Agent Moharic stretched and yawned and checked the clock set on Washington time above the door. Another hour, and if the roads weren’t iced over he’d be home in bed with his electric blanket on high. He’d sleep till early afternoon, then he had a date with a girl from the British Embassy. He was debating whether to see an art-house movie near Logan Circle, or go for something more mainstream in a theatre downtown, when Agent Moharic nearly fell out of his chair.
The monitor he’d been watching suddenly lit up and an alarm on the wall went off. Every control panel in the room came to life and a large blue screen linked to a Global Positioning Satellite began zeroing in on countries all around the wall. Agent Moharic’s monitor faded momentarily, then lit up with five flashing red lines of block type:
ALERT TESLA PROJECT PIGGIE
ALERT TESLA PROJECT PIGGIE BREACH BREACH
For a second, Agent Moharic gaped at the screen in disbelief. ‘Oh shit!’ he said. Then followed procedures.
He clicked every switch and pushed every button to record what was going on and to alert the agency that Project Piggie had been breached. He punched in the code to the satellite so it would find where the breach had occurred, then secured the door and switched off the alarm. Satisfied all was in order, Agent Moharic picked up the receiver on the red phone next to the monitor and quickly punched in a silent number.
‘Bousseal,’ came a dull, cold voice at the other end.
‘Sir. Project Piggie has been compromised. We have a breach.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Secretary Clay E. Bousseal’s office was five storeys above Room 90. In his private elevator, he was at Room 90 with Section Head Hoyle Creelman in one minute and seven seconds.
Secretary Bousseal was lean with dark hair and a bony, expressionless face. Section Head Creelman was beefier, with a full face and fair hair. In their grey suits and vests, they were a formidable pair. Secretary Bousseal walked straight up to where Agent Moharic was seated and stared at the message flashing on and off on the monitor.
‘This only just happened?’ he said.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Agent Moharic.
‘Do we have a GPS fix yet?’
‘It’s triangulating now, sir.’
A sheet of paper worked its way up on the printer. Agent Moharic tore it off and handed it to Secretary Bousseal.
‘You read it,’ ordered Secretary Bousseal.
‘Yes, sir.’ Agent Moharic looked at the printout. ‘Sir, it was breached in Australia.’
‘Australia,’ growled Section Head Creelman. ‘So that bastard Tesla was out there. Whereabouts, Agent Moharic?’
‘Newcastle, sir. It’s a city in the state of New South Wales about one hundred and fifty clicks north of Sydney.’
‘Noo-kassle,’ said Section Head Creelman. ‘Never heard of it.’
‘I know it,’ said Bousseal. ‘The Australian Air Force has got a base there at Williamtown.’
‘The final triangulation is coming through now, sir,’ said Agent Moharic. He tore off the second computer printout. ‘Sir. The source is a house in Fenton Avenue, Newcastle, in a suburb called Bar Beach. The source belongs to a Michael Andrew Vincent. He’s an electrician. It’s a basic PC working on Windows 94.’
‘I wonder how the sonofabitch breached Project Piggie?’ said Section Head Creelman.
‘I don’t know, and I don’t care,’ said Bousseal grimly. He turned to Agent Moharic. ‘But as soon as I clear it, you and two field agents are taking an agency jet to Williamtown this afternoon to nip this in the bud.’
‘Yes, sir. Where do I render Vincent to, sir? Egypt? Turjekistan? Guantanamo?’
‘Forget Extraordinary Rendition,’ said Bousseal. ‘I want him terminated.’
‘With extreme prejudice,’ added Creelman.
‘And anybody else at the source,’ said Secretary Bousseal.
‘What will I tell the Australians, sir?’ asked Agent Moharic.
‘Leave that to us,’ said Creelman. ‘If they should ask you anything, we’ll have a terminological inexactitude prepared.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘In the meantime,’ said Bousseal, ‘stay on this while I organise your away team.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Clay E. Bousseal and Hoyle Creelman left Agent Moharic and returned to the Secretary’s private elevator. The door closed and Hoyle Creelman turned to his boss as the Secretary of the NSA pressed the button for his floor.
‘Clay,’ he said, ‘I don’t mean to sound ignorant. But what exactly is Project Piggie?’
The NSA Secretary returned the Section Head’s stare. ‘No one knows for sure, Hoyle,’ he replied gravely. ‘The one thing we do know is, if it ever gets triggered, we can all kiss our asses goodbye.’
I
t was eight o’clock when Mick woke up on Thursday morning to find Jesse gone.
