Royal Pane Down Under, Ash Pane novel number two

By David and Linda Broughton

Ash Pane, trouble shooter in the literal sense, is asked to take on the job of freeing enslaved aborigines in Australia's Land of the Never-never, by the Queen of England. She must take out the man behind it all, and destroy a uranium mine he's forcing the natives to work. It's no easy task, but Ash gives it her best shot, and gives the bad boys a few shots too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David and Linda Broughton
• Release date: Jul 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465819079

David and Linda Broughton

The love of my life, Linda, is deceased. There will be a few more books by us, since more are written, they are not edited yet. In her honor I will try to get them edited and out to the public, but it's not easy for me. I have a new writing partner now, as well as a partner in life. No it will never be the same, nor should it. To those that review my books. I would greatly appreciate it if you actually READ the entire book before you write the review. Skimming it and posting a review just minutes after you buy it doesn't give a full understanding of the work. One person did this with "Grumpy Old Spy" and totally missed the entire story, and got what they did catch all wrong. I don't appreciate that. If you're not going to do an honest assessment after reading the entire book, don't bother to review it at all. In fact, if that person would contact me, I'll give them their money back for the book, providing they pull the cheap shot review.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Old Parliament building,

Canberra, Capital Territory,

Australia 3 a.m. local time.

The thief checks his watch. Finally time to get to work stealing this damned painting. The thief is actually a short, thin, wiry man, but now he's dressed in black coveralls with padding made into them to make him appear quite stocky. The lifts in his boots help him appear just a little taller. The look works, but it's uncomfortably warm in this disguise, the extra padding acts like insulation. The discomfort is compounded because this janitor's closet has no air conditioning vent. It might not have been the best choice of disguises, or hiding places, but he's much too far into this job to do anything about it now. He takes a small drink from his water bottle, then tucks it back inside his coveralls. He slowly opens the door of the closet, taking in a long breath of the cooler air from the hallway. He's been hiding in this stuffy closet for about twelve hours, it feels great to get out of it.

As a precaution, he adjusts the black cloth mask over his face and head. It leaves only the area around his eyes showing. With the make up and colored contact lenses, even that much would be of no help to anyone trying to track him down. This all may not be necessary. He's spotted no cameras inside the main part of the building. They do make them very small, and concealable these days. It's better to be safe than sorry.

Silverhawk, as he calls himself, moves stealthily out of the closet into the dimly lit hallway. He moves silently to the slightly better lit rotunda of this once grand now aging building. Here, he finds what he came to steal.

He's here to steal an old, hand-painted portrait of the first Governor of Australia, Arthur Phillip. Not an especially handsome man. The ornate gilt frame around the portrait is better looking to my eyes than the painting. The painting is old, cracked and dirty. There's a light on the portrait, but it really doesn't do much for it. Perhaps no light at all would be better for this ugly thing. This dim light is about useless to see by, it certainly doesn't help the painting look better.

Hawk takes out his well-worn penlight, turning it on soundlessly. Working the penlight around the frame, he checks for tell-tale alarm wires. None are readily apparent, so he gently lifts a side of the portrait away from the wall only a few millimeters, looking for hidden alarm sensors. There's nothing, they must not think this old painting is worth much either.

Silverhawk lifts the painting, in its fancy old gilt frame, off the wall. The people that hired him to steal it were very insistent that he get the whole thing. I'll have to check it out later, there must be a hidden reason they want it bad enough to pay me to get it. Certainly, they couldn't resell it easily. It's probably not valuable enough to ransom back. Hmm, I'll have to give it a good going over, then ponder a bit. There will be plenty of time for that later.

The next problem for Hawk to tackle right now is getting out with it. While security inside the building is nearly nonexistent, perimeter security is decent. It's not so much for this one building. It's more for the entire area around it. Expert thief that he is, Hawk has a plan.

