Choices. Jeff Edwards
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surgical gloves he wore as he did so.
He stopped at a vacant allotment some way down the road and casually tossed the gloves into a pile of garbage that had accumulated there.
Feeling satisfied with his efforts the man checked his watch.
More than enough time to catch a wave or two before dinner, he smiled.
THE FOLLOWING YEAR
Abu Bin Ahmad stepped from his house surrounded by his bodyguards.
As an electrical engineer Ahmad had never needed protection, but after falling under the spell of the late cleric Din Nassir Abbas and becoming his bomb maker, all that had changed. Murphy’s Bar had been a triumph of his workmanship, and although the attack on the Australian High Commission had resulted in casualties amongst the locals only, the message had been made loud and clear. Foreigners and their views were not wanted in this country.
As he had been for the last few days, the old beggar was waiting for Ahmad in his place, propped up against the stone wall with his brass begging bowl in hand, praying loudly for Allah’s blessings to be showered upon his benefactor.
Ahmad smiled at the unfortunate old man as he took a small note from his wallet and dropped it in the battered bowl.
Just as he did so the old man seemed to lose his footing, and staggered toward the engineer.
Ahmad thought the beggar was grabbing for the hand holding the wallet, and he swiftly raised it out of the old man’s reach. At the same moment his ever alert bodyguards moved in to pin the arms of the old man.
The beggar screeched his apologies for touching his benefactor as the bodyguards were dragging him away from their client. They pushed him roughly into the roadway, where the old man stood bowing and calling further apologies as Ahmad and his entourage moved off.
* * *
From his vantage point further down the street the Australian smiled. If he hadn’t know what was about to happen he would have missed the beggar’s movements entirely.
Now he followed the group from a safe distance, waiting for his opportunity.
A break in the pedestrian traffic had the bomber and his men isolated at last, and the Australian quickly took the opportunity to place a call on his phone.
Inside Ahmad’s pocket his mobile phone began to vibrate, and he took it out while wondering which of his children had been playing with it and switched off the ringtone.
Unconcerned, he placed the phone to his ear. ‘Yes?’
Ahmad had barely registered the fact that the voice on the other end spoke with a distinctively foreign accent. ‘He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword,’ he heard a microsecond before the small shaped charge of C4 explosive within the ear-piece erupted, removing half of Ahmad’s head from his shoulders and spraying his ineffectual protectors with blood and bone.
The Australian dropped his phone on the roadway and crushed it under his foot, making sure to break it into several pieces. These he collected and scattered in numerous rubbish bins as he made his way back to the beach. The call could be traced, but the phone that made the call would never be found, nor its owner detected.
I hope the surf has picked up, he thought to himself. There was nothing worth riding when I left my room this morning.
CHAPTER 1
It was the worst day of Dan Travers’ life.
He waited impatiently for his name to be called, and for his years of an easygoing life to come to an abrupt end. Dan knew what was about to happen, and that there was no way for him to avoid the train crash that was about to befall him. I suppose it had to end eventually, he thought wryly. It has all been too good to be true. But what am I to do now? What’s to become of my family? They’re depending on me. What if I’m sent to jail?
Dan’s guts were tied up in knots and his mouth felt dry. It was as though every drop of moisture had been sucked from his body. If it had been about him alone he believed that he could have endured what they were about to do, but he had Sandy, Brook and Josh relying on him, and he had to do whatever he could to protect them.
A sudden thought occurred to him like a whisper from the past. What if? he thought. No! That would never work. Would it?
Desperation shaped his thoughts, and the glimmer of an idea took root in his imagination. He tried to shake it as being completely unworkable but no other alternatives could be found, and the final choice was between very little hope and no hope at all. Shaking his head, he dismissed the idea as entirely too fanciful and steeled himself for the inevitable.
* * *
‘Daniel Travers,’ cried the clerk of the court.
His legs felt like jelly as Dan made his way forward and stood in the dock, waiting for the oath to be administered.
The Independent Commission Against Corruption is not a regular court of law. It is presided over by a judge and there is a prosecutor, but there all similarity to an actual court ends. The commission investigates but does not prosecute. No one is on trial here so witnesses don’t have a legal representative to act on their behalf. The person is brought before the commission simply to answer its questions, and they are required to do so under oath with all the penalties under the law for those who are found to have attempted to mislead it in any way.
When the commission completes its dealings a report of its findings are prepared, complete with any recommendations it cares to make. It is only when those recommendations are acted upon that the poor unfortunates who appeared before the commission are brought before the true court system, and it was this fate that Dan was trying to find a way to avoid.
Today the commission was investigating the unauthorised use of the New South Wales Police Force’s computer system, and the relationship between certain employees of the force and members of the private investigation fraternity.
Dan sat in the dock and watched anxiously as both the prosecutor and the judge shuffled through their papers. Get the fuck on with it! Dan’s mind screamed, as panic set in.
Finally the prosecutor began.
‘Your name is Daniel Travers and you are employed by the New South Wales Police Force as a group supervisor in the communications branch. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Louder,’ ordered the judge.
‘Your evidence is being taped,’ growled the prosecutor sharply, knowing full well that the witness would feel cowered by the twin attack, and therefore more likely to give truthful answers.
‘Yes,’ called Dan.
‘Not that loud,’ snapped the judge. ‘There’s no need to shout. We’re not deaf.’
Fuck you! thought Dan, who after sitting around and watching these two smug officials treating those who appeared in the dock as though they were less than human, reached a hasty decision and decided that enough was enough. They were out to destroy him anyway, so what was the point in making their job any easier. He was now determined to do something, even if the effect of it was only to delay the inevitable.
The prosecutor wandered over to stand in front of Dan, a piece of paper in his hand which he casually consulted. ‘What do you know about a company by the name of Trusty Investigations and its proprietor, a Mr Liam Ryan?’
Dan sat in stony silence, collecting his thoughts, picking his next words carefully. Do I have the guts to go through with this? he asked himself. Do I answer his questions or not?
The judge looked down his nose at Dan, and snapped at him. ‘Answer the question Mr Travers we haven’t got all day! Do you know Ryan and his company?’ he demanded.
Before he could change his mind Dan blurted out, ‘I’m not