Sea of Fire

Chapter Four

Lowell Coffey liked a good intellectual fight. He loved joining them. He loved causing them. Typically, there were two ways they came about.

One way was by giving speeches. Communicating his strongly held ideas as concisely and effectively as possible. Being the attorney for Op-Center allowed him to do that from time to time. He spoke on issues of international rights and national security, of civil liberties and the loss of privacy. If the thirty-nine-year-old attorney had the thick skin required for politics, he would have run for office. But he had a stubborn, confrontational nature when anyone criticized his views. In politics, Coffey knew he would get it from both sides. The Southern California native believed in a very strong and aggressive military. That was his conservative side. He believed very deeply in human rights in all their forms and variations. That was his liberal side. He would never form any kind of coalition to get himself elected, which was unfortunate. Unlike many politicians, Lowell Coffey III had what he jokingly referred to as a "substance abuse" problem. He was addicted to issues that had meat on strong bones. His interest in substance was what drove him to international law. His father would have preferred that he join the successful entertainment law firm of Coffey and O'Hare, based in Beverly Hills. But while Coffey liked his Armani suits, Rolex watch, and Jaguar — which was in the shop more than it was out — he had needed substance as well. He found it first as an assistant to the California state attorney general, then as deputy assistant to the United States solicitor general. Since joining Op-Center six years ago, he was up to his cleft chin in substance. There was hardly a nation on earth or a division of the federal government Coffey had not dealt with since joining the National Crisis Management Center. Sometimes those dealings were adversarial, as when Striker was caught in the struggle between India and Pakistan, or when Paul Hood and Mike Rodgers shot up the United Nations to end the hostage standoff. Often he ended up learning on the job. But even international confrontations gave him satisfaction he would not have gotten from negotiating product placement in movies for deodorant or beverage brands. Coffey's personal and professional integrity did not prevent his coworkers from referring to the sandy-haired Californian as Percy Richkid. It was a tease, and he rolled with it. Besides, Coffey could not help the financial stratum in which he was born. He took pride in the fact that he had never used family connections to get anything. Coffey had worked hard at every school he attended, and he had earned every position he held.

The second thing the tall, blue-eyed attorney enjoyed was travel. Unlike most travelers, however, seeing new sights was not what appealed most to Coffey. Back in the early 1980s, the attorney had attended Oxford for postgraduate studies in international law. Being on campus had exposed him to ideas that were not only contrary to his own but often anti-American. Coffey knew things to be true viscerally. He enjoyed having the opportunity to defend them intellectually. He discovered that classrooms, coffeehouses, even train stations and airport lounges gave him an opportunity to jump into conversations and state his views. After graduation, traveling around the world for the state of California and the federal government gave Coffey the chance to exercise his skills. Happily, every region was different. Coffey encountered debates in London that were unlike those he found in Montreal, Moscow, Tokyo, or Damascus.

And now, Sydney.

Coffey was standing outside the front door of the Park Hyatt Sydney on Hickson Road. He had arrived the night before and gone directly to bed. From his room at the rear of the hotel he could see across Sydney Cove to the spectacular Sydney Opera House. Standing here, along the broad avenue, he was able to look out at the wharves on Walsh Bay. Sydney was a clean, vibrant, spectacular city. Coffey was only scheduled to be here for three days. Most of that time would be taken up by the Conference on International Oceanic Sovereignty. Coffey hoped he would have time to see some of the city.

Even though Coffey had his sunglasses on, it was still a blindingly bright morning. The sun bounced off the water and the clouds. It was reflected from every silver tower and white structure in a city full of them. The sun and air felt different here than they did in the United States or Europe. Maybe the heat was softened by the constant sea breeze. Maybe the ocean kept the air clean as well. Whatever it was, Coffey found it invigorating.

Tourists came and went from the hotel as Coffey waited for his ride. Penny Masterson was chairperson of the Asian Rim Relocation Organization. Coffey had met the woman in Washington several years earlier at a seminar hosted by Amnesty International. ARRO was a not-for-profit group dedicated to assisting refugees from Indonesia, Malaysia, and other nations close to Australia. Many of those refugees ended up in Australia, most of them illegally. Those who were caught or subsequently identified were returned to their homelands. If there was anything worse than being an illegal immigrant deported from a nation, it was being an illegal emigre returned to one of those countries. Charges of treason, followed by lengthy prison sentences including hard labor were not uncommon.

The petite, strawberry-blond Penny was the perfect person for the job. The twenty-nine-year-old was sweet, she was bright, she was compassionate. She had grown up being teased about her maiden name, which was Penny Date. Boys would ask if that was how much she charged. As a result, Penny had the thickest skin of anyone Coffey had ever met. She could run for public office and win. But she wanted to help people and not, as she put it, "run a football team whose primary adversary is itself."

Penny pulled up in her old red pickup. The doorman opened the battered door. It groaned.

"Sorry, Lowell," Penny said as he climbed in. "It isn't exactly the red-carpet treatment."

"It's charming," Coffey replied diplomatically. The truth was, the truck smelled of fertilizer, and there were what Bob Herbert called HVICs on the windshield — high velocity insect casualties. The only thing charming about the vehicle was the driver. Penny's accent had little silver bells in it. Her smile gleamed like those little silver bells. And her eyes were as brilliant as the sunshine. If she were not married, he would be engaged in a very serious long-distance courtship.

"The truck is functional," Penny said. "Unfortunately, I hadn't quite mastered some of the narrow turns when that happened," she added, nodding to the dented door.

"But you have now?" Coffey asked anxiously as he buckled himself in.

Penny laughed. That was music, too. "I wouldn't put Gaby in here if I hadn't," she replied as she pulled away from the hotel.

"Gabrielle must be what, now — a year old?" Coffey asked.