He used the bathroom, then got into a pair of Speedos and walked out to the kitchen to put the kettle on, when he was suddenly confronted by an excited squawking coming from the other side of the flyscreen door.
‘All right,’ said Mick. ‘Don’t shit yourselves.’
Mick got a slice of fruit and muesli bread, crumbled it up in his hand and opened the
flyscreen. He stepped out onto the sundeck and Ike landed on his hand while Tina waited by their dish.
‘Hello, Ike,’ Mick smiled. ‘How’s things, old mate?’
Ike jumped off as Mick put the bread in the dish then both peewees gave him a mixed look and started eating. Mick left them to it and peered down at the two dead myna birds now covered in ants and flies. That’s what I must do, he thought. Get rid of our two friends and Whipper Snipper the backyard. However, one can’t go rushing into the day. There’ll be plenty of time for that next week. Mick went inside, put the radio and the kettle on and got a light breakfast together. As he absent-mindedly watched Ike and Tina through the kitchen window, Mick slowly ate his breakfast and mulled over last night’s visit from Jesse.
The contents of the two briefcases were startling to say the least. And if he and Jesse had uncovered some diabolical weapon of mass destruction, they had to inform the government. But knowing the government and the military, they wouldn’t want anyone else knowing about it. Which could put their lives in jeopardy. On the other hand, they couldn’t just leave the thing
sitting there if it could blow up half the world. As he methodically chewed on a piece of toast and jam, Mick realised he and Jesse had inadvertently found themselves in an unfortunate dilemma.
Outside it was a beautiful day and the soft morning breeze was still blowing offshore. Mick finished breakfast, put on his blue cargoes and a T-shirt, then got his dry boardshorts from the sundeck and walked out to the van. His mat and fins still sitting in the back, he drove down to the beach, parking in the same spot as the day before. In no time Mick was out the back picking up his first wave of the day.
While Mick was enjoying the surf at Bar Beach, Agent Moharic was on his way to Australia in a Gulfstream jet with two younger agents, neither of them quite as tall as him: Orrin Coleborne and Steve Niland. Due to a sudden storm front moving in from Boston, Washington airport had been temporarily closed and their departure had been set back three hours. After stopping to refuel in Hawaii, they now expected to arrive at Williamtown late Thursday night, Australian time. As it was a covert mission, all three men were happily wearing windcheaters, jeans or cotton trousers and trainers and glad to be getting a break
from snow-bound Washington. None of the agents had been to Australia before and were to be met at Williamtown Air Force Base by a senior NSA agent stationed in Australia: Zimmer Sierota. Each man knew the importance of the mission and they’d been given three days to complete their task. Their terminological inexactitude was that they were checking security in Newcastle Harbour pending a visit from two ships of the United States Seventh Fleet.
Forty-five minutes out of Honolulu, the three agents were finishing a meal of sandwiches and talking easily amongst themselves before they settled down for the remainder of the flight. Like all NSA agents, the men took their careers seriously and would never question orders. Nevertheless, any agent who had spent time working in Room 90 couldn’t sometimes help taking an ambivalent or derisive attitude to the job. Agent Coleborne washed down the last of a ham and cheese sandwich with a carton of pineapple juice and turned to the others.
‘Honest, guys,’ he said. ‘Popping some sucker don’t bother me. But how can I take something called Project Piggie seriously? I mean, what are we talking here? Miss Piggy out of the Muppets? Porky P-p-pig? Come on.’
‘Hey,’ said Agent Moharic. ‘I was there when it came up on the screen. Bousseal carried on like it was an incoming nuclear strike.’
‘Does anybody know what it is we’re looking for?’ said Agent Niland. ‘I mean, what…?’
Agent Moharic shook his head. ‘Steve, we were told we’re not looking for anything. We’re just taking a guy out. An electrician. And Bousseal emphasised to get the job done and don’t screw up. You guys were at the last briefing.’
‘Yeah. But why all the cloak and dagger crap?’ Agent Niland affected a Texan accent, ‘Why not just plug the critter and mosey on out of Dodge?’
‘Evidently Sierota’s got a plan,’ said Agent Moharic.
‘Hey,’ said Agent Coleborne, ‘what’s our chances of spinning this out a few extra days? It’s eighty degrees where we’re going. Australia’s supposed to have great beaches. And we got a kick-ass expense account.’
‘Yeah. And you know where our asses’ll finish if we screw up,’ said Agent Moharic.
Agent Coleborne quickly changed his mind. ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he conceded.
‘What did you have to find the thing for anyway, Floyd?’ said Agent Niland. ‘Room 90 was a good gig. I got my tax returns done last week.’
