Copyright © 2013 Ian Trevena
ISBN: 9781483513874
The moral right of Ian Trevena to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the author.
The characters in this book are entirely fictitious.
For Sue
Thank you John
‘What do you seek from me?’
David St Lawrence spoke with a slow, rumbling baritone that matched his large and elegantly-dressed frame. Seated at the imposing antique desk that dominated his study on Rue Clemenceau, a just-lit cigarette in his right hand and a Meisterstuck held precisely in his left, he lifted his eyes from the document in front of him and locked them squarely onto those of his visitor.
‘I … they … just your support, Mr St Lawrence.’
‘I see.’ St Lawrence paused. ‘My money, you mean.’
‘Your support for causes like this is well known…’ The man’s voice trailed off and in the silent seconds that followed St Lawrence moved only to ash his cigarette into the gold dish beside his right hand.
By contrast, the other man appeared ill at ease as he waited for St Lawrence to speak. His hands moved constantly from his lap to the arms of his chair to his copy of the proposal St Lawrence was considering. He fretted nervously at his cuff.
‘The cause is worthy and the target is well-chosen,’ continued St Lawrence, ignoring his visitor’s discomfiture. ‘However, I do not agree with the tactics. They will lack sufficient impact.’
‘I’m sure my client would welcome your advice on any part of the program.’
‘Yes, we shall come to that. But first, let me reassure you. Your proposal has my support.’
‘It … does? Why, thank you, sir. On behalf of my clients, thank you very much.’
‘There are two conditions.’
‘Oh, yes?’ The man lifted his chin slightly and waited but St Lawrence was in no hurry. He watched his visitor for some time. Watched as a bead of sweat appeared on the man’s top lip. Smoke from St Lawrence’s cigarette formed itself into an elegant curl and rose into the dark depths of the high-ceilinged room.
‘No one outside this room will know of my involvement. I will not be publicly associated with this campaign.’
‘Yes, no, of course not, Mr St Lawrence. But my clients may want to acknowledge your generosity in some way.’
‘Do you really think so?’ It wasn’t a question. Rather, an appraisal of the man opposite, who missed the point entirely.
‘Well I wouldn’t be surprised…’
‘I do not need a brand for this particular part of my business.’
This confused Willis. David St Lawrence was a well-known benefactor of environmental causes around the globe. Why would he see this proposal differently? Why not be open about his support? Willis didn’t know and decided he didn’t care. He was nodding now, a little too enthusiastically.
‘Ah, yes, of course. I can see that now.’
‘That’s good. Because if my name becomes in any way associated with this endeavour I will hold you – personally – responsible.’ He paused to again ash his cigarette. ‘Is that clear, Mr Willis?’
‘Er, yes, Mr St Lawrence. Crystal.’ I can live with that, thought Willis. ‘And the second condition?’
‘I will be sending one of my protégés to assist your client. As my representative, he or she will be accorded the respect that I myself would expect were I to be there in person.’
‘Yes, Mr St Lawrence, of course. And again, thank you very much.’
Willis was immensely relieved as he stood up to leave. He held his hand out to St Lawrence but the interview was clearly over and Willis was left standing awkwardly as St Lawrence turned his attention to a speck of ash that had fallen to the desktop short of its golden target.
Willis turned toward the door and for the first time since entering the room ten minutes earlier noticed the woman sitting quietly in an armchair in a darkened corner, legs elegantly crossed and arms folded in what the psycho-zealots would describe as a defensive posture. But this woman was anything but defensive. She clearly approved of St Lawrence’s homily, nodding slowly in affirmation, a thin smile on her full lips. She turned her head slightly to face Willis as he moved toward the door, the blue intensity of her gaze leaving Willis suddenly cold and wondering whether this deal was indeed as favourable as he had thought it to be just moments before.
With Willis gone, Françoise Meunier rose from her chair and approached St Lawrence’s desk.
‘So, what do you think, Françoise?’ St Lawrence asked.
