Despite her own strong and usually vocal faith, she'd also known not to console him with any
notion of this being God's will. She knew her son had given up on the Lord when His will had made a
truck driver fall asleep at the wheel, taking his first wife, his baby daughter, and his own legs.
She had tried her hardest over the last decade to coax him back into the fold but, after this latest
tragedy, even she thought he'd now be lost forever.
Nathan West had no time at all for God and his mysterious ways. He knew, without doubt, that all
the joys and tragedies of life were man-made.
'Nathan, would you like scrambled eggs?'
'Just a little on toast, thank you Aunt Edwina,' Nathan smiled bleakly at his mother's younger
sister. She was Uncle Nathanial's twin but, thankfully, looked more like their mother. Uncle Nate
van Louden was an imposing man, big in stature, voice and personality, and no woman would want to
match him, except perhaps in personality - and only then if they too wanted to enter politics and
rule the world.
Sheba and Solo, the two Pharaoh Hounds who'd been lying under the table, suddenly howled. They
waited for Nathan's go signal before tearing off to investigate who was coming up the long
driveway.
'Oh dear,' Abigail said. 'I really thought breakfast on the porch would be visitor free.'
'It's okay Mother, I think I can cope this morning,' Nathan said. 'Oh no, on second
thoughts.'
The dogs, still barking, escorted a too-familiar High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle
around the last bend in the tree-lined driveway. Nathan usually laughed when he saw the ridiculous
contraption - driven as it was by the state's most conceited and verbose man - but not today.
'Wheel me out of here quick,' he begged. 'It's the Lone Ranger and his new charger.'
Nathan could not abide the man; but he was a long-time friend of his mother's, and this was his
third visit since they'd learned of the train crash.
'Don't be rude, darling,' Abigail said, standing to greet their unexpected guest.
George Gantry, Lieutenant-Governor of Texas, was wearing his trademark moleskin riding pants,
blue checked shirt and cowboy hat. He leapt out of the Humvee and loudly apologised for coming so
early and unannounced.
'I am the vanguard, dear people,' he then proclaimed, 'here to alert you to a secret, imminent
and unscheduled visit by the President of these here United States.' Gantry, gave Abigail a peck on
the cheek, tipped his hat to Edwina, shook Nathan's hand and took the empty seat at the table.
'The President? Why?' Nathan pushed his half-eaten breakfast away and picked up his coffee.
'Because of your tragedy, son. He's been touring Texas. He looked at the destruction in Dallas,
he viewed the damage at Hood, and now he's coming to check you out.'
'I
really
don't like that man,' Abigail said. 'Does he have to come to our home?'
'Mother, you can't refuse to see the President.'
'Why ever not, Nathan?'
'George?' Edwina waved vaguely at the Humvee. 'Do you have someone sitting in your tank?'
'I do indeed, Miss Edwina. He's a young protégé of mine. But don't you worry
yourself about him. Today he's learning all about patience, so he's fine where he is.'
'If you say so, George,' Edwina nodded, then changed the subject back again. 'Personally I think
the President is handsome.'
'That may be true, Edie, but he's also a fool,' Abigail said.
'Well ladies, and Nathan, that handsome fool will be here in 20 minutes.'
Abigail patted her white hair, straightened her green skirt and said, 'Perhaps you could tell him
Nathan and I are out jogging,' Abigail said.
'I wish,' said Nathan.
'But you don't jog, Abigail,' Edwina said ingenuously, just as Angela arrived with a coffee cup
for the Lieutenant-Governor. She filled it from the pot.
'Angela,' Nathan said, 'it seems the President is paying a visit.'
'Which president, Mr Nathan?' Angela asked, planting her hands on her hips when everyone laughed.
'I'm so happy to amuse. Now please enlighten me as to whether you're referring to the president of
the Houston Historical Society, or Peter Kent, the president of…'
'Garner Brock,
the
President, Angela dear,' Abigail interrupted.
'Oh. In that case I'd best go put on a clean apron. And you, Mr Nathan need to get out of your
pyjamas. Come on, I'll drive you.' Angela took control of Nathan's wheelchair and steered him
inside. She knew full well he needed an excuse to get away from George Gantry much more than he
needed to dress for the President of Anything.
