Australia Day

CHAPTER 1

Kirra Beach, Gold Coast, Queensland.

Jonas Blackthorne hadn’t slept all that well, and he thought he knew why. After tossing and turning for most of the night, he gave up on sleep and got out of bed just shy of 5:00 a.m. His body, which was used to hard workouts at least six days a week, was screaming for exercise. His muscles felt tight and he needed to loosen them up. So he left his beachside apartment at Kirra Beach and went for a run.

He had no problem loosening up in the cool morning air, and his runners easily pounded out their rhythm on the shoulder of the footpath heading into Greenmount Beach at a pace that was closer to a sprint than a jog. Sweat poured down his athletic, and now shirtless chest. He could literally feel the toxins leaving his body. Before deciding on the run, Blackthorne had considered going for a beach swim instead. Swimming was easier on his aging joints, and lately he’d begun to notice some new aches and pains. His years as an Australian SAS commando, not to mention his work for Strategic Enforcement, National Terrorism Intelligence Network, Espionage and Logistics or S.E.N.T.I.N.E.L. had definitely taken their toll on his body.

He was glad he’d decided on the run though, as by the time he reached his midway mark at Point Danger he felt strong. He looked down at his watch and noted his split time. He’d maintained a four and half minute per kilometre pace, despite his demanding travel schedule and the inevitable lack of sleep that came with his job. It wasn’t too long ago that he’d been able to keep a four minute pace, but those days appeared to be gone forever. Running speeds like that were meant for much younger lungs, hearts, and most importantly, knees.

The second half of the run didn’t go as well. His energy waned and his splits steadily worsened, to the point where his seventh kilometre was thirty three seconds off the pace. As was his habit, he sprinted to his designated finish line, the pyramid shaped monument commemorating the Coolangatta shipwreck of August 1846. He continued past the monument for another fifty metres, slowing to a jog, and keeping his clasped hands behind his head and his elbows up so that he could breathe easier. Blackthorne then headed down the walking track to Kirra Beach, cursing to himself on the walk. His fitness levels really were starting to slip a bit.

Blackthorne went down to the waterline where he took off his runners, socks, his bum bag - which contained his S.E.N.T.I.N.E.L. issued mobile phone and a subcompact Beretta PX4 Storm 40S&W. He dived into the crisp water, and after relaxing in the ocean for a good five minutes and allowing his core body temperature to cool down, his thoughts turned to his upcoming meeting in the Brisbane office of the Counter Terrorism Control Centre (CTCC) with the head of the S.E.N.T.I.N.E.L. division. He went back up to his apartment where he showered, shaved, and put on a dark suit. Before leaving the apartment, he had a quick breakfast and filled his travel mug with piping hot black coffee for the long trip up the motorway to Brisbane.

By 8:10 a.m. he was standing in the office of Mark Alexander, a man whose identity was known only to a select few S.E.N.T.I.N.E.L. operatives and senior politicians, as the Head of S.E.N.T.I.N.E.L. The new Queensland premises of the CTCC were located on Queen Street, a little south of downtown Brisbane. The official head office facility was located in Russell, in the Australian Capital Territory (ACT), and although the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation (ASIO) occupies premises in every Australian State and Territory, their office in central Canberra was their only publicly listed building.

The CTCC was established by ASIO on the 10th of May, 2010 and is comprised of highly experienced senior staff from ASIO, the Australian Secret Intelligence Service (ASIS), the Australian Signals Directorate, and the Australian Federal Police (AFP). The rationale behind putting all four agencies under the one roof had been to enhance the analysis of intelligence collected on various terrorist groups that posed a clear and present danger to Australia. On paper, many people in Canberra had thought it was a great idea, but in reality, it was proving to be more difficult, at least from Blackthorne’s perspective.

Blackthorne had left the SAS almost three years ago after a highly decorated fourteen year stint. Despite his illustrious SAS career, he had not left on a happy note. He had lost two of his SAS squad members in a covert mission over East Timor four years ago, and was still angry about the circumstance that had led to their deaths.