Meunier sat in the second of St Lawrence’s visitor chairs.
‘I think the proposal is a good one, David. Our new friends in The Earth Alliance seem to have found a striking opportunity, if you’ll pardon the pun. But I’m not sure about Willis – he appears to be out of his depth.’
‘Willis is just the intermediary. Our business is with…’ and here he referred to the document he had put to one side, ‘…with Joshua. He is the one with the ideas and who shows some leadership. But he will need guidance.’
‘Quite. Who will you send?’
‘I want you to manage this, Françoise. You will be my representative.’
Meunier smiled. ‘Thank you, David. I am pleased you have confidence in me.’
‘I do. You have your father’s intelligence and his persuasive charm. He would be very proud of you.’
‘My father was the greatest man I have ever known.’
St Lawrence smiled and nodded and a deep rumble signified his agreement.
Meunier continued. ‘He was robbed of the chance to fulfil his ambitions. I consider it an honour to continue his work. That’s what drives me, David.
‘Not revenge?’
‘No, not revenge. Even though my father’s memory deserves it.’
‘Before he died I gave my word I would watch over you.’
‘And so you have.’
‘Yes … so I have’, he said thoughtfully. ‘So I must ask you… we are both aware of your personal interest in this venture. I would like to think that that interest will provide focus – as opposed to being a distraction. You must assure me that this will be so.’
‘You have my word.’
‘Good, because the plan brought to us by Willis is unlikely to be sufficient to achieve our goals. It’s passive, timid. It needs a strong guiding hand. Your hand, Françoise.’
‘I already have ideas, David.’
St Lawrence smiled in acknowledgement of Meunier’s talents.
‘Tell me, how would you describe the outcome we seek?’ St Lawrence was now speaking as master to pupil.
‘A sustainable world. One where there is food, shelter and land for all.’
‘What is our role in achieving that?’
‘Where there’s debate, we’re catalysts – we insert a sense of urgency. Where there’s no debate, we shape public behaviour more directly.’
‘By what means?’
‘By any means, David. Our goal must be realised whatever the short-term cost to the individual or to society. We place no moral constraints on our actions.’
‘How will you shape behaviour in this case?’
‘Fear is a strong driver.’
‘Fear of change?’
‘No, David. Just fear.’
****************************
Stephen Willis’ sense of foreboding was beginning to lift as he emerged from Rue Clemenceau into the mid-winter sun of Cours Mirabeau and away from the presence of the strangely charismatic woman in St Lawrence’s office. But he remained deep in thought and was perhaps the only person on that famous avenue not to be taken by its beauty as he headed west beneath the leafless plane trees. St Lawrence was renowned for being a tough negotiator yet he had accepted Willis’ proposal with very little debate. That must mean he was impressed by it – right? And by Willis himself? Why else would he have supported it? The conditions he placed seemed quite straightforward. Sure, Willis didn’t fully understand what the second one meant in practical terms but he was sure his client would be OK with it.
At the Avenue Victor-Hugo Willis hailed a taxi to the Aix-en-Provence railway station and by the time he had boarded the TGV to Paris his usual optimistic demeanour had returned. In fact he felt so positive that he decided to chance his fortune and check his bank balance. He tapped his iPhone, waited a few seconds and … there it was already! Two hundred thousand US dollars paid into his account! He quickly reminded himself that this money was for his client – minus a small management fee, of course. Best let the client know without delay. For that task he pulled out a prepaid mobile he’d purchased with cash on his arrival in Paris the day before. He switched it on, keyed in ‘Good news! Proposal accepted in full. On way home’, entered the number of his client’s mobile (also prepaid and purchased with cash) and hit Send. Done. His client would have no trouble interpreting that; equally it wouldn’t trigger any alerts in some spook’s computer. He switched off the phone, its job done; he would toss it when he left the train.