Taking the painting with him, Hawk treks silently back to the broom closet. Here, he places the painting in a brown army surplus pouch, which fits as if it was made especially for the painting, it should, since he measured the painting three times before tonight. He zippers it shut, then slings the pouch over his shoulders by the wide military style straps, like a backpack. Silverhawk picks up a long length of thin, black, super strong, hi-tech climbing rope he smuggled in just this afternoon, then tosses the coil over one shoulder.

There's only one reasonable way to get out, that won't trip any alarms or catch him on the cameras at the entrances, via the roof. Hawk makes his way up the creaky old stairs very carefully. He stays to the edge closest to the wall where the wooden stair treads aren't as likely to be so squeaky and creaky. There's not supposed to be anyone in the building, but that's never a sure thing, a guard could come in to take a dump or something.

Hawk enters a dark, dank, musty room that now houses the air conditioning system. The system was added to the old, once opulent building in recent years. Recent could mean a decade or three ago, but recent relative to the building's over two hundred years of age.

A dull gray metal ladder is bolted to the wall. It leads to a hatch that opens onto the roof, Hawk's route out. He climbs up the ladder carefully. Hawk unlocks the hatch to the roof using old-fashioned lock picks, not caring for the new lock-picking guns that have no finesse and take no skill. The lock picking guns also leave marks on the lock that could possibly be traced, never a good thing.

Once on the roof, Hawk crouches instinctively, though his short stature makes it redundant. Carefully he steps as lightly as possible past the roof top air handling units to a particular spot near the right rear corner. The gravel of the recently redone tar and gravel roof crunches lightly under his feet. If everything is as he planned it, there shouldn't be anyone close enough to hear it at this time of night … or morning, depending on how he chooses to look at it.

Hawk wraps the center of the rope around an old chimney, then drops the rest over the side of the building. This particular spot is protected from direct view on one side by an old addition that juts out from the rest of the building. Various huge trees, many nearly as old as the building itself, are growing close to it in this spot, making it the only dark, hidden area around the perimeter of the building.

Using the doubled rope, Hawk back-walks himself down to the ground. He pulls on one end of the rope, until he brings it all down where he stands. Silverhawk takes off his coveralls. He also removes the cloth mask, which doesn't reveal his mane of silvery blonde hair, only a dark, curly wig along with his make-up blackened face.

Gathering the rope, he wraps it around the padded coveralls and mask he has just shed. Hawk looks around cautiously. Nothing seems to be amiss. He hears no alarms going off. It seems no one has noticed him, just as he planned. Silverhawk pulls up his sleeve to reveal the luminous dial of his watch. He's right on time. The roving guards will be on the other side of the building just now. Effective security means the guards' rounds would always be at varying intervals, but they're not, he spent many days studying them.

Hawk slips silently from tree to tree, staying low by choice and stature. It only takes him a minute or two to get to the sidewalk bordering the now deserted street. Keeping his bundle to the inside, he calmly walks down the sidewalk, like he hasn't a care in the world. He nonchalantly walks the two blocks to where his old, rough looking Holden panel van is parked in a public lot. He enters it through the back doors.

Hawk tosses his cloth mask, black coveralls and rope in an old wooden box. He removes the pouch containing the painting, then sets it aside. Hawk sits down on a box in front of a mirror that hangs off the van wall, then pulls off the dark wig to expose his silvery blond tresses. He turns on the interior light, then takes a jar of cold cream off the shelf. He uses the cold cream and some paper towels, both kept here for just this purpose, to remove the makeup from his face. A once over with some wet wipes completes his transformation back to the man he really is.

Hawk moves to the front right seat to start the old van. New running gear in the van makes sure he'll have a getaway vehicle that runs well. He left it plain, tired looking, and beat up on the outside so that the old van won't stand out, always a good thing in this line of work.

Hawk will be well on his way before the theft is discovered. A relatively easy job for the 100 thousand Australian Dollars more he's to be paid, besides the 20 thousand he requires as up-front money before he considers taking any job. It has occurred to him that the people paying the tab might not want him around once he delivers the goods. That's always a problem when he steals to order, though not an insurmountable one.