After returning from the mission, Blackthorne had been informed that their mission to retrieve of a fallen Chinese satellite had been compromised because a high profile politician had leaked details of the mission. When Blackthorne’s superiors had refused to reveal the identity of the politician to him, Blackthorne resigned in disgust.

Jonas Blackthorne was now leading a double life. Some of his work was done out in the open as a senior bureaucrat with the Department of Trade. His main work, however, was that of an operative for S.E.N.T.I.N.E.L., a top secret intelligence outfit. S.E.N.T.I.N.E.L. is a private organisation funded completely from the Defence Department’s black ops budget. Only a handful of high level career military Defence Department personnel knew of its existence, and it represented a major shift in counterterrorism’s centre of gravity. Only two civilians knew of S.E.N.T.I.N.E.L. existence, Prime Minister Julie Moore, and her Special Security Liaison Adviser, Mark Alexander. No one else in Parliament even knew that S.E.N.T.I.N.E.L. existed.

Loosely organised around a small headquartered group, S.E.N.T.I.N.E.L. relied on a clandestine network of handpicked patriots who wanted one thing, and one thing only, to keep Australia safe at any expense.

Its operatives were professionals from a number of different disciplines, who possessed a wide range of skills and expertise. Like Blackthorne, they were largely free of any family, and other personal obligations, that could potentially interfere with their secretive work.

S.E.N.T.I.N.E.L.’s prime goal was to apply a constant and lethal pressure to any terrorist networks that posed a threat to Australia’s security, and to pound them so relentlessly that they were permanently rocked back on their heels, if not ground into the dust.

Blackthorne walked into the high tech conference room adjoining Mark Alexander’s office and tried to keep a low profile. He was hoping that he would not have to stay for too long. The main table was ringed with Director Generals, Deputy Directors and Assistant Directors from the various federal agencies and departments. None of them knew of Blackthorne’s exploits, or reputation, and that allowed him to relax a little.

The conference room had only been completed in the last month, and it was Blackthorne’s first time inside. The first thing he noticed were the photographs dominating the wall directly across from him. Twenty four faces stared back at him. He knew their names by heart, as well as where they’d grown up and where they’d received their terrorist training. They were the twenty four terrorists that the AFP and the Commonwealth Department of Public Prosecutions (CDPP) would most like to arrest, put on trial, and jail for eternity. Blackthorne’s wishes were far more simple. He wanted to hunt every single one of them all down and put a bullet in each of their heads.

That, more than anything, summed up the problem Blackthorne had with the CTCC. They simply had too many rules, and they were in a war against an enemy that didn’t play by any rules. Technically speaking, he understood why they had to operate within the confines of the law and the courts. Breaking the rule of law was not something to be taken lightly, but there were times when expediency could have saved many lives.

Blackthorne wasn’t surprised to hear that this was the exact topic being discussed. Some blonde woman from the Attorney General’s office was railing against the Anti-Terrorism Act, and warning everyone that it was only going to cause them problems down the track. He caught his boss’s eye, who gestured for him to step into the hallway with him.

When Blackthorne had joined him in the hallway, he asked, What’s up?

Alexander looked around surreptitiously. I don’t want to talk about it out here.

Sure. Your office?

Alexander shook his head and led him to an elevator, where they went up several floors to ASIO’s portion of the building. After passing through several coded doors, they entered a vacant conference room and closed the door.

Alexander handed Blackthorne a file. I think you’re going to find this very interesting.

Without saying a word, Blackthorne took the file and sat down. He opened the top secret folder as if he had done it hundreds of times before, which he had.

He skimmed the first page. "Jesus Christ! Where did you get this?

You don’t want to know, answered Alexander in a flat tone.

Blackthorne glanced down at the report and said, You’re convinced this is accurate?

Yes. It’s secondhand, but from a very reliable source.

Blackthorne’s mind was already racing ahead, going over what resources he would need to pull off an operation of this magnitude.

The report contained a fountain of intelligence. An Indonesian Colonel by the name of Anang Iskander had turned on his fellow Indonesian State Intelligence Agency members. Members who happened to be Jemaah Islamiyah and al-Qaeda sympathisers. He had provided crucial information on Jemaah Islamiyah and its reconstituted leadership, but more importantly, he had given them the location of Jemaah Islamiyah’s base of operations.