By now his mood was nothing short of ebullient and he decided to treat himself to an upgrade on his flight home from Paris. Yes! Why not? He tapped his iPhone again, jumped to the Qantas app and completed the transaction before closing his eyes for a short rest on the fast train to Paris.
Some found Levi Baume brusque. The rest just found him abrasive. Isabella Jones wasn’t sure which camp she was in but she’d worked out long ago that Baume was good at his job as section head within the Australian Federal Police force, even if he did seem to favour men over women when it came to assignments and promotions.
They were sitting in Levi’s Canberra office. It was 7.05am. He had made coffee and taken the trouble to comb his thinning hair.
‘I’m reassigning you.’
‘But Sanderson is nowhere near done. We’re making ground. I’ve been…’
Baume cut her off. ‘It’s nothing to do with Sanderson.’
He paused, obviously uncomfortable about what was next.
‘I need you elsewhere.’
‘Well it had better be good.’ Then, trying to lighten things up but failing: ‘I hear Barbados is nice this time of year.’
‘Flippancy doesn’t become you, Isabella.’ Again Levi paused. ‘I need you in Sydney until the end of the month.’
‘O-kay… so it’s a domestic assignment.’
‘Er, yeah.’
More silence.
‘And…?’
‘It’s the Sydney Festival.’
‘What? The Sydney Festival? You’ve got to be kidding … sir! That’s fucking ridiculous! Nursemaid to politicians and VIPs? Making sure they look good to their adoring public?’
The Sydney Festival is an annual celebration of culture, music, theatre, dance, visual arts and talks that pretty much took over the centre of Sydney for the month of January. Originally designed to bring people into the city during what for many was a holiday month, the Festival has become almost as big an institution as the New Year’s Eve fireworks over the Sydney Harbour Bridge, drawing over one million people into the city centre over a three week period. With multiple venues and events, some ticketed and many free and with a family focus, the Festival is a challenge from many angles: artistic planning, logistics, transport, coordination of volunteers, accommodation, ticketing and not least security. Planning for this year’s Festival had started three years earlier and was now well and truly complete.
‘You get me in at 7am to tell me this?!’
Baume was suddenly energised.
‘I’ll get you in at whatever time I want, to tell you whatever I want you to hear. Now listen. The word from on high is that those very same politicians whose needs you can’t wait to attend to are pissed off with Simpson and his team – no finesse. The assignment calls for a sharp policing mind and large amounts of tact and political savvy; the Festival is the New South Wales Government’s baby and there are few better platforms for the Premier and her ministers to parade around on. I’m putting you in because you’re diplomatic – when you’re not swearing at your boss – and street-smart. Most of all, you’re good at sniffing out gaps in the cover.’
‘But there are plenty of others who can do that as well as me,’ she pleaded.
‘Nevertheless! I’ve made the decision. I want you in Sydney by tomorrow morning. You’ll be working with a Christopher Weiss. His company has the contract for venue security.’
Baume handed her a sheet of paper with a profile of Weiss’s firm. She started reading and stopped at the second line.
‘ABC Events? Gee, what a clever name. What marketing brainiac came up with that one?’ Isabella’s irritation surfaced as sarcasm and Baume ignored it.
‘You’ll be Weiss’s intelligence liaison. And you’ll provide advice in planning and incident response arrangements.’
‘Surely nobody thinks that the Sydney Festival will be a target for anything? It’s politically innocuous.’
Isabella was clutching at straws, and as soon as she said this she regretted it. She knew as well as anyone that terrorism targets didn’t fit patterns. There was a school of thought that Australia had got off lightly so far. The UK had the July 2005 London bombings, not to mention the IRA attacks going back decades; the US had 9/11 and before that Oklahoma City; Spain seemed to have at least one train bombing every year; Kenya had had numerous embassy bombings and of course the Westgate Mall; India had the Mumbai hotel atrocities, Pakistan had in the last year seen horrific escalation of unwonted and unwanted violence; and the list went on. Sure, Australia had seen terrorism close to home – in Bali – but some said it was just a matter of time before the Aussies copped one on home soil…
Baume saw her chagrin and sat quietly while her own thoughts brought her back on track. She was a top-line agent. Probably the best he had. He raised an eyebrow as if to say ‘Are you finished?’ then dropped any semblance of apology, replacing it with an emphasis that commanded Isabella’s attention.
