The Fenians

By Ross Collier

When a bomb explodes at the Austalian Open tennis tournament, freelance photographer Jack Summers is caught up in the hunt for the bomber. One puzzle leads to another, until Jack stumbles across and assassination plot with its roots deep in history. In modern Australia, an ancient secret society is out to wreak havoc.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ross Collier
• Release date: Jul 3, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465917744

Ross Collier

Ross Collier lives on a small farm central Victoria. He writes part time and has published several books all in the thriller/mystery genre.

Book preview

Chapter 1

It was automatic. Head towards, not away from, trouble. The moment I'd heard it, I started to run.

A minute before, like every other press photographer, I'd been taking pictures of Carlotta Zappari, Italy's bad girl of tennis. Then I'd found myself using the back of a chair as a stepladder and hauling myself up and over the centre court wall.

It had been a bomb, no doubt about it, blowing out a sponsors box and showering glass and debris over the scattering of fans keen enough to watch the first round of the Open. People were stunned; the screaming hadn't started yet, nor had the panic and inevitable confusion. As far as I could tell, I was the only one moving.

Carlotta Zappari. 'Get some snaps, you know the type we want,' Tiny had winked. I knew exactly the type he wanted. What the dark-haired beauty with sultry eyes lacked in tennis skills, she made up for in other ways. Her looks, her boyfriends and her two startling centrefold appearances guaranteed constant media attention and a revolving door of endorsements.

I hit the steps and began taking them two at a time, snapping pictures on the run. Beirut had taught me that. Sometimes it added to the drama of the photograph and sometimes it was the only chance you had while dodging a hail of gunfire. I noticed people beginning to uncurl themselves from where they'd dropped; getting close to the ground is a universal response to the call of self-preservation.

Halfway up to the box, I turned around and took some shots of the scene behind me. A few officials had found their legs and were running to usher the players to safety. Both of them stood open- mouthed, unsure of what was happening. The rest of the courtside photographers were beginning to clear their addled brains too – some already had their cameras aimed in my general direction, fingers pressing hard on shutter buttons.

I turned back and kept running up the aisle steps. The corporate boxes were high, near the roof, all glass at the front and rarefied atmosphere inside. One policeman was starting to move from lower down and to the side so I tried to pick up the pace and put thoughts of secondary explosions out of my mind. By the time I reached the top, people were calling out and screams started to echo through the stadium.

Someone nearby sounded hysterical. A group of teenagers, closest to the box, their faces painted like the Italian flag, had been hit by glass splinters. I knew how they felt – ears ringing, minds groggily trying to refocus and pain starting to wind remorselessly through the nerve ends. Better medical attention than my rusty first aid would only be minutes away. I took a photograph of them and then turned towards the smoke.

Flames licked through the opening where the glass had been, but only at the end closest to me. I left the aisle and criss-crossed over the plastic seats to the side furthest from the fire. From the corner of my eye I could see the uniformed policeman making quick time and guessed I had thirty seconds at best to get some world-beating pictures. Not long, but it would do. As soon as I was near enough I looked in and started shooting. Drama through the viewfinder, yet again.

Bodies, arms, legs, a torso were lying in charred smoking heaps on the floor, partly covered by smouldering bits of wood and furniture. Everything black and twisted, the force of the destruction leaving nothing that could be easily recognised. My guess was something deliberate and sophisticated. Gas cylinders were indiscriminate and sounded different, sticks of gelignite louder and blew out. Apart from shattered glass the box next door had survived more or less intact.

The uniformed policeman ran up, yelling into his radio and then at me.

'Get back, get back.' He flapped his arms, then he looked in and saw the destruction. 'Oh Christ,' he said and began looking for a handhold to hoist himself inside. He wouldn't have smelt burning flesh before and his face grimaced in horror at the dual assault on sight and smell.

'Don't do that,' I called out. He was young, searching his memory for the training procedure that hadn't allowed for this sort of thing. He looked at me blankly with wide eyes. 'Bomb squad won't want anything touched,' I explained. 'Get the fire out and don't disturb anything. Just keep everyone out of the way.'

He looked at me doubtfully until he recognised the sense in it, a plan of action that had the ring of procedure. More importantly, a plan of action to keep the mass of photographers heading in our direction at bay. Action that would protect my exclusive. Exclusive pictures meant good money.

Another two constables arrived and my man issued some hurried instructions. They too looked grateful for someone to be taking control and the process of order began to take overtake the turmoil. Slowly.