Chapter 2

Brisbane, Australia

Silverhawk is very tired. It's been a fairly long drive from Canberra to Brisbane. Since he had been awake for fourteen hours before he even started the drive, it seems much longer than the 938 kilometers. Hawk didn't take so much as a quick catnap in the back of the old Holden van at any rest stops along the way. He always thinks it best to distance himself from the area he where does his jobs as quickly as possible, without attracting attention.

Hawk finds a motel that looks decent. It's not extravagant, but not a hooker's haven either. He rents a room with one of the many credit cards he carries in various names. By never using the same card twice in any given town, it makes Hawk very hard to track, if anyone is trying. The cards all real enough, all his, not stolen. They're in various names to go with the various ID's he has obtained, semi-legally. Any of them, if anyone is checking, comes back with his picture and description, in various guises. They all have a phony name and address. All the credit card bills are sent to a re-mailing service that sends them wherever he tells them. He also has passports to match each identity.

Hawk locates his room, then parks the van in front of it. He carries in the painting, still in its pouch, plus one small bag. The room is nothing to brag about. It's just two typically firm beds with clean but thin blue bedspreads on them. A tele is bolted to the wall with a remote chained to the cheap nightstand. There's a small bathroom with a shower stall. The walls in the bathroom are done in the small off-white tiles all low-to-medium priced motels seem to use. This one however, uses large gold-flecked white tiles on the bathroom floor. Most such motels just use the same small plain ones that are on the walls.

Cheap looking prints in cheaper looking frames are stuck to the walls in the main portion of the room. Why they bother to stick them to the walls he can't fathom. Who the heck would steal junk like that. He chuckles over that. Haven't I just stolen some painting that doesn't look that good? I guess some people will steal anything. I will, if the price is right and the risk manageable.

The dark blue loop pile carpet blends well with the other touches of blue in the room. The carpet goes with the blue bedspread, plus touches of blue on the chair and the Formica topped writing area in the corner. This is a tad unusual for these cheaper motels to be so coordinated. The walls are what Hawk thinks of as landlord white. It's a universal tone that all cheaper rental units seem to be painted.

Why do I, the infamous Silverhawk, the super thief, notice all this, when I'm so tired, all I want to do is sleep? Habit, I suppose, knowing my surroundings when on the job could only help, never hurt. Certainly, it can be critical on some jobs. Another thing I notice about this room is unless I want to break out the window in the bathroom then climb out, the door is the only way out. Oh well, nobody is on to me. It should be okay, for now.

Hawk locks the door, then places a chair under the knob, as an extra precaution while he sleeps. It might not stop anyone, but it will certainly make some noise. He strips off his clothes, tossing them on the bed closest to the door. He pulls back the covers on the other bed, gets in, then covers up. In mere moments, he's fast asleep.

Chapter 3

Hawk wakes almost exactly twelve hours later. He's thirsty and hungry. He decides that a glass of water will do for the moment. He fills the cheap plastic glass that all motels seem to use with tap water from the bathroom sink, then tastes it. He spits it back out in the sink. Worst tasting water ever, it has to be. That is the sink, not the toilet… hard to say which would be worse.

Hawk pulls on his dirty pants and shirt, then grabs some change off the nightstand. Hawk also grabs his key to the room, plus his keys to the Holden. He pads barefooted down the sidewalk to a vending machine. He gets two Cokes, then fills a cheap plastic container full of ice. He opens the Holden to get out a small tool kit he takes with him everywhere.

Back in the room, he takes a long pull from one of the Cokes then sets it aside. Hawk takes the painting out of the pouch. When he looks it over carefully, front, back and sides, Hawk notices that the back of the picture doesn't appear to be part of the front, just a backing. With a pair of needle nose pliers from his kit, he carefully removes each half-exposed nail that holds the backing in the frame. Carefully he places each old fashioned cut nail in the clean, glass ashtray sitting on the cheap, wood-grained plastic-coated nightstand. Taking his time, working methodically, he gets out every nail. The back comes off easily now.

