Rogue Element

By Maurice Allen

At around 12:40am on the 13th of February 1978, an explosive device was detonated in the back of a garbage truck outside the Hilton Hotel in George Street, Sydney Australia. Two garbage collectors died at the scene and a policeman died later from injuries received. This much is fact. What is also fact is, that who was responsible and why was never fully investigated, and that the most important forensic evidence, the bomb fragments and the garbage truck, were taken to a secret location and buried. Given that this was one of the first acts of political terrorism seen in Australia, this was surprising.

As a result, many conspiracy theories emerged.

In this hard hitting novel, Maurice Allen draws on these facts, personal experience, and often tenuous evidentiary threads, and ties them together to create a conspiracy theory so incredible that it just might be true.

This work, apart from what is identified as fact, is a fiction, and any similarity between any person either living or dead, and any organisation, is coincidental.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Feb 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503501034

Maurice Allen

Maurice Allen is an aspiring author from Philadelphia PA. He has been writing since his childhood and this is his first book. The story and character were inspired by one of his sons. He has always enjoyed writing in his spare time and finally was ready to publish his first of many books. Maurice always wanted his first book to be about his children and was inspired to write a story based on his 2 children dealing with the physical and emotional side of stuttering. This story is his son's story and millions of other children who stutter, as well. Maurice's goal is to inspire all children to be themselves and embrace everything about them because every child is special in some way. Maurice lives with his wife and children in North East Maryland. He loves playing softball, reading, debating, watching politics, golfing, exercising and most of all being a father.

Book preview

1

The Whistle Blower.

New York 01 August 1995:

It was all she could do to walk briskly down the street. The once tight slacks flapped against her pencil thin legs and her coat hung loosely around her gaunt frame. Walking as if she was fit and healthy was taking more out of her than she had anticipated, but she had to keep up the appearance of someone who wasn’t about to let her illness get the better of her.

She didn’t dare look behind her for fear that she would give away her fear of being followed, which she hoped that she wasn’t. She had the feeling that she had been followed ever since she had left Washington. Even though she hadn’t noticed anyone, logic told her that she was being followed because that’s what they did. Hope told her that the precautions that she had taken had ensured that she wasn’t being followed, and she was living on hope.

Her walk took her to a record store on the Lower East Side. She had not been there before, but had spoken to an assistant over the phone from her hotel where she was sure that her followers would not have been able to bug the room.

She had taken all of the precautions that she had read about in all of the best spy books, making reservations with one airline from Dulles to La Guardia but taking a stand-by ticket at the airport and flying with another to Atlanta and then to Kennedy. She fought for a cab from Kennedy to Times Square before taking the subway across town and catching another cab to her hotel. She hadn’t booked at that hotel either, having made a reservation at a more expensive hotel uptown. She took the risk that the three star hotel would have a vacancy when she checked in. It did.

The hotel reservation was part of her elaborate smoke screen that she had set up around her visit to New York. Her official reason for being there was medical, which was essentially true, she was scheduled to see one of the country’s top oncologists in a last desperate attempt to fend off the disease that she knew in her heart was not about to let go.

She was preparing to die, not as she lived in virtual obscurity, but with one final act of glorious and public defiance, that only those for whom she had worked for so long would ever know about.

She showered and changed into jeans and a windcheater, covered her sparse grey hair with a blonde wig and tucked the whole lot into a woollen cap, allowing a few wisps to emerge from the edges, and wrapping her face in a woollen scarf, not so much to shield herself from the cold, because it wasn’t, but to cover her thin, haggard face from view, before venturing forth into the bustle of rush hour New York. She figured that she would be harder to track in a crowd than on a deserted street, if such a thing ever existed in New York, and she was not yet ready for them to find her.

The bell over the door of the record store tinkled as she pushed it open and a small, long haired man in a concert merchandise tee shirt and not very clean jeans came from the back room into the front of the store. Hi, can I help you?

Yes, I rang a few minutes ago about the new CD of the Carmina Burana; you do have it don’t you?

