CHOGM Pt. 02

"I wouldn't be at all surprised if the whole thing was some elaborate charade to throw anyone watching incoming flights right off the scent, after all what better place to hide than under the nose of the observer. You say they came in from London?"

"Yes, they were travelling on British Passports and had visitor's visas for a three month stay."

"I wouldn't mind betting they have something to do with the upcoming CHOGM Regional Conference."

"That would seem a fair enough assumption, but on whose side?"

"Who knows? I have a mind to find out."

It was about that time that three clean shaven and spruced up men strode purposefully from the service entrance of the hotel and made their way by a circuitous route to the headquarters of the Commonwealth Police.

They were not observed leaving the hotel, they were however observed entering the Police Headquarters, twice. The first time by the security camera in the building which routinely filmed all people entering or leaving the building by any of three entrances, the second time was by a hidden cameraman in the building opposite the main entrance who, by hanging off the back of the most impressive 35mm Nikon which in turn was hanging off the back of the most impressive telephoto lens available, was able to take full head shots of anyone, even if they were over one hundred metres away. In this case several full head frames of all three were taken, the film removed and rushed off to be processed and the finished prints matched against all known agents and terrorists from the four corners of the globe. In the case of the trio in question, this would prove fruitless as there was no known record of them. That is not to say they weren't agents.

John Burroughs, the leader and spontaneous kisser of the group, was typical of three. Middle class to his boot straps. Born of inconspicuous parents in an insignificant little village in Central England, educated by way of village school and secondary modern, he won a scholarship to Cambridge where his consistent mediocrity at his studies kept him very firmly in the mainstream of Academia. He turned out for the second fifteen in rugby where he performed serviceably without any fanfare as their half back.

On leaving university with a good but not outstanding pass in Psychology, and before he could use his qualifications, he was called upon to serve Queen and country in the jungles of Malaya. This he did without distinction and with apparent lack of enthusiasm except for one brief moment of glory when he was promoted to the exalted ranks of Lance Corporal, and where he remained until the end of his stint.

While not having the penchant for self aggrandisement necessary for rapid promotion, he never the less came to the attention of his superiors for his uncanny ability to 'blend in' with his surroundings and his efficiency in infiltrating enemy positions. His ability to blend into the surrounding countryside was a reflection of his life in which he was able to merge into the world of his fellow man.

Frank Rogers, the pratfaller, was from similar background and circumstances. He served his stint in the RAF where he became proficient as a radio technician who managed to get the job done with a minimum of fuss and at the same time learn as much as possible about the realm of communications and electronics as they applied to military operations.

That thirst for knowledge that took him into further studies where he graduated with qualifications in electronics and set himself up, in a small way, building, repairing and operating a variety of radio equipment and other miscellaneous gadgets. It was this work that brought him in on the fringes of police work when he designed several listening devices to be used in some marginally legal investigative work for the local constabulary. This in turn brought him to the notice of the Secret Service.

The third and final member of the group was Jerry Smythe, who was nothing more or less than an extremely competent motor mechanic whose talents had been recognised by one of the leading Formula One racing teams. His job meant that he travelled extensively in the course of his employ, both with the team and his other employer, the Secret Service.

It was motor racing that brought the three together. Frank was hired to install a communications system that would allow the driver and pit crew to talk to each other during a race and without the need for those elaborate pit boards that other teams were forced to used. John had been hired by the same team to provide security for their radically designed car which was to become the dominating force in that year's championship. The three became close friends and had taken to going away together on their not too frequent holidays. It was common knowledge in the racing fraternity that such holidays were enjoyed to the full, and that it usually took time for the holiday destination to recover. It looked to be Sydney's turn. What wasn't commonly known was that, all appearances to the contrary, all three were fiercely teetotal. The cover was complete.

