Lepers on an Ocean of Lies: Who are the royal targets? (The 3rd in the Peter Piper crime thriller series)

By Trevor Trigg

The action-at-full-throttle follow-on from 'LAPEL' and 'Looming August Eighth' crime thrillers.

1990. Peter Piper and police superintendent Robbie Burns are in the thick of it. A member of a royal family has been brutally murdered and the threat is that royals will be targeted until deals are done and vast sums of money are freed from Swiss accounts. Royal murders may be subterfuge and levers for a tyrant to go to war to subjugate a whole population and gain control of a major part of world energy — and its price.

The counter, to a tyrant's subterfuge and lies, is to create an 'ocean of lies' that will buy the time to protect royal targets, rescue innocents, kill or capture murderers, and close down the sea-going conduit for assassins and terrorists.

Peter and Rob are in the crosshairs, but so is a ship that they have pirated to sail on their ocean of lies. Success or deadly failure can only be determined by a desperate run to sea from enemy forces in the Persian Gulf.

Ramifications are global. British focus is intense. MI6 has an agenda that Piper and Burns must overturn in order break through. A white-knuckle ride through firefights and naval engagement; it can turn on a penny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781922565198

Book preview

Wallaby

Prologue

Media spin deemed it to be the wedding of the year before upgrading it to the wedding of the century. It had all the trappings: a police honour guard, comprising both Victoria Police and Australian Federal Police, a military honour guard, and TV cameras mounted on high and low vantage points. Senior-level embassy representatives from America and Greece attended. The Prime Minister, Attorney-General, Chief of the Defence Force and their wives had sat in the front row during the ceremony that married Peter Piper to Robyn and Robert Burns to Servandra. The crowds were deep on the street and celebrated as though the country had crowned new royalty.

The whole shebang—right down to the rented Rolls Royce—was paid for by the American Embassy and LAPEL, the international pressure group whose aim is to preserve sovereign freedom: Lest Assumed Power Ends Liberty. For the Americans, it was their thank-you for averting the loss of the comms base at Pine Gap. And LAPEL, for the averting of loss of their whole organisation in 1988. It was a lavish affair, and TV and newspapers gave saturation coverage. It was total endorsement for the new honours that had ceremoniously been bestowed on Peter and Rob.

Once again, the front pages had luxuriated in the achievements of Piper and Superintendent Burns—and swooned over the fairy-tale joint weddings of the country’s two favourite sons and their sensational mother-and-daughter brides.

Now, in March 1990, the role that Piper and Burns had played in impeding the terrorist attacks that had loomed for August eighth last year—1989—was a waning story. The footage, taken on board the aircraft carrier USS John F Kennedy, of Peter and Rob crashlanding a Fokker on the carrier’s flight deck, was now being shown less on TV. Emmanuel Achmood, the leader of the terrorist incursion, and Evangeline O’Hare, the surviving assassin, were in high security Australian prisons. Robyn and Servandra’s faces now only made the covers of glossy magazines when it was a quiet week for international celebrities.

‘Freshly promoted—on permanent secondment to the Australian Federal Police—bugger-all to do and likely to continue enjoying it.’ Rob passed Peter a beer. ‘And you’re still a consulting contractor to the AFP, similarly with bugger-all to do.’

‘I know,’ said Peter sucking the froth off his upper lip. ‘Life’s a bowl of cherries, mate—to quote one of your aphorisms.’

‘My affer-whats?’

***

1 – A bar in Zurich.

A taxi moved off from the hotel drive-around after depositing two men who hurried into the lobby. Another taxi came in to take its place, and a rugged-up doorman greeted two women as they alighted. The younger one looked at the mist of her breath in front of her face, and squeaked. They wrapped their coats a little tighter as they hustled towards the revolving glass door to the lobby. As the two men walked towards the cocktail lounge, the women headed for the powder room to make repairs to make-up that had withstood the rigours of a moist, seven degrees Celsius day in Zurich.

Males were in the majority in the lounge so when the two blonde women sashayed in, the majority of eyes followed them. They took a lounge table, three tables away from the two men, and ordered drinks from an attentive waiter. Within a minute the younger of the two men caught the idle, wandering glance of the younger woman and he smiled, tilted his head and winked. She smiled, glanced again and smiled—and again—an unmistakable signal. He walked over, cocktail in hand.

‘This is very good,’ he said, indicating the drink, ‘I do recommend it, and since you may think it a dubious recommendation, may I buy you one?’

The young woman fluttered her eyelids but the older woman responded. ‘Well thank you. Does the invitation extend to me too?’

He grinned and half nodded.