Of course. ‘And I’m likely to have it for some time if you don’t buy it.’ He thought to himself.

May I have a look at it? The assistant took the disc from the pack and handed it over. Do you mind if I listen to it?

The player is there in front of you, I have some unpacking to do out back. He left. She inserted the disc into the player and soon her ears were filled with the crescendo of the opening passages of ‘O Fortuna’. While she was listening she took another compact disc case from her bag and removed the disc from it. Taking the liner from the Carmina case she scribbled a few words inside it and replaced it into the case. The disc that she had brought with her from Washington she placed in that case and she replaced the other into her bag just as the assistant came back into the store. Is it OK?

Yes thank you. She handed over the money and left the store.

She stopped at the nearest café and ordered a cup of coffee to still her nerves as she took the CD case from her purse and placed it into a small cardboard package. It was addressed to a reporter whose name appeared prominently on the files burnt onto the CD, and who had come very close to breaking the story of the CIA involvement in the bombing of the Hilton Hotel in Sydney. But that was only a small part of the story on those files, a story that began back in 1969 and involved the distribution of drugs from South East Asia during the Vietnam War. Only pressure from the highest levels of US Government prevented the story being published. It was time the world knew what happened back then.

There was another reason that she was seeking revenge on the organisation that she had devoted her entire working life to. Her mind went back to the funeral of her boss and lover. She had tried to be as inconspicuous as possible and she had blended into the crowd of high level Langley officials. It wasn’t until she had stood beside his coffin offering her tearful prayer that it happened. Whore! Slut, how dare you stand there next to my husband. His wife was shouting hysterically, no longer able to maintain her mourning façade. The woman that her husband had been fucking for years had the nerve to show her face at his funeral, and that was enough to start the tirade against her. Will someone get this bitch out of here? She yelled at the security guard standing at the side of the church. She was bundled out of the church and taken to a nearby hotel where she was confronted by a delegation of top officers.

The Assistant Director looked at her tear reddened eyes. Miss Trehane, Judith, what were you thinking of, why did you go to the funeral service? You must have known that she would be there.

I just had to say good-bye to him properly. He didn’t love her and she sure as hell didn’t love him. The hypocritical bitch was going to divorce him but found that she would get nothing from him in a settlement because of their pre-nup. She’s better off financially now that he’s dead, and I’ll probably get nothing after the will has been dragged through the courts, she and her lawyers will see to that.

I understand how you feel, but you know that we have to present a low profile and not display our personal feelings in public, something our friends on the other side of the Atlantic call ‘keeping a stiff upper lip’. Take some time off, go away somewhere and forget all about this, that’s an order.

She had taken a month off and travelled, spending time on a Caribbean beach sipping ridiculously expensive drinks and trying to wipe the past from her mind. A month of alcohol induced stupor had the desired effect, until she returned to work only to find that she was to be re-assigned, because the new Operations Director had his own long-term Secretary/lover, and there was no place for her. She was at least allowed a week to tidy up the loose ends of her time in the job, before being shipped off to a new position. This position was a blessing in disguise, it allowed her access to sensitive files and she saw her chance to wreak revenge for all of the years of having to give her body to the demands of the arrogant and unfeeling pig that was her boss. She loved him in the beginning, and he had made vague promises about leaving his wife and loveless marriage for her, but as time went on she came to the realisation that those promises were just that, promises. He was synonymous with the whole organisation, where the ends justified the means regardless of the collateral damage involved. There was no way that she could get out of that position, she knew that, and he knew that, and took full advantage to force her compliance and to avail himself of her body.

One case in particular was unpleasant and very messy and involved two countries that were supposed to be the closest of allies of the US, and this was the one that she decided should now see the light of day, after being suppressed for two decades. She knew that at least one person involved knew the whole story, and what she would give him confirmed what he knew, and provided more information, much more. So much that the other governments could no longer keep a lid on it, no matter how much pressure was brought to bear.

She walked from the café to the nearest post box. Reaching it she stumbled against it and, using her coat to hide her movements, took the package and slipped it through the slot.

