Looming August Eighth Read online

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  Copyright © 2019 Trevor Trigg (ebook edition v.1.0)

  ISBN: 978-1-925846-85-0 (eBook)

  Published by Vivid Publishing

  P.O. Box 948, Fremantle Western Australia 6959

  www.vividpublishing.com.au

  Edited by Marisa Trigger.

  eBook conversion and distribution by Fontaine Publishing Group, Australia

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  Version 1.0. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, printing, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1 – Midnight sun

  2 – Bath robes and breakfast

  3 – Lunch at The Lodge

  4 – Thirteen phantoms

  5 – Focused on a filly

  6 – It doesn’t add up

  7 – Fog, dog and slog

  8 – A Celtic goddess

  9 – Butler’s hut

  10 – Scotland is an island

  11 – Farley takes a bath

  12 – They don’t paint lines on outback red earth tracks

  13 – Seno Del Mare

  14 – The loss of a surrogate

  15 – Gone fishing

  16 – A warehouse of China

  17 – Arafura

  18 – Six blondes and a patrol boat

  19 – Gravy for the meat

  20 – We’ll do something

  21 – On duty down the hall

  22 – Rob winked, Peter nodded

  23 – What’s her name?

  24 – Road to Damascus

  25 – Heraklion

  26 – It’s on auto

  27 – Mav, Goose and Ice

  28 – Slowly, for the afternoon

  29 – Lunch at The Lodge

  About the author

  Prologue

  Life certainly wasn’t back to normal, but Peter Piper’s gut was. The return of the couple of extra kilos around his middle wasn’t welcome, but the lack of the almost constant knot in his belly—and its visceral drag—that was welcome. His head was in a place that would allow nothing else to enter but visions of a laid-back future with the perfect woman. He adored her the more because she hadn’t become a victim and she came back to him from oblivion. Often, he closed his eyes against the horror, the despair and the self-blame that would have dogged him, had she not been spared. She saved him from what could have been a life of misery and self-recrimination. She now propelled him into a life where she would be his north star. No, life wasn’t back to normal, but it was good. And paradoxically, he relaxed further into it the more hectic the timetable became with the functions, events and speeches. But that had been the last five months, the roller coaster was slowing.

  That whirl of airport lounges, Australian regional cities, state capitals, politicians and premiers, first ministers, governors, hotel rooms, limos, ballrooms, cameras, microphones and waving foyer people—all wonderful life experiences—but somewhere, sometime soon, he would be able to read the newspaper, front page to back page, while sitting on the toilet. And later watch the footy on TV.

  Last year’s coup attempt had failed because he and Detective Sergeant Robert Burns found a way through the maze of murder and intrigue that had been buttressed by the fabulous wealth of a splinter group of international neo-Nazis. The conspiracy had claimed many lives including that of a beautiful young woman. The path through that despicable maze had split into many, and along one Peter and Rob found their futures in two women—mother and daughter, kin to that young victim.

  Lest Assumed Power Ends Liberty, a credo for the international organisation that now had profile and gravitas like never before. LAPEL was now vindicated and at the forefront of global conciliation interventions. This profile—that would have been trashed but for Piper and Burns—had an aura that attracted leaders who now knew how fragile democracy was unless those who can, do.

  Peter and Rob again discussed LAPEL’s earnest invitation to include them in the organisation’s membership. The Prime Minister, Attorney-General and Chief of the Defence Force (CDF) had agreed to become members, but only to be active when retired from their careers.

  ‘We’d be in some pretty good company.’

  ‘Damn right we would. Life’s a bowl o’ cherries, mate,’ Rob said with a tired smile, as he saluted his friend with his cognac and swallowed the last of it.