Blackthorne continued to read. Alexander watched him flip through the pages in half the time that it had taken him to read the report, and he’d compiled most of it. When Blackthorne had finished the last page he flipped it over and closed the file.

With a thoughtful look on his face he leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. I’ll need a plane to take me to Dili, East Timor immediately.

Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?

That’s why you pay me the big bucks.

Alexander looked down at him and shook his head with a smile.

In a sense, for Alexander, the planning and execution of this next step were easy. Getting permission for that next step from the politicians, with all of their competing interests, was going to be a hell of a lot trickier. Alexander usually preferred to limit his involvement to S.E.N.T.I.N.E.L. operatives such as Blackthorne, but this mission was going to have to go all the way to the top. This operation was complicated and politically very dangerous. It involved snubbing an important ally, and it sure wasn’t going to be a black op, meaning that the international community and the media would most certainly find out about it within minutes of it being completed.

Whether the mission was a success or a failure, Blackthorne would need the cover of the Prime Minister’s office, and that meant that the Prime Minister would have to be brought into the loop.

Blackthorne, lacking his boss’s well known patience, said, It’s a no-brainer, Mark.

He believed him, but he also wanted to make sure that he’d thought this all the way through. If this doesn’t work, a lot of people are going to be demand answers, and not just the media. We could be talking about a Royal Commission, complete with grandstanding politicians. Careers could potentially be destroyed – it could be a real bloodbath.

Yeah, well I’m not afraid. That’s why I’m not going to ask you where, or how, you got this information. If they ever call on me to testify, I’ll just fall on my sword like a good soldier.

Alexander knew that Blackthorne would never implicate him but he also knew that Blackthorne would never go quietly. He would be a formidable adversary for any parliamentarian who chose to lock horns with him. Well the timing of this intelligence is rather interesting.

Oh yeah. How so?

There are some other things going on... Alexander paused briefly. Things that have me quite concerned.

Is any of it related to this?

Alexander shrugged. I’m not sure. Maybe.

Well, stated a sarcastic Blackthorne, we sure as shit aren’t going to find out by sitting here on our asses. He pointed at the file and said, This intel is too good to pass up. Give me the green light and I’ll report back to you within forty eight hours on exactly what they’re up to.

It was time to take some risks. The head of S.E.N.T.I.N.E.L. nodded his agreement. You have my approval. Get moving, and please make sure that you come back unscathed.

And the Prime Minister? asked Blackthorne as he stood up.

I’ll take care of the Prime Minister. Just make sure you gather everything you possibly can and then get the hell out of there.

CHAPTER 2

Brisbane, Queensland.

Jules Murtagh’s Sunday morning started out pretty much the same as every other morning did. He woke up with a screaming headache. Murtagh’s sleep patterns were predictable only in the sense that he slept like shit most nights, but every two weeks or so the exhaustion would catch up and he would sleep for ten or eleven hours straight. Last night had been one of those nights.

Murtagh turned on his mobile phone and watched the email and voice mail message indicators rise rapidly. There were nineteen voice mails, thirty eight text messages and forty two emails. The first three voice messages were nothing important, but the fourth kicked his headache into overdrive. The subsequent messages only made things worse. Half of them were from his boss, CTCC Brisbane Deputy Director, Ashley Preston.

Murtagh stumbled towards his front door, opened it and looked up and down the tree lined street. Other than the neighbour’s sprinkler clicking away, it was pretty quiet. Not a single car was parked on the street, which Murtagh liked. In his world every car was a possible bomb threat. He scanned the nearby bushes and then walked down the front path where two newspapers were strewn. He retrieved them both before heading back inside, closing and locking the front door.

Murtagh hit the start button on the coffee machine and then grabbed boxes of Weetbix and Nutra-Grain from the pantry. He crushed up three Weetbix, poured some sugar rich Nutra-grain cereal on top, and drowned it all with full cream milk.

Murtagh turned on the TV, sat down and looked at the two newspapers still rolled up and sitting on the table. He decided he couldn’t be bothered opening them now and instead shoved a large spoonful of the mixed cereal into his mouth.

