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I phoned the general from my hotel room on his restricted line. He answered immediately. I told him we were wrong about Beth and that in fact she was researching a novel.
If anything he was more worried. “Has it got anything to do with the International Space Station?”
“No, Sir ... it isn’t even set in Australia,” and I proceeded to recount as much as I could remember of the plot.”
“And you’re certain she isn’t a security risk?”
“Completely.”
“No reservations?”
“None at all.”
“That’s a relief. I hold Elizabeth Godson in high regard.
“I fingered the pouch of Devil’s Breath in my pocket. You hypocrite, I muttered under my breath. “I assume you will remove her from the Watch-list, Sir?”
“No we’ll continue monitoring her.”
His refusal came as no surprise. It’s harder to get off a surveillance list than to get on one. “Will you arrange my flight back?”
“No! I want you to stay right where you are for the present. I’ll phone the Chief of Joint Operations at SOCOMD and arrange your deployment to the surveillance team. You’ll be my eyes and ears.”
As head of ASP, I’d had dealings with Special Operations, the section of the defence force responsible for domestic counter-terrorism in Australia. “Is SOCOMD in charge of G20 security?”
“Presently, it’s the responsibility of the Australian Federal Police. However, Special Ops personnel have been deployed to staff the hotel where the delegates will stay for the summit’s duration. From now on they’ll report directly to you.”
I was thrilled to be given the assignment. “Should I wear uniform or civvies?”
“Uniform ... you represent SOCOMD.”
Phew! I’d prayed he’d say the former ... my civilian wardrobe of jeans and a hoody was hardly suitable for hobnobbing with top brass. On the other hand, I’d stick out like a sore thumb among the derros at the Exchange in the uniform of an air force officer.
I said, “The reason I asked Sir, is because I’m staying at a flea pit for down-and-outs so as not to blow my cover. The staff will think it strange if they see me in uniform.”
“In that case move to the Galaxy. That’s the hotel hosting the summit.”
“Yes, Sir. Will it be okay to use my credit card? I paid cash at the Exchange but I’m certain a five-star hotel won’t accept a reservation without one?
“Otis will book you in.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Have you got a notepad?”
“Yes.”
“Write down your instructions.”
For the next hour I wrote furiously, as the general went over every conceivable problem that might arise. And then some!
* * *
Once I’d settled up at the Exchange, I purchased a decent suitcase and headed over to the Rest Centre at the city railway station. Tony, the friendly barman had told me about its scrupulously clean toilets and shower facilities and I didn’t feel up to braving those of the Exchange. After dressing, I stepped back into the shower. I turned the hot tap on full and let it run and build up steam for five minutes after first angling the showerhead away from me — a tip I’d learnt from an RAAF steward. When I emerged from the shower stall I was smartly dressed in a wrinkle-free uniform.
It was a short walk from the railway station to the Galaxy but I thought it would be more appropriate to arrive by taxi. “Good morning, Sir,” said a doorman in a knee-length olive green jacket worn over white trousers with gold ribbon down the sides, as he opened the taxi’s rear door. “I’m delighted to welcome you to the Galaxy.
As we ascended the hotel’s red-carpeted steps, he asked me if I was attending the G20 Conference. I’d nodded. “In that case you won’t need to stand in line.” He guided me to the end of the red carpet, steering me past the well-dressed throng queued up at the reservation counter some chatting excitedly, others checking their cells, and ushered me through a barrier to a small, but well-appointed room at the end of the lobby.
“Flight Lieutenant Jones,” I said to a stunning dark-haired dish and flashed my ID.
“We’ve been expecting you, Sir. You are in room thirty ... on the twenty-first floor.” She reached under the counter and placed a key card and a large reinforced brown envelope on its marble top. “You use the key card to access the lift, the security door into the hallway and your room.” She batted incredible eye lashes. “Please take a seat and I’ll call a porter to take your bag.”
While I was waiting, I admired the artwork on the walls. I was examining the signature to make sure it really was by Andy Warhol when the porter arrived. He snapped to attention.
“Ex RAAF?”
“Serving, Sir,” he replied crisply.
“SOCOMD?”
“Yes, Sir. I’m Warrant Officer Peters. All personnel servicing the secure floors are serving members of the Air Force.”
That made sense. RAAF-trained chefs, stewards, and cleaners are second to none. Those in the army and navy don’t even come close. I smiled. “The delegates are in for a memorable experience.”
He raised a bushy eyebrow as he picked up my case. “I trust it won’t be too memorable, Sir.”
* * *
The vast suite I’d been assigned was decked out with designer furniture, the like of which I’d never seen before. Peters guided me to a large comfortable chair. A couple of minutes later he handed me coffee in a Wedgewood cup and saucer. By the time I placed the empty cup in its saucer, he’d unpacked my suitcase and everything was stowed away. He placed a hotel gown on the coffee table. “I’ve taken the liberty of drawing you a bath, Sir.”
“Thank you Peters ... but I don’t require the services of a butler.”
“My CO will have my balls for lunch, if I send you off to meet his oppo in the Feds looking like a ragbag,” he said unhooking an ironing board from the inside of the wardrobe door. Obviously my genius hack for getting wrinkles out of clothes wasn’t up to his fastidious standards.
“You do realise, Sir,” he said as I handed him my jacket, “that you’re only meant to wear this uniform in summer.”
“Of course I do,” I said, a tad crossly. “But I’ve come from Baltimore where it’s summer.”
“Leave it to me, Sir,” said Peters, jotting down my size on a hotel notepad. “I’ll phone the base. We’ll have you kitted out appropriately by lunchtime.”
“Fantastic,” I said and slipped out of my trousers.