  1 – Midnight sun

  The last of the Balao-class American World War II submarines sat deep, listing at its mooring alongside a wharf that also appeared to be listing, as its patched and potholed concrete surface subsided against decaying timber buttresses. It wasn’t out of place. Along the same long wharf sat two small, forlorn Soviet naval vessels, their rust-streaked and abandoned appearance accentuated by the sepia overlay, cast by the midnight sun that washed its glow from low on the horizon. A June night in Murmansk—arctic summer 1989, thirteen degrees Celsius, ten p.m. The surface of the water looked as abandoned as the numerous idle ships-of-war that the state coffers could no longer afford to maintain, much less populate with crews. Pockets of oil and slimy trash oozed, at glacial pace, along the waterlines of these parked and decrepit symbols of state ineptitude.

  A man stood staring at the Balao, hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat. His jaw muscles flexed and flexed again, his expression stony. The woman at his side broke his train of thought. ‘Someone must pay.’

  ‘And pay they will.’ His lips barely moved as he nodded a farewell to his prized and paralysed asset, a submarine that would submerge only one more time. His revenue stream had already submerged and unplanned expenses had explosively surfaced.

  He turned to the woman and held her shoulders. ‘I swear that this will have a settlement.’ His grip was strong and she winced.

  2 – Bath robes and breakfast

  The functions and events had petered out and the realisation that this may be the last time that they would need to stay in a hotel room had been cause for celebration the previous night. After dinner in the ballroom had concluded, they had returned to their suite and drunk all the bubbly in the mini-bar. That led to trampolining on the bed, and in turn, the progression—throughout the suite—of garment shedding and inappropriate use of furnishings.

  The suite was an opulent glass-and-plush affair that had regularly hosted the glitterati for naughty weekends away in Canberra, Australian Capital Territory. Its dissolute hosting record remained intact and the frolics had finished up in the spa-bath with the water jets on a low massage setting, gently pushing soapy foam over the edge of the tub to ooze down onto the tiled floor.

  Peter partially pulled back the sumptuous drapes and looked down to the streetscape below where the thin morning sunlight caught the steamy vapour in the exhaled breaths of the overcoated pedestrians and the atomised condensate from car exhausts. The evergreen trees on the other side of the intersection glistened as they shed thawed droplets from the overnight frost. It almost made him shiver but it was a sympathetic response only for, although naked, the full-on air conditioning kept him cosy.

  ‘Good morning, my gorgeous man.’

  He turned to see Robyn toss the bedsheet aside. She looked perfect, as she always did to him, also naked with her amazing auburn hair spread to all extremities of the pillow. Her breasts became full as she lifted herself to lean on an elbow, and she smiled as though savouring the taste of sweet nectar and slowly blinked away a delicious sleep.

  ‘Going to bed starkers with a man who
may take advantage of you? Shame! Just as well I’m a gentleman with saint-like self-control.’

  ‘Well,’ she grinned, ‘my luck may change and you’ll lose that self-control, again.’

  The phone on the tiny desk rang. It was Robbie Burns.

  ‘Breakfast? Great! See you down there in half an hour.’

  ‘Half an hour?’ Robyn said, shaking her head. ‘Hair and make-up can’t be done in half an hour.’ She stood beside the bed, hands on hips, her breasts mesmerising him, as always.

  Peter spoke into the phone: ‘We’ve got hair and lippy to fix so better make it an hour.’ He paused and nodded into the handpiece. ‘Yeah I know, an hour. She’s got a lot to do. She’s standing here in a tightly laced-up hessian bath robe that I can’t get off her. Ask her mum if frigidity runs in the family.’

  Robyn’s eyebrows snapped up and her mouth fell open as she darted to the desk—breasts wonderfully mobile—grabbed the handpiece and yelled into it, ‘Don’t you dare—’ The phone line was dead.

  ‘Robbie hung up after “better make it an hour”. Gotcha!’ Peter grinned and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘You’re a bugger of a chain-puller. Well, time to pull yours!’ She grabbed his manly protuberance and he recoiled with a yelp. She held on and within seconds she looked down with a broad smile on her face. ‘Well, looks like we might be more than an hour.’

  ‘About an hour,’ Rob relayed to Servandra, as he hung up the phone in their suite two doors down.

