MANGO: A Jade Reynolds Thriller

By JD Murphy

A Jade Reynolds Thriller Jade Reynolds is a dedicated detective. Articulate. Intelligent. Ethical.

She manages her 'patch' with her law book in one hand and the gift of compassion in the other. A series of gruesome killings d

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shawline Publishing Group
• Release date: Apr 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781922594105

JD Murphy

JD Murphy is an Australian author, based in Queensland and he often asks, 'What is life without a good yarn?'. His first novel, The Arbor Girls, published in 2020 was considered one of the best first novels released by a new author and received good reception with reviewers and readers around the globe. JD Murphy's gripping second novel of a contemporary setting examines the clashes possible between the cultures and faiths inherent in a freedom focused nation such as Australia. It is, above all, created to entertain readers. JD Murphy trusts that they will be wholesomely entertained by yet another acclaimed yarn.

Book preview

MANGO

A Jade Reynolds thriller

JD MURPHY

MANGO Copyright © 2021 by JD Murphy.

All Rights Reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Printed in Australia

First Printing: April 2021

Shawline Publishing Group Pty Ltd

www.shawlinepublishing.com.au

Paperback ISBN- 9781922444523

Ebook ISBN-9781922594105

To my ever-enduring family—another thanks to you for excusing me as I dwell in my cold, dark cave with the writing faeries.

To all parents now passed.

‘All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes...’

D.H. Lawrence

The Seven Pillars of Wisdom

16 MM

The dimmed lights helped to highlight the flickering images from the old sixteen-millimetre film projected clearly onto an unadorned wall.

They showed a young man shackled hands and feet to the wall of a dungeon. A shrouded figure entered the frame from the left. His shadow cast itself on the wall beside the prisoner. The boy’s fear turned to terror as the glint of a surgical blade reflected meagre light onto the lens of the impartial camera.

A figure sliced away the young victim’s clothes with a few deft strokes. They fell to the floor. Only his undergarment remained untouched. The figure raised its right hand, resting its head on gloved fingers. It pondered how best to butcher the boy.

A cold camera zoomed in on the victim. The young boy writhed. The figure reached up to the hand restraints. It methodically sliced the radial arteries in each wrist. Trails of blood ran down the youth’s arms, across his chest and down to blood-soaked underpants. From there, his lifeblood dripped to the floor. A swift stroke of the blade nicked the carotid artery on the boy’s neck. Blood spurted through the void between the victim and the camera. As the victim’s life smeared across the lens, the figure closed over the victim, throwing the camera’s view into darkness. The film flickered to an end just as a silent, hysterical scream filled the room.

TEHRAN

A stern, uniformed General sat behind his desk in a modest office in the bowels of an anonymous government building somewhere in Tehran. He was planning an outline of the next campaign that he would take to the cleric in charge of his Ministry of Intelligence and Security. If the old fossil agreed, then he would take it to the Supreme Leader for approval. The cleric—an ignorant peasant in the General’s opinion—and the Supreme Leader were both visual learners. The General had most success with his campaign requests when he presented his concepts as slide presentations filled with colour bars and lines that trended upwards to the firmament. A brief knock on his door brought him back to the present.

‘Enter!’

An aide snapped to attention and opened the door. Two senior officers marched in. The aide closed the door as he exited. A Colonel and a Major strode to the General’s desk and stood to attention. They both snapped out crisp salutes to the officer.

‘Relax, gentlemen. And sit.’

He offered cigars to the officers. They wisely accepted. It was not often that the General engaged his officers in anything remotely social.

‘Couriers?’ he asked.

The Colonel spoke.

‘Sir, the couriers are in position in their departure countries.’

He looked to the Major.

‘Sir, the jihadis are enroute with one of our freighters.’

‘Money?’ he asked.

Again, the Colonel spoke.

‘Our banker in Dubai is packaging the bundles of Australian currency to be sent by diplomatic bags to the three departure points.’

The Colonel looked again to the Major.

‘Sir, our hawala networks have sent the reward payments for our agents to a cell commander in the place of infidels called Brisbane.’

‘Weapons?’

Relieved that this conversation was coming to its natural end, the Colonel spoke again. ‘Sir, the armaments for the diversionary terror strikes and the weapon for the nuclear attack are on the same ship as the volunteers.’

The Colonel looked to the Major who nodded his assurance.

‘All is well, General.’

‘Very good,’ he replied.

The General came around his desk to shake the hands of his officers. They were not completely sure, but they thought they saw a trace of a smile on his face. They could have been mistaken, of course.

