He liked Sydney though; a lot. And luckily he only had to change hotels, not cities, to await his
quarries. He'd relocated from the neon-lit, slightly tawdry city-strip of King's Cross to the
open-to-the-elements sweep of Bondi.
His new room gave him a view of the Pacific Ocean, but that wasn't why he chose it. Its real
value was that - in about four minutes - it would also give him a clear line of sight to his hit and
miss targets. Both of them; in the same place at once, which was unexpected, and very cool.
Dargo much preferred to look people in the eye when he took their life. Not because he had some
sick desire to watch the light fade from their soul windows, but because he felt he owed it to them.
If you took something precious you should be accountable - to them - if no one else.
Dargo rolled his shoulders and put his eye back to the TAC-50's telescopic sight already primed
to the spot on the sand where his objectives, playing to the waiting media scrum, would emerge from
the cold Pacific waters of Bondi Beach. The TV crews and other reporters were being kept apart by a
wide taped-off wedge that would allow the two men to proceed without hindrance up the beach.
Fortuitously, the same sandy opening would give Dargo's anti-personnel projectiles a similar
unimpeded trajectory down the beach.
When he'd gone to pick up the gear in Wollongong the day before, he was surprised that the Client
had managed to organise his weapon of choice. Dargo knew the McMillan Bros rifle and match-grade
ammo was not an easy combo to get hold of in this country where guns were the exception rather than
the rule. He'd therefore decided, after sharing a beer with the bearded Aussie dealer, that it was
safe to leave him alive. For a start, Aussies seemed to be encoded with an anti-dobbing gene, but
also, no one in their right mind would risk incriminating themselves in the country's first official
political assassination.
Given a choice, for something so historic, he would rather have used his blades. But sometimes
personal preference just wasn't feasible. Getting that close to today's targets at any time would be
difficult, getting away afterwards would be nigh on impossible. So, if he couldn't look a contract
in the eye, he at least liked the job to be memorable, to be marked with a sense of achievement.
That way, if he met them in any kind of afterlife, he could tell them they were killed as cleanly as
possible.
Dargo was after all a professional. He believed it was the respect he gave his intended that set
him apart from other life-takers. He was not, for instance, some nutter randomly knocking off
shoppers or students or colleagues. He was nothing like the misguided suicide bombers who could no
longer distinguish their enemy from their own, and believed they'd actually go to virgin heaven by
dishonouring their own religion. And he was most certainly not like the cowardly examples of
'whatever they were' in Texas and Europe this last week. There was absolutely no artistry in
indiscriminate violence of that kind.
If your intended target could not feel your breath on their face, or if you could not see him
fall, and if you weren't going to stick around to live each day with the consequences - to see if
your work made a difference - then you had no right to call yourself a professional.
And, although such was his skill and renown that he could command the highest price, he was not
in this line of work just for the money. Dargo had to know why. It was a condition of his employment
that he knew the reason for the kill, so there were some jobs he would not touch. Another's revenge
was one contract he always declined. Payback, he figured, belonged only to those involved. Spousal
hits were also off his list, as were any involving children.
Only God or the devil could help a client who lied on a blood contract with Dargo, because - much
more than the money and notoriety - he simply loved what he did and he did it with honour.
So, if he had to take a long shot rather than a close shave, then his preference for the McBros
TAC-50 was one way of enjoying his work while giving a modicum of respect to his intended. The
rotary bolt action .50 calibre sniper rifle was a superb weapon in and of itself. Its long 736 mm
barrel allowed the cartridge propellant to fully burn for optimum bullet velocity and accuracy. More
importantly, the TAC-50 was credited with the longest range documented kill. In 2003, a Canadian
sniper executed a Taliban insurgent from a distance of 2.4 km.
While he wouldn't need anything close to that reach today - and well aware that the two men on
the beach would ultimately not give a damn - Dargo felt he was at least using a weapon with a
reputation worthy of their prominent status. He smiled, at his own conceit, and at the situation.