The purpose of their visit was to retrieve a camera bag that had been left behind in the confusion at the airport. At least that is what the informant inside the building told the observers opposite, and the fact that when they emerged from the building some time later they carried just such a bag confirmed this. The fact that it had taken some two hours for them to obtain the bag was put down to the usual bureaucratic ineptitude and lack of efficient filing system. The real reason for their visit was that they had spent much of the time in a private room in the depths of the building looking at a series of files on recent arrivals.

Of these, two were well known to them as IRA bombers, and the circumstances of their arrivals sent warning bells ringing. The first and possibly the brains of the two was a small, wiry man with a pinched face and long nose. His swarthy complexion confirmed the wholehearted way in which his female ancestors greeted the survivors of the Spanish Armada that had been wrecked off the coast of Ireland centuries before. His name was Seamus Hooley and he had been responsible for several nail and bottle bomb attacks on crowded shopping malls in the centre of Belfast.

His partner, Liam Flynn was a hulking brute of a man known for the contemptuous manner with which he brushed aside anyone smaller than himself who had the misfortune or stupidity to cross his path. Because of his size that included just about everyone and made him a handy person to have around in close quarters skirmishes. He had been shot several times but showed little outward effects of these wounds. Inside the wounds smouldered slowly to flame an already bitter hatred of Protestants in general and the British and UDC in particular.

The pair had arrived about three days before as crew on a container ship. They had jumped ship in Adelaide and it was believed that they travelled to Sydney via Melbourne in a series of stolen cars provided for them by known sympathisers. It was only suspected that they were headed for Sydney as a curtain of silence had been placed around them and the reason for their visit to Australia.

Also amongst the new arrivals was a face that was very familiar to them and immediately they saw it they had their worst fears confirmed.

"Hey I knew that I recognised this man at the airport this morning!"

"I expect you mean the sweet looking chap in the white and cerise?"

"The very same. Do you remember that case we were called in on a couple of years ago that involved the American Trade Attaché in London?"

"Yes, that wasn't him at the airport was it? If it was he must have a good plastic surgeon."

"No it wasn't him. The chap at the airport wasn't involved in that directly, at least I don't think so, but his 'friend' was or probably is the Trade Attaché."

"Then we have a real problem on our hands. Why was he at the airport? Was he looking for us or meeting someone else? Is this a Company operation?"

"I doubt if he was looking for us specifically unless our cover has been blown already, and if that is the case we have a big problem. For that to happen there would have to be a mole in place in London. More than likely he was checking arrivals. I hope. If he is here for an operation we could have the same situation we had in '69"

"Shit, I hope not."

7

The three left the Headquarters of the Commonwealth Police and proceeded to put the camera to good use doing the tourist bit around the city. They wandered around the Rocks and Circular Quay taking photos of the old buildings and the Harbour Bridge. Then via the Opera House and the Domain and along the wharves of Woolloomooloo to McLeay Street and Kings Cross. Here it was that they really threw themselves into the local scene with such enthusiasm that they were thrown out of several strip joints and other pleasure palaces for trying to join the 'artistes' on stage.

They swaggered and then staggered through the streets of the Cross, pausing several times to introduce themselves to the street vendors of the female persuasion.

It was around 3.00am when they staggered noisily and erratically into the foyer of their hotel, much to the chagrin of the night porter who had just settled down to watch a video tape featuring the carnal gymnastics of some of Hollywood's better known residents. The appearance of the revellers also caused Russell a great deal of consternation as he had not seen them leave in the first place. His only consolation was that if they had, it wasn't by the front door. He would have to report this immediately as it was not the kind of thing that one just let happen.

He ran quickly to the nearest public phone and put in a call to Brian Thompson's home number. The voice that answered the phone was that of a man who did not enjoy answering his phone at three in the morning at the best of times. The news that he heard made him less happy and the whole situation was compounded by the fact that having plied a certain airline hostess with the best food and wine that his credit card could afford, and enticing her back to his flat for a night cap, Brian had just experienced the worst possible form of coitus Interruptus, the unexpected and unwanted phone call.

