'Oh sorry, Christos; my so-called mates here are telling me to get to the point. Can you get me out of here bro? These two are driving me mental.'
'You bloody idiot, Jason. Where are you and who's with you?'
'I
was
in Peshawar. That's in Pakistan, mate. Now I'm in Taxila. Which is also in…
Righto
Spud, shut up then!
'Back again, bro. We - as in me, Simon Brody and a Spank called Duh-Wayne - are in Taxila which
is about 28 clicks north of Rawalpindi. We got no papers or passports or undies. Spud has concussion
and a hole in his head, that I reckon his bloody brains are leaking out of; and Bamm-Bamm's legs are
brutal.'
'Okay, say hi to Spud for me and hang on a sec while I consult with my crew.' Triko put his hand
over the mobile and looked at his friends.
'What do you need?' Ruth asked.
'Well, Oliver told us the Pakistanis have shut down all flights into the North-West Frontier
Province,' Gideon said. 'We'll have to fly into Islamabad, which is near Rawalpindi anyway, and get
a ride to Taxila. So we will need,' she took a breath, 'the jet, some passport blanks, a contact in
Pakistan to get us a vehicle big enough for seven, plus some local clothes, cash and food.'
'Is that all?'
'That'll do for a start,' Gideon said with a smile. 'The rest we'll make up as we go along.'
'As usual,' Ruth said, but there was warmth in her voice.
'How long?' Triko asked.
'Oliver calculated a minimum five-hours flying time,' Gideon twiddled her fingers as she
calculated, 'ten hours, give or take.'
'Yo Jason,' Triko returned to his brother. 'What time is it there?'
'About 7.30 in the am,'
said Mudge.
'Okay, sit tight. We'll see you around 6.30 tonight. And Jason?'
'Yeah?
'
'Stay out of trouble
.'
'Oh ha.'
Houston, Texas
Monday 9.30 pm
Scott Dreher emerged from Customs at the George Bush Intercontinental Airport
feeling as though he'd just passed through the ID, background check and psych-evaluation required to
gain a joint audience with the President, the Pope
and
the Queen of England.
The airport jackboots had done everything short of a cavity search before letting him back into
his own country. He could only guess at what the twitchy security officials were doing to the men of
'Middle Eastern appearance' who had been on his flight. Poor guys probably just wanted to watch a
Space Shuttle launch or visit the Alamo. And given that it was already old news that the Texas
bombings were the work of domestic American militants of non-Islamic Christian leanings, then the
airport bigotry was just plain rude.
On top of which, the most important feature of the usually non-intrusive SPOT program - used at
all US airports to detect passengers showing behaviour that might indicate a threat - had obviously
gone right out the window. Instead of 'Screening Passengers by Observation Techniques' the special
SPOT-trained security staff's procedure today seemed to simply involve spotting and then throwing
the works at anyone looking around for the exit or reaching for some gum.
Scott was still mentally griping about the farcical situation when a hand on his arm nearly made
him jump out of his skin.
'Hey, it's only me,' said the brunette who'd grabbed him so assertively.
Scott grinned at Laura, enveloped her in his arms and then stood back to take another look. And
she looked great. Tall leggy luscious Laura Serrano - the one woman he should never have let go; the
one woman he'd never have been able to keep.
'You look like shit,' she said.
'Thank you. I love you too. Now please get me out of this madhouse.'
Scott had really only meant the airport, but half an hour later he and Laura were taking the I-10
clean out of Houston and all the way to Laredo, or Nuevo Laredo which was just across the border in
Mexico. The 350-mile trip was going to take a little over five hours; so Scott was hoping that
Laura's insistence he join her research trip would be worth the muscle cramps that were about to
compound his jetlag.
'We took a look at the stuff you sent us about the militant's instruction manual hiding within
the
Global WarTek
game,' Laura had been explaining. 'And, when we get back to my office, I'll
reassign some of our best teenage hackers to your version of the disk as well.'
'As well?' Scott half turned in his seat. 'Have you found other disks?'