Edwina followed them, leaving the Lieutenant-Governor alone on the porch with Abigail whose
expression immediately turned from cheery to serious. 'What news do you have, George?'
Gantry moved closer and said quietly, 'I have it on good authority that the train was bombed, and
please excuse my bad accent, by the Etoile d'Euro Group.'
'And who are they?'
'A French, Russian, German,' Gantry circled his right hand, 'group with affiliations to an
international terrorist group called Atarsa Kára.'
Abigail looked puzzled. 'I don't understand. Were my family killed by angry Muslims or French
Nazis.'
'My friend at Blue Atlantico tells me that the train bombers are not an Islamite group, though
Atarsa Kára most certainly is.'
'Oh my Lord,' Abigail exclaimed. 'What is wrong with the world? Do the people in Europe hate us
so much now too, that they are in league with these fanatical Muslims? If only we'd mind our own
business and take care of our own families and kind, like the Lord intends for us to do. I mean, if
you look to your own and are civil to the rest, then this kind of nonsense will surely stop.
'Honestly George, it makes me hopping mad. I'm almost of a mind to tell Garner Brock that this is
all his fault; that my family are dead and blown to bits because of his sabre-rattling and incessant
interfering in other folks' business.'
'I understand completely, Abigail,' Gantry stated, stroking his neat goatee. 'That's one reason
why our investment in Blue Atlantico was so timely and fortuitous.'
'And profitable George, don't forget that,' Abigail smiled. 'For that alone, I am most pleased
you talked me into it.'
'Well my dear, I couldn't have let you miss out on such a patriotic opportunity.'
Abigail shrugged. 'To tell you the truth, I do feel something of a hypocrite making such a lot of
money out of the very things that help perpetuate so many struggles throughout the world. I mean
some people would say that so much protection only invites trouble.'
'Oh no my dear, don't trouble yourself with thoughts of that ilk. There's no need. The research
and development done by BA's parent company Telamon works only to keep us, and other good people
throughout the world, safe from all kinds of trouble. Just you remember that they, and hence we, are
in fact the good guys.'
'That's a nice way to look at it, George. And do thank your friend for the information about the
train. I'm sure my brother will be doing his Defense Secretary best over there in Europe, but he may
not think to tell us everything. And now, I suppose, I should make myself presentable for an
uninvited visit from that pompous ignoramus.'
Night Bazaar, Chiang Mai, Thailand
Saturday 8 pm
Alan Wagner, with his cameraman Bob trailing along behind him, had just finished
his second in-depth with Aussie actor-singer Sophie Deans and was heading back to the hotel. The
interview had gone more smoothly than the first one. Who knew it would be so hard to stage-manage an
excited TV star and five wet elephants? It would be the ratings puller though. After all who
wouldn't want to see a wet-T-shirted Sophie fondling giant pachyderms
But the evening shoot, such as it was, with just him and Sophie and Bob, was further up Alan's
alley. He'd been able to get right up-close to the starlet as they strolled Chiang Mai's famous
night bazaar.
'I reckon she quite fancied me Bob, what do you think?' Alan turned to see why the only crew
member who'd come on this last-minute jaunt with him wasn't answering. Bob was a few metres back,
checking out shirts. Alan dragged him away from the stall and repeated his question.
'You think everyone fancies you Alan,' Bob said. 'She's half your age mate, and not…'
'No seriously Bob, I reckon she's up for it.'
They avoided the vendors waving their latest high fashion knock-offs and the tide of blissed-out
tourists oohing their way through shopaholic nirvana, and emerged from the last stretch of the
market's roofed concession area. All the while Alan talked, whether Bob was listening or not. 'I'm
gonna call her room when we get back to the hotel and see if she wants to have a drink.'
'I wouldn't.'
'Of course you wouldn't Bob, you're married. We're talking about me, you know, the one she
fancies.'
'Whatever you say, Alan, it's just that I don't think her minder would approve.'
'Sophie's a big girl, Bob. If she wants to have whatever with me, I don't think her cute
publicity chick will stop her. Although, as a favour, you could keep her occupied while I, you
know.'
'Hello,
tuk-tuk
?'
Alan glared at the Thai bloke who'd interrupted him. The man was lounging against one of the
stupid looking and omni-everywhere three-wheeled motorbikes that had nearly run him over five times
already today. He asked Bob, 'Why do guys keep calling us that? Is it like a friendly term or are
they taking the mickey?'
