‘It can be quite an extraordinary force, this religion thing,’ Curtis observed. ‘The problem with religions is that they’re all based on faith rather than logic. You can no more argue with a Muslim terrorist who’s convinced he or she is going to heaven for blowing up a bus stop on behalf of Allah than you can with a president or prime minister who is convinced he or she is being guided by God.’
‘Yet as a species we’ve always needed something greater than ourselves to believe in,’ Kate replied. ‘Look at the bloody Greeks and Romans, they had a raft of Gods to go to war for – Apollo, Mercury, Zeus – and heaven help you if you offended them, yet who believes in them now?’
‘I’m not sure we’re any more enlightened,’ Curtis responded. ‘The Muslims think the Christians are wrong and the Christians think the Muslims are on the wrong trolley bus, although I’ve often wondered what the women suicide bombers are going to do with seventy vestal virgins,’ he added with a grin.
After dinner, as they walked back to the Park Hyatt, Curtis put his arm around Kate’s slender waist and she found herself thinking seriously about getting to know him a lot better.
At Sydney’s Kingsford Smith Airport, al-Falid was boarding the last flight to Melbourne. In the morning, he would link up with Cathay Pacific’s direct service to Beijing.
CHAPTER 62
T he sinister signal emitted from the last of the pingers embedded in the rocks covering the cross-city tunnels on the bottom of the harbour echoed quietly and relentlessly in the lead diver’s headphones. He swung the receiver through an arc of 20 degrees to confirm the direction of the last pinger’s signal. He checked the bearing with his compass, but as he reached for the communication cord to signal to those behind he was moving on, something knocked the receiver from his hand.
The diver froze and waited, forcing himself to keep calm, and mouthing a silent prayer to Allah for protection of the mission. Whatever it was didn’t return. Probably a small shark, the diver thought, and he reeled the receiver’s safety line in and re-established his bearings. He gave a short tug on the communication cord, signalling again that it was time to move forward.
The long and painstaking journey along the bottom of the harbour had taken over an hour and a half. The lead diver signalled that he’d reached the final pinger and the team gently descended to the rocks that marked the top of the western cross-city tunnel. Getting the negative buoyancy of the canisters right and working in the dark had not been easy, but the team had practised for weeks, perfecting their deadly art off a deserted beach on the south coast. The team leader felt his way to the last of the cylinders and the team unhurriedly manoeuvred their cargo into position. A Port Jackson shark scurried out from the rocks while above the divers, the deep throb of twin outboard motors could be heard as one of the rich and powerful infidels brought a large boat back to its berth. Leaving his team to connect the last container to the others, the lead diver checked his depth gauge and compass and swam off on a predetermined bearing to the north, slowly paying out a long line of detonation cord from a lightweight reel. Each cylinder was shaped to direct the blast upwards, and each contained 50 kilograms of ammonium nitrate. 2.5 kilograms of plastic explosive were embedded in the centre of the ANFO and the detonators were all connected to the detonation cord. The lead diver knew that explosives behaved differently under water and the deeper the cord was laid down, the faster it would burn. He had learned his trade in Iraq, near the headwaters of the Persian Gulf, and he’d calculated the timing of the blast down to the last second.
The al-Qaeda frogman felt for the pylons underneath the Jeffrey Street wharf, in the shadow of the harbour bridge. He surfaced beneath the wharf and reached for the bag on his belt that contained a mobile phone with special circuitry that would set off the detonation cord as soon as the phone was rung. He located a steel strut beneath the centre of the wharf, connected the detonation cord to the phone and hid it among the barnacles just above the high water mark on the strut. He looked out across the dark surface of the harbour where he could see the Destiny passing beneath the massive bridge and heading towards Clarke Island. The harbour island was uninhabited at night and the shallow waters around it provided a perfect rendezvous to collect the team. He gave the phone on the strut a final check and slipped beneath the water.
CHAPTER 63
C urtis guided Kate into the lift. The dinner, the wine and Curtis’ ability to make her laugh had weakened Kate’s resolve.
‘We should have a nightcap,’ Curtis whispered.
‘And just what might your definition of a nightcap be, Curtis O’Connor?’ Kate challenged. Curtis’ face was close to hers. She could see that his eyes were a smoky blue.
‘Champagne or whiskey,’ Curtis replied in the Irish brogue she found so attractive.
Kate Braithwaite, this man is trouble. Remember the rule. Don’t get involved with someone you work with, Kate reminded herself.
‘I think whiskey,’ she said softly, deciding to rebel against ‘the rule’, parting her lips as he kissed her very slowly and very softly.
Kate wandered out on to Curtis’ balcony while he cracked ice into two crystal glasses. The ferries had stopped running for the night and Sydney Harbour was quiet but beautifully powerful and captivating. Kate took a long, relaxing breath, taking in the smell of the sea breeze that was coming through the Heads and ruffling the waters below in swirling ‘cats’ paws’. To the south, dark clouds were gathering, signalling a storm was on the way.
Kate glanced back into the hotel room. Curtis had finished pouring the drinks. His tanned face was relaxed and his dark hair slightly tousled as he put a CD into the machine. The soft tones of Madeleine Peyroux drifted out to the balcony. If she was honest with herself, Kate thought, she’d been attracted to him from the day he’d met her in the foyer of the CIA Headquarters, and it wasn’t just his lean, fit body and mischievous blue eyes that drew her in. The physical attraction had only deepened as she’d discovered his agile mind. Kate smiled inwardly at how well he’d handled her angry lecture on DNA and she decided she was entitled to a fling.
She glanced to her left, up towards the massive bridge that towered over the hotel. A lone fishing vessel, the Destiny, was passing slowly underneath the bridge as it headed towards the outer harbour. Opposite Curtis’ balcony, the huge white sails of the Sydney Opera House reached majestically toward the night sky. Kate soaked up the city harbour she loved.
‘Twelve-year-old Jameson’s. The proper Irish stuff,’ Curtis said, handing Kate a glass and standing closely beside her on the balcony.
‘Prost,’ Curtis whispered, softly clinking his tumbler with hers.
‘Prost. Mmm. That is so good. Like malted honey.’ Kate could feel the old whiskey warming her, dissolving any last minute misgivings.
Curtis’ hand moved lower and she felt a surge of warmth between her legs as she let him slowly explore her thigh. He put his glass down and when he reached for hers, she relinquished it willingly, and pressed herself against his body. He kissed her gently, his lips soft, warm and tasting of whiskey, then he kissed her more urgently and she responded with her tongue as he held her tight. Kate parted her legs to allow his thigh between hers.
Kate groaned as he slowly undid the zip on her white linen pants and she moved against his finger as he gently explored her. She reached for his zip but it caught; unhurriedly, he helped her pull it down. He was growing in her hand and she groaned again as he kissed her.
‘I think we should do this,’ Curtis whispered.
‘I think we should too.’
Kate leaned her head against his shoulder as they walked towards the bedroom. He stepped back and slowly