These men were designated honourable by virtue of the positions they occupied, but they were
politicians, so any position they held most likely did not equate with anything remotely virtuous,
or admirable, moral or valuable. And given his Client's reason for this whole series of contracts,
the two men now filling his crosshairs were responsible for a great many wrongs. Perhaps it was
fitting that the ocean would help wash away any sins they were harbouring.
Dargo gently exhaled and, at the end of his breath, pulled the trigger twice. The first shot -
the miss - hit one man in his right thigh, bringing him immediately to his knees. The second shot -
the hit - stuck the other man in the heart, dropping him backwards into the Pacific shallows.
Wat Prathat Doi Suthep, Thailand
Sunday 1 pm
In the 14th century a sacred white elephant carrying a magical bone, a relic of the
Buddha himself, was set free at the gates of Chiang Mai. After wandering the jungle and climbing
half way up the nearby mountain of Doi Suthep, the elephant trumpeted three times, knelt down and
died. The Buddhist monks and the local king took this as the sign of where the sacred relic itself
had wanted to be, and built a great temple on the very site.
After climbing the 300 steps of the country's longest Naga stair-case to the splendid golden Wat
Prathat, Jana Rossi totally understood why the elephant had wanted to lie down, forever.
She'd made the pilgrimage to the famous
wat
because it was the thing to do. Every Thai
she'd met had told her that no one could claim to have been to Chiang Mai until they'd tasted
kai
soi
and visited Doi Suthep. So after indulging in a huge, delicious bowl of the chicken coconut
noodle curry for brunch, she had taken a
songthaew
taxi to the foot of the temple steps.
There she admired the colourful serpent head that reared up at the bottom of the steps; and ran
her hand appreciatively over its carved body that formed the railing all the way to the top. By step
number 250, she was gripping the back of the Naga - the mythical serpent that had sheltered the
meditating Buddha
- hoping it could give her a lift, rather than enlightenment. The moment she reached the summit,
however, it became irrelevant whether it was too much
kai soi
or not enough sleep that made
the climb so tiring. Her exhaustion simply vanished and she was enveloped by an odd
tranquillity.
Wat Prathat was serene, despite the other tourists. The temple precinct was all red, white and
gold; the
wat
,
stupa
and shrines all stone and teak-carved, with sweeping
serpent-edged roofs. Manicured trees dotted the highly polished flagstones underfoot and, everywhere
she looked, there were carved Buddhas, live Buddhist monks, giant bells, golden umbrellas, Nagas all
over the place, and even a statue of the Hindu elephant-headed Ganesh.
She stood gazing at the breathtaking view over the far-below and once-walled city of Chiang Mai,
which had long ago spread out beyond its moat and what was left of its fortifications. The smell of
incense was intoxicating, and Jana took a deep breath and smiled. She knew that if she ever needed a
spiritual inclination then Buddhism would be the way she'd incline. Right now though, she didn't
care whether it was her own endorphins or a mystical rush, she just knew she felt ridiculously
elated.
She'd finalised her last deal for the AET Council last night and was due for her first meeting,
or rather informal dinner, with a local Helix Foundation project manager tonight. Lawan Terat, who
was launching a new Helix-funded IT training bureau for businesswomen in Thailand's north, had
suggested that they meet at her hotel's Miyuki restaurant at 6 pm.
At 12.30 tomorrow morning, Jana was due to meet the first of many roving Australian field agents
employed by the Foundation, all of whom were apparently close personal friends of Ruth Jardine; and
some of whom Jana would be working with from time to time - if she accepted the job.
So far Jana liked everything she'd learnt about her possible position as Forward Scout. She was
extremely happy with the generous income, benefits and professional opportunities; she was
completely taken by Ruth Jardine herself and the three other Foundation people she'd later met at
the Windsor Hotel; and, of course, she heartily approved of the Helix mission and ideology, as well
as the Foundation's work practices and international reputation. She would get to do plenty of
travelling and, best of all, would not have to move to Sydney.
Realising she'd just made the decision to take the job, Jana decided a celebratory drink was in
order, on her own if she couldn't find a friendly soul to join her. She lit a stick of incense and
set off to ring a few temple bells - for good luck - before heading back to her hotel.