She stayed in that position hoping that some kind soul would not insist on helping her, until some unkind soul told her to get out of the way so that others could use the post box, before pushing herself upright and walking off with renewed vigour.

The burden of almost twenty years knowledge had been lifted from her frail shoulders. She didn’t care now if she was being followed because she had just started a chain of events that would now run its course. Revenge was hers.

She hailed a passing cab and gave directions to her hotel. The driver glanced briefly into the rear view mirror as she settled into the seat. He thought that she must have been running from something because, from where he sat, the disguise was obvious, but then he gave it no more thought because many of his passengers were running from something or someone. He had learnt from experience that it didn’t pay to get involved in other people’s problems.

The doorman at the hotel opened the door for her but as she passed the reception the desk manager stopped her. Can I help you?

Yes, I’m checking out in a few minutes and would like to settle my account now.

Certainly, your room number is?

704. She took her credit card from her purse and handed it over. The transaction completed, she strode to the elevator and was whisked from sight. She knew that the card transaction would set off alarm bells and a team of agents would soon descend on the hotel. She had to move fast.

Back in her room she removed her disguise and threw it into the waste basket. Sitting on the bed she opened her attaché case and removed a small container. From the container she took a syringe and an ampoule of clear liquid. Inserting the needle she drew off the entire contents.

She paused for several minutes before placing a tourniquet on her arm. When the vein was swollen enough she inserted the needle and injected the contents.

She moved over to the phone and dialled 911. Yes, I need the ambulance. Yes, I have just accidentally taken an overdose of morphine and I don’t know what to do. She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. Take that you fucking bastards.

Even before the wail of sirens heralded the arrival of the ambulance, two men walked into the hotel and approached the reception desk. Have you seen this woman recently? One of the men held a photograph up to the receptionist.

You have some interest in this person? He was fishing for a reward.

The men produced official looking shields from their coat pockets and waved them in front of the receptionist’s face. Good enough, follow me. He led them to the elevator and within minutes they were at the door of her room. Using the master key the door was opened and he stood aside to allow the two men to enter.

Shit and damnation! The first of the men had seen the recumbent form on the bed. Moving quickly he checked for a pulse. There was none. Quickly, look for it!

What are we looking for? His companion was obviously not as well informed as he was.

There should be a CD somewhere.

Why are we looking for a CD?

We suspect that she has been accessing confidential files and down-loading them onto a CD so that she can pass them on to someone. We had hoped to intercept her before she could pass them on so that we could find out who she was sending information to. I hope that we aren’t too late.

Who is she?

Her name is Judith Treharne and she was for many years the Personal Assistant to our Operations Director. When he died she was transferred. It would seem that she didn’t like the move.

But to spy, what makes you think she was spying?

We suspect everyone.

Trusting soul aren’t you? He rummaged through her purse and removed the CD case. I think I have it.

His companion looked at it for several minutes, a frown on his face. He took it over to the desk and placed it the CD Rom slot of his laptop computer and hit the keys that should have accessed any files on it. The screen remained blank. On a hunch he accessed the CD player, switching it on he was less than pleased to hear the strains of the Carmina Burana filling the room. Shit and damnation!

Again? What is wrong now?

This is most certainly not what we are looking for. He quickly searched through the rest of her belongings without success. He took out his cell phone and dialled a number. Hi. Yes it’s me. No we have not found it. What we did find was a disguise, so it looks as if she knew that she would be followed if she went out, and she took precautions. I don’t think that we’ll ever be able to find what she did with that CD.

The voice on the other end of the line expressed his dis-satisfaction at the news. I don’t care what you have to do or how you do it, I want that disc back and I want it before any third party has the opportunity to use the information on it. This is a matter of international importance and the information on that disc could have major negative repercussions for us with our allies.

How can we find what she did with it if we don’t know where she went or even if she went?

Back track on her movements. Find out if she went out at all today and see if you can find out where she went. She can’t have gone far on foot so try the cab companies and see if she used a cab to come or go.