'Yes. But the words 'your version' were the important ones in that statement,' Laura glanced at
him. 'Last weekend - before the bombings here - the FBI got a tip-off about some software pirates
operating in Mexico. They passed it on to us. Attention
was
being paid to the info, because
of the implied nature of the pirating; but in the shock of Dallas and Fort Hood it kind of got
shelved.'
'Until?' Scott said, hearing the implication in Laura's voice.
'Until,' she nodded, 'your calls to me about the same game; and our very own
WarTek
revelation. But first, how much have you seen about the bombings here?'
'Not a lot. Strange as it may seem to y'all back home,' Scott said, mockingly, 'but the troubles
in Texas are just two of many competing for attention worldwide at the moment. Also, because here
our own are being attacked by our own and from within; while abroad many non-Americans are also
caught up in attacks on us, from outside…' He threw up his hands. 'Let's just say Texas stopped
making news in Asia three days ago.'
Laura shook her head sadly. 'Well, late last night we finally managed to ID the dead conspirator
found at Hood.'
'Really?' Scott exclaimed. 'I mean really, as in 'a dead conspirator'? I didn't know there was
one.'
'No you wouldn't have, but not because of a lack of interest by the international media. We kept
it to ourselves.' Laura took a swig of water and returned the bottle to the console.
'So, this dead guy found at Fort Hood was identified as Micah Judah O'Brien. A member of the
so-called Carthage Thunder Militia, he was one of those right-wing, white-power, bible-spouting,
gun-freak nutters. The Carthage group is a paramilitary outfit whose members believe the
illegitimate Federal Government is in league with a shady foreign New World Order, the primary
purpose of which is to strip 'freedom itself' from real Americans by taking away their guns and
their inalienable right to be complete morons.'
Scott laughed. 'It's good to see you're still demonstrating empathy for the downtrodden and
misunderstood in our society, Laura.'
'Yeah well, when we catch the rest of those militia guys I'll show them my empathy, right after
I've trodden them all the way down under my boots.'
'So what's the connection between this O'Brien, your
WarTek
epiphany and my disk?'
'When we raided O'Brien's house this morning we found a different version of the same game. This
one too was more than just a pirate version of a genuine game; and, like yours, was altered to
provide instructions only to those who know the codes.' Laura checked her mirrors before overtaking
a truck.
'But?'
'But where your game featured the
Rashmana
, the secret manifesto in our game, courtesy of
Micah O'Brien's, is called
Atlantes
.'
'Atlantis, as in the lost city?'
'No,
Atlantes
with an 'e'. I think they're statues of some kind. But the point is, just
like in your game, the only two levels we can access are riddled with paranoid paramilitary
propaganda. It's written all over the walls, on people's armour, on signposts.'
'Does it have a Map Room too?'
'Yes, but we only found that after you told us how your friend in Thailand had got into it.'
'So where are we going now then?'
'To talk to the American expats in Nuevo Laredo who tipped us off about the pirating in the first
place. Judging by the initial report of their call into an FBI field office, there's a chance they
may also - but unbeknownst to them - have met with members of the Carthage Thunder Militia.'
Sydney, Australia
Tuesday 12.30pm
The first thing Aaron Danby noticed on his trek to the prime-ministerial hospital
room this time was the reduction in the level of blatant security. The Federal Police had obviously
decided the threat to Bob Harvey's life was not on-going; if in fact his life had ever been the
target.
Danby, and therefore Mick Fleming, had been summoned to advise the PM on a 'strange matter'. As
they'd never in 15 years had such a request from their leader, they had hastened to his bedside to -
as Mick had so eloquently put it - find out 'what the mad prick was on about'.
The lone, but armed to the teeth, cop outside the PM's room entertained himself by knocking on
and opening the door for them. Danby and Mick braced themselves, but were relieved by the sight that
greeted them. Although seeing the Prime Minister in bed for any reason was still an unfortunate
experience, the man was at least now wearing his stripey jim-jams rather than a backless hospital
gown.
'I've had an awfully odd request from our High Commissioner to the UK,' Harvey said, apropos of
nothing, except the original summons to his presence.
'It's not like Jennifer Leland to do anything odd,' Danby said.