A female news anchor had been droning on in the background news bulletin on the tv. Murtagh hadn’t paid any attention to a word she’d said - until she uttered the acronym of his employer – ASIO. He turned his attention away from eating to the TV, and in the process almost fed a spoonful of cereal into his chin.

The Sunday Mail, the newsreader announced, is reporting that for the last 12 months ASIO has been covertly conducting a domestic spying operation without the knowledge of the AFP, the Office of the Federal Attorney-General, or its oversight committees in Canberra. It is unclear at this point what role the Prime Minister’s Office may have played in this domestic spy scandal. The article states that ASIO has specifically targeted Muslim leaders, clerics, mosques, schools and related charitable organisations in each of Australia’s capital cities for more than a year now.

Fuck, Murtagh blurted out as he reached for his copy of the Sunday Mail. He now realised why his boss had left so many messages.

He raced to get ready and cut himself shaving, bad enough that he had to stick a wad of tissue paper on his cheek to stem the bleeding. By 8:30 a.m. he was backing out of the driveway in his car. At the end of his street he stopped to make a left turn and stopped cold. His foot stayed on the brake and his eyes stayed fixed on the sign. There, stuck to the power pole was a single piece of white tape. Murtagh stared at the tape for a good ten seconds.

Murtagh racked his brain, retrieving the procedures they’d set up. He recalled that white tape was urgent, but today was Sunday, and he couldn’t remember at first how that affected the schedule. After a moment it came back to him, Blackstar Coffee on Thomas Street. He slapped the turn signal down and hit the accelerator. It would take about ten minutes to get to Thomas Street. Murtagh considered calling Preston to find out what was going on, but decided he didn’t want to talk to him until he tied up this loose end.

He drove past the coffee shop once to scope things out, and then found a parking spot around the corner on Corbett Street. Murtagh stepped out of the car and plugged four twenty cent coins into the parking meter. He adjusted the SIG Sauer 2022 pistol on his right hip as he took note of the people and cars across the street at the small shopping centre. Casually, he buttoned his jacket and started down the footpath. It was a bright and sunny morning and the temperature was already in the high twenties. When he reached the coffee shop he scanned the outdoor tables, but didn’t see the person he was looking for.

Inside, he stepped up to the counter and ordered a cappuccino from the woman behind the counter. He counted five other patrons.

Four of them weren’t his guy, so he focused on the fifth, who was hiding behind the sports section of the Sunday Mail. Murtagh walked over to the guy’s table and casually asked, You mind if I take a look at the business section?

The man lowered one corner of the paper and looked back at Murtagh with worried eyes, but in a polite voice said, Now worries. Help yourself.

Murtagh grabbed the business section and sat down facing the door, just like the other guy. He took a sip of his cappuccino and picked up the paper.

The man next to him spoke out of the side of his mouth in a voice just above a whisper, Who the fuck ratted us out?

Murtagh held up the newspaper and pretended to read. I’m working on that.

The man drummed his fingers on the table. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a beer?

This was a subject he had no desire to revisit, but knew that his operative had been under a great deal of pressure. Murtagh had found Paul Pajeska towards the end of his second tour of East Timor whilst serving with the 1st Battalion, Royal Australian Regiment. Letting him vent his anger for a minute or two was probably not the worst thing.

One hundred and ninety six fucking days, the man said, answering his own question.

Shit, I’m not happy about it either, Murtagh said.

I haven’t watched a Rugby League game in almost a fucking year. I haven’t been with a women in eight fucking months...Jesus...I haven’t even looked at any porn!

Calm down, Murtagh said in a slow, steady voice.

You want me to fucking calm down, the other man hissed. I’ve lived in that shit stinking fucking mosque every single day. In a good week they might take one shower.

No one is saying your work isn’t appreciated. I know you’re doing a good job, Murtagh replied calmly.

That’s not the fucking point. The point is, I’ve put in a fuckload of time. I’ve spent the better part of a year of my life there that I ain’t ever getting back, by the way.

I know.