  ‘This is a lovely place for to being romantic in. Breakfast in another hour is more civilised.’

  Servy’s Scandinavian lilt and extra preposition always made him smile. It was one of her many charms. He was still over the moon she had said yes. She sidled over, kissed him on the mouth and pirouetted as she luxuriated in the moment. Rob leaned against the wall, folded his arms and unabashedly perved on her. They were both wearing bath robes.

  Both widowed in middle age and both way overdue to have romance, titillation and love back in their lives—and it was all back, in spades. Servy saw the glint in his eyes and the curl at the corner of his mouth. She slowly ungathered her robe’s tie and opened the robe. Rob took a slow, deep breath. She was the mother of an adult daughter but she had the yoga-fit shape of a woman her daughter’s age, accentuated by her low-cut bra and matching watermelon-coloured hipster panties. He stopped leaning on the wall but couldn’t stop grinning. She opened his robe and glanced down.

  ‘We may be a little more than to being an hour,’ she said and again kissed him on the mouth.

  3 – Lunch at The Lodge

  Lunch had been carefree and fun; they relaxed into each other’s company with relish. The Prime Minister, John Hewlett, and his wife, Julie, sat across from Peter and his fiancée, Robyn Poitrine. The Attorney-General, Frank Papadopoulos, and his wife, Tessa, sat opposite Inspector Robert Burns and his fiancée, Servandra.

  ‘Now that the accolades, awards and medals shindigs have almost run you both ragged,’ John smiled at Peter and Rob, and held up his wine glass in lazy salute, ‘you can take a breath and perhaps get back to some normality—maybe.’

  ‘Given the number of times we’ve been wined and dined here at The Lodge, I hoped this might be our new normal,’ Robyn said with an impish grin and enquiring eyebrow. The chuckles around the dining table were instant.

  ‘Well, it is a hard act to follow, dining at the Prime Minister’s home—and to being in the company of new and wonderful friends,’ Sevandra said.

  ‘Until the punters chuck us out at a future election, you’ll never have to find a following act—we want you here. You are the most welcome of friends.’ Julie slid her chair away from the table and walked around to Servandra’s chair, leaned over, and gave her a cheek to cheek hug. ‘You are so welcome in our lives. You’re real saviours—not only from the horrendous past but for the present, given that we cherish times with real and trusted people who don’t have a political agenda.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Frank.

  ‘Dammit Frank, that’s within a gnat’s whisker of being a political utterance,’ John said with a huge smile on his face.

  ‘I withdraw the comment, Mister Speaker, and rephrase I totally bloody agree!’

  The eight of them had dined together many times as a result of the PM’s presiding over, or being keynote presenter, at functions where Peter and Robert had received awards and citations. Among those awards had been the Cross of Valour for Peter and the Star of Courage for Robert. The Star complemented the Australian Police Medal. Rob had become the most famous copper in Australia. And Peter, though he shunned it, was the country’s most identifiable celebrity because he would never be at a function, or anywhere else for that matter, without the stunningly beautiful Robyn at his side. She had become the most seen face on the covers of glossy magazines. Cameras loved her—her image on magazine covers was a guarantee for a boost in circulation—and she was the country’s sweetheart. The palette of hues within her long, auburn hair and perfect cupid’s bow mouth with its demure smile—and the sizzle she put into the willingly loaned designer gowns—kept the offers and appointment requests log-jammed.

  From ordinary people to national heroes and the lofty heights of celebrity—the stories almost wrote themselves. And the media chooks gobbled it up.

  Robyn squeezed Servandra’s hand. ‘Momma, I have never seen you look so content.’

  Servandra kissed her daughter’s hand and she looked around the table as a gloss came to her eyes. ‘All of you have changed my life.’ She rested her head on Rob’s shoulder—it had become a habit that was full of the romance that brimmed in her. Tragedy and redemption bound them together and the bond was strong.