Ah ha, there's a document here! I knew it couldn't be just this old crummy painting they want. He reads the document. As best he can make out from the fancy lettering and old English words, the document grants all rights to a large portion of the northern territory to some tribe he has never heard of, but then he isn't all that up on Australian aboriginal tribes.

Hawk is from England, what the locals often call a pommy bastard. It had gotten much too hot, legally, for him there. So now he plies his trade in Australia, at least 'til the heat dies down back home.

Well now, I'll have to play this very carefully. I could … possibly … make enough on this one deal to retire from the trade. At least I could give up working to order. If I'm successful, I'll only steal things I want to steal.

Now, how am I going to pull this off? Ainsworth surely won't want to keep the document. It makes the most sense for Ainsworth to destroy it. Forging not being one of his considerable skills, he wonders how he can make a copy that will pass muster. It only has to pass long enough for this Ainsworth creep to burn it. I best not involve anyone else, doing that is a sure way to get caught, either by the law, or the parties involved. That's exactly how the heat got on to me in England. Hmm, perhaps a copier will do the job.

They've probably never seen it, so they won't know exactly what it looks like. Hmm, it's too easy to tell copy toner from ink, but not ink from an ink jet printer. That's it! I'll go buy a cheap computer, a scanner, plus a decent ink jet printer. If I can find suitable paper, it should pass, if aged a bit.

Hawk puts the nails in a small pocket on the painting's pouch. He replaces the painting in the pouch, not bothering to reattach the back at this time, as he'll be putting the duplicate there as soon as he has it.

Hawk dresses in clean clothes. Nothing fancy, just everyday workingman's clothes. Nobody seems to notice me if I look like a working stiff.

Hawk's hair always stands out. He gets one of many wigs out of the van, this time a light brown one. Hawk makes sure it's adjusted properly, then puts a working man's cap on to complete the look. He grabs the dirty clothes, then tosses them in his small bag. Just to be on the safe side, he wipes down all the surfaces he may have touched, with a cloth with a bit of that foul water on it. He strips both beds, so the maid won't have to do it, and both sets will get into the wash, doing away with any possible DNA evidence.

Hawk opens the door with the rag over the knob. He totes everything out to the van. Returning to the room, he checks thoroughly to make sure he's left nothing behind. He even retrieves both the full Coke and the empty can. He even takes the glass he tried to use with him. Nothing is left in the trash cans either. It never hurts to be careful.

Hawk wipes the key. He holds it with the rag between it and his hand. He tosses the key in the convenient drop box, then departs. He'll find another motel later, he tries never to stay in any one place for more than one night.

Hawk seeks out a place to buy a reasonably priced computer. Using a local phonebook, he finds a small computer store that carries both new and used equipment. It's better to buy used if possible, serial numbers on that kind of thing could be traced. Maybe I'm getting over cautious, but better that than years in prison, or death from those I'm trying to make pay.

The store has a decent used computer with monitor, for a few hundred. It's cheap since it's the older desktop variety, not one of the fancy notebook style ones. He gets a used scanner that's nice but not very expensive. Since printing is the main thing for this use, he buys a new, high-quality inkjet printer, the kind that uses actual ink, not the dyes some use. It isn't all that costly. For just over fourteen hundred Australian Dollars, he has almost everything he needs, including ink, all the wires and software to make it all work.

Hawk asks the man at the computer store where he'll find some really nice, classy paper that will run through the printer. The man recommends an office supply store down the road a bit. He also tells him that almost any paper will work in that kind of printer, so long as it's not wider than the printer can take, which is wider than most. If it's thick paper, he may have to feed it through one sheet at a time, however.