‘You need to keep your eyes open on this one, Bella.’
She replied with a few slow and thoughtful nods.
‘I know the Sydney Festival may not seem as sexy as international drug cartels and weapons smuggling, but Sydney will draw a lot of attention between now and the end of the Festival and not all of it will be from tourists. We can’t afford to let anything through the net. ABC will need all the help you can give them. And I’ll need a daily report as usual.’
She conceded with a smile and a question. ‘So who do I get?’
‘You can have Johnson and Wells.’
This was a good sign, thought Isabella. Robbie Wells and Peter Johnson were both working with Isabella on the Sanderson case and the three of them worked well as a team. Johnson was an AFP Analyst of the highest calibre, skilled in IT and gifted when it came to extracting meaning from diverse pieces of information, whether textual or numeric. Wells was a young and enthusiastic AFP Agent who would no doubt make it to the upper reaches of the organisation. He had the pedigree for it anyway – father retired as a respected senior officer in the NSW Police Force, and mother came from Old Money in Sydney’s Eastern Suburbs. Still, to his credit, Robbie’s achievements at the AFP were very much his own, and you would not know by working with him that his background was so favoured. She wondered how they would take the news that they, too, were being reassigned. Telling them would be her job, of course.
Despite her initial protests, Isabella could see that Levi was, for once, favouring her with this assignment, even if it did look like Bland Central. It was hardly going to lead to an adrenalin overdose, was it? Still, it would make her visible to those who mattered and provided all went to plan it wouldn’t do her career any harm. Yes, she admitted to herself, she was ambitious. Like Johnson and Wells, she was titled a ‘Federal Agent’, the label given to all AFP personnel below the rank of Commander. In earlier days she would have been titled Inspector – quite an achievement for one of her years – yet she had already decided that the rank of Commander suited her better. She was still two ranks below that esteemed post, and that was her driving aspiration.
Isabella thought about the Sanderson case. Drugs out of Asia. She’d been working it undercover for six months and had had successes acknowledged by AFP brass. But she’d heard on the vine that the DEA was about to take over – that was all hush-hush apparently; need-to-know, and all that – and once that happened it’d turn to mud under Hummer-sized boots. And more to the point, she’d report to some Yank who’d drop Johnson and Wells before you could say ‘drug mule’ and bring in his own team.
Isabella wondered whether Baume knew about the DEA. She applied a simple test…
‘So, who’s replacing me on Sanderson?’
‘Simpson. More coffee?’
****************************
Isabella had a lot to do. She started by making phone calls.
The first call was to AFP Transfers. She would need accommodation in Sydney for the duration of the secondment, say, six weeks. ‘Already arranged,’ they said. Levi had been there before her and secured an AFP apartment in Balmain. She scanned the specs and realised that this place was a Grade 6 – two steps above her entitlement. Big tick for you, Levi – looks like you’re back on my Christmas card list, thought Isabella with a smile.
The second and third calls were to Wells and Johnson. Wells was already based in Sydney, so relocation would not be an issue for him; Johnson could probably remain living in Canberra – his role was predominantly tech-based and could be done from anywhere. Isabella was surprised (and inwardly pleased) that they both sounded positive about the new assignment. ‘I have the feeling that Sanderson’s about to scale down anyway,’ suggested Robbie.
‘Really?’ thought Isabella.
She then arranged for the three of them to meet with Simpson at 11am for a Sanderson debriefing. Following that, Isabella would take Wells and Johnson through what she knew about their new case. Wells would join both meetings by secure video.
It was now 9.15am. Time for the fourth phone call.
‘Hi Mum, how are you?’