I’ve eaten their shit food, I’ve had to put up with their appalling anti-Semitic remarks, their bigotry, the way they treat their wives and daughters...and now that I’ve finally earned their trust, I read this shit in the newspaper. Pajeska pushed the front page of the Sunday Mail across the table.

Look, calm down, said Murtagh.

You going to pull the plug because of this? the other man hissed as he waved his hand over the newspaper.

I’d say we have no choice now.

Well fuck that.

Murtagh turned and looked Pajeska in the eye. "Lower your voice, and that’s an order.

The man sat back and took a frustrated breath. After a moment he said, I can’t believe this is happening.

Me neither, but it is time for you to shut it down.

I can’t.

Murtagh looked at the young former Infantry solider and said, You can and you will.

The man leaned forward. I’m too close, the man said in a whisper, shaking his head.

Murtagh was getting mad now. There wasn’t a single member of the Clandestine Service who didn’t have a healthy streak of insubordination in them, but Pajeska was pushing it.

Lowering his newspaper, Murtagh gave up on the pretense of a clandestine meeting and in a very clear voice said, I am giving you a direct order to shut it down. Do you understand me?

The man thought about it for a second. Someone entered the coffee shop and Pajeska’s eyes darted towards the motion at the front door. He flipped his newspaper back up and said, Something started happening a few days ago.

Don’t do this.

Do fucking what?

Start making shit up.

I’m not. Some crates arrived.

Big deal, Murtagh said, suddenly bored. He needed to end this thing and get his ass into the office. The place must get deliveries all the time.

True, but this delivery didn’t come during normal hours.

Come on, Murtagh said in a tired voice. You’re clutching at straws.

Why do you think I wanted to speak with you? Just hear me out for a second. The crates arrived during evening prayer three days ago. They never do shit during evening prayer except pray. Six of the younger more radical guys weren’t around, so I snuck out to see what they were up to.

And?

I saw them carrying crates out to one of the storage rooms.

What’s in the crates?

I don’t fucking know. They put them in the storage and put a couple of new padlocks on the roller door.

That’s awfully fucking thin.

Look, just give me another forty-eight hours. I’ve given you a year of my life. You can give me another forty-eight hours.

Murtagh grabbed his cappuccino and took a sip while he thought about it. The truth was that only two people other than himself knew the real identity of the man sitting next to him, and they weren’t about to run to the AFP.

While Murtagh was still thinking about it Pajeska asked, They were also talking about an important visitor that’s coming to town today or tomorrow.

Murtagh figured he could waste the whole morning going back and forth like this, but he didn’t have the time. One year of my life. The words rang in Murtagh’s ears.

Come on. Nobody even knows I exist. Two more days is all I ask and then I’m done. I’m going to walk into the first bar I find and I’m gonna get smashed, and then I’m gonna get laid.

Can I at least debrief you first? Murtagh said with a grin.

Only if you bring a slab of beer.

Murtagh nodded. Ok. Toss the normal protocols. Text me at this new number. Murtagh wrote the number down on a corner of the newspaper. Twelve and twelve. You read me?

Yeah. Twice a day at twelve.

Don’t fuck up, and don’t miss your fucking check ins.

Yes, sir, he replied, satisfied that he’d gotten what he wanted.

Now remember, there ain’t a cavalry to come and save your ass. You’re out there solo. You don’t even exist.

I didn’t come this far to lose. I’ll get the goods on these rugfuckers.

Two days. That’s all you’ve got, and then I want you out, period. Murtagh leaned forward so he could look him in the eye. You hear me?

Loud and clear.

And no cowboy shit either.

Yes, sir.

Murtagh folded up the business section and handed it back to Pajeska. Without saying another word he got up and left the coffee shop.

CHAPTER 3

The Lodge, Canberra, Australian Capital Territory.

Mark Alexander stood off to the side and watched as the photographers clicked away. It was a beautiful summer afternoon in the capital. His early morning meeting with Blackthorne in Brisbane, combined with other events that had recently come to his attention, had him worried, really worried. Waiting idly for the Prime Minister to finish her photo op wasn’t helping, but then again, there wasn’t much he could do about it.