At the office supply store, Hawk peruses the usual paper stock. He doesn't find anything to fit his needs. A pretty, mature clerk asks if she can be of assistance. He tells her, I'm looking for some really classy, parchment style paper, in a really heavy weight. She shows him over to a special section, where they have some stocks of really high-class hand-made paper, sold by the sheet. He peruses them for a few minutes. Hawk finds a nice paper nearly the same in appearance to the document he found in the painting. He buys an even dozen sheets. Expensive, at nearly five dollars per sheet, but worth it if this ruse works. He also buys a package of large manila mailing envelopes, and a ream of extra wide, but otherwise ordinary cheap copy paper.

The next stop for Hawk is a large discount drugstore. Here he buys a number of things: a bottle of rubbing alcohol, cotton swabs, single edge razor blades, emery boards, mailing labels, clear mailing tape, plus a few other personal hygiene items that have nothing to do with the attempt at forgery.

All set now, he finds another middle of the road motel. It's very much like the last one. He wonders if one guy designed them all.

Hawk sets up the computer equipment on the built-in writing desk. It all barely fits, if he lets the tower stay on the floor. He should have opted for one of the laptops, but they were much more expensive. Once it's all set up, he boots up the computer, then installs the software to make the scanner and printer do their work.

When this is done, Hawk scans the original. Oops, some dirt flecks on the screen of the scanner ruined it. He cleans the surface with a bit of the alcohol on a tissue, then wipes the bed of the scanner thoroughly with a clean, dry tissue. He scans the original again. It scans perfectly, so he feeds one sheet of the good paper into the printer. He prints out a copy, it looks good, so he prints all eleven remaining sheets of the fancy paper.

Hawk places the equipment on the floor without undoing the wires. This gives him room to work. On each of the copies, he cuts away tiny portions of the edges of the paper using the single edge razor blades. He just nips here and there, doing no two exactly alike. He carefully stains the paper in a few places with the alcohol mixed with Coke, using a swab. Taking up one of the emery boards, he uses the coarse side, then the fine, to roughen the edges on all twelve copies. He varies how much and where they're roughest.

Hawk takes four of the copies, plus his dirty clothes with him down to the on-site mini-laundry. First, he washes his clothes, then when he has them in the dryer, he puts in one copy at a time at different phases of the drying cycle. He leaves the last one in the dryer for a few minutes on high heat, after the clothes are removed. When the dryer stops, he gathers up everything, then returns to his room.

Hawk checks all four copies, the one he left in longest looks the best aged, so he puts that one in the painting. He replaces the backing, carefully replacing all the nails with his pliers. Hawk returns the painting to it's pouch.

He puts the computer equipment back up on the desk. He runs off a dozen copies of the document on copy paper. He types a note out on the computer stating that he has the original, that for a deposit of one million pounds he'll provide the original. He gives the account deposit number to Ansbacher Limited, a Cayman Islands bank. He's not worried about this, since he set it up all funds deposited to this account are automatically moved to other accounts. No withdrawals can be made from that account. It's not traceable to him, even if the law or his employer finds a way to check.

Hawk also gives instructions that the matter must be kept private, no further questions asked. He prints out one copy. This he places in one of the manila envelopes, along with a plain paper copy of the document in question. He addresses this one to Ainsworth. On the computer, he adds to the note that he was hired by Aldridge Ainsworth to steal the painting with the document inside. He prints out two more. Adding the plain paper copy to each, he puts them in envelopes. One of these he addresses to the Prime Minister of England. The other is addressed to the Prime Minister of Australia.

Hawk takes a small break, thinking about things, then returns to the laundry. He dries three of the parchment copies some more. When he's satisfied with them, he returns to the room.

Hawk places each of these copies in separate manila envelopes, then marks each with the same addresses as the others. He places a small star in the corner of each, where the stamps will go, so as not to get them mixed up with the rest.