‘Oh, hello Dear. Just back from my swim. It’s beautiful out there today.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Everything OK?’
Fiona Jones, as mothers do, had picked up the tentative tone in Isabella’s voice.
Isabella gave a shallow sigh. ‘I’ve been given a new assignment, Mum. I’ll be away in Sydney for a few weeks.’
‘Oh,’ trying to disguise her disappointment. ‘Something interesting, I hope?’
‘You know I can’t tell you, Mum. Look, I’m sorry, but it sort of buggers up your party.’
‘Yes, I’d worked that one out,’ and with an understandable sigh said, ‘It can’t be helped, Bella. I know it’s your job.’ Fiona was turning fifty on the 23rd of January and had planned a party for that night. Isabella was her eldest child and of course would have been an important part of the celebrations.
‘I might be able to get back for the big night, but don’t know yet.’
‘We’ll save you some cake!’ Fiona put on her cheerful voice. ‘When do you leave?’
‘This evening. I’m on the 9:30 flight.’
‘Oh dear, that soon. Have you got everything you need?’
‘Well, pretty much, but do you think you’d be able to help with the plants and the mail?’
Isabella’s home was as conveniently low-maintenance as her mother’s was comfortably cluttered. It suited her high-travel lifestyle but the minimalist style provided a hollow welcome whenever she closed the front door behind her. The plasma TV (‘But why do you need one this big?’) had a superb picture but was somehow wasted on Isabella alone and certainly didn’t add any softness to the one large room that comprised nearly all the apartment. By contrast, the suburban house she had grown up in and in which her mother still lived was replete with garden, dog, cat, books, cushions, rugs, fifty years (almost!) of life’s paraphernalia and friends within walking distance – indicative of a contented life, surely?
‘I suppose I could just about manage that,’ said Fiona. ‘You sure there’s nothing else I can do?’
‘No thanks Mum, the plants and the mail would be fabulous, though.’ Isabella wondered why parents needed to be needed even when their children were grown up. It wasn’t as if her mother had oodles of spare time – she was a Professor of English at ANU and worked part time as a tutor in an adult literacy programme.
‘Do you have time to come for dinner on the way to the airport? I’ll do a lasagne.’
‘That’d be fabulous. I was hoping you’d say that. Thanks Mum.’
‘OK, well I’ll see you tonight, then.’
Isabella was relieved as she hung up. She’d had visions of her Mum doing the guilt trip thing. I guess she’s worked out that I’m not a kid anymore, she thought to herself.
Toby, on the other hand… Toby was still Isabella’s little brother: innocent and somehow vulnerable even in adulthood, and Isabella accepted that it was her job to protect him, just like she did when they were young.
Isabella called Toby to let him know that their weekly games of chess would have to be put on hold. No, Isabella wouldn’t forget that he was leading 13-10 in the current round of scoring. Yes, playing on Yahoo sounded like a good alternative. Yes, Isabella knew how to connect to Yahoo. Jeez, Toby could be patronising sometimes.
Still, she’d miss him.
****************************
It was now 9.35am. Isabella made what she hoped would be her final call for the morning.
‘Christopher Weiss’s office,’ stated a chirpy female voice.
‘Good morning, could I speak with Christopher Weiss, please?’
‘May I ask who is calling?’
‘It’s Isabella Jones. I’m hoping he might be expecting my call.’
‘Just a moment, please Ms Jones.’
After two moments of silence, a matter-of-fact baritone was on the line.
‘Chris Weiss.’
‘Good morning, Mr Weiss. This is Isabella Jones. AFP.’
‘Ah, Ms Jones. I’ve been expecting your call. I understand you’ll be in Sydney tomorrow? I’m looking forward to meeting you.’
‘Yes, that’s right… I mean, so am I.’ Isabella was suddenly flustered. Weiss was obviously prepared for this call, and she wasn’t.
‘How are you placed at, say, eight o’clock?’
‘Uh… yes, eight will be fine,’ said Isabella without really knowing that it would be.