The Prime Minister was in an extremely good mood. She was posing for a photo with a group of young Australians, key members of her Cabinet, and three celebrities. They were all gathered in the garden to launch a week of festivities leading in to the Australia Day public holiday on January 26.

The fantastic weather and cheerful mood only served to heighten Alexander’s sense of apprehension. As the head of S.E.N.T.I.N.E.L., Alexander was always privy to information that made it difficult for him to have a joyous outlook on life. He had a feeling of dread that came from knowing that something bad was about to happen, and that he and his operatives didn’t have a clue what it was yet. The alarm bells had started to go off for Alexander on Thursday of last week. At first there was a massive spike in phone and email intercepts hinting that something really big was in the works, and then there were some very odd changes in the trends on the financial and currency markets, and then finally a report had shown up confirming his worst fears – that the al-Qaida backed Jemaah Islamiyah (JI) group was planning a significant event. A significant event involving a bomb. How big a bomb, he didn’t know, but he needed to find out quickly.

Alexander had been tracking terrorists for over twenty five years, and had developed a sixth sense for detecting when bad things were about to happen, and this was definitely one of those times.

It had been far too quiet for the past eighteen months. The remnants of JI had been regrouping, and now they were on the move again. Alexander did not know what they were up to specifically, but he feared the worst. His S.E.N.T.I.N.E.L. team needed more intel, or he and the rest of the country would find out the hard way.

Alexander checked his watch and tried to keep his composure. The photo opportunity was already twenty minutes over schedule, and although Alexander didn’t show it, his nerves were beginning to fray. If his deepest fears were right, they needed to move quickly. More than anything, they needed additional information combined with a lucky break, and they weren’t going to get either sitting in Canberra monitoring email and satellite intercepts. He needed to speak the Prime Minister alone so that she could sign off on his plan to get the Australian Defence Force (ADF) involved.

Alexander relaxed slightly as the Prime Minister’s chief media adviser, Gillian Young, stepped forward and advised the photographers that the event was now over. He stood patiently while the Prime Minister shook some hands and thanked everyone for coming out. Like almost all politicians, Prime Minister Julie Moore was very good at making people feel appreciated. She laughed, gently patted a few shoulders and then waved goodbye as she walked back up the lawn towards the Lodge.

As she approached Alexander, her happy demeanour rapidly disappeared. Not wanting to discuss anything outside, she simply said, Hello, Mark.

Good afternoon, Prime Minister.

Moore frowned. She doubted Alexander was here to report good news. She continued up the garden path and waved for him to join her. Alexander hesitated for a second and looked past the Prime Minister in search of her chief of staff. He was pleased to see her hanging back to bask a while longer in the aura of the three celebrities. Gillian Young and Alexander couldn’t stand each other. Alexander had little doubt that, given the opportunity, Young would use every bit of her influence to dissuade her boss from signing off on his aggressive plan.

Alexander followed the Prime Minister past the Parliamentary Protection agent standing post by the door and into her office. Moore walked straight to her desk and checked her schedule. After a moment she asked, Okay Mark, how much time do you need?

Twenty uninterrupted minutes, ma’am.

Moore nodded thoughtfully. Alexander was not the type of person to waste her time. She pressed the intercom button on her desk phone and said, Lisa, I need twenty minutes.

Yes, Prime Minister.

Moore came out from behind her desk, walked across the office, and sat on one of the couches by the window. Looking up at the head of S.E.N.T.I.N.E.L. she said, Let’s hear the bad news.

Alexander promptly sat beside her. As you know, since the implementation of the S.E.N.T.I.N.E.L. programme, we’ve developed some fairly elaborate statistical models for tracking certain financial trends and indicators. We’ve identified the major Banks, Stockbroking houses, and other financial institutions that are handling funds that we have reason to believe are linked to terrorism. In addition to that, S.E.N.T.I.N.E.L. tracks hundreds of millions of emails and phone calls on a daily basis. Due to the sheer volume of data, and the fact that most of it is encrypted, we’re not able to track all of these trends in real time.

OK.