‘Soda water, gentlemen?’ asked the stern commander of the Islamic Republic’s Quds Force.

DUBAI

The Bank occupied a plot of land in Deira that overlooked Dubai Creek. From the east-facing windows of the chief executive officer’s offices, the lively traffic of Old Dubai could be seen at any time of the night or day. Showing a veneer of respect for the local faith, the dock workers between The Old Souq Station and Al Sabkha Station took their rest for Salat Al Jumah. The heat and humidity encouraged the pace of commerce to slow to nothing. Almost nothing. The Indian and Sri Lankan deck hands may rest in the shaded places of their sail dhows, but commerce ground on. Computer and communication networks that relentlessly moved capital around the globe needed human slaves to pander to them. Behind the opaque windows of The Bank, those not of the Prophet’s faith were working hard to keep the money flowing. They were infidels, so it was accepted they would keep working. So long as no one officially knew they were working on this official day of prayers, then The Bank was not seen to be breaking the law.

Hamad Al Bajjra always volunteered to make the special parcels of currency available to the chosen travellers. Australia’s cash limit per traveller remained doggedly at ten thousand Australian dollars. So, ten thousand dollars was his limit. The large bundles of well-used currency before him were organised into denominations of five, ten, twenty and fifty dollars. He would not supply the couriers with hundred-dollar notes. They were little used in Australia’s official banking, having gained a reputation as being the note of choice for transactions in what the Australians called the black economy. Authorities were always looking for these notes when they were in new condition. It set a flag for further investigation of the bearer.

Hamad had family in most parts of the world where Arabs and Muslims gathered. He, himself, observed the Shia way. He should be at prayers in his friend’s house. But the chief executive officer had asked him to prepare the cash bundles for the couriers. Fifty couriers each carrying nine thousand five hundred dollars would leave from selected middle eastern and Asian airports within the next seventy-two hours. They would all be arriving at Australian airports within five days of each other. They all had alibis for the money bundles. They even carried official foreign exchange documents that were valid. Well, mostly valid. The bank in which he laboured on this prayer Friday had several sets of books to provide the subterfuge required to send cash to Quds Force terror cells across the world. The principal targets were those democracies associated with the Five Eyes surveillance networks: America, United Kingdom, Canada, New Zealand and Australia. They were the western world’s own axis of evil.

Hamad was a fighter. His weapons, however, were not guns and bombs. His were the rules of international bank settlements. The Jews in Basel had taught him well during his secondment as a junior bank official. He was a soldier who made the payments for the enormous range of goods and services necessary to conduct jihad for his masters in Iran. He had met the General who ran the global terror networks. He had been deeply impressed with the General’s fervour and unswerving focus. The General had personally selected Hamad to undertake the banking needs of the cells. His Sunni Arab hosts here in Dubai had blinkered eyes for the bank’s unofficial lines of business. As long as rashwah flowed into the palaces, he was untouched.

Hamad packaged the final bundle of Australian notes. He withdrew the courier list from the vault. There were twenty of them on standby in Dubai. The other thirty would receive their cash bundles through government courier channels. Ten were waiting in Mumbai, ten in Lahore, and ten in Sri Lanka. Through hawala networks, which Quds Force controlled, he would also provide each courier with five hundred dollars of new, gold jewellery at the successful completion of the journey. This would be their payment for carrying the jihadi funds. What the women or their families did with the trinkets, Hamad did not care.

It had been a good day’s work. There would soon be fifty bundles of nine thousand five hundred dollars travelling to cell controllers in Australia. Almost half a million dollars. Next Friday he would do the same again for another country. Hamad had no idea who the controllers or couriers were, or what their missions were. That was how cells operated. It comforted him that he could not answer questions about things he knew nothing about. His only obligation was to supply a memory stick of transaction information to the CEO as proof he had performed his tasks well. Being ignorant had its virtues when you were labouring for the Quds Force and its worldwide terror networks.

COFFEE

Detective Senior Sergeant Jade Reynolds had a preferred seat and table in the café. From her corner location, she could scan the entrance, the exit, the toilets and everyone who was there, customers and workers alike.