The sound of running feet reached them seconds before the feet’s owners arrived. Step aside please! The head Paramedic shouted.

You’re too late. She’s dead.

Let the experts be the judge of that. He quickly checked for any vital signs before standing up. She’s dead. I’ll call the police and arrange for a body bag. She said something on the phone about morphine when she called 911, have you seen any evidence of the drug in here?

Over there. One of the men pointed to the syringe and ampoule on the bedside table.

The paramedic picked it up and looked at it. If she used all of this she was definitely serious about killing herself. There was enough in here to kill a horse.

Through the door walked a short, scruffily dressed man wearing a sports coat that was several sizes too small for him but probably wasn’t when he bought it. What has happened here?

Who are you? Asked the first of the two men.

Lieutenant Spinelli, He took out his shield. and who are you?

Could we have a brief word with you, in private? He led Spinelli out into the hallway. What you have here is a Federal incident and the Firm is vitally interested in it. I want the autopsy report on my desk before the ink is dry on it, ‘kay?

Spinelli grunted his response and strolled back into the room. He was sick of these federal types pushing him around, but knew that there was nothing that he could do about it. I want nothing, and I mean nothing, touched until we can pick up all the evidence that there is to pick up. Do I make myself understood?

The group, minus the two men who had managed to slide out of the room un-noticed, mumbled there compliance and settled in for the long wait for re-enforcements.

Australia, 3 days later,:

The front door of 14 Windsor Way Southvale opened and Russell French walked in with a post pack in his hand. I wonder who is sending me a CD? He said to his wife Jenny.

Is there a return address? Jenny was a still attractive 38 years of age, long blonde (natural) hair, slim build with bumps in all of the right places despite the obligatory two children.

No, but it’s postmarked New York, I don’t know anyone in New York, at least I don’t think I do. He took the CD from the pack, I wonder why anyone would send me this?

What?

Carmina Burana. It’s one of my favourite pieces and this is a new version but that still doesn’t solve the mystery. He walked over to the CD player and inserted the disc. Pushing the play button on the remote he waited for the music to fill the room. It didn’t. Strange?

Wait a minute! Jenny removed the disc from the player and placed it into the CD slot on the computer that she had been using. She clicked into the Windows program and, using the mouse she clicked her way into the CD drive and the only file in it, ‘Hilton’. Whoever sent this has obviously taken a CD and written this data on it, copied the Carmina label onto it, and then placed it in the CD case of one that she had purchased for the occasion.

What made you think of that?

Read this. Jenny handed him the liner from the CD pack. Inside were scribbled the words ‘I hope you can do something with this, regards Win Hilton’.

The file that appeared on the screen was headed by a short note:

Mr French, you don’t know me, and I should inform you that any attempt to find me will prove fruitless. By the time that you receive this CD I will be dead. I am pre-empting my death, because I do not want to give my employers the pleasure of that responsibility, and I have lost patience with Mother Nature. Whatever the reason, my death bears no relevance to the information contained here.

I found your name on a file connected with the bombing of the Hilton Hotel in Sydney in 1978. In it I read that you had come uncomfortably close to exposing the truth before being forced to shelve your investigation. I have decided that the truth is more important than the organisation and personalities involved, so I have taken the liberty of copying the files and sending them to you so that you can complete the task that you started so long ago. Do not let anyone stop you this time.

This was followed by page after page of official files from the CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

Russell’s first reaction was to stare in amazement at the computer screen as file after file scrolled over, his second was to exclaim ‘fuck’, a word he didn’t normally use at home, and his third reaction was to pick up the phone and dial a number in England. John, Russell, yes the car is still going beautifully when I take her out of the garage, she’s no longer my daily drive you know. Listen, I have just got this load of files that seems to have originated from a friendly in the CIA, and I think that it is just about time we moved on this. I just rang to tell you that I need your permission to resurrect the old story.

Russell, you know that you didn’t need to ask and I’m not even going to get approval from above, permission is granted and give ’em hell. Before you hang up, could you send me a copy of those files, to my home address, well disguised so that nobody will suspect what it is?