Russell put down the receiver with ringing ears and strict instructions to be in Brian's office at exactly 9.00am for re-assignment. He recalled the words 'Society Tea Parties' featuring prominently in the conversation, and the thought of this punishment turned the trip back to his lonely flat into a nightmare. His career was in tatters almost before it had started. How could he redeem himself? If he couldn't, who would employ a defrocked journalist? Would he even have the intestinal fortitude to front in the morning? These thoughts were to plague him for the remainder of the night.

Russell French had joined the newspaper the year before following his graduation as a journalist from Sydney University and had shown enough promise to suggest that his time at University hadn't been totally wasted. He was at last coming to terms with his writing style. Gone were the reams of flowery prose that oozed forth from his typewriter only to find themselves in the Sub-Editor's waste basket. He was becoming known in the more usual watering holes frequented by his contemporaries for the pipe that he affected which was getting more anti-social by the day and it didn't matter what tobacco he used it still had the acquired aroma of shredded woollen blankets and week old socks.

As he shuffled to his room a conference was taking place inside the hotel that he had just left. A conference in which the best laid plans were beginning to take shape. A conference between three alarmingly sober agents.

"First off we have to get a motor. I don't think it wise to travel around everywhere by cab, it would be too easy for someone to keep tabs on us. Now, the question is do we buy a car of our own or do we lease one?"

"Why not both? We could use a renter for normal running when it doesn't matter if we are followed and have something better for other use."

"Ok. If we get a car, what kind do we get, Jerry, do you have any ideas?"

"We need something that that will go fast when we need it to but won't seem out of place puttering about the streets. In other words something a few years old that, in its day was quick and with little tweaking will be able to go as fast again if not faster. The local chariots can only be made to go quickly at the expense of their inconspicuousness. I would suggest something like a Mark 2 Triumph 2500 or a Rover 3500, both of which were good, quick and very safe cars. I lean towards the Triumph because I am more familiar with its intricacies."

"How long will it take to prepare something like that?"

"Give me a good workshop and a day and I will produce something that will scare the pants off the local boy racers."

8

Sydney Morning Herald

Tuesday February 7, 1978

DRUG SQUAD CHIEF CALLS FOR BORDER ROAD BLOCKS

Melbourne - A police Inspector called yesterday for border checks on highways between NSW and Vic. to make spot inspections of vehicles for drugs.

ZOO CHIEF WILL STAY IN JOB.

The headlines stared at him from the paper he carried as he walked into Brian's office at precisely 9.00am. Russell at last made up his mind to go onto the offensive and tough it out. With his speech carefully rehearsed and his delivery stride rapidly approaching he pushed open the door ready to launch it only to find the room empty.

He sat on the edge of the desk and revised his speech yet again. The twenty-third mental draft had just been consigned to the mental wastebasket when Brian came storming into his office. "What are you doing here? Get your arse down to the hotel and see if you can spot one or all of our friends sneaking out."

"But, but, but", He stammered "You ordered me to be here this morning to be re-assigned."

"Look mate, the sooner you realise that whatever I might say after being interrupted in mid-fornication at some ungodly hour of the morning should be ignored completely the next day the better. Now get out of here before I suddenly remember just what it was that I said last night."

Russell got. He scampered out of the office and hurried as fast as he could to the hotel, arriving breathless and too late by at least fifteen minutes, not that he knew that at the time.

He took up a position from which he could watch both the lifts and the dismantling of the fashion show that had held his interest the previous evening.

"Excuse me." The voice was soft and low and set his pulses racing, "I wonder if you could give me a hand with this case? My car is just outside." She indicated a largish bag which, when he tried to lift it, seemed to weigh a tonne, but which he manfully lugged out to an MGB parked at the kerb. He hefted it onto the back seat of the car.

"What have you got in here, all the silverware?"