Hawk marks each of the parchment copies remaining with a tiny C on the back of each. He puts them each in separate envelopes. These get addressed to various newspapers or TV news agencies. A small N in the corner where the stamps will go is marked on these envelopes. He places the remaining plain paper copies, plus several blank sheets of paper on either side of the original, then puts them in an envelope. Hawk addresses it to the re-mail company using the name they know. He takes out his cell phone. He calls the re-mail company to request they hold all his mail until further notice. He has them bill any extra charges to the credit card he uses for that account.

The ones to the news agencies, he places in the box the copy paper was in. It gets taped shut. On this, he tapes a hand written, signed note to his attorney in England, instructing him to put the contents of the box in the post if he doesn't hear from him within a month. With this, he includes a check made out for one thousand pounds, drawn on his Bank of England account in the name he uses with his London attorney.

The ones addressed to Ainsworth, and the prime ministers with the stars in the corner, Hawk takes out to the van. These get stashed in a hidden compartment under the floor that he built-in some time ago. Originally, he planned to use it for stashing loot, this is almost the same thing.

The office of the motel has a FedEx box so Hawk grabs a large envelope. He addresses it to his attorney in England. Using the rate guide on the box, he fills out the slip giving one of his credit card numbers in the name that he uses with his attorney, James Keating. Hawk has used so many different names for so long, Hawk is the only name he really feels is his. The name he was born with, Michael James Patterson, is just a long ago memory, nearly forgotten.

Hawk returns to the room, suddenly he's very hungry. He's still in his workingman disguise, so he decides a visit to a local low-end restaurant won't make him seem out of place. No, on second thought, I should tend to business first. He stashes the painting, still in its pouch, in the ceiling, only having to gently lift one of the ceiling tiles to do it. He unhooks all the computer equipment. This all gets taken out to the van. He includes the remaining copy paper. He thinks of disposing of it all. Since I paid cash, it can't be tied to me. I don't think anyone could trace down the printer that isn't registered to me either. It just may come in handy at another time. The paper is so common it probably can't be traced.

This apparently leaves nothing in the room but his now clean clothes. He leaves them, laid out on the bed. He puts the do not disturb sign out, then relocks the door from the outside, for all that puny lock is worth. He drives to the nearest post office, where he posts the letter to himself.

With that taken care of, he finds a pleasant, quite middle of the road eatery. He has a good, filling meal, being careful not to say much, over or under tip, so as not to be remembered. While he's out, he finds a pay phone. He uses one of his other credit cards for the call to Ainsworth's man. He tells him to meet him at the departure lounge of the Brisbane airport the next day at noon. He chose the departure lounge so that they could bring neither guns nor knives, plus they will be in a crowd of people.

Hawk drives back to the motel, then saunters to his room. He uses the room phone to call an airline to see what flights are scheduled to leave about one p.m. the next day. Many are available, so he chooses one to Perth, the farthest place away from Brisbane in Australia. He books the ticket in the same name he originally used when getting the instructions and initial payment from Ainsworth's man. He tells the airline person he'll pick up the ticket near flight time tomorrow.

Hawk thinks that whether or not he is successful in garnering more money for himself, he should let the copies go to the press. Ainsworth's henchmen will keep after me until I'm dead, or Ainsworth and probably the henchmen, go to jail. I much prefer the latter choice.

Hawk walks to a nearby off-brand convenience store, where he picks up some food and drinks for later. He returns to his room, passing the time drinking Cokes while flipping channels on the TV. After a while he tires of this, eats a bit of the food he bought, turns off the TV, turns out the lights, then drifts off to sleep.

Chapter 4

The next morning, Hawk is awake early. He takes his time with a long, relaxing shower. He puts on some padding under the touristy clothes he wore last time Ainsworth's man saw him. He gets the proper wig, when he brings in the make up kit. He makes himself up with a larger nose, colored contacts, the dark wig, plus a few other touches like glasses with thick black frames. He checks himself constantly in the mirror of the makeup case. Yes, he looks just like he did when he last met with Ainsworth's man. He paints on a little more make up to make it appear as if he has gotten a little sun since the man saw him last.