‘I’m pretty good with accents—seems to me that you aren’t South African, nor New Zealander, most probably Australian—but you look more….,’ she paused and looked at the ceiling for the right word, ‘more cosmopolitan than the usual steak-and-eggs Australian.’

He sat down. ‘You wanted to say Middle Eastern or swarthy or olive, but cosmopolitan is quite acceptable,’ he smiled. ‘I am from Middle Eastern immigrants to Australia but my lineage is vastly more cosmopolitan. Dare I say that your ancestry may be interesting also.’

The younger woman wriggled a little to redirect his attention. ‘What made you think we spoke English?’ she asked.

‘You ordered a drink, yes? And I asked your waiter a couple of questions on his way to the bar. Confirmation of your language cost me a hefty tip.’

‘Well, in that case, you deserve at least appreciation for your sacrifice, and yes, I will accept your offer to try the cocktail.’ Her ruby-red lips stretched to show perfect teeth. She was young, yet looked worldly, and her body language suggested availability—shapely and sexy too. He savoured a congratulatory rush for what appeared to be shaping up as a conquest.

‘Well,’ said the older woman—she was around fifty, he surmised, confident and stylish, curvy and tanned, ‘you two seem to be set on a tasting session of the bar’s offerings but I must attend to tomorrow’s interviews. You can have my already ordered cocktail too.’ She tossed money on the table.

‘Interviews? Tomorrow?’ he asked.

‘Monique is a lingerie model. She is smashing it at the top end, and I’m Marisa, her agent and publicist. I’m the worker; she’s the prize.’ She nodded. ‘Good evening.’

He smiled.

Monique looked coy.

The woman, strutted away like a runway model towards the bar, past the table where the man’s older companion sat. He stood. They talked a little—and they both sat.

***

2 – Let’s make a baby.

‘So many options for to being considered.’ Servy’s extra preposition and Scandinavian lilt still made Rob feel rosy inside. She was the more exotic for it and, though she had been his wife for a few months, he still felt that he had been more fortunate than he could ever have dreamed. Her lineage was on the other side of the world, and some unfathomable good fortune had sent her to him. He kissed her cheek.

‘Mmhmm,’ agreed Rob. ‘I guess we’re all at a crossroads. Where to live, where our careers may take us… Dammit, we don’t even know what our careers are, especially Peter.’

‘His career is to being a father,’ Servy said with a grin. Peter feigned wide-eyed shock.

‘Momma, all in good time. He’s still getting used to having a wife,’ Robyn said and ruffled Peter’s hair.

‘I have a confession,’ Peter said forlornly and gazed down at his crotch. ‘I’m impotent and sterile.’ This time the wide eyes were Servandra’s.

‘Momma, he’s pulling your leg. You know he loves doing that.’ Robyn grabbed a handful of his hair and gave it a shake.

They were enjoying coffee and cake on the balcony of one of the rented, side-by-side townhouses in Canberra. The contemplation of their futures seemed to be a daily ritual but always half-hearted. Enjoying the moment and each other’s company was really the ritual. Their marriages had made them family, and family was a new state of mind but it was more a state of heart.

Dinner at the restaurant had once again been quick mouthfuls of seafood between laughter and chatter, and upturned palms and finger wagging as markers of a missed turn in the conversation.

Servy waved goodnight to Robyn and Peter from the front door, stepped inside and closed it behind her. She grabbed Rob’s jacket front and hauled herself up to plant an open-mouthed kiss on his lips. She stepped back, and for umpteenth time—as in any day—devoured him with her eyes in the half-light of a table lamp. His powerful six-foot physique, shock of pepper and salt hair and smooth, yet rugged, features always caused her to luxuriate in a smugness that came from knowing that he was hers. It also turned her on. She started undressing and dropped a piece of clothing or shed a shoe, every metre or two on the way to the bedroom.

Her hair was still the blonde bob from last year and it seemed that it might be permanent. He loved the look: coquettish. It complemented her ocean-blue eyes and yoga-fit body shape. To him, she was a sumptuous beauty—incredibly, in her mid-fifties.

‘Rob had that let’s-make-a-baby look in his eye when he glanced sideways at your mum tonight. They’re truly head over heels about each other,’ Peter said, as he closed the front door.

‘Mmmm. Just like I am about you. Head over heels,’ Robyn smoodged. ‘Momma would love to make a baby but that’s no longer on her playlist. We’ll have to do it for her.’ The impish grin was there as she took his hand and moved towards the bedroom.

She left the ensuite bathroom first after they showered together—they’d agreed that the tiles would be too uncomfortable and needed to slowdown a tad. As he came out into the soft glow from bedside lamps, he did a double take—not unusual. She lay on the bed with some of her long auburn tresses spread across a pillow with the rest, slick and wet, across a shoulder. He had caught a whiff of the perfume coming from the bottle, but on her skin it became a potion that accelerated his blood. She slowly pushed up the sides of her breasts so they rose into shining complex curves.

