Sword of Allah

Port Botany, Sydney, Australia

Federal Agent Jenny Tadzic stood in the sun and felt its rays penetrate her clothes and warm her skin. It was one of those Indian summer days in Sydney when the sky was a perfect cloudless blue, painted as if by some divine hand. At thirty-seven, twice divorced and the AFP’s top transnational crime cop, Tadzic had seen enough of the world to have had most of her little girl illusions trampled on. Yet a small part of her still hoped, still believed in happy endings, particularly on days such as this when even the capricious gods themselves seemed in a benign mood.

ASIO had been brought in on the bust. The drugs were tied in with terrorists and that made it ASIO’s concern. It wasn’t usual for the boss himself to be present on these occasions, but Peter Meyer, the director-general, had wanted to be there first hand to witness whatever went down. He walked up behind Tadzic, clapped his hands together and said cheerily, ‘Well, this is something, isn’t it?’

Tadzic turned to the D-G. The man was happy. For him, this operation was evidence of industry, proof of effectiveness, but for Tadzic and the woman in the wheelchair in front of her, it meant much more. She said, ‘With respect, sir, it’s everything.’

Meyer nodded and cleared his throat. It wasn’t every day that he was made aware of his own insensitivity, but he was aware of it now. He hadn’t seen the wheelchair

Angie Noonan, AFP forensics expert, former prisoner of General Trip and, until recently, heroin junkie, had a blanket over her knees despite the blazing sun. An ambulance waited to transport her back to hospital. The government had picked up the tab, as it should, providing the very best care to help her beat the addiction and return her to health. Noonan had been lucky. Clean needles had been used. She and her boyfriend were free from hepatitis, HIV and other nasties. The DEA agent had been less fortunate. He was still fighting for his life, battling hep B and malaria.

Tadzic thought back to Myanmar, and savoured the memory. When the general had dropped his gun, it had been easy to pick it up with the incoming missiles providing such an absorbing distraction. Had she known then why she’d picked it up, what her intentions were? Perhaps, yes, she had known, but not consciously. The decision would have been made way down deep, somewhere in her brain uncomplicated by the notion of a fair trial and due process that thought an eye for an eye was fit punishment for a monster like General Trip.

Tadzic breathed in the warm Sydney breeze coming off the harbour, and watched a flock of seagulls diving and wheeling above a shoal of taylor churning the water silver. Angie Noonan’s shoulder shivered lightly under her fingertips. The young woman was still very sick, but this bust would mean a lot to her. And then the devil on Tadzic’s shoulder whispered in her ear not to get her hopes up because life often disappoints. ‘Not always,’ she said out loud. Not now, not today. Today, she had a good feeling.

‘Pardon?’ said Noonan, turning uncomfortably in her wheelchair.

‘I said, it’s a good day.’ Tadzic watched the combined AFP — ASIO — New South Wales police force swarm through the rows of containers on the dock around them.

‘Yes, it is,’ said Angie Noonan, pulling the rug up around her shoulders.

Tadzic had aimed for the face and missed, shooting the general instead in the throat. He died slowly, knowing he was dying, afraid and alone. The look in his eyes said it all. Tadzic breathed deeply again and smiled. It had been the most satisfying moment in her long career on the force. And the two men with her, Tom and Atticus, had both patted her on the back for it. They understood. They also understood that her action would have to remain a secret between the three of them. They were fine with that. They lived in a world full of secrets.

The two Australian Customs officers and their dog led the police wedge descending on container 2209LK. The animal seemed excited, but that had more to do with the testosterone in the air than the presence of illegal drugs. Container 2209LK had already been inspected, apparently by the very customs officers in the process of opening it for a second going-over. The container had been sitting on the docks for some time, waiting for its owners to claim the contents. No one had turned up. For the past two days, the container had been staked out, but it was obvious to all that the word had gotten out that retrieving the goods would be a bust. Tadzic believed that the terrorists’ distribution network had been General Trip’s. When he’d died, when I shot him, that distribution network would have been tipped off. That was an unfortunate consequence, she admitted to herself.

Various TV outside broadcast units pulled up and bunches of people jumped out of accompanying vehicles as the trucks’ antenna dishes rose on their hydraulic telescopes. A drug bust was good news for everyone: good for ratings, good for the police and especially good for the politicians. It was reassuring for the community. It said everyone was doing their job. A hundred other containers sat on the docks, and Tadzic wondered how many kilos of death and unhappiness hidden within would pass under their radar on this day. What the hell, she shrugged, she was doing her best.

Daisy was excited. She bounded up to the door before it was opened, pawing it, and ran back and forth. She wanted in. Craig and Robert knew it was just her natural exuberance. The inexperienced uniformed cops thought the dog’s behaviour was confirmation that a major find lay on the other side. The customs officers knew what they were looking for anyway, and didn’t need Daisy. But they were curious to see if, given a second chance, she could find what they already knew to be there.

The door opened with a rusty groan and the officers walked in, their flashlights searching the blackness of the far end wall. Daisy raced from pot to pot, running her nose over every item. ‘Here’s your chance to get even with those pesky snooker tables, mate,’ said Robert. The state police were right behind them and the darkness was suddenly chased away by electric lights powered by a portable generator. The two customs officers strode up to the tables, Daisy on point. The dog wandered through the legs of the tables and put her nose up, under and around them, but failed to find anything suspicious. She sat, tail wagging, panting, as if to say, ‘Nothing here, boys.’ But there was something there according to firm leads.

Craig took a pocket knife and cut under the baize. He then ripped it off. Nothing. Well, nothing but slate. ‘These are very good tables,’ he said. ‘Look at the thickness of that slate. The cheap ones just have wood bases and —’

Robert swung the hatchet down onto the slate and discovered it wasn’t so thick after all. Craig winced, uncomfortable with the symbolism of the destruction. The slate base shattered away easily, revealing yellow bricks of epoxy resin beneath. Craig shone his flashlight down onto one of these bricks. Encased within it appeared to be a white core. ‘Bingo,’ he said. ‘Strike one up to the Feds.’

Half an hour later, the police had removed the epoxy bricks from the six tables and loaded them into a police security van for transport to a high security lockdown. One of the bricks had been split open and the central core held a tile of compressed heroin of the highest grade. Depending on how it was cut, the street value of the haul was estimated to be more than ninety million Australian dollars.

The state police asked Tadzic if she wanted to make a statement for the television cameras on behalf of the AFP, but she declined. The limelight would have made her uncomfortable. She’d done her job and more on this one. Time to let it go.