Sword of Allah

US Embassy, Canberra, Australia

Gia Ferallo and Atticus Monroe sifted through the photographs, transcripts, circulars and other papers stamped ‘Secret’.

Ferallo and Monroe were two of the agency’s brightest up-and-coming stars. Ferallo had been instrumental in shutting down a major cocaine smuggling organisation headed by a former US senator with marital links to Colombia. Her Mediterranean appearance and linguistic skills had enabled her to pass herself off to the Colombian connection as a rich émigré from Argentina, eager to augment her wealth with an import — export business. The fact that both the ex-senator and the drug baron were falling over each other to take her to bed had also helped her get inside the operation. CIA HQ at Langley, Virginia, was impressed and Ferallo was put on the fast track.

Monroe also had an interesting story. In his former life he’d played half a season for the Atlanta Falcons as a defensive back. A tackle that left him with a crushed vertebra and torn cruciate ligament also left him with the risk of being a cripple for the rest of his life. He had no option but to give away the game completely. At the time, it was difficult to know who was more depressed about the career-ending injury — his team-mates, the team’s management, or his growing legion of fans. Atticus had been a major find, able to run the hundred in a shade over ten, and it seemed he would be going all the way. ‘That’s football,’ the surgeons had said when they told him nothing could be done. There was no consolation prize. He was a star, and then he was nothing.

Atticus didn’t think about it much these days. Things had turned around pretty fast. He was a football player with a brain, a political science/history major who’d won the university prizes in his final year. Out of the blue, the CIA approached him to be an analyst. It was something he’d never considered, but he’d liked the notion of it — James Bond and so forth. But, tied to a desk with paperwork, it wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d earned the reputation of being a crack shot after winning the interagency pistol marksmanship competition two years running, and had struck up quite a few friendships with field officers. Monroe liked the sound of what they did, in general terms at least. Mostly their work was shrouded in secrecy. He asked his section chief for a transfer, did the battery of psych tests, and found himself at CIA Station Prague, Czech Republic. Monroe quickly earned himself a reputation for being fearless, intelligent and resourceful. Ultimately, it was his fieldwork that had uncovered and foiled the al Qa’ida plot to assassinate the Pope during the Pontiff’s tour there.

As a reward for good work, both Ferallo and Monroe were transferred to Canberra, Australia. Once a backwater, CIA Station Canberra had become the centre of the agency’s push into the increasingly dangerous and unpredictable region of South East Asia. Ferallo and Monroe were both young and ambitious. As Monroe had put it, this was their ‘time to shine’, and the way things appeared to be shaping up, fate was going to give them plenty of opportunity to do just that.

‘They could just be having a friendly cup of coffee, checkin’ out the sights, you know…’

‘Do you believe that, Atticus?’ Ferallo said, examining the high-grade digital colour print with a lupe, a powerful magnifying glass designed especially for the purpose.

‘Not for a nanosecond.’

‘We’ve got our pal Kadar Al-Jahani having a friendly chat with three unknowns,’ said Ferallo, sifting through the sheaf of photos. ‘Why? Who are they and what’s it all about?’

‘If the tape is anything to go by, they’re having a lovely conversation about fruit and trees and stuff. Maybe they’re thinking about setting up a nursery.’

‘Hmm.’ Ferallo found what she was looking for, the transcript of the terrorists’ recorded conversation. It was frustratingly incomplete.

‘Shit,’ said Ferallo, reading through the transcript again. ‘The quality of the recording is so bad we don’t even know who the hell said what.’

‘The bit about the banker in Sydney is interesting,’ said Monroe.

‘Yeah, but who is he, what’s he doing for them and is the fact that he’s in Sydney significant? Jesus! And what about this Duat character, the guy with the great dental work. Do we know where he is?’

‘In a word, no,’ said Monroe. There was no point sugarcoating it. ‘We’ve lost Kadar too, but it’s hard to hide in South East Asia when you’re a rag head. He’ll turn up. And if he goes home, well, we’ve got eyes and ears all over that part of the world, thanks to the Israelis. Basically, if he farts, we’ll find him,’ said Monroe, trying to find something positive to add.

‘Thanks for that image, Atticus.’

‘These Aussies must be rubbing off on me. Speaking of which, is anyone in particular here rubbing off on you?’

‘In this town? They’re all politicians,’ said Ferallo disdainfully.

‘What about that soldier, Wilkes? He seems like your type.’

‘And what’s my type?’

‘The short, strong and silent type.’

‘He’s not short.’

‘Ah-ha!’ said Monroe.

Ferallo’s face filled with a hot flush. She had found herself aware of Wilkes’s presence, but hadn’t realised her attraction had been so obvious. ‘Can we just concentrate here?’ she said evasively.

A short while later, Monroe left Ferallo’s office with nothing resolved, whistling a merry tune. Goddam field agents, thought Ferallo. No responsibility whatsoever. The photos of the men were strewn across her desk. ‘Who are you?’ she asked them collectively, hoping one of them would speak up.