Jade liked to work outside of the police headquarters. She didn’t need to be at her desk each day. Her office was a mobile phone and a laptop. These devices had excellent connections with the secure communications networks of the Queensland Police Service. There was more clever gear in her unmarked police car in the parking lot. With a recent innovation, the technical folk had installed an app on her mobile that allowed Jade to connect to her car and use any tools that had been fitted to it.  It featured a remote engine start so it would be running when she got to it. The feature she really enjoyed was bringing up the external cameras and watching for people who thought they could steal or damage other folk’s possessions. There was also an excellent facial recognition program running on the networked server in the vehicle’s boot. She had busted one loser trying to break into her car. The car had recorded all the action for use as evidence in court. He was a repeat offender, so when the evidence was presented, he went on a one-hundred-and-eighty-day vacation.

Jade also liked this café because of the clientele. There were various groups she had identified as regular patrons. The first were the retirees who came to this franchise from a number of retirement communities in the area. They had a spread of wealth backgrounds. The first, lovable group were those who had clearly struggled all their working lives. When they sold their primary—and often only— home, they found that the eight hundred pounds they had paid as newlyweds in the twentieth century had turned into a million dollars or more in the twenty-first. After they had bought their nice cottage in a retirement estate, there was still a big wad of cash for them to buy, whenever the urge took them, a modest treat. Jade was always intrigued, delighted and a little humbled that these solid community folks could get such a thrill from steak, eggs and chips with a side salad for twelve dollars. The wives were the most appreciative. Some, no doubt, had slaved over hot stoves in tiny kitchens for decades. They were in bliss at not having to wash and dry the dishes. They arrived with a delicious anticipation and left with smiles like cats that had dispatched a plate of creamy milk. She loved them for their simplicity and appreciation of life’s modest pleasures.

The lot she was not so taken with were the precocious types. The men wore golf gear paid for at inflated prices. All types of status symbols were attached to the polo shirts. Boats. Menageries of animals, ticks and crosses. Witless advertising slogans. It was endless. The women dripped jewellery that they clearly did not appreciate. They were just flaunting wealth. This group of retirees whinged about the pickiest things. The napkin wasn’t creased properly? Call the manager! A ten count of fried chips instead of the standard twelve? Disaster! A dessert without a full complement of whipped cream? Bring me the complaints form! Dullards.

The third group was made up of mothers with toddlers. The social aspects of getting out of their houses and mixing and talking things through, was also a pleasing sight for Jade. Such socialisation was, ultimately, healthy for the parents and the kids. These were the coming generations of families that Jade was sworn to protect as a police officer.  There was stratification within this group. The first and biggest was those mums who married early and had their babies early. They had the house in the new suburbs a little north of this café and their husbands were somewhere earning the money to keep it all going.

The smaller group most interesting to Jade was the older mums, those who had made career choices, having their babies later in life when they were financially secure. Late thirties to early forties, they seemed. They showed less of the youthful enthusiasms that the younger mums displayed. Not surprising, really. Being a mum within these years was harder than many would let on. As they sat here talking amongst themselves, the strain would show. Less inclined to bounce a noisy baby on a knee. More inclined to just rock the pram back and forth.

A middle-aged mother let her toddler loose. He went straight for the mango on Jade’s fruit platter.

The Mum came over to Jade to apologise.

‘Hi. Sorry about this. He is a curious and always hungry little man. My name is Cynthia, by the way.’

Jade reached out to grasp the extended hand.

‘Hello. I am Jade and I am more than happy to share a little mango; provided, of course, he doesn’t scoff the lot.’

The women laughed as the child reached up for another serving of mango. As Jade leaned backwards into her chair, her badge and service weapon came into view. Her smile flinched a moment before returning.

‘It’s fine. It’s not loaded and I’m on a break.

It was loaded and she was not on a break.

The woman rolled her eyes in disbelief that she was talking to an armed police officer.

'You must think I am a right twit for pulling back like that. Just a reaction to guns, I suppose.’

Her name was Cynthia and the toddler’s name Oliver. Jade greeted Oliver in her best public relations voice.

‘Hi Oliver. You certainly are handsome today.’

Oliver squealed. Cynthia swept her son up to comfort him. It seemed she misjudged the effort of lifting. Her back protested. She was obviously in pain, so Jade drew out a chair for her to rest. Oliver settled after Jade offered him a little of a marshmallow from her hot chocolate.

It was clear that Cynthia wanted to chat. Jade had no pressing work, so she settled in to let the woman talk about her little dissatisfactions with life. Jade observed a career woman, a high-powered corporate type. Hit the glass ceiling despite having a wealth of experience.  She had invested heavily in her career and lost the bet. Decided that Mister Right was never coming along. Found a donor online and now she had a family of one. Enjoyed his company most of the time but had experienced great difficulty transitioning from the big end of town to sole carer. It was all supposition. Jade had no real idea about who this woman was. She thought flippantly that she would like to change that. If only.