‘Good. We’re on level 38 Grosvenor Place. Sophie will look after you when you arrive.’
‘Thank you … Mr Weiss.’
‘Chris,’ offered Weiss.
‘Chris,’ echoed Isabella, but rather less confidently than she had intended.
Well that didn’t go very well, Jones. You’re meant to be his intelligence confidante and you come across sounding like a ditzy school girl. Damn! Better do some homework – on ABC and Mr Chris Weiss – before tomorrow’s meeting.
Chris Weiss hung up his phone wondering whether this Isabella Jones would be up to the job. Didn’t seem all that confident, was his preliminary assessment. Perhaps she’s better in the flesh, he muttered quietly to himself.
****************************
It turned out that there were three parties to that phone call. The last to hang up was Sophie Tate, Weiss’s Personal Assistant, whose phone was on mute. As the call ended, she gently cradled her handset and was making some notes when Christopher Weiss called to her through the open doorway of his office. She quickly finished her notes, put them under a folder holding this month’s departmental expense claims, and appeared beside Weiss’s desk, with a smile.
‘Isabella Jones will be here at 8am tomorrow. There’s a chance I may be a little late. Keep her entertained if I’m not here, won’t you?’
‘Of course, Christopher. I’ll look after her, don’t worry.’
‘Yes, I, er, know you will. Sorry, I needn’t have asked.’
‘That’s alright.’ Sophie knew that her boss was under pressure in the lead up to the Festival. ‘Don’t forget you’ve got a 10am today with Hayden Yorke – he’s expecting you at his office in ten minutes.’
‘No, I hadn’t forgotten. Need it like a hole in the head, though. He’ll want his daily reassurance that nothing will go wrong with the Festival.’
Hayden Yorke was Chief of Staff to the NSW Minister for the Arts. He had an irritating tendency to place himself about fifteen rungs higher up the ladder than he really was.
****************************
Isabella’s fifty-minute flight landed at Kingsford Smith on time at 10:20pm before taxiing to the terminal and waiting patiently while its passengers gathered up their belongings and stood hunched beneath the overhead lockers waiting for their turn to stumble and shuffle toward the exit. Isabella collected her luggage from the carousel and was in a cab by 10:40am.
‘Balmain, please. Clifton Street.’
Twenty minutes later the cab dropped Isabella outside a rather charming three-storey stuccoed building half way down a short cul-de-sac. She was in apartment 305. She hefted her suitcase up the short flight of steps into the foyer then looked around for the lift … Bugger!
Bump, bump, bump – Isabella and her suitcase made the ascent to level 3 one step at a time. She caught her breath once she reached the top landing, put the key in the lock to 305 and with just a little trepidation opened her apartment door. She was greeted with a view of Sydney Harbour and the lights of the city. Wow! She forgot about the climb up the stairs, threw open the French doors to the small but stylish balcony and sucked in the salty, evening air. This will do nicely!
The light through the plantation shutters forecast a sunny summer’s day. Isabella showered under steaming hot water, finishing with a blast of pure cold. She had read somewhere that French women did this to preserve their figure. Vous devez aimer les femmes françaises. She took pride in her presentation – her intellect, her body and her grooming. At twenty seven, she was fit and strong – essential in her role as an AFP agent – and had had no complaints about her body from what was a lengthy list (too long?) of boyfriends. But then why…? She moved on from that train of thought, for she knew where it would lead – to Andy and his recent departure from her life and self-pity that he was right now in someone else’s bed. Isabella had no trouble catching men but why couldn’t she hang on to them? To close down this self-destructive line of thinking she consoled herself with the truth: that it was not her per se, but that a job in the AFP was not sympathetic with putting down roots. A cliché and a truth.
****************************
By 7:55 Isabella was sitting in a comfortable reception area deep within the Grosvenor Place head offices of ABC Events. As the crow flies she was less than two kilometres from her temporary home in Balmain. The taxi ride had taken twenty five minutes. Isabella made a mental note to get her aging Vespa shipped up from Canberra. Wouldn’t cost much, would it?
