself a reputation for being fearless, intelligent and resourceful. Ultimately, it was his fieldwork that had uncovered and foiled the al Qa’ida plot to assassinate the Pope during the Pontiff’s tour there.

As a reward for good work, both Ferallo and Monroe were transferred to Canberra, Australia. Once a backwater, CIA Station Canberra had become the centre of the agency’s push into the increasingly dangerous and unpredictable region of South East Asia. Ferallo and Monroe were both young and ambitious. As Monroe had put it, this was their ‘time to shine’, and the way things appeared to be shaping up, fate was going to give them plenty of opportunity to do just that.

‘They could just be having a friendly
cup of coffee, checkin’ out the sights, you know…’

‘Do you believe that, Atticus?’ Ferallo said, examining the high-grade digital colour print with a lupe, a powerful magnifying glass designed especially for the purpose.

‘Not for a nanosecond.’

‘We’ve got our pal Kadar Al-Jahani having a friendly chat with three unknowns,’ said Ferallo, sifting through the sheaf of photos. ‘Why? Who are they and what’s it all about?’

‘If the tape is anything to go by, they’re having a lovely conversation about fruit and trees and stuff. Maybe they’re thinking about setting up a nursery.’

‘Hmm.’ Ferallo found what she was looking for, the transcript of the terrorists’ recorded conversation. It was frustratingly incomplete.

‘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…’

‘Shit,’ said Ferallo, reading through the transcript again. ‘The quality of the recording is so bad we don’t even know who the hell said what.’

‘The bit about the banker in Sydney is interesting,’ said Monroe.

‘Yeah, but who is he, what’s he doing for them and is the fact that he’s in Sydney significant? Jesus! And what about this Duat character, the guy with the great dental work. Do we know where he is?’

‘In a word, no,’ said Monroe. There was no point sugarcoating it. ‘We’ve lost Kadar too, but it’s hard to hide in South East Asia when you’re a rag head. He’ll turn up. And if he goes home, well, we’ve got eyes and ears all over that part of the world, thanks to the Israelis. Basically, if he farts, we’ll find him,’ said Monroe, trying to find something positive to add.

‘Thanks for that image, Atticus.’

‘These Aussies must be rubbing off on me. Speaking of which, is anyone in particular here rubbing off on
you
?’

‘In this town? They’re all politicians,’ said Ferallo disdainfully.

‘What about that soldier, Wilkes? He seems like your type.’

‘And what’s my type?’

‘The short, strong and silent type.’

‘He’s not short.’

‘Ah-ha!’ said Monroe.

Ferallo’s face filled with a hot flush. She had found herself aware of Wilkes’s presence, but hadn’t realised her attraction had been so obvious. ‘Can we just concentrate here?’ she said evasively.

A short while later, Monroe left Ferallo’s office with nothing resolved, whistling a merry tune. Goddam field agents, thought Ferallo. No responsibility whatsoever. The photos of the men were strewn across her desk. ‘Who are you?’ she asked them collectively, hoping one of them would speak up.

The knock on the door didn’t penetrate Jennifer Tadzic’s concentration. Not the first time, nor the second. When she was focused on something, the world shrank away to background noise. But it wasn’t just one thing clamouring for Tadzic’s attention. Indeed, her desk was swamped with files and reports relating to various ongoing investigations. It was at times like these that she felt overworked and underpaid. She wished she had at her disposal a small fraction of the funds available to the organisations and individuals she was up against. Then, perhaps, she’d be able to make a difference. Just once.

‘Federal Agent…?’

The sound found it’s way through Tadzic’s brain, finally, as an annoying distraction that had to be dealt with. She glanced up, the crease between her eyes a deep furrow. While Tadzic didn’t know the woman standing at her door, she’d seen her around. But there was something in her face, something that told her she shouldn’t snap.

‘Sorry to bother you, Federal Agent. The name’s Rachael Ying, legal. We haven’t met, not officially, anyway. I worked on that aircraft hijack thing of yours.’

‘Yeah, I remember,’ said Tadzic. That was both true and false. She remembered the bust, though she didn’t recall anyone by the name of Ying connected with it. But that wasn’t entirely surprising. The AFP was a big organisation and a signature on the bottom of a few forms wasn’t exactly a formal introduction. ‘How can I help you, Rachael?’

‘We’ve got a mutual friend, Federal Agent.’