Canberra, Australia
Sunday 5 pm
Aaron Danby, ironically as it would turn out, was fresh from a session with Perfect
Lash, in which he was the Prime Minister and she was leader of the Opposition. He didn't imagine
himself as just any Prime Minister, but as Robert Harvey - the current PM, human doorstop, lead-dead
weight, and handbrake on Danby's own route to the top job.
Danby therefore, and often, derived a hell of a lot more than just astonishing sexual pleasure
from having himself, as Robert Harvey, thrashed with a cat-o-nine wielded by a voluptuous dominatrix
wearing a photo-mask of the Opposition Leader Keith Turnstile.
A post-discipline frisson flashed from his groin to his brain as he turned his BMW into the drive
of his Canberra residence, where he was surprised to see Mick Fleming just parking his own car. Not
a good sign. His advisor was supposed to be on a flight half way to Melbourne by now. Something was
obviously so very up, that Mick didn't really need to fling out his hands and demand to know where
the hell Aaron had been, although he did anyway.
'Inside, mate,' Danby said slapping his best friend on the back as he swiped his keycard for the
front door.
'Jesus Aaron, where have you been? You can't do this, you have to answer your mobile, mate.'
'Can't answer it, if I don't hear it ring,' Danby pointed to the kitchen bench, where his mobile
phones sat like the deliberately abandoned things they were. He picked up the Scotch bottle.
'Drink?'
'Yes. Don't you want to know why I'm here?'
Danby shrugged. 'You'll tell me. You always do.'
Mick, unusually, got right to the point. 'There was a shooting at Bondi Beach half an hour
ago.'
'Bondi?' Danby stopped mid pour. 'Wasn't that where the Spry Miniature was launching our dubious
and ridiculously-costly coastal surveillance initiative today?'
'Yes.'
'Enough with the suspense mate. I am so over Robert bloody Harvey. I swear I'll go mad if you're
just going to tell me that shit
again
survived being really close to some unrelated domestic
argument, or within two blocks of a terrorist targeting somebody else.'
'They got Barney Cross. He and Robert were both shot, coming out of the surf, by a sniper.'
'What? Oh crap, um, are they, um? Mick, mate, shit, fill me in. Are they okay, or not. Is he
dead? I mean, I didn't mean what I said about the terrorist before, well I did, but not really.
Fuck. What the…' Danby frowned, downed his Scotch and poured another.
Mick waited until his friend stopped speaking. 'The PM was shot in the leg. He was taken to the
Royal Prince Alfred Hospital where he is, sorry, in a stable condition. The Attorney-General,
however, is dead; apparently killed by a single shot straight through the heart.'
Danby didn't quite know what to think. Or do. Or think. 'Should we go to Sydney?'
'I think it'd be a good idea, Aaron. I've got a flight on standby.'
'I'll go pack a bag, or something,' Danby said. 'I didn't really wish actual death on him, on
Robert I mean. And God - Barney? I can't believe that. Who'd want to kill him? Shit, who'd want to
kill any of us, this is Australia for Christsake.'
Danby registered Mick's raised eyebrow and shrugged. 'Okay, a lot of people might have it in for
Barney. Like sick ones from when he was Health Minister, and half the workforce from when he was
Industrial Relations Minister, and all those non-Australian asylum seekers and their un-Australian
pinko sympathisers, from when he was in Immigration.'
'Yeah all of them,' Mick said, following Aaron to his bedroom to make sure he was actually
packing. 'And don't forget the lawyers.'
'True. A lot of lawyers hate, hated, his guts. I never understood that though, mate. Isn't -
wasn't - Barney one himself?' Danby had grabbed his overnight bag and stuffed it with socks,
underwear, a T-shirt, track suit and runners, added his toiletry bag, then grabbed his
already-packed suit hanger. He nodded towards the door, so Mick led the way out.
'Barney was a law reform consultant barrister before he entered politics. In his early years
though, he did a bit of lawyering for a human rights group.'
Danby stopped arranging his don't-forget-this-stuff - three mobile phones, keys and swipe cards,
reading glasses and wallet - and stared at Mick. 'What?'