  ‘Frank and I have been talking about what we know and we want to put you in the picture.’ The PM pushed his chair back from the table and crossed his legs. It was “talk time” and important. ‘The four of you had a huge stake in this thing and we thought today would be a good opportunity to tease it all out with you. You need to know what we know, and what we think.’ He looked at Robyn then Servandra. ‘But please, don’t be alarmed. Peter and Rob must always know what we know about St James’s failed coup. And if they know, you also must know.’

  The Attorney-General took up the story: ‘We’ve learned a lot from the CIA in the last couple of weeks. It’s all categorised as “needs to know”. Can’t repeat it.’ Robyn and Servandra nodded their awareness.

  Peter and Rob were already aware that the two mafia killers and the St James brothers had been terminated. Libya’s Gaddafi had been quick to offer asylum to the four, having done a deal with those who wanted the hides of the brothers. It was another baby-step for Muammar Gaddafi in his quest for pre-eminence in continental Africa. He also knew he could do a very rewarding deal with CIA toadies for the on-sale of the mafia hitmen. It was now a closed chapter—or indeed, a closed book.

  ‘Some weeks ago Hugo-Pierre Achmood and his mistress/secretary were in Murmansk. So was his submarine. It barely made it there after it received a pasting from the ADF off our east coast last year. It took almost four months to complete the journey and had to be refuelled twice at sea. It couldn’t resubmerge because of damage to ballast tanks and had to be re-crewed—all at immense cost to Monsieur Achmood. Its original crew were prepared to abandon her. Due to lousy seamanship or damaged controls, she had a collision with her Soviet refueller ship and she was further extensively damaged.’ Frank Papadopoulos took a sip of wine and smiled at the glass. So far the story was gratifying.

  ‘The Soviets have been prepared in the past to refit and resupply Achmood’s sub at what is believed to be their cost, to break even. Their price-premium, clandestine arms trade through Achmood’s sleazy network has been the enticement to keep him under their influence, but no longer will he have carte blanche. The failed coup mission, the costs to get the submarine to port and the damage to their “oiler”—all have combined to make Achmood persona non grata. He has already paid millions but it is
not enough and he has walked away, or more probably, has scurried away. The Russians appear to have written off their losses on Achmood but seem okay with him continuing to breathe because he can make amends through his contracts and customers. And that may continue to build Soviet foreign currency reserves from backdoor arms deals. Alive, he has potential—dead, he’s a dead loss.

  ‘Getting the Balao to a ship breaker would cost more than it would return. It was scuttled in the Barents Sea a week ago.’

  The Attorney-General again contemplated his wine glass but this time the set of his jaw was pronounced, and he lifted his eyes to Peter, then Rob.

  ‘There is little doubt that he was never paid anything like his full transport contract amount for the failed St James escapade. The compound effect on his fortune may be almost ruinous by his standards. The CIA knows that he apportions blame and seeks revenge. The international drugs and armaments businesses are populated by hard men and Achmood sits at the top of that heap.’ Papadopoulos ran a forefinger over his forehead and clenched it in a fist. ‘Your exploits in cracking open what truly was our crime of the century—and your faces—are known all over the world. Not only are you heroes at home, but LAPEL regards you as saviours of their organisation. You are at the root of Achmood’s misery.’

  Servandra sat bolt upright with a hand over her mouth.

  ‘No. Not more! Jesus, Frank…’ It was almost a whimper from Robyn as she shook her head and grabbed Peter’s arm with both hands. He saw the fright in her eyes.

  ‘Frank has given you facts and thoughts—our thoughts and our adviser’s thoughts. They’re suppositions at present. We wanted to have a relaxed lunch before we talked about this because we want you to keep it in perspective and talk with us about what you believe we can do to manage, what may be, something that’s brewing. Your old friend, Ben Dunedin in ASIO, wants to be in the loop. He thinks the world of you both.’

  The PM paused, took a deep breath and smiled. ‘If anything is brewing, we have advantages—we’re at the other end of the world and surrounded by oceans. The whole of Australia and its resources stand between you and any vendetta.’