We usually have a pretty good understanding of the financial data by the end of any given day, but the S.E.N.T.I.N.E.L. intercepts can sometimes take several days to a week to decipher, and then another week or so to translate. Of course, if we’re targeting a specific email account or phone number, the information can be decrypted and translated in real time.

You’re obviously worried about something, Mark, so what have you noticed?

It started at the end of the financial markets trading day on Thursday of last week. The first trend we noticed was the Australian/US dollar closing down one point seven cents. This, by itself, is usually not something to be alarmed about. However, the next trend we noticed was the price of Gold closing up thirty one dollars and forty three cents. The ASX S&P 200 index was down by eighty-two points, and just over eighteen thousand SPI March futures contracts had also traded. None of this, at face value, would constitute an unusual day on our financial markets, but when we began to look at the specific institutions that we believe have links to terrorist organisations, some unsettling trends were highlighted.

Alexander pulled several pieces of paper from a folder and handed them to the Prime Minister. He pointed to the first few lines with his finger. The jump in the gold price was started by a bank in Indonesia that sold three hundred and sixty million dollars in ASX listed stocks and transferred that amount dollar for dollar into the March US$1400 Futures contract. Spot gold is presently around US$1334 per ounce so this means that someone is very bullish on the price of gold. Today we uncovered three more accounts at other Indonesian and Pakistani institutions that also liquidated their Australian investments, purchased gold futures and then short sold the March SPI futures contract. In total, these accounts represent nearly three billion dollars.

The Prime Minister studied the sheet of paper. So you think these accounts are getting the same financial advice?

Alexander smiled. It’s a very remote possibility. It assumes that there are stockbroking houses out there advising the complete liquidation of Australian share portfolios at a time when there are no economic indicators to support such a move.

Moore frowned as she studied the sheets of paper. So that gets us back to the fact that tagged accounts all placed financial trades last Thursday that the Australian stock market and the economy are about to take a massive hit.

Correct, ma’am, nodded Alexander. In addition, we also discovered a batch of smaller flagged accounts that made similar trades.

Moore stared at the sheets of paper, reading the various names and countries. Anything else?

Yes, ma’am. He cleared his throat. I have also come across some very valuable intel. Alexander retrieved a copy of the file that he’d given to Blackthorne only a few hours ago from his briefcase. He placed it on the wooden coffee table that sat between the two couches, and opened it to display a sheet with the faces of six men on it. I know you’ve been shown these photos before, but just to refresh your memory Prime Minister, these men are all on the AFP’s most wanted list. They represent what we believe to be the reconstituted leadership of JI.

Alexander flipped the page to reveal a map highlighting the border between Indonesian and East Timor. For the last twelve months we have been tracking several of these individuals. They have recently travelled from the mountainous regions of Pakistan to Kupang, in Indonesia. A few weeks ago three of them met up in Haliliulik. Alexander pointed to the town on the map. From there they were tracked to a small town thirty kilometres to the southeast.

Alexander turned the page again to reveal a satellite photo that showed a village of approximately forty dwellings. The town was spread out along the base of a mountain, with what appeared to be one main road leading in. This town has been under twenty four hours surveillance for the last three days. Yesterday this convoy pulled in.

He flipped to another page and a new image appeared showing seven 4x4 vehicles. Three of the 4x4’s had large .50 calibre machine guns mounted in their trays, and all of them were overflowing with heavily armed men. We were lucky enough to receive the following pictures six hours ago from one of our reconnaissance drones. The three individuals getting out of the vehicles we believe to be Abdul Pitono, Amin Husin, and Maulavi al-Hazmi.

The Prime Minister picked up the photograph and stared at the three faces circled in red. Reconnaissance photos were rarely completely clear to her, but she knew that there was a group of intelligence analysts that somehow made sense of it all."

All of these men had a hand in the 2002 Bali bombings, and al-Hazmi was a close friend of Khalid Shaikh Abdullah, who was involved in the planning of the September 11 terrorist attacks, Alexander added.

The Prime Minister took a second hard look at the photograph. You’re 100 percent sure that these are the same men, Mark?

Yes ma’am. We have an asset in the region who confirmed that this meeting took place.

Moore set the photo down. They’re in this village right now?

Yes, ma’am.