Russell hung up the phone and took a deep breath. Well here we go again. Jenny was reading the last pages of the file and spotted a familiar name. I wonder what Colin Winchester has to do with this?

He was the Assistant Commissioner of the Australian Federal Police who was supposedly shot by a disgruntled public servant. He had been the leader of a cannabis sting operation, Operation Seville, that was supposed to trace the cannabis distribution network between the ACT, Southern New South Wales and the West Coast of the US. There was a very strong rumour going around that it was a mob hit. Apart from that, several names that appeared in that drug sting also appeared in the investigations into the marijuana cultivation and distribution around Griffith that featured one Robert Trimboli. There were several police officers named who were in the NSW force at that time, and who should have been dismissed over their involvement in that operation, but who were now working for the AFP. According to one report I read, the Griffith operation was heavily financed by the CIA. I wonder if that connection is the reason that it rates a mention in these files. The only other reason that I can think of that she should mention this is, that somehow the CIA was involved in Winchester’s assassination.

2

Sydney 22 February 1969

Were did you get this?

The Texas Tavern.

This is really heavy shit man. It’s giving me the best buzz I’ve ever had.

The two young men lay sprawled on a large mattress, their backs against a wall on which were several large posters that were enlargements of album covers.

From another room two young women came into the room bearing bowls containing a reddish liquid with lumps in it. We lifted some stuff from the shop down the road, it’s not much but it’ll do.

Looking at the bowl one of the men asked, What is it?

It’s tomato soup with tuna.

Oh. He took a sip of the liquid, pause for a few seconds to allow it to slide down before spooning the rest of the bowl down. The attack of the munchies over-ruled any thoughts that he had about not liking tuna, and he spooned the food into his mouth. Finishing the bowl he picked up a package from the floor, taking a small packet of Tally Ho’s he joined two papers together and into this he placed a quantity of Drum tobacco and on top of this he crumbled some hash. Rolling it he lit it and passed it to one of the girls.

Have some of this.

She took a large drag of the smoke and held it in for as long as she could before slowly exhaling. She then took another long drag and repeated the process before passing it on to the other girl.

She closed her eyes and sat against the wall for some several minutes before opening them again. What’s in this?

I don’t know, it’s some new gear that the Yanks are bringing in from Vietnam.

I don’t feel well. She closed her eyes again.

The others ignored her while they finished the joint. It was only then that they noticed that she was shivering. It didn’t register even then that there was anything wrong with this, even though the weather was hot for that time of the year. It wasn’t until she slumped to the floor and vomited on the tattered carpet that they realised that there was something wrong.

One of the men tried to wake her up without success. I think we had better get an ambulance. He said.

The other man got unsteadily to his feet and left the house. He returned just as an ambulance pulled up out the front.

The ambulance crew had been confronted with similar emergencies in this part of town that had increasingly been inhabited by these long haired young people who claimed to be artists.

They lifted the stretcher into the back of the ambulance and one of them stepped in with her. His partner called in to the ambulance base and requested police attendance at the address. I think that you should point out to the police that this is not a typical overdose situation or the effects of too much marijuana, this is something that we haven’t seen before and I don’t like it.

The police Drug Squad was called in and searched the house for traces of the drug that had caused the problem.

Where is it? The leader of the two man team asked the young men.

Where’s what man?

The hash that you’ve been smoking.

Don’t know what you mean. He picked up the bottle of beer from the floor beside him. We’re having a little party and all we’re doing is drinking beer." He took a swig to emphasise the point.

Don’t give me that bullshit! One of your friends is on her way to hospital and there is a fair chance that she might not make it out alive. He had no knowledge of her condition but decided that a little leverage wouldn’t go astray. And you sit there trying to convince us that you are a little drunk. We have been around long enough to see through that. You can’t hide the fact that you’ve been smoking dope, I’m getting high just breathing in this room, so don’t give me that innocence bullshit. Now tell me where it is.

