Читать книгу Any Means Necessary - Shane Britten - Страница 7

I hadn’t been to the city for more than three years, despite growing up in a small town less than an hour away. Where Canberra carried a chill in the air during the autumn mornings, Brisbane was already warm and humid. I slung the messenger-style briefcase over one shoulder and wheeled the carry-on suitcase through the throng of holiday makers and impatient Queenslanders waiting to greet their loved ones. It always struck me when surrounded by beach -branded t-shirts, shorts and flip flops, how could anyone suspect that the suited individual weaving through them with a small suitcase was an accomplished killer, a dealer of street justice to the darkest corners of society?

My destination was the Treasury Casino, a luxury hotel atop three floors of casino gaming situated on one edge of the central business district. In between jobs, I spent a substantial amount of time and resources identifying secure accommodation in our major areas of operation. The head of security at Treasury was a former Australian Army Commando who, even without knowing the details of what I did and for whom, recognised similar carriage and bearing and had offered me his cooperation ever since.

On this occasion, especially since I was using my real name, I had set him a courtesy text message but noted I needed no special treatment. A simple, militaristic Ack was all I received in return and it had brought a smile to my lips.

Whether it was his assistance or an efficient system, check-in was easy and I navigated through the 1930s, heritage building to my room. I had reserved a suite, complete with a separate lounge area and bedroom separated with a bi-folding door. Putting my two bags on the bed, I stood and took a deep, long breath, releasing it slowly. I repeated it a few times, closing my eyes and visualising how I wanted the job to proceed and each of the elements that might go wrong. Most concerning to me was the lack of confirmation that this was a genuine lead.

I opened the suitcase and withdrew the weapons vault, unlocking it with my fingerprint to take out a chunky case for my highly modified iPhone, snapping it into place and opening an app that could never be found on the App Store. It turned my phone into a TSCM or Technical Surveillance Counter-Measure scanner, designed to find listening devices, cameras and the other technical surveillance tools used by agencies and criminals alike. I scanned the room carefully, wanting to know that my initial base of operations was secure even if it had been reserved in my real name. After almost an hour of checking, I was satisfied that the room was clean. I pulled the case off my phone and put it back in its foam slot, returning my usual plain black protective case to my digital lifeline.

I had some time before I needed to start preparing operationally, so I changed into fitness clothes and went through an almost hour-long routine of yoga, a complex series of moves that demanded fluidity, control and strength. It helped to ease tension from my body and provided a calming, rhythmic pattern that allowed me to focus on what I needed to do, even if my tight and sore body demanded sympathy. Throughout the workout, my thoughts turned to my recent life. When Philip first approached me, initially with vague talk of a project he intended to pursue, and then with detailed plans on carrying out acts of justice where the usual process had failed, I had been sceptical. But in the first year, we had dispensed a style and regularity of justice that I found liberating, almost addictive. There was the serial rapist who had been cleared after DNA evidence was found to be inadmissible due to how it was collected, and the murderer with the high-powered defence lawyer who turned a confession into torture as inadequate amounts of water were offered during police interview. The husband who despite multiple restraining orders had murdered his wife for daring to seek a divorce and escaped jail time through a mental health plea and was already beating his new girlfriend. Our code of job acceptance was thorough and absolute; if a job met our agreed threshold, we independently gathered enough intelligence to be satisfied that our actions were warranted.

We had taken quite a risk bringing Jack on board. The other analysts Philip engaged from time to time worked through a series of front companies and assumed they were doing private intelligence assessments for corporate clients. But Philip had been upfront with Jack, introducing him to me based on his strong belief that we needed robust analytical support. While I’d been against the idea, Jack had proved his worth more times than I could count in his short time with us.

But this job? It wasn’t just different from our usual activity. The motivation made no sense. There were politics at play and that was a world I was uncomfortable being near. The possible SOS message had introduced some doubt into the scenario. Was it a true, coded message, or was I reading more into a couple of mistakes in a letter? Why were we operating so close to the security service, and the law enforcement focus that was bound to be on the margins given the link to the Prime Minister? I trusted Philip, but this felt wrong.

The routine of stretching and holding various poses was enough to keep at bay some of the turmoil such thoughts created. It made for a good time for reflection, but I used the end of the session to clear my mind and develop some level of inner peace. An hour and a bit later, I was showered, changed into jeans and a plain shirt, and had put my laptop into its simple leather protective pouch. Most of all, my mind was in the right place; I was ready.