The Prime Minister smiled. So I’m assuming that you want me to call the Indonesian President and get him to go clean out this vipers nest?

Alexander shook his head emphatically. Absolutely not, ma’am. The Indonesian President is a good man, but he has too many radical Islamic fundamentalists in his government, especially in the regional islands, to trust with something this important. I believe that the second we bring the Indonesians in, these men will be alerted and they’ll disappear into the Indonesian jungle.

The Prime Minister saw where he was going, and her demeanour became more cautious. Surely you aren’t suggesting we handle this without talking to the Indonesians?

That’s exactly what I’m suggesting ma’am.

And what do you recommend I tell the Indonesian President when he calls to find out why Australian troops are conducting an operation in his country without his knowledge and permission?

I’m hoping it won’t come to that, ma’am, answered Alexander. I’m confident that we could conduct the bulk of the operation without being noticed, but at some point the Indonesians will certainly find out. When the Indonesian President calls, I’m sure that if you explain the special circumstances, and maybe offer him a little more economic aid or take some more refugees off his hands, he’ll understand.

Moore grinned as she shook her head. You know, you’re probably right, but there are a couple of thousand people over at the Attorney General’s and Foreign Affairs Departments who would passionately disagree with you.

Well you can’t tell them, ma’am. Besides, the Foreign Affairs Department has different and somewhat less immediate concerns than we do.

The Prime Minister turned her attention again to the photograph with the three red circles. She could handle the Indonesian President if things got ugly. In fact, the President would probably thank her for keeping him out of it. Mark, is there any direct link between these men and the financial stuff you were talking about earlier?

No, ma’am, as yet there’s no direct link, but I do think these accounts are controlled by Jemaah Islamiyah sympathizers and supporters.

Indonesians?

Most of them.

The Prime Minister’s expression turned sour. So you want my permission to go in and grab these guys? asked Moore.

That’s correct, ma’am.

What’s your timeframe?

My best operative is already on his way to East Timor and he’s already been in contact with the commanding officer of the 2nd Commando Regiment. The plan is to hit the village within the next twenty four hours.

The Prime Minister’s mood remained pensive as she mulled it over. I don’t know, Mark. This thing is a big gamble for me. A lot of people within my cabinet will be upset that they were left out of the decision making process.

Alexander had intentionally held back on his trump card. There is something else you need to know, ma’am. Our asset revealed that these men are meeting to discuss what to do after the bomb has been detonated.

Moore didn’t speak at first. The word bomb could mean many things. What type of bomb?

Alexander shook his head. We don’t know. That’s why we need to go in with our 2nd Commando Regiment and see what we can find out.

Moore took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. I suppose you want my immediate approval.

That would help, answered Alexander.

Whilst I don’t share my predecessor’s conservative views, he did tell me to listen to you, and to follow any recommendations you make.

Good advice from the former Prime Minister Jake Lachlan. Alexander said. Prime Minister, I have a bad feeling that something serious is about to happen, and I think that whatever it is it will be crippling enough to send our economy into a major recession, or possibly even a depression. He had intentionally chosen to emphasise the economic risks of the situation. I think we need to do something decisive and pre-emptive. We need to make our own luck and we need to do it quickly.

With Moore leading a minority government, none of this was anything she wanted to hear. A minor tiff with the Indonesians over a border raid she could survive, but a major terrorist attack and an economy in the toilet she couldn’t. In the six months that she had worked with Alexander, she’d never heard him talk like this.

She took a deep breath and then said, You have my approval, but tell your operatives that I want the 2nd Commando Regiment in and out as quickly as possible. I’d like to be able to spin this off as a small border skirmish, rather than a full blown covert operation.

CHAPTER 4

University of Queensland Campus, Brisbane.

The warm winds of summer gusted along Hawken Drive, St Lucia, calling happy residents out into the night. They walked the footpaths with linked arms, filling the chairs around the outdoor cafe tables. Everybody was smiling and chatting.

Occupied with their glasses of wine or beer and plates of food under the bright Queensland night, the diners on Hawken Drive did not notice the large black Toyota Prado with illegally darked tinted windows leave the busy street and turn toward the University