As usual, Hawk packs up everything, wipes everything down, and strips the beds. He returns the key before departing the motel. Since it's a different person on the desk, he doesn't have to worry about them wondering why he doesn't look like the man who checked in, as if they would worry about it anyway.

He gets some breakfast at a chain restaurant, paying cash, tipping just enough not to get noticed. He drives to the airport, way early, that's part of the plan.

Hawk's first stop is some pay lockers near the baggage claim. He puts the painting in one, puts in the proper change then removes the key. He makes sure he has the proper ID and credit cards handy for this persona. Hawk strides to the airline desk to pick up his ticket.

He shows the ID, then gives them the credit card to check. There's no problem, so he trudges like a tired tourist through security to the departure lounge. Hawk sticks the ticket in a side pocket of his little bag, leaving it sticking out. He plucks a hair from the wig, then places it with the ticket. He arranges it just right, so that if the ticket is withdrawn, the hair will fall out.

All set for this part of the game, Hawk gets some coffee, and a magazine at one of the little kiosks. Now he just waits. About noon, the Ainsworth man he knows only as Smith, with another man he doesn't know come over to the table he's at, to sit down. Smith asks Where's the painting?

Hawk counters that by asking, Where's my money?"

Smith withdraws a large manila envelope from his inside pocket. He allows Hawk to look inside, then takes the envelope back. Hawk passes the other man the locker key, telling him it is near baggage claim. The man gets up to go check, while Hawk waits with Smith.

~*~

The unknown Ainsworth man is at the lockers. He opens the locker, takes out the pouch containing the painting. He unzips it partially then looks inside. As far as he can tell, it's the painting, completely intact. He dare not go through security with it, as it might be recognized as stolen, so he puts it back in the locker, adding the proper coins to remove the key.

~*~

The second man returns from checking the painting, nods to Smith, who hands Hawk his money. Hawk leaves his little bag by the chair to visit the restroom briefly. He allows just enough time for Smith to check his ticket.

When Hawk returns from the rest room, it's right on time, the first call for his supposed flight is called. He bids them good day. Hawk starts towards the departure gates. Apparently he grabs for his ticket, but he really wants to see if the hair falls out. It doesn't, so he knows they checked. The two men go the other way.

As soon as he's sure they're not around, he schleps to the airline desk nearby to inquire about a refund. The pretty lady looks at the ticket, then tells him that fare is a nonrefundable one. There's a man in line that wants to purchase a last minute ticket to Perth, so Hawk hands him the ticket. He tells him to save his money to have fun with, have a good time on him. Hawk couldn't have planned it better, there will be somebody using that ticket, somebody for Ainsworth's men to follow when the plane lands in Perth.

Hawk sits down to wait a bit, making sure those two have had time to clear the airport. As soon as he's reasonably sure those men aren't around, he parks himself in a restroom stall. He uses some wet-wipes to remove the make up. He takes off the wig, then changes clothes to the jeans and t-shirt he has in the bag. Stuffing the padding and old clothes back in the bag, he exits the stall.

He checks himself in the bathroom mirror. With a paper towel, he washes his face to remove traces of the glue for the nose, along with some remaining specks of makeup. Hawk combs his hair back into the magnificent silver blond mane he's so fond of. He leaves the restroom truly a changed man. If those goons are still around, there's no way they'll recognize me now.

Hawk strolls back out to his van while nonchalantly checking every direction. He drives away from the airport casually, then stops at a little family-run pizza place for a leisurely lunch, before starting the drive to Sydney.

Chapter 5

Near Evergreen, Colorado.

A few days later.

Ashling Pane is ducking a phone call. She's now famous for many things, including stopping nuclear terrorism, decking the world champion boxer, and saving the President's life. Ralph Meaney, Vice-President in charge of recoveries for an insurance firm she often takes cases from, is trying to get her to take a job. Normally, he would just assign the job to someone else.