Bob shook his head. 'Mate, it's beyond me how you manage to avoid getting the sense beaten into
you by every second person you meet.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
Bob pointed to the young Thai. 'He is a
tuk-tuk
driver, that is his
tuk-tuk
, you
idiot.'
'So what's a
farang
then? They keep saying that to me too.'
'It just means 'foreigner', Alan. And it's not usually an insult. Now, do you wanna lift back to
the hotel or would you rather keep battling the crowds?' Bob showed the driver his camera, made a
circling motion with his finger and said 'Royal Princess Hotel - the best way.' He climbed into the
back without waiting for his colleague's response.
'Bloody hell,' Alan said, bumping his head on the low roof as he got in beside him. 'I swear
these things are trying to kill me.'
To prove his point, the driver barely waited for him to settle on the small seat before he took
off up Chang Khlan Road. The
tuk-tuk
flung right into a street two blocks later, jolted them
over the Ping River by the Nakhon Phing Bridge, then looped south and west back over the waterway
again. The grinning
tuk-tuk
driver dodged the petrol guzzling, almost 21st century traffic,
as well as horse-drawn carts, roaming livestock and a procession of decorated elephants.
Partly as colour for the
TW, TW
episode but mostly for himself, and to annoy Alan, Bob
filmed their circuitous journey through the modern and ancient streets of Chiang Mai, laughing with
genuine pleasure as he did so. Alan meanwhile gripped the open doorway and was convinced he about to
die. Even if he'd been interested in scenery, which he wasn't, Chiang Mai was nothing but a blur to
him until the
tuk-tuk
screamed to a halt at an intersection two blocks from their hotel. It
took a second for his world view to come back into focus, and he was about to ask what Bob and the
driver were finding so funny when he caught sight of a man who looked famously familiar. He grabbed
Bob's arm, redirected his camera and said, 'Who's that guy there?'
'Which guy in particular in that crowd of a dozen blokes?'
'The tall western guy with the short hair and flashy blue shirt,' Alan began, but their driver
was off again leaving the mystery man in their wake. 'Shit. Were you filming?'
'Of course I was Alan. It's what I do.'
'Good. We can check that footage when we get back to the room. Oh wait,' Alan raised his hand, 'I
know who he was, um, what's his name? He's famous and I mean really famous, like award-winning. He's
a journo, an American, he wrote a book too.'
The
tuk-tuk
pulled up in front of the Royal Princess. The driver turned to grin at Bob.
'Okay?'
'Perfect mate, thanks,' he said, handing over 400
baht
as he got out. 'You coming,
Alan?'
Alan followed him into the hotel foyer but suddenly stopped; and swore.
'Jesus, now what?' Bob asked.
'He better not be here for the same reason I am.'
'Who he?'
'That American reporter.'
'Alan, I doubt the Yanks even know of Sophie's existence, and if he's as famous…'
'Not that reason, Bob. The other, you know, secret reason,' Alan dropped his voice as they headed
to the lounge bar. 'This commando guy better not be yanking my chain and selling his story to the
highest bidder.'
'I wasn't aware we'd made a bid.'
'We haven't. But that doesn't mean the guy won't
ask
for a fortune now we've bothered to
come all this way.'
Bondi Beach, Sydney, Australia
Sunday 4 pm
Dargo gazed at the foreshore of one of the world's most famous beaches, and
wondered why it was. It wasn't terribly big and, right now, the surf wasn't surfing - if it ever did
- so he failed to understand its attraction or what made it celebrated.
Admittedly Dargo was not a great fan of the sea or the beach or any kind of water sport, so even
if Bondi had spread out forever like Acapulco, or been pristinely beautiful like places he'd seen in
Fiji and Hawaii, then he'd still be none the wiser.
He was relieved, however, that he could do this latest job in Sydney. When his Client had sent
through the dossier on his targets, Dargo had worried he might have to go to Canberra to fulfil the
double contract. He'd been there once. Flown directly in, taken out a low-level Iranian consulate
official, and flown straight out again. Which was good because he'd found it an oddly utilitarian
and soulless place. He read up on it afterwards and discovered it had been purpose-built, just last
century, as the nation's capital.