'As I am well aware, Aaron,' Harvey said. 'And in fact she still hasn't. Jennifer is merely
facilitating a request already asked of me by Edward Drake, Buchanan's new Chairman of the Joint
Intelligence Committee.'
Danby and Mick's faces both assumed an 'okay, so what's so strange then?' look.
'The really strange thing though,' Harvey explained, not even noticing their expressions, 'is
that the request is actually being made on behalf of the American Vice President.'
'Okay, now I'm intrigued,' Mick said.
'Apparently Mr Conte would like some additional security measures put in place for his visit this
weekend.'
Danby snorted. 'Additional to his own secret service and the entire New South Wales police force,
and their cousins?'
'Yes. He has asked that, especially for any outdoor functions, we okay the assignment of the
Titan Guards.' Bob Harvey said. 'Yes, I can see what you're thinking: overkill, ludicrous and very
odd.'
'So, what do
you
think Bob?' Danby asked him.
'What do I think? I think it's bloody silly. They're mercenaries for goodness sake.'
'Yeah, but they're also the mercenaries who saved your life in Delhi, Bob.'
'Yes, Mick, but only because they happened to be there. I mean it would not have reflected well
on their reputation as a close-security company if they'd just stood by and let us all be shot, just
because we weren't their actual clients.'
'True,' Mick agreed.
'I gather you are going to say 'no' then,' Danby said.
'No, of course I'm not,' Harvey said. 'I can't say no to both the American Vice President and Her
Majesty's top spy. I was hoping
you
might,' Harvey smiled. 'Or, failing that, to at least
come up with an alternative to a bunch of international rent-a-thugs.'
The three men looked at each other for a while; quite a while.
Then Danby said, 'What about the Australian rent-a-squad who took Jana and everyone off Laui
Island?'
Mick shook his head. 'Back Door only do retrievals, Aaron. Protection is not their thing at
all.'
'Do you think they'd make an exception, Mick?'
'I doubt it Bob, but I can ask if you like.'
Uluru, Northern Territory, Australia
Tuesday noon
Dargo leant back in his folding camp chair, put his feet up on the Esky and picked
up his mug of tea. He loved the desert, he loved mountains, he loved any warm place far away from
the coast of any country. He hated being interrupted while on holiday, so his mobile phone was
switched off and stuffed in the glove box of the Jeep he'd hired. On the other hand, he never
ignored his vid-phone, because a call on that device would give him something to do when his holiday
was over. And right now it was begging to be answered.
He checked the incoming ID, before answering with the screen on, to make sure he already knew the
caller. Dargo never revealed his own face to a potential client until he was ready to see theirs.
And if they wished to remain anonymous then he refused their contract, sight unseen.
Now this was interesting. It was his most recent Client, the unfathomable Mr Powerful
calling.
'Greetings Dargo,'
the Client said.
'And salutations sir,' Dargo smiled at him. 'I thought our business was over. What can I do for
you?'
'It depends where you are and, of course, on your availability.'
'I am taking a well-earned break, sir. Right now I'm admiring an inselberg.'
'I'm afraid to ask.'
'An inselberg, which the Americans might call a monadnock, is what you and I would call a very
large rock; one that rises abruptly, like an island mountain, from a surrounding plain. This one is
nearly 9.5 km around and 348 metres high although I gather, much like an iceberg, there's more to it
below ground than above. Here I'll show you.' Dargo swivelled the screen so the lens filled up with
the red-sandstone monolith of Uluru.
'Fascinating,'
the Client said, with genuine interest, when Dargo turned the screen back.
'And notable, in that it tells me you are still in Australia. I therefore have another task for
you if you're inclined to continue our arrangement.'
'I've had no complaints so far, sir. And I am available for the next month.'
'Splendid. This task will only take a couple of days; in Sydney and from this
weekend.'
'Oh,' Dargo said. 'I do hope it's not another Australian, sir. I'm growing quite fond of them in
general.'
The Client laughed with gusto.
'Actually I'm giving you a few choices, Dargo. And I'm now
thinking I might even leave the final decision up to you.'