‘How is that possible? You look more gorgeous every time,’ Peter whispered. Her placid green eyes and cupid’s bow of a mouth always seemed to complete her perfection in seduction. He lay beside her and lent a hand to the gentle massage. ‘My loins say that tonight might finish up with twins. Our tadpoles are out of control and champing at the bit.’

***

3 – There goes the fish & chips shop.

‘So, married life agrees with you. You’re both positively beaming,’ Attorney-General, Frank Papadopoulos, observed, as he topped up Peter and Rob’s coffees. The three of them sat in the A-G’s airy office, Parliament House, Canberra. ‘My wife says it’s been too many weeks since we had dinner together, so my guess is she’ll be talking to Servy and Robyn about fixing that.’

‘If it’s a barbeque,’ Rob wagged a finger, ‘I’m the chef. You’re a gun lawyer but crap with a steak, mate.’

‘Ha!’ Frank grinned, ‘At question time in this place, the Opposition tries to rip strips off me, and I’ve also got to cop it from a mate.’

They shared a couple of chuckles and BBQ stories, but each knew that serious things needed to be discussed and decided.

‘Tony and Ben will be here shortly but I thought I’d do a little scene setting first.’ Papadopoulos said, as he settled deeper into his chair and ran fingers through his thinning dark hair as if rehearsing something in his mind. ‘There has been absolutely no need to interfere with your newly wedded bliss and much deserved break after those months in the limelight. As far as I’m concerned, you can be on a break for as long as you like. Take a cruise. Write a book or two. Whatever. But I’m guessing that you probably want to do something else, and I’m also guessing that you may wish to do it together. Everyone, from the Prime Minister down—hell, everyone in the country—knows that you’re a team and you’ve probably tossed it around with your brand-new spouses. Yes?’

Peter and Rob shared a look before Peter replied, ‘We’re family now and wherever and whatever we do, it’ll be together. I believe that one of you told me last year that you couldn’t see me going back to engineering. I think you were on the money.’

‘Okay. As you know, I have ministerial responsibility for ASIO, so I know that you’re still on the books as an employee, from a year ago—unpaid, inactive. You’re still a contract consultant to the Australian Federal Police, so as far as I’m concerned Peter, you can take up what you choose—if you choose. But you may like to hear about new developments.’ The A-G took a wad of papers from a folder and slid it across the table.

‘There are scores of mongrels still being rounded up for their involvement over the past year or two—the manning and organisation of the crimes have been vast. And there will be extradition attempts from other countries for those who were complicit. Some will get jail time for petty money grubbing, and many will die behind bars. Most of those potential lifers will have stories about the extent of their folly and want to give up those who caused their misery. There’s going to be a lot of peeling back of the onion and a whole lot of policing and national security investigative work. Dammit, there’s going to be a new special-purpose prison built—the convict population is growing fast. A lot of construction work and new corrections officers to be found and trained; we have an economic stimulant on our hands. Busting treasonous crims on an industrial scale is busy, imperative work.

‘AFP, ASIS and ASIO have involvement. There’s to be no individual agency patch-protection and spinning of wheels. Such a group used to be called a task force—not this one. It will come under the control of one man. It will be set up as a new investigative and security agency whose focus is to sweep clean the filth and mess that you both have seen, eyeball to eyeball, over the past year and a half. There can’t be a residue left behind; it must be scoured out. The world knows what has happened here and at least part of the world needs to know that we give no quarter when we are violated.’ Papadopoulos sat back to observe body language, it seemed, and Peter was conscious that he and Rob were obliging.

There were heaps of questions. Rob sifted through them in his head but Peter asked the first one. ‘More coffee?’

A secretary knocked on the door and ushered in Anthony Winthrop, the sharp-eyed, athletic-looking Commissioner of the Australian Federal Police, and Ben Dunedin, a wiry type with a permanent knowing look, who was Senior Intelligence Officer with the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation. Now it was a gathering of friends. Frank, Tony and Ben had all been wedding guests.

Pleasantries and handshakes exchanged, the Attorney said, ‘Tony came up with it. It needs a dedicated team who understands all of it. It must have powers of arrest, and enforcement people will carry firearms when required. It needs capable leadership which should be seconded from the highest level of existing agencies. I know Tony’s the best man to head it and knows all the levers to pull. A Deputy Commissioner will take over leadership of the AFP for as long as it takes.’

‘No better man to do it,’ Rob said, and Peter nodded and grinned at Winthrop.