"Thirteen and a half months," Penny said. "And she's a peach."

"I have no doubt," Coffey replied. "What about your husband? How is he doing?"

"Charlie is doing great," Penny said. "He quit the parks service seven months ago and became a self-employed gardener."

"Which explains the truck instead of a minivan," Coffey said.

"We've got a fleet of three!" Penny laughed. "Charlie just couldn't take it anymore. He spent more time figuring out how to implement budget cuts in his field crew than he did actually landscaping. As he put it, 'I was tired of trying to move heaven. I'd rather move earth.' "

"We've got that same problem at Op-Center," Coffey said. "Do you work with him at all?"

"On weekends I use this truck to help him transport trees, shrubs, and soil around the city and suburbs," Penny said. "I have to say, I enjoy getting my hands dirty in a wholesome way."

"It probably takes your mind off the more unpleasant things in life," Coffey said.

"It does," Penny agreed. "But I found that it also serves a purpose in my own work. When I drive up to meetings or detainment centers, people don't automatically assume I'm a homemaker who is using ARRO as something to fill the daytime hours."

Penny turned off Hickson Road. Tools rattled in the open back of the truck. Penny did not even seem to be aware of the sounds. There was something sweet about that, Coffey thought.

"How is the conference shaping up?" Coffey asked.

"It's going to be the largest of the four we've held here," Penny said. "Thirty-two nations, one hundred and eleven representatives. And the breakfast reception at the State Parliament House is going to be a first. They're finally acknowledging that we're a force to be counted. When that's done, we'll go over to the Sydney Convention Center. You'll be speaking after dinner, which means that everyone will be well-fed and ready to sit back and listen."

It also meant that Coffey would have time to mingle, eavesdrop, and find out what other people were thinking. He would have time to address up-to-the-moment issues in his speech.

"Will our nemesis Brian Ellsworth be there?" Coffey asked.

"He was invited, of course," Penny said. "But he declined as usual."

"I'd be honored to take it personally," Coffey said.

"Your keynote speech in Brisbane last year was not in his nightstand reading stack, I'm sure," Penny said. "But I do believe his disinterest is spread across the entire organization."

Ellsworth was chief solicitor for the Australian Maritime Intelligence Centre. Based in Darwin, Northern Territory, the MIC was the first line of defense against illegal aliens trying to make their way into Australia. They maintained that nationals who desired amnesty typically defected to foreign embassies in their own countries. As far as Ellsworth was concerned, every boat, plane, or raft that came through the back door carried drugs, smugglers, or terrorists. According to ARRO's research, just over 65 percent of those craft did. The other 35 percent transported people who were poor, terrified, and searching for a less oppressed life. The "Australia first" MIC had a great deal of influence in parliament. By law, illegal immigrants were typically returned to their point of origin within twenty-four hours. ARRO and the MIC were constantly fighting one another for a way to make the process more equitable.

As Penny spoke, her cell phone beeped. The young woman excused herself and answered it.

"It could be the baby-sitter," she said apologetically. She punched the hands-free phone that was bracketed to the dashboard. "Hello?"

"Mrs. Masterson?" asked a man's voice.

"This is she."

"Mrs. Masterson, is Mr. Lowell Coffey with you?"

"I'm Lowell Coffey," the attorney said. "Who is this?"

"Sir, this is Junior Seaman Brendan Murphy in the command of Warrant Officer George Jelbart, MIC," the young man replied. "I have your name from Mr. Brian Ellsworth. Sir, Warrant Officer Jelbart was wondering if you might have some free time today."

"I'm here for a conference," Coffey replied.

"Yes, sir, we know."

"What did Mr. Jelbart have in mind?" Coffey asked.

"A flight to Darwin," Murphy replied.

"That's clear across the continent!" Coffey declared. "Why does he need to see me?"

"We have a situation, sir," the officer replied. "One that he needs to discuss with you face-to-face."

"What kind of situation?" Coffey asked.

"A hot one, sir," the caller replied gravely.

The way the MIC officer emphasized hot led Coffey to believe that he was not referring to the temperature or an imminent event. That left just one interpretation.

"There are some people I should talk to before I agree to anything," Coffey said, glancing at Penny.

"We are a little squeezed for time," Murphy said. "You are the first and hopefully only call I'm making about this."

"If I decide to come, when can you arrange for transportation?"

"A P-3C patrol craft has been dispatched to Sydney Airport, Mr. Coffey," the caller replied. "It will arrive within the hour. As I said, sir, the warrant officer would like to talk to you in person."

Penny and Coffey exchanged looks. She tapped the Mute button.

"That doesn't sound like an invitation," she said.

"No," Coffey agreed. It sounded like an order.

"What do you want to do?" she asked.

"That doesn't seem to matter, does it?" he asked.

"Why not?" she asked. "You're a civilian and an American. You can tell the junior seaman, 'No thanks,' and hang up."

"Then I wouldn't find out why Ellsworth recommended they call," Coffey said. "I have a feeling the MIC is interested in talking to Op-Center, not just to Lowell Coffey."

"What makes you say that?" Penny asked.

"I'd rather not say until I'm sure," Coffey replied. It was not that he did not trust Penny. But he was an attorney. A cautious one. He did not like to say anything he did not believe or know to be true.

Coffey disengaged the Mute button.

"Where will the plane be waiting?" Coffey asked.

"If you go to the domestic cargo terminal, someone will meet you," the caller said.

"All right," Coffey said. "I'll be there."

"Thank you, sir," the junior seaman said. "I'll inform the warrant officer."

And Coffey would inform Hood.

He apologized to Penny. She said that she understood completely. He said that he hoped he would be back soon.

In his heart, though, he sensed that would not be the case. Especially if "hot" meant what he thought it did.