Apparently, the Prime Minister of Australia, plus the Queen of England herself, have requested Ash. That in itself doesn't bode well for the job. The other thing, that worries Ash is that both England and Australia have banned owning or carrying firearms. Ash isn't about to go on any case, or anywhere else for that matter, unarmed. She'd rather stay home, listen to Roz practice her music, or go dancing with Mike.

Roz has come a long way since Ash saved her from those sadistic Russian bastards. She's getting enough to eat, plus love and attention from Ash, not to mention her very pretty red-headed nanny, interpreter, bodyguard and teacher, Rachel.

Roz has filled out her much too thin body just a little already. She's continuing to do so, by eating like three or four grown men would. Her gift of being able to play music on most any instrument, just by hearing it, is amazing to say the least.

Rachel is starting to teach her how to read written music. Roz gobbles up every morsel of musical information like a hungry dog being tossed a steak. She's starting to learn some English too. She's brilliant in math, and is learning computers. Already she can do a lot, considering she can barely read any English, or any other language for that matter. She's a brilliant girl, with a very sharp mind, but had very little if any formal schooling at all.

Lately Mike, Ash's current romantic flame, is kind of now you see me, now you don't. Ash has yet to ask him why. She thinks he's afraid of becoming too attached. There is always the ever-present possibility of having Ash ripped from his life by circumstances he has no control over. This just might be too scary for him to deal with. Most of the others Ash knows that work as cops, agents, or otherwise face down the nefarious criminal elements, have similar problems with their love lives. He's around enough to keep Ash pretty much on an even keel, physically. For her emotional or intellectual needs, that's a different story.

All in all, her life is good. It's probably going to get even better when Mary and Jerry get here. It won't be too much longer before Jerry and Mary's Hawaiian honeymoon will be over. They'll join Ash in Colorado.

Ash can hardly wait for that. Neither she nor Rachel is any great shakes in the kitchen, not when it comes to preparing food. The food delivery places know how to get to Ash's place by heart. Since she's off the beaten track, she always gives the delivery person a huge tip. She imagines there are always fights or skullduggery to get to deliver her orders.

Ash gets up from the breakfast nook to pour herself another cup of the Presidential coffee. Her personal friend, President of the United States, Les Moore, has set her up with deliveries of his personal blend. Mostly it's Hawaiian Kona, with some other types mixed in. It's the best stuff she's ever tasted.

Ash has been sitting here in a plush robe from the Waldorf Astoria, mulling things over. She's trying to think of something to do today that will keep her out of the house for a while.

She needs to shop for a new vehicle, even though her large garage is already over flowing. Her father and grandfather left most of the vehicles to her. Hot rods, an old, but well maintained pickup, plus several other old cars fill it to capacity already. Winter will be here in a few weeks. None of the vehicles I have are all that great for the Colorado winters.

So many vehicles come in four-wheel drive these days, that doesn't knock down the choices too much. Ash's father had shown her that the choice of tires is the most important thing for a winter vehicle. Wide tires are all the rage, but they'll sit on top of the snow or ice, slide, or spin. They provide no traction on snow or ice. Narrow tires are the ticket, they will quickly slice down through the mess, to get to solid footing.

Rachel will need some kind of wheels of her own. Since Roz will often be with her, I want something safe. Perhaps a little on-line perusing before setting off for Denver will be a good idea. She marches off to her laptop computer in her bedroom.

After an hour or so of checking web pages, Ash gives up on this method of car shopping. They all make great claims for their vehicles. I just can't get the feel of one that way. She does print out directions to some of the larger dealers in Denver.

Ash always had a penchant for Fords, handed down from her father, but she also likes Chrysler products. Now that budget isn't a consideration, the new Mercedes 4x4s, Land Rovers, maybe even a giant Hummer are all possibilities. Having too many choices is the problem.

Ash ambles into the dining room, now more of a music room, to see if Roz and Rachel are up for a car-shopping trip to Denver.