Sophie Tate greeted her, apologising that Weiss was not yet in. Sophie was, Isabella guessed, in her early-mid-twenties, 174cm (with heels) and immaculately groomed. The latter for her own benefit? Expensive perfume.
‘Is it warm outside, Ms Jones? Would you like a glass of water?’
‘Er, no thanks,’ Isabella replied, wondering whether she was overly red or something.
‘Or coffee or tea?’
Now you’re talking.
‘Coffee would be lovely, thank you. Just black.’
Isabella flicked through an ABC brochure while she waited. Not surprisingly it echoed what she had learned from the AFP database and the web the night before. ABC was a substantial outfit. They not only managed large events, but also provided general site security, personal security and security technology. A plethora of case studies vouched for their capability. They conducted a significant amount of business with the NSW Government. They must have lots of contacts, mused Isabella; and lots of contacts means lots of potential cracks in the armour.
The AFP database had also provided a brief bio on Christopher Weiss. Not much of interest to Isabella. No matter – she would make her own assessment.
Sophie returned with Isabella’s coffee. ‘Here you are,’ she said with a smile, placing a bone china cup and saucer on the side table.
‘Thanks very much.’
Isabella took a sip and winced. The coffee was ridiculously strong. Sophie Tate observed the reaction.
‘Sorry, do you prefer it weak?’ Isabella was beginning to dislike this woman. ‘I get used to making it strong for Christopher – he likes it that way.’
‘I bet he does,’ Isabella muttered to herself before forcing her pursed lips into a sweet smile and saying, ‘No, this is fine, thank you.’ Isabella was still wondering about Weiss (and Sophie Tate!) when a man walked into the room and introduced himself as Christopher Weiss. Isabella recognised his voice from the previous day’s phone call. Weiss was tallish, straight and looked Isabella in the eye as he held out his hand to greet her.
‘Isabella Jones. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise. I’m sorry I’m late. You have a coffee? Good. He turned briefly to Sophie, ‘None for me, thanks Sophie.’
‘Please come in,’ he said to Isabella as he steered her into his office and closed the door.
They quickly moved to business, which for Isabella meant getting an understanding of the scope of ABC’s responsibilities vis-à-vis the Festival. She wanted to ensure at the outset that she and Weiss were complementing each other.
ABC was responsible for the physical security of venues twenty four hours a day, seven days a week from the time the first piece of scaffolding went in until it was dismantled. For most venues, such as Hyde Park, work would commence immediately after New Year. Some venues, like the Opera House, would retain their own security.
‘How many venues are there?’
‘Twenty, mostly in the city of Sydney, but of course some events – the Australia Day Ferrython, for instance – draw half a million to the Harbour foreshore. That’s not really a venue and it’s definitely out of scope. The main events are around the Opera House, in the Domain and Hyde Park.
‘My group also provides crowd control, traffic management, personnel security and transport for many of the entertainers. The people needed to do all this – that’s about fifteen hundred – are a mix of employees and contractors. ABC vets them all. That’s not done in my group, though – conflict of interest – another ABC division provides that service. ABC also provides the security technology needed at each venue: ticket scanners, monitors, networks, telecoms, security lighting, and the power all that equipment needs. Oh, and ABC is also supplying some specialist equipment, like the laser projectors for the Opera House light show on opening night.’
Isabella interrupted him. ‘If I had a question about the scanning technology, who would I ask?’
‘You’d start with Sharyn Boske. She heads up the Technology Group. They manage the technology that my team uses. They also provide biometric security – fingerprint readers and facial recognition, but they’re not required for the Festival.’
‘OK, thanks. Please go on, this is very interesting.’ Isabella hoped she sounded genuine; she was impressed with Weiss’s understanding of his role, and his ability to communicate it.
Weiss acknowledged the compliment with a smile and continued.
