‘Well, how does the seed grow, my friend?’
‘(static)…a sapling that grows daily. Soon it will be a large tree that bears fruit…(static)’
‘(static)…heard all this before…(static)…will be edible? There have been attempts in the past to cultivate this area profitably…(static)’
‘(static)…and so is the climate today. Also, as you know, caring for the tree as it grows takes money…(static)’
‘Allah be praised.’
‘As I said, there would be a lot of money to be made…(static)…expert banker in Sydney…’
Ferallo read through the transcript from Kadar Al-Jahani’s meeting in Rome. It was redolent with double meaning, especially now with the benefit of hindsight. But a trail to the terrorists’ encampment still eluded them. Where were these bastards hiding? The men Kadar had met with at the coffee shop had all died in the battle in which Kadar had been captured. The phone on Ferallo’s desk rang. She picked it up impatiently. ‘I’m sorry but didn’t I ask to have my calls held?…I know, everyone says they’re important…Okay, okay, put her through. Sorry, before you go, what’s her name? Skye Reinhardt? And she’s from the Manila bureau, you say?’
Jenny Tadzic’s internal alarm bells were ringing loud and clear. Angie was now long overdue. Foreign Affairs confirmed that she had entered Thailand – which Tadzic knew anyway because of the postcards – but could not confirm that she had departed Thailand. Tadzic’s suspicion that Angie had crossed illegally into Myanmar via one of the innumerable drug trails and trekked to General Trip’s fields had hardened into firm belief. If she was right, Angie was dead.
But that was not her only worry. Reports were still coming in from police forces up and down the east coast that even more of the killer heroin had flooded the market. The death toll from it was frighteningly high, and increasing. Word on the street was that the heroin had been dumped in Australia, which also brought the cost of a hit way down and increased the market penetration. Someone obviously wanted to make a quick buck. Tests revealed that this heroin had unbelievably high levels of purity, up around seventy to eighty percent compared to the usual twenty percent. This made it lethal, addicts unwittingly giving themselves massive, deadly doses. Customs had no idea how the drug was getting in because, as one particularly testy agent had told her, ‘If we knew how it was getting in, we’d bloody stop it, wouldn’t we?’ Tadzic had to admit, she was getting desperate. The phone rang. ‘Hello, Jenny Tadzic, T triple C.’ The voice down the line was unfamiliar.
‘Hello, Jenny. We’ve met. Gia Ferallo, CIA,’ said the voice through the phone.
‘Yes, Ms Ferallo. I remember. How goes it?’
‘Good. Call me Gia. I hate the “Miz” thing – sounds like it’s short for “miserable”. What are you doing tomorrow morning? Care to spend the day up in Sydney?’
Tadzic listened intently for the next five minutes, without saying a word. When she finally hung up, her palms were sweating and her heart was beating against her ribs. This was the break they’d been praying for.