‘Call me Jenny. Who’s that?’

‘Angie Noonan.’

Yep, Tadzic knew Noonan well. They went to the same Pilates class. Noonan was the super-fit type, a gym junkie. Nice kid, though. Forensics. Good at her job, too. ‘Sure, come in, Rachael, take a seat.’ Ying was young and pretty, and from the accent – or lack of it – second-generation Chinese Australian, with blue-black hair held in a tight ponytail. She wore comfortable jeans and, like Tadzic, no make-up. A no-bullshit type. Ying was Angie’s buddy and her alarm bells were ringing.

‘Okay,’ Ying said, sitting. ‘Basically, the problem is Angie’s late back from holidays. Should have been back at work three days ago. I rang her home, no answer. No joy from her mobile either. She told me you two hit the same gym and I thought maybe you could –’

‘Didn’t she go to Thailand?’

‘Yes.’

‘With her boyfriend?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You don’t think she just decided to, well, extend?’

‘No. You know her. She’s like totally committed to this place, her job. No way would she just decide not to front for work. And especially not without at least calling in.’

That was true, thought Tadzic. Angie was the keen worker-bee type. The enthusiasm was a bit nauseating sometimes, maybe, but there was plenty of time for the job to knock that out of her.

‘I called the boyfriend’s work,’ said Ying. ‘He’s an architect, works for a small firm. His father’s the boss. He hasn’t
heard from his son either. The man’s worried. He’s made a report. I promised I’d try and bump him up the queue.’

‘Have you heard anything from Angie at all?’ Tadzic was thinking she might have to get the Department of Foreign Affairs onto this. No, maybe immigration first, run a passport check and see whether they’d at least made it back into the country.

‘Yeah, got heaps of postcards. Got one every second day there for a while – her way of laying a trail, maybe. You know, doing a Hansel and Gretel? Then they just stopped coming. At the time I thought the silence had more to do with the mail than anything sinister.’ Rachael placed a small stack of postcards on Tadzic’s desk. They pictured golden Thai temples, water buffalo, the hill tribesmen – the usual tourist fare from a holiday in Thailand.

‘I’m sure there’s an innocent explanation.’ Like she met someone new then ditched the boyfriend, who then went to Bangkok to shag away his sorrow…‘Do you mind if I borrow these – bring them back later?’ Tadzic asked.

‘Sure, no problem.’ Ying stood. She hesitated for a moment. There was more she felt she should say. ‘Jenny, this is not like Ang. She doesn’t do this sort of thing…’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Tadzic as Rachael Ying began to walk slowly from her office. ‘I’m sure it’s all pretty innocent. I’ll catch up with you later and let you know what I’ve found out.’

Missing persons wasn’t exactly Jenny Tadzic’s forte, but getting an official inquiry underway smartly was the least she could do. Tadzic sifted through her files for a map of Thailand and pinned it to her wall. According to the postcards, the last place Angie visited was a town
called Sop Huai Hai. Two young girls in colourful clothes smiled toothily at the camera. Tadzic arranged the other cards according to the dates Angie had thoughtfully written on each: Mae La, Noi Khun Yhun, Mae Hong Son and, lastly, Sop Huai Hai. Checking against the map, the pattern was obvious. It was a trail heading to Myanmar, and Sop Huai Hai was the last stop before the border. Tadzic knew that Angie had been gathering information on a drug lord on the Nam Sa River, thirty kilometres or so inside the border. A certain General Trip – a seriously bad motherfucker. ‘Angie, you’re a silly girl,’ Tadzic said quietly, the cold reality of messing with people like the general well known to her. She accessed the AFP’s information file on General Trip and skimmed it. A recent American DEA agent, she saw, had also gone missing two months ago in the same vicinity. Maybe it wasn’t all pretty innocent after all.

Well, thought Tadzic, that was the morning shot to shit. She’d have to make a report to Foreign Affairs, ASIS, and contact the United States DEA to see if their agent had turned up. Tadzic knew the likelihood of ever seeing her friend again, dead or alive, was remote if she’d trekked up to the Shan state and begun sniffing around. The jungle would swallow her and her boyfriend with nothing more than a handful of water-stained postcards to mark the point of disappearance. An image popped into the federal agent’s mind of an eddy swirling momentarily on the surface of shark-infested waters where, just moments before, a swimmer had been splashing. Tadzic shivered.