Agent Moharic shook his head as he wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘Guys, I’m going to read for a while then put my head down. Wake me when we get to Australia.’
Mick kept surfing till the wind swung round to the east and several bluebottles began to appear amongst the swells. He got out, had a shower and a talk to a friend in the fire brigade, then drove home. After a bottle of water and some fruit, Mick changed into an old T-shirt and shorts and got the whipper-snipper out of the garage. He did both yards, back and front, and while he was on a roll did a bit of a spring-clean round the house and cleaned out the van. When Mick had finished, an old TV, a stereo, cushions, clothes, a mattress and other items were in the middle of the garage waiting for Lifeline. And three bin bags of rubbish were ready for a skip bin on a building site down the road. After another shower and a shave, Mick changed back into his cargoes then made some sandwiches from the leftover chicken and washed it down with coffee. When he’d finished, Mick decided it was time to ring Jesse.
‘Hello,’ came the cheery voice at the other end of the line. ‘Eye Full Tower Bookshop.’
‘Yeah, it’s me,’ said Mick. ‘I just rang up to tell you I’m not talking to you any more.’
‘Fair enough,’ replied Jesse. ‘What have I done this time?’
‘Leaving me all alone this morning. I was shattered.’
‘Well, what did you expect? I only came round for a root.’
‘Thanks,’ said Mick.
‘So how are you, stud muffin?’ said Jesse. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘It’s been a hard day’s night, momma, I can tell you that.’ Mick told Jesse what he’d done since he left the beach. ‘I even tossed out that poster of Hannibal Lecter that you hated.’
‘Good. That thing gave me the creeps,’ said Jesse. ‘Hey, talking about creeps, I drove past the garage on the way home and checked out the Maxwell.’
‘You did?’ said Mick.
‘Yes. Gee, I don’t know about that Neville. It was kind of, Hey, is that a monkey wrench in your pocket, Neville, or are you just glad to see me.’
‘Have you ever seen his wife?’ said Mick. ‘She makes you look like Catherine Zeta-Jones.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Jesse. ‘I do look like Catherine Zeta-Jones.’
‘Yeah. Round the business.’
‘Ha-ha! But what a marvellous old car, Mick.’
‘Yeah, isn’t it great? When I get it going, you can wear a big straw hat and a crinoline dress, and I’ll wear a boater.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Jesse. ‘I saw the two compartments in the back. And the bullet holes. That’s totally bizarre.’
‘Isn’t it,’ said Mick. ‘Hey, Jesse,’ he said seriously, ‘I’ve been thinking about last night. And I’m kind of worried.’
‘Yes. I know what you mean,’ said Jesse. ‘And I’ve got an idea.’
‘You have?’
‘Yes. What time are you picking up the Buick?’
‘Late this afternoon,’ replied Mick.
‘Well, when you do, how about driving over to the shop, and we’ll have a talk.’
‘Okay.’ Mick suddenly heard
ribet! ribet!
in the background.
‘Hello,’ said Jesse. ‘I think I’ve got a live one. I’ll see you this afternoon?’
‘Okay. See you then, Oz.’
Mick hung up and stared absently at the phone for a few moments. Well, what will I do now, he thought. He looked at his watch. I suppose by the time I run the vacuum cleaner
over the lounge and sort my room out, it’ll be time to pick up the car. After cleaning up in the kitchen, Mick finished his chores round the house, then put on a loose grey cotton shirt and rang for a taxi.
The taxi arrived promptly, traffic was light and Mick was soon out the front of the Nise brothers’ garage, delighted to see his beloved Buick sitting in the middle driveway. When he walked inside there was the usual cacophony of noise with The Veronicas blaring out ‘Everything I’m Not’ in the background. The Maxwell was down the end where the Buick had been. There was no sign of Neville. But Jimmy was standing under a hoist with a lamp, peering up at the underneath of a Holden Rodeo. He noticed Mick approaching, but didn’t look round when he spoke.
‘Hello, Mick,’ said Jimmy. ‘How’s things?’
‘All right, thanks, Jimmy,’ replied Mick. ‘I see the Buick’s ready.’
‘Yes. Ready and waiting.’
‘How much do I owe you?’ asked Mick.
‘See Neville. He’s in the office.’ Jimmy shook his head as he kept peering into the underneath of the Rodeo. ‘What’s this dill talking about? There’s no bloody oil leak.’
Mick could see Jimmy was seriously involved in whatever he was involved in. ‘I’ll go and see Neville.’
‘Yeah, righto,’ grunted Jimmy.