‘Would there ever be a Mister Right?’

Cynthia replied it was unlikely. Jade jokingly suggested that she expand her idea of a partner. Maybe, just maybe, there was a nice woman out there who shared her interests and would be happy to support her in whatever ways she could. Cynthia’s eyes widened slightly then reset themselves into a focused, business like gaze.

‘How did you guess?’ asked Cynthia.

The silence at the table in the corner was broken by Oliver remonstrating for another piece of mango.

‘Umm. I didn’t guess. I was just putting some options out there. Conversational more than anything. I am sorry if I offended you.’ Jade hastily replied. She definitely did not need a public complaint for harassment.

‘No. No. Goodness me. I just thought that, you know, you might have fancied me. I must admit I would have been quite taken with the compliment.’

Jade thought on these words for a moment. It had been some time since she had experienced the company of a woman. Cynthia was an absolute looker, made more attractive with the subtle effects of single parenting.

‘Nice chatting. Must go. The young man here has to have his afternoon nap.’

‘As do I.’ she added, with what seemed to be an encouraging look.

Jade was disappointed to hear Cynthia was leaving. She put on her professional mask.

‘Perhaps if you could give me your contact details, I could come around sometime to offer some advice on personal and home security.’

‘In a professional capacity, of course.’ She added with a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

‘That would be a delightful community service that I could readily accept. Thanks.’

Cynthia rummaged in the toddler’s carryall for a pen and paper. A very expensive Montblanc writing instrument and custom printed notepaper emerged. Cynthia wrote a phone number in very elegant cursive writing. She folded the paper neatly once and handed it to Jade.

‘Looking forward to an in-depth inspection and consultation, Detective Reynolds. Jade. Lovely name. Suits your colouring.’

If Jade had allowed herself, she would have blushed. She questioned whether or not she should be flirting on duty. Cynthia rose, sauntered back to the buggy and popped Oliver into his harness. She appreciated the way Cynthia’s buttocks looked in the elasticised gym wear.

As Jade’s eyes returned to her table, she glanced at the manager who had been trying to catch her eye. He discreetly nodded in the direction of a young couple who looked out of place in the crowd. Jade’s radar switched on. The couple was seated but not ordering. They fingered the menus but made no attempt to make selections. They were sharing the free bottled water, slowly sipping, looking about at the customers. Their clothing style was at odds with the overall atmosphere of the place. They were tense. They had no glitz. No shine. There was no pleasure in their movements. They did not fit. They appeared to be bordering on flipping out but holding it together to steal enough money to get the next hit.

Jade acknowledged the manager’s request for assistance, observing that he was staring at her with eyebrows raised. She replied with a nod of her own. She settled back into her chair, pushing memories of Cynthia away to a more private place. These two were up to no good. Probably trying for a bit of handbag theft. Jade returned to her newspaper, keeping her eyes on the couple over the top of the business pages.

The male focused his attention on one lady who had unwisely left her open handbag resting on a chair next to her. These two were ready to distract the woman; one to run interference whilst the other pilfered the easy treasure. Just as they appeared ready to make their move, Jade rose from the table and casually edged towards them. She leaned down to the ear of the female and whispered a little something in her ear. The male bristled at the closeness of the stranger, making ready to protest. When she had their attention, she carefully drew her jacket to one side. Her service weapon and badge were in full sight of the petty thieves. They reflected on what Jade had whispered in the female’s ear.

‘Get up. Get out. Don’t come back.’

No words left their lips. They simply rose together and left. Jade drew her blazer closed to hide her weapon. She pivoted and looked to the manager. He smiled and mouthed his thanks.

Jade returned to her table. Shortly thereafter, another free hot chocolate arrived. It was part of a modest mutual benefit program the two had adopted. Jade received free food for keeping the manager’s café clear of problems. She always took a receipt for what she consumed. You never knew when those mongrels from Ethical Command would pop up. The receipts were genuine enough. They just didn’t reflect the reality of the transactions that occurred. All serving police were conscious that the stench of The Joke still hung around the Service. The public’s memories for that level of corruption always stayed fresh. Personally, Jade considered the mutual benefit arrangement between the café manager and herself had a net positive benefit for the community. It was the classic win-win. The priests from the Church of Purity would view things differently if they knew.