‘We don’t usually provide power for the events themselves – the event organisers’ sound and lighting guys take care of that. We like to be independent on that front.’
‘Good idea. How do you vet your people?’
‘I’m not entirely sure about that. I gather it’s a combination of police records and privately-sourced databases. ABC is also managing corporate hospitality and other Festival venue facilities – you know, portaloos and so on – we do that through our Events division.’
‘Anything that ABC doesn’t do?’ Isabella asked with what she hoped was some humour.
‘ABC does have a large stake in the success of the Festival, yes.’
Weiss hadn’t intended to put Isabella in her place, and he quickly moved on.
‘But there are limits to what we can do. For example, NSW Police will be present at all Festival venues and they will deal with any law-breaking and will assume control in the event of significant trouble. And of course, we rely on the AFP for background intelligence reports. I presume you have been briefed?’
Isabella mentally ran through the notes from her debrief with Simpson.
‘Yes, I have. To date the AFP has not received any intelligence that might be considered relevant to this exercise.’
Weiss simply nodded. ‘That was true up until Sunday.’
‘What?’
‘The NSW Minister for the Arts – sponsor if you like of the Festival – received an email on Sunday morning. It contained a threat of sorts, but it is far from clear what is intended.’
‘Who is it from? What do they say?’
‘It’s from a group calling itself ‘The Earth Alliance’. Ever heard of them?’
Isabella shook her head.
‘No, nobody here has either. I have a copy of the email.’ He dropped a sheet of paper onto the desk.
A curious piece of writing, thought Isabella. Clumsily written? She mentally inserted the missing apostrophes (noting that the position of the second was uncertain) and wondered if the ambiguities in the message were intentional. And what was with the chess reference, assuming that’s what it was?
‘Why did the Minister bring this to your attention rather than to the AFP’s?’
‘Well, to be precise, it was Hayden Yorke, the Minister’s Chief of Staff, who brought it to our attention. And he brought it here because he had lost faith in your predecessor.’
‘Ah.’
‘I convinced him that the AFP needed to be informed, and he had a word with your boss, I gather.’
‘I see. Thank you for that. So what has been done so far?’
‘Well, we’ve conducted some forensics…’
‘What, fingerprints?’ Isabella rued her interruption as soon as the words were out.
‘No-oo…’ Weiss smiled. ‘Emails tend not to have fingerprints. Or DNA for that matter… But we did check the internet headers. Internet headers are embedded in every email. They show the IP address of the sender and the path the message took on its way to reaching you.’
Isabella recovered her dignity with, ‘And I gather you didn’t find anything?’
‘No, we didn’t. Sent from a Gmail account through what appears to be a zombie machine.’
Isabella’s nodding didn’t fool Weiss.
‘That means they hijacked some innocent bozo’s home computer and made it look like it came from there.’
‘I see. Did you do that?’
‘What, did I send it?’
‘No.’ It was Isabella’s turn to be tolerant. ‘I meant did you check the internet headers?’
‘Me? No, no. I passed it to Sharyn Boske. And other than that, we haven’t really done very much. Certainly nothing in the way of investigating who or what The Earth Alliance are. We were pretty much waiting for you to arrive. I was hoping you would be able to pick this up and run with it.’
‘Well of course. That’s why I’m here.’ Isabella was chuffed – not only was this something to get her teeth into straight away, but the significance of this development made Levi’s choosing of her even more gratifying.
‘Do you have any questions?’
‘A couple, yes. The first is, who is aware of this email?’
‘The Minister and her immediate staff. My boss, Michael Compton – he’s the CEO of ABC. Me, obviously. Sharyn Boske and an IT Security Specialist in Sharyn’s team.’
‘No one else? No one outside ABC?’
‘No one else. And the second question?’
‘I’d like to meet Hayden Yorke. Can you help me arrange that?’
‘As a matter of fact, Hayden is expecting us at ten. That gives us fifteen minutes.’
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