Mick walked round to the office and stepped inside. Jimmy’s even bigger and uglier brother was seated at the desk in a pair of greasy blue overalls, ogling a girlie calendar he’d just taken out of a large envelope. He looked up and flashed a lopsided, toothy grin when he saw Mick.
‘Michael, my boy,’ he said. ‘How are you, mate?’
‘Good thanks, Neville,’ replied Mick. ‘Jesse said she called in this morning and checked out the Maxwell.’
‘Yeah. I’d only just opened the garage.’ Neville’s beady eyes narrowed at Mick. ‘Jesus, she’s a good style, your girl. Where did you get her?’
‘Out there, Neville,’ replied Mick. ‘Same place you found your beautiful wife.’
‘Yeah,’ snorted Neville. ‘I was in a pub, drunk. And I’ve stayed drunk ever since.’
‘Anyway,’ said Mick. ‘I see my car’s ready. What’s the damage?’
‘The damage? Let’s have a look.’ Neville put the calendar down and rifled through a bunch of invoices. He took one out and handed it to Mick. ‘There you go, mate.’
Mick took the invoice and gave it a double blink. ‘Seven hundred and fifty dollars. Including GST. Jesus Christ, Neville. What did you do? Fly a Swiss watchmaker in from Zurich to do the job?’
‘Mick,’ Neville replied impassively. ‘Do you know how much rooting around we had to go through to get those two old pressure plates out? I’ve had two mechanics working overtime so you could have your Buick on the road by today. Counting the towing, we’ve made nothing.’
‘Yeah. I’ll bet,’ muttered Mick. He took his chequebook out and sat down in front of Neville. ‘Anyway. It’s going again. That’s the main thing.’
‘Not only that,’ smiled Neville. ‘But your old pressure plate’s on its way to be welded, and before you know it, you and your lovely lady will be driving around in two vintage cars. And won’t you look a fine couple at that.’
‘Yeah. Jesse’ll be paying for the petrol.’ Mick shook his head as he wrote out the cheque. ‘Seven hundred and fifty bucks. I don’t believe it.’
Mick made out the cheque and handed it to Neville. Neville stamped PAID on the invoice and handed it to Mick.
‘Always a pleasure, Mick,’ smiled Neville.
‘Yeah. Same here,’ mumbled Mick.
‘Which is why you keep coming back,’ winked Neville. ‘Would you like a calendar?’
‘No, thank you.’ Mick stood up and pocketed his chequebook. ‘Where are the keys?’
‘The keys? Underneath the sun visor.’
Mick was about to say goodbye and he’d be in touch, when one of the panelbeaters put his head in the door.
‘Hey Neville,’ said the panelbeater, ‘the compressor’s stuffed up again.’
‘Oh shit,’ cursed Neville. ‘What’s happened now?’
Thinking this would be as good a time as any to get going, Mick left Neville arguing with the panelbeater and walked out to where his Buick was parked in the driveway.
Seven hundred and fifty dollars or not, the smile soon returned to Mick’s face when he got behind the wheel and his nostrils filled with that quaint leathery smell that can only be found in vintage cars. The smile quickly turned into a grin when he put the key in the ignition, pressed the starter and the old Buick rumbled into life. Oh yeah, Mick chuckled as he felt the big straight eight humming under the bonnet. He gave the engine time to warm up, then gently pushed the
gear stick into first, eased off the clutch and joined the afternoon traffic.
Mick knew it was vanity bordering on ostentation, but he couldn’t help preening at the looks he’d get from other drivers and pedestrians when he drove past in the shiny yellow Buick. Often they’d smile and wink; Mick would always smile or grin back. It was a definite buzz. He cruised past Kooragang and was in heaven when he dropped the Buick back into second and gave it a little bit of a nudge over Stockton Bridge. Finally Mick swung the Buick into Jesse’s driveway, cut the engine and got out.
‘Hello, mate,’ he smiled as he ran a loving hand along the roof and gave it a pat. ‘Haven’t I missed you.’ Whistling cheerfully, Mick locked the doors then walked round the front.
The familiar
ribet! ribet!
sounded when Mick opened the door and stepped inside. Wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt with MAGIC HAPPENS on the front, Jesse got up from behind the counter and met him halfway.
‘Hello, darling heart,’ she said, throwing her arms around him.
‘Hello, Jesse,’ said Mick. ‘How are you?’
‘Good,’ said Jesse. ‘Better when I see you. You big spunk.’
Mick looked at Jesse for a moment then eased himself a little from her embrace. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘What are you up to?’