It was always present at the interface between the watchers and the watched. A grand in the hand to walk away for five minutes. A tip on a nag that was a sure-fire winner. Close the eyes to the comings and goings at a brothel. This was always easier in industrial areas than suburbia. Jade tolerated the biggest one on her patch. She figured that having twenty girls at work in a well-maintained brothel was better than them slumming in a dilapidated house in a decrepit neighbourhood. The owners knew they had to do the right thing by their girls. If not, Jade would make life hard for them. She’d also had a stern conversation with one or two of the hookers. Look after your clients’ and your boss’s interests to keep your jobs.

Jade had a good life as a copper in Metro North. She had joined when community representation through diversity had been in favour with the politicians and within executive ranks. She fitted the required profile of smart, articulate, ambitious. And gay. A few years before, it had been people of colour. A few years after it had been full-blown justice graduates. Soon it would be the turn of those millennials who were literate with social media and the dark web and all that IT stuff. Jade just liked to catch crooks. Her thoughts on why things came to be the way they were, were interrupted by a pager buzz. She immediately packed her tools. As she passed the checkout, she popped twenty dollars onto the counter. The manager nodded. Anybody who saw the transaction would honestly say that the lady in the straight cut suit had paid. What these same folks didn’t know was that the very same twenty-dollar note would be tucked into a special menu for when the red-haired plainclothes detective next came calling.

PORTALS

Switzerland

In the quaint, but well presented, Rue Saint-Ours, a brass plaque modestly advised that

L'Institut International d'études religieuses—Jérusalem was situated behind the ivy-covered facade. The plaque did not lie. There was such an Institute. It was registered and headquartered in another modest building in Jerusalem. An engraved menorah at the entrance carried a red piece of glass in the fifth branch. A second plaque, immediately under the first, simply said ‘Obadiah’.

Behind the uninviting door was a three-storey apartment that was magnificently unaffordable to the commoner. On the ground floor was a one bedroomed apartment, kitchenette, dining room and bathroom-toilet combination. Up a creaking set of wooden stairs, on the second level, were six bedrooms that reflected the levels of comfort of those accustomed to the good life. Each bedroom had an ensuite, styled to reflect the décor of the bedroom. Further up the creaking stairs, the third level was given over to technologies. There were banks of screens and desks replete with keyboards, pointing devices and computer cabinets, whirring fans and computer drives. It was in darkness. The technologies were connected to a suite of Tier One internet servers in the nearby library of the University of Geneva. In a sign of its strangeness, the university IT department’s cabling diagrams did not record any connections for the installation in Rue Saint-Ours. L’Institut did not exist.

Jerusalem

The Temple Institute was located in the Jewish Quarter of the Old City of Jerusalem. It was home to a publicly accessible building that contained a one hundredth scale model of the Temple from ancient days. Everything associated with the Temple was presented in painstakingly accurate detail: tools, vestments, gold and silver adornments. This model held the hopes and dreams of millions of the devout whose prayers awaited fulfilment. They prayed for the return of Temple Mount so they could build The Third Temple. Cedar from Lebanon, tonnes of gold and silver lay waiting, ready to be shaped and forged into holy parts of the new holy place. The temple priests were in training for the time when prophecy would be fulfilled: in the twilight of the seventh day. Meantime, the faithful, the curious and the enemy passed through the exhibitions of the Temple Institute, preparing themselves for battle. Or a good seat at the spectacle, at least.

In a small street nearby, a modest façade looked out on the passing pedestrian flow. It had a well maintained but unspectacular door. A small brass plaque on the wall next to the door handle announced that the premises hosted The International Institute of Religious Studies—Jerusalem. In small but intricate detail beneath the words was an engraved image of a menorah. Six of the branches rose in graceful curves from an elaborately decorated base. They appeared to be inlaid with gold. The fourth branch rose vertically, proudly, towards the heavens. It, too, was inlaid with gold. However, where there would have been a flickering flame in the real menorah, there was a ruby of deepest red. It caught light entering through the skylights above, throwing itself into brilliant red incandescence. The third branch had the image of a priest in prayer, appearing to worship the ruby in the fourth branch. Beneath the first plaque was another with a single embossed word ‘Zechariah’.

If another was privileged enough to be welcomed through the door, they would see an unremarkable interior layout. A dining room to the left, a small kitchen area ahead. A staircase could be seen rising from the right side of the entry porch with a modest toilet and washroom under the staircase. If this chosen one retained privilege, they would ascend the stairs to view a short corridor connecting six bedrooms. Further beyond would be seen a further staircase rising towards a firmly secured grill beyond which the innocent could not pass. The third level had been given over to banks of screens and panels replete with keyboards, pointing devices and computer cabinets, all populated by whirring fans and computer drives. It was in darkness. Ultramodern, but clandestine, connections travelled from this secret third floor world to the extensive networks of communications and power cables controlled by the intelligence services of the State of Israel.