‘There’s always a dearth of effective people, and now I’m going to create a more severe shortage,’ Tony Winthrop said. ‘I want the best and brightest. I’ll have my pick from police forces around the country. Ben will oversee the ASIO contingent and provide the inter-agency conduit.’

‘Excellent,’ Peter said and gave Ben a thumbs-up.

‘And I want you and Rob.’ Tony gave the questioning eyebrow. ‘You, both of you, are the best and brightest. Resourceful, nimble and you get things done like nobody else. You probably need to have the family confab, so do it tonight and come back to me tomorrow with the yes I need.’

Rob gave Peter his broadest grin. ‘There goes the fish and chips shop, laddie.’

‘Ben’s got a story,’ Tony said. ‘It starts with our keeping a watch on a lawyer who represents Emmanuel Achmood and Evangeline O’Hare. He’s been open with us about his brief—he knows we’re watching. His instruction from his clients, so he says, is to mitigate blame by casting it upon others with the hope that he can get his clients some future life after a gaol term. Sentence reduction through deportation—Christ knows how he proposes to swing a credible acceptance by a legitimate country—for an undertaking to receive them, albeit in their dotage. But it keeps the lawyer involved and obviously, keeps him being paid. That’s what we’re interested in—the money trail—who’s paying him.’

‘He’s an Australian lawyer,’ Ben Dunedin took up the story, ‘of Lebanese heritage. His name is Caleb Kelly. His grandfather was Irish. Two weeks ago, he took off for Zurich—of no great interest to us—just another observation in his file. Two days ago, we got a report from MI6. They’d been keeping tabs on an IRA facilitator who is a key man in the Provisional IRA’s strategic planning. He’s a killer and one day they’ll nab him, but first they want to know what he’s setting up, and they need the evidence. If they nab him too soon, they’ll miss the main game. If assassinations are afoot—which is what he’s usually about—they want that plan. They followed him to Zurich.’

‘And he met with our lawyer, Caleb Kelly?’ Peter asked.

‘Met with him, stayed in the same hotel and accompanied him about town, including to a bank. MI6 knows of the IRA assassin—Evangeline O’Hare—in our custody and when they came across the Australian contact, in Zurich, we were going to get a heads-up.’

‘The inevitable Swiss bank,’ Rob said.

‘Yes to that. Inevitable. The money—whose is it and who has access? And how much of it? And what would it buy?’ Dunedin pulled two fax-photos from his briefcase. ‘This is Kelly and this is Dermot O’Hara—leastwise that’s the name on his passport, easy to tweak for a forger—his real surname is O’Hare. He is Evangeline O’Hare’s uncle. No doubt he was at the forefront in honing her spite and bloodlust.

‘Caleb Kelly had a brief from his client to establish access, through power of attorney, to funds in an account held in the name of his client. His client had no idea of the account balance since it had been regularly topped up by his deceased arms-dealer father, the father you dispatched last year. An inheritance that his father made sure would happen. Kelly has established that there are tens of millions of dollars in the account, but only the account holder can access the funds, in person. Kelly’s mission is incomplete—he can’t put his hands on the money. His job now will be to find a way to make that happen and he’ll get a facilitator’s fee, in the millions. It’s Emmanuel Achmood’s money and Kelly needs to get Achmood to Switzerland in order to get his big payday. Obviously, Evangeline O’Hare has got to be part of the deal.’

‘Holy crap,’ Rob murmured. ‘That’s a swag of intel and it didn’t come from a tight-lipped Swiss bank. How can MI6 know this? They can’t have beaten it out of Kelly, MI6’s mission would be screwed.’

‘You’re right, they didn’t. Kelly boasted of it while big-noting himself to a woman in bed over a couple of nights and days. She was MI6. She was well equipped for wheedling and fornicating.’

‘Holy crap, as Rob says. A woman offering herself up for secrets sought by her employer. MI6 is up there with the world’s big-time user scum-bags.’ Peter shook his head.

‘Only part true,’ Ben said. ‘She’s a former escort who revelled in the work, and the British Secret Intelligence Service has found a way to have sex work pay handsomely for the elite of sex workers. They select only a few of the best and strongest, train them and give them makeovers—like wrinkle work and porcelain veneers for teeth—send them out with a minder and pay them far better than they would be paid for selling sex to grizzled old members of the House of Commons. Adventure, pension entitlement, promotion, salary, and superiors queuing up for favours that enhance a girl’s future prospects in the job. Cosy, cosy. Everyone’s a winner.’

‘Wow!’

‘I know.’

‘What do we know about the IRA involvement? Clearly they want everything for Evangeline O’Hare, but why would Achmood want to spend any of his locked-up loot on O’Hare? There’s nasty scheming afoot between the lawyer and the IRA. Somebody’s going to have very bad news out of this.’