Chapter 2

'Money in the bank,' Tiny said laughing. 'Shit, we're flogging them all over the place. ' Cause those bastards at the TV station are selling too, but nothing as good as ours.' He leant back in the chair looking particularly satisfied. 'This'll bring that bloody overdraft down.'

William F. Hawkins, all six foot six of him, 'Tiny' to everyone who knew him, and I were partners of sorts. We'd first met in El Salvador before he'd quit the world's combat zones for the tabloid press. 'More money, Summers, and a lot less dangerous,' he'd said. Less exciting too, but in the end I'd agreed after losing an argument with a mortar in Bosnia.

'Hey, Jack.' I turned around at the sound of my name. 'You should see yourself on TV.' It was Robyn Bailard, office worker, copywriter and general odd-jobber, laughing almost uncontrollably. Long red hair, freckles and a throaty giggle that sounded perfect late at night in a pub.

'TV?'

'Yeah, they just showed some footage before the bomb went off. Every camera in the place was pointed at Carlotta, except one.' She raised an eyebrow and started laughing again, the long frizzy hair bouncing around her face.

'He's always been a black sheep Bails, never one to take the same picture as everyone else, eh Jack?' Tiny looked at me through strands of long black hair. His appearance a cross between an aging rock and roller and a bikie. Black t-shirt, denim jeans, cowboy boots. 'That's why he's so fucking good,' he added with conviction.

Bails didn't look convinced. 'Yeah well, apart from the beautiful Carlotta, what else was there?'

I shrugged. 'Nothing much, but there's only so many pictures you can take of someone playing tennis. I was looking for faces in the crowd, personalities, mad redheads, that sort of thing.'

She poked her tongue out at me. 'That's your story. If you ask me, I think you've perfected the art of falling asleep behind a viewfinder.'

'It's a special knack,' I agreed, 'takes a lot of practice.'

Her green eyes were still smiling. 'I guess practice makes perfect,' she said. 'I'm going to make a coffee, anyone want one?'

'Coffee!' Tiny almost fell off his seat. 'Coffee be buggered! This calls for a celebration, whisky, champagne, it's party time.'

Tiny could see some money rolling in and for that matter so could I. It would make a nice change. We'd set up Tiny Jacks

Media two years ago and in that time had experienced some brief highs and a few too many lows.

Tiny brokered deals to the world's tabloids, buying exclusives from a variety of sources for syndicates he put together himself, on their own too small to pay for the dirt, but collectively able to offer tantalisingly high prices. Occasionally, as with the bomb, we would get something on our own and instead of playing middleman, the money would roll undiluted into the bank account.

I headed for the TV room, an office crammed with enough audiovisual equipment to rival a small electronics store.

'What station?' I called out to Robyn.

'It's over, silly. I recorded it for you. It's on the hard drive.'

'Right.'

We would have been lost without her. Apart from doing everything that we didn't do, which meant most things, she simply kept the fabric of the business in place. No Robyn, no business. A fact that Tiny agreed with but conveniently ignored when he'd started a casual affair with her ten months ago. 'Nothing in it, Jack,' he'd assured me when I'd pointed out the dangers of lovers' tiffs and romantic stumbles.

I turned the TV on and scrolled the recorder back, watching the action in high-speed reverse until it reached the newsreader's introduction. Then I pushed 'play' and muted the sound. The coverage started several points before the explosion, the Polish girl serving fast, Carlotta unable to put racquet to ball. I remembered it clearly.

My job in the business was to get pictures, the more exclusive the better, and if I didn't get them myself, find out who had, so that Tiny could deal. The best targets were the international stars; pop, sports and the movie variety. Next best were politicians, although the market was more limited. The Carlotta job had been for our library, stock in trade, waiting for the next scandal when we might be able to make a sale. Boring as hell.

I could see what Bails had been laughing at. Every telescopic lens pointed to one end of the court, except mine which was aimed anywhere else. It looked as though I'd lost the plot, but experience had taught me that spotting personalities in the crowd could help pay the bills. Then came the explosion. The TV camera shook violently and it took a moment for the operator to find the scene and refocus. By then I'd climbed the wall and was heading up the aisle. Not bad really, given the depleted muscles down my left side and general lack of fitness. The smoke, the reaction of shock and fear etched on features, could never be recreated by Hollywood. This was stark and real. I replayed the scene again and then heard Tiny calling me.