"I'll ignore that insult. Thank you for helping me, you're an angel." She planted a purely platonic kiss on his furiously blushing cheek and climbed into the car.

"Excuse me, but I don't suppose you have seen three Englishmen, about forty years old, sort of medium height and build and with a debauched look about them around the place this morning?" It was a desperate attempt on his part to delay her departure in the hope that he might just be able to pluck up enough courage to ask her out to dinner.

"Have I what! The dirty old buggers tried to chat me up. Who are they?"

"I don't know. All that I know is that I'm supposed to keep an eye on them and follow them when they leave."

"Well you'd better get mobile, they left about fifteen minutes ago."

"Oh shit. Sorry, but I don't suppose you know which way they went?"

"Yes. They caught a cab and I heard them give the address of a car yard out on Parramatta Road."

"Thanks a lot." He rummaged in his pocket in a desperate but unsuccessful attempt to find enough money for cab fare."

"You men are totally useless. I'm heading out that way, why don't you jump in and I'll give you a lift."

Oh frabjous day. Kalooy, Kalay. Russell's mind went into cartwheels of joy, his dreams had all come true. He clambered over the door of the car as he had seen her do, although not nearly as elegantly. His backside had no sooner hit the seat than his back was thrust back into it by the force of the car accelerating from the forecourt and squirting out into the traffic.

Russell experienced a rush of adrenaline as he watched her work the car expertly through the heavy traffic down Pyrmont Road towards Parramatta Road.

By the time that they had reached Parramatta Road she had told him that her name was Jenny Peters and that she was a fashion model, being a reporter (male) with 'normal' urges he was already aware of this, and that she was moderately successful in that she didn't have to have a second job to support herself. She was currently without boyfriend, which was encouraging, twenty years old, which was just right.

"What do you do? I noticed you hanging around the hotel most of yesterday and last night, are you something exciting like a private detective?"

"Hardly. I'm a reporter and I'm supposed to be following those blokes and I don't even know why. I'm not very good at my job either. They got out last night without me seeing them."

"Are you the only person watching the hotel?"

"Yes, well at least from the paper, why?"

"Well don't blame yourself then. If I knew that someone was watching for me to leave I'd have no problem giving them the slip. There are at least three exits from the hotel that I know of."

She pulled the car to the side of the road. "There they are. I'll just back around the corner so that we can watch them without it being too obvious." She reversed the car and parked it so that they could see what was happening across the road.

"Look, thanks a lot for your help. I'll take it from here."

"Like hell you will. This is more fun that what I had planned for this morning. And anyhow you're going to need someone to drive you around and I'm free,"

"Oh alright. Can you wait here while I call in for further instructions? If they make a move come and get me."

Russell set off down the road to where he had seen a public telephone on a corner. "Brian, I'm out on Parramatta Road and it looks as if they are buying a car."

"How did you get out there so quickly?"

"The future Mrs Russell French drove me, what do you think?"

"Don't get smart with me young Russell, just don't lose them."

He sauntered back to the car, hardly believing his luck, the luck that allowed him to find himself sitting in a sports car, not his own unfortunately, with the most beautiful girl he had ever met. They sat chatting to each other about each other and becoming very friendly while watching the three men haggling with a salesman over a dark navy Triumph, gleaming with new wax in the bright sunlight.

After a further ten minutes during which one of the men, the one who seemed to know the most about cars, crawled under the bonnet and the rest of the car and then took it for a test drive, the deal was sealed with a handshake and the salesman and the other two adjourned to the office to finalise the transaction while the third man drove the car to the workshop at the rear of the yard.

Surprisingly a taxi pulled up and the two who weren't working on the car got in and it headed back in the direction of the city. Jenny decided to follow it and Russell had no alternative but to go along with her decision, not that he would have wanted to.

The taxi dropped them at the office of a nationally franchised car rental agency. "I wonder what they are up to now." Russell thought out loud.

"I suppose that they are renting a car."