London

The London school of Jewish Studies occupied a modest building in North West London. It was a decent distance along the A504 from the Middlesex University in London. The Sheppard Library sat at a jaunty angle to the other campus buildings. It was once called adventurous architecture. Now, it was just another normal. What was not normal was the extensive collection of Tier one telecommunications equipment in the secured basement. A series of unassuming doors with extraordinary security features prevented any but the authorised from gaining access. No university staff had that authority. The security cameras which monitored these portals to a mysterious world would probably have glimpsed unbadged technicians and unmarked vans arriving at unannounced times to do what needed doing to keep this highly secure connection to the internet in a fit and healthy state.

On a brass plate attached to Schaller House was a modest plaque displaying the words The International Institute of Religious Studies—London. A discreet red gem sat at the top of the first branch. The name ‘Daniel’ was etched on a plate beneath.

Rome

The view of the Tiger River from the seventh storey of the building would sell for many millions of lire if the rooms there were for sale. They were not. Access was restricted. The permanent detachment of carabinieri protecting the entrance would make comfortable, casual access to the building a challenge. As the Rome branch of The International Institute of Religious Studies, the building attracted more than its share of negative attention. Prejudice; perhaps. Amongst the several plaques mounted on the right of the entrance, one carried the words L'Istituto Internazionale di Studi Religiosi—Gerusalemme. Above these words was an engraved menorah which had a small ruby embedded into its sixth branch. In small print below the menorah was the name of ‘Haggai’.

Budapest

The Danube river was not visible from the highest levels of the Center for Jewish Studies at the Hungarian Academy of Sciences in Museum Boulevard. It hardly mattered. A modest plaque sat on the right-hand side pillar of the staircase leading to the interior. A Zsidó Tudományok Középpontja a Magyar Tudományos Akadémia. A small menorah was engraved below the words. A ruby was set into the seventh branch, where olive oil would burn if this was a real menorah. Beneath was the name ‘Ezekiel’.

An internal elevator took the chosen to the topmost floor. An elaborate security system, completely out of character with the rest of the elevator’s patina, refused entry to those who did not know. The elevator opened into an old world setting of oil paintings, overstuffed armchairs and time worn carpets. To the right of the entry, a modest kitchenette and dining room looked ready to serve goulash, fresh from a bubbling pot. To the left was a small hallway that led through to a toilet and bathroom complex. On the far side of the entrance, a longer hallway led to a series of doors. Six of these—three to each side—lead to unpretentious, but comfortable bedrooms. The seventh, at the end of the hallway, would have been seen by a keen observer to be different in construction. An artisan had gone to great lengths to ensure high security locking mechanisms and double steel sheet plating were disguised with mottled timber veneers. Should someone authorised pass through that door, she or he would be greeted by a twenty first century collection of high technology equipment clashing with the building’s design.

Fans hummed, screens emitted the occasional flicker and surveillance equipment analysed all that it viewed. As with similar rooms scattered around the globe, it was connected to a Tier one internet access point by unmarked, discreetly placed fibre cables.

The Downs

Bridgeman Downs is a source of wealth and anonymity. Huge mansions on enormous allotments. It is the kind of suburb where, if you have to ask the price of real estate, you couldn’t afford it. The mansion’s owner, Cynthia Watkins, had the best house on her side of the street. Cynthia also had influence far beyond the comprehension of her curious and envious neighbours. They had searched with internet mapping tools for an aerial view. It was always manipulated into a useless smudge. The only way to find out what was behind the tall boundary walls was with an invitation. Cynthia Watkins did not issue invitations. She was a mystery woman. The only reason the neighbours knew her name was from their surreptitious looks at the day care ‘sign in’ book.

‘She has a son, Oliver.’ they whispered in the car park.

‘She has a Mercedes sports car with her initials on it.’ they thrilled.

‘No. She has two, can you believe it?’ chimed another.

‘Never!’ someone exclaimed.

‘It’s true. She’s got CYNS65 and CYNS63 rego plates. My husband’s seen her driving them at different times.’ added another.

‘Who is she?’ someone asked.

‘No idea. No idea at all.’

Cynthia drove along