He was sitting, boots up on the bench, holding the phone in his lap with a hand covering the mouthpiece.

'There's a bloke here who wants to know how much to buy the rights to the snaps.'

'Local?' I asked.

'Won't say,' Tiny replied. 'He's talking in terms of 'name our price'.'

'Ask him if it matters that we've already flogged them half way round the world.'

Tiny looked at me and then raised the phone and put the question. Then he held the handpiece away from his ear, staring at it angrily. 'And fuck you too, mate.' He hung up and looked back at me. 'Guess he didn't like the terms.'

He shrugged just as Robyn re-appeared carrying a bottle of scotch, a bottle of champagne and three plastic cups. Scotch for me, champers for them. She filled one for me and I sat on a bench, drink in hand, talking to them as though the chaos around me didn't exist. It was normal. Land lines and mobile phones ringing, email delivery notifications pinging constantly, and Tiny in the middle of it all, loving every second.

'Anyone spoken to the families?' I asked.

The corpses I'd photographed had been three executives in a media organisation controlled by Percy Talbot, a proprietor whose interests controlled daily newspapers, magazines and television stations internationally. Three businessmen and one unlucky kid, a drinks waiter. They'd been there for a cocktail function.

'Yeah, usual stuff,' Tiny answered vaguely as he studied an email.

I noticed Bails flinch slightly. She regularly accused us of callousness, and rightly so. There wasn't a violent death in the world, and Tiny and I had seen plenty, that didn't carry with it a tragedy of some kind. Shattered families, parents' agony, it was the same anywhere. If you didn't block it out, you wouldn't survive. Not in our business, anyway.

'What did they say?' I asked.

'Prepared statements at this stage,' Bails answered.

'Everything's pretty crazy at the moment. Even the police media liaison's issuing contradictory statements.' She shrugged. 'Maybe they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

'What about Talbot?'

'He and a few others hadn't arrived.' She paused for a moment, probably recalling the images of burning bodies, and added in a quiet voice, 'They were the lucky ones.'

'So it seems. Any ideas about why?'

'Not really.' Tiny shook his head as he scribbled some comments in the margin of an email he had printed. 'The coppers reckon it probably had a dud timer, went off too soon. Might be someone trying to scare the shit out of the world but no one's claimed the honours. Not yet anyway.'

'Or no one's telling,' I added.

Tiny looked up at me and smiled. 'Good thinking, Watson.'

He picked up his cup and raised it towards me. 'Cheers. Here's to money in the bank.' After a long sip that turned into a draining guzzle, Tiny could drink an unbelievable amount of alcohol, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. 'They need a motive and right now there doesn't seem to be one.'

Bails reached for the bottle to refill Tiny's cup; very efficient was Robyn Bailard.

'Anyone in particular Percy's upset lately?' I asked.

'You mean, who hasn't he upset?' Bails answered as the champagne frothed over the top of the cup onto a mass of Tiny's papers. 'Shit!' She pulled a tissue from a pocket and dabbed. 'The way he runs his business doesn't exactly endear him to people. You name them and Perc has upset them all at one time or another.'

I knew what she meant. The kind of newsman who makes news himself. Rich, arrogant and powerful.

'What are the theories then?' I asked.

'Who knows?' Tiny shook his head again and looked up to sift through an overflowing basket of paper. He found what he wanted and passed it to me. 'Here's the background stuff doing the circuit.' He talked as I skimmed the paragraphs. 'He's been mentioned in a few inquiries on organised crime but only in passing, no real connection. His real forte is slick business, nothing criminal.'

'Nothing more criminal than the law allows, anyway. It says here that he's against changing to a republic.'

'It takes all types. He might be looking for a knighthood one day.'

'You mean a Principality,' Bails observed dryly.

'Or has he a good sense of the public mood and how to sell newspapers?' I wondered aloud. 'Anything to do with the Royals?' My journalistic mind automatically searching for an angle. The Queen was due for a flying visit, and this would make the security people very nervous.

'It's doubtful. The late edition of The Herald's running the line but it's a long bow to draw. Percy and the Queen don't really make a connection.' Tiny smiled and I knew why. Never let facts get in the way of a good story.

'This guest list doesn't look too promising.' Someone in the press had managed to get a copy of the cocktail party invitees and along the way Tiny had reeled it in.

'Most of them are senior execs. The share prices are going to take a dive tomorrow, that's for sure. None of them have a profile, though; just Perc. Anyway, if there is a story, it'll get smoked out.'

He was