I haven’t got any stuff.

Look, I’ll give you one more chance. If you tell me where it is I won’t bust you, but if I have to search for it I will. Is that clear enough for you?

Sure, but we don’t have anything.

Okay, we search. The two policemen started to look in the more usual hiding places, on top of wardrobes, taped to the underside of toilet cistern lids, behind wall clocks, aware that while they searched they were no closer to finding the stash.

It wasn’t until the leader reached up and took the curtain from the window and peered down the rod that they got any reaction from the others. Blowing the rod he ejected a small foil wrapped parcel from inside it. Picking it up, he opened it and looked at the contents.

What have we here? If I’m not mistaken it’s part of a block of Thai Gold. Now how do you suppose that it got there?

How would we know man?

Cut the crap! One of you got this from the Texas Tavern over the last two days. It is just as well we found this because if we hadn’t, you might have just found yourselves in hospital just like your friend. Now I have to go to the trouble to bust you.

Can’t we talk this over man?

You had your chance and blew it! Look, if you tell me who sold you this stuff I might let you off, okay?

I don’t know his name.

What does he look like?

About your height and weight, short hair, clean shaven, looks just like a cop.

Not a Yank?

No way man. He is Australian.

Would you be able to point him out to us if we took you down there?

I would but I won’t.

Why not?

I don’t want to end up dead.

Why would that happen?

You don’t know this guy. He has rubbed out people before.

If we could make it so that he won’t know it was you that put us onto him, would you do it?

If I do this you won’t bust us?

That’s right.

All right.

Let’s go.

Now?

No time like the present.

They drove to a street that was a hundred metres from the Texas Tavern and walked the rest of the way. Instead of entering by the front door they entered through the kitchen and were soon seated at the rear of the restaurant looking out at the patrons from behind a scrim curtain that allowed them to see out, but no-one to see in.

There he is. His finger pointed to a man seated on his own at a table. As they watched a young girl came over and sat down. The two talked for several minutes before she produced a packet of cigarettes from her bag and lit one. He also took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, placing the packet on the table beside hers.

They talked for several more minutes before she got up and, picking up his cigarette packet from the table, left.

He picked up the other packet and removed the money from it and put it in his pocket before taking a small package from another pocket and putting it into the packet that he placed in his pocket. He was ready for his next customer.

You had better shoot through. The young man needed no second invitation.

What do we do now?

What can we do?

How much do you value your life?

More than my job.

My sentiments exactly. I think that it’s time to look for a new career. I for one am not going to be tarred with that particular brush and, if we blow the whistle on our colleague there, we will not live long.

Amsterdam 22 February 1969

The police were used to this task and were no longer sickened by the sight of addicts who died of overdoses of heroin. What concerned them was the spate of marijuana users who were now being found suffering the symptoms of heroin use.

For some time the controlled use of soft drugs had ensured that fewer users felt the need to move on to hard drugs, and those that did were supplied with controlled quantities of uncut smack, ensuring that they didn’t suffer from the impurities like arsenic, often used to cut the drugs.

The patrol that was called to the usually vacant warehouse building overlooking a canal was confronted with a disturbing sight. Sprawled around the large room were several semi-comatose bodies. In the centre of the room was a large water pipe beside which was a foil package containing a block of resinous brown material.

Peter Van Gammeron picked it up and sniffed it. It didn’t smell like any hash he had smelt before and in the back of his mind he knew that he had stumbled on the solution to the problem that had bothered him over the last three weeks.

Turning to his partner he said, Klaus, I think we should have this analysed and if my hunch is right we should then try to find out who is bringing this into Holland.

Klaus Dolman had also seen this before and shared Peter’s fears that something was happening that was taking the fight against the uncontrolled use of hard drugs out of their hands.

They called in for an ambulance to come for the victims and while they waited they thoroughly searched the room. They found the usual paraphernalia that accompanied the lifestyle of the typical user, the posters, records scattered around the record player and piles of clothing in various stages of decomposition.

The cooking area of the room was also in the same condition as the rest of