To Catch a Mirage

By John Knights

In 1996, I was visited by a man I had come to call the Chameleon and three of his dark-suited companions. I recognized Danny Moran, the Chameleons personal bodyguard; however, the other faces were new to me.

After introductions to Murray and the Dutchman, the Chameleon began his explanation for his visit. Did I know of a drug that would stun a man without any long-term effects such as killing him? Could I keep safe a sufferer of emphysema on a long flight in a military jet?

Having failed to complete a medical degree some twenty-five years earlier, I could not even spell emphysema. However, I was intrigued by the reference to it and flying and guards who needed to be sedated. Over the next hour or so, the details were revealed to me of a plot being financed by the Australian government and a television network to kidnap the financial refugee Christopher Skase from his Mediterranean hideaway and bring him home to answer criminal charges.

I have related the story of the kidnap attempt as I saw it unfold and as the Chameleons team revealed the details to me. If I have recorded some aspects wrongly, then I am amiss. Where I was not able to ascertain the facts or to check their accuracy, I admit I used my imagination to fill in. If I have misrepresented anyone in so doing, then I am truly contrite. But it has, I hope you agree, made for a pretty good yarn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Dec 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524520014

John Knights

John Knights has drawn on wide and varied experiences to bring his stories to life. He is a proud graduate of OTU and member of the Duntroon Society. As an officer, he served in the Signals Corps and was placed in charge when, in December 1967, the then prime minister Harold Holt disappeared in the sea near the School of Signals where John was posted. He studied medicine unsuccessfully but, at the age of forty, gained an IT degree at USQ and later a postgraduate qualification in adult education. John has been a teacher, tutor, lecturer, corporate trainer, computer programmer, and proofreader and has written a series of self-help books. As a student, his need for funds cast him as a nude model for art students, taxi driver, waiter, car park attendant, and first-aid attendant on a railroad construction site. He has been a door-to-door salesman and a real estate agent and has delivered milk with a horse and cart. John’s passion is Aussie rules, which he played for the University of Queensland twice, serving as club president. He has followed the Geelong Cats for over sixty years. In 1974, John started Queensland’s first pet cemetery and has an interest in Faithful Friends Pet Crematorium. John has travelled to several countries, including the United States. Along the way, he has found time to start a chemical company, to manage a restaurant at a Cairns resort, and is currently studying for a postgraduate law degree.

Book preview

Prologue

Danny Moran turned up his collar against the sting of the rain and the biting wind that, despite his heavy tweed coat scythed through to his bones. In mid July, Melbourne produces evenings so bleak that they send every living thing scurrying for shelter.

A dark night for dark business, Moran thought as he battled against the gusting gale. His feet slipped and slithered as he struggled for purchase on the glassy blue metal footpath that had turned to slabs of ice. To stand upright was to be blown backwards, so to make headway, he was leaning forward, arms wrapped in front, holding his black ankle-length coat closed across his chest as he stumbled, head bowed, through the shadows. Grotesque shapes danced and swirled in the glistening pools on the pavement and sent shimmering reflections scampering eerily up and down the walls of the alleyway. Between the sombre grey granite walls, Moran pressed past dark and forbidding alcoves where the buffeting, relentless wind moaned of impending intrigue.

Ahead he saw, mirrored in the spattering pools, the shimmering, distorted reflection of a bloody neon sign. The steps below the sign led down to an indecorous, tacky nightclub known simply as Marty’s.

‘And a fitting bloody place for some espionage,’ Moran grumbled as he picked his way carefully past the bins and the piles of refuse that accumulate in alleys behind bars and restaurants in cities everywhere. The sickly, putrid smells differ from place to place, but the sights are the same. Moran hardly noticed. Around him, a jumble of tin cans and cardboard boxes shuddered and rattled and flapped along the wall in the wind and the rain. Beneath the sign, Moran cautiously felt his way down the slippery stone steps and pushed through the door into the welcome warmth of the bar. As the door closed behind him, the howling in his ears stopped abruptly, and the room was eerily quiet by contrast. In the stifled lighting, the air was blue with cigarette smoke so thick that the ceiling was totally obscured. Moran shrugged contentedly. He felt secure cradled in this tangible shroud of comforting secrecy.

He stood for a moment in the doorway, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his overcoat, while his eyes adjusted to the hazy environment. He turned down his collar, unbuttoned his coat, and brushed the drops of water from the tight black curls of his rain-soaked hair. Elbowing his way to the bar, he ordered a beer. He grasped a handful of paper serviettes from the bar and dried his face and neck. Then he turned his back to the bar and leaned on one elbow, his thumb tucked in front into his heavy leather belt. His fingers tapped the large, oval metal rodeo buckle that not only helped hold up his black denim jeans but also doubled as a knuckle duster. His eyes scanned the room for his contact.

Every shadowy niche and every dingy corner was occupied. Along the bar, unkempt, lonely men stared unsteadily into glasses, expecting to find answers to any of a myriad of personal problems. There was no happy chatter or laughter at Marty’s. The atmosphere was as dark and grim as the expressions on the faces of the men huddled over their drinks at the tables. The only women at Marty’s were the barmaids and the strippers, and it was hard to distinguish the one from the other. Everyone talked in furtive murmurs and whispers—that was the nature of the place, where down-and-outs rubbed shoulders with undercover cops, hired guns and drug dealers. Everyone’s business at Marty’s was covert, secretive. Moran’s was no different. The instructions he was about to receive were for his ears only, which was why he had been summoned to Marty’s.

He had paid for his beer and turned his back to the bar when he was abruptly aware of someone at his elbow.

‘Over there.’ The words were reinforced by a gesture indicating a table at the far corner.

Moran tried to turn towards the face behind the voice. Although he was young and muscular, he found himself being propelled by a vice-like grip on his elbow towards the far corner of the room. There he saw a thin, angular man cloaked in shadows and blue cigarette haze, sitting toying menacingly with his drink. Moran recognised the unmistakable features of the corporate strongman known to him only as Tyler. In the centre of his gaunt, narrow forehead, his eyebrows met and formed a black shaggy hedge hooding tiny deep-set eagle eyes that were dark and sinister. The round table at which he sat was barely large enough to accommodate the three chairs, and Moran was ushered to the one facing the corner. He flopped down reluctantly, stuffing his hands back into his coat pockets and slumping as low as possible into the chair so as to feel less conspicuous. The hair on the back of his neck was beginning to bristle and he could feel the tiny sweat beads of claustrophobia forming on his forehead. Years of security training had taught him never to sit with his back to a room full of people, especially those of the ilk of Marty’s patrons.

He determined to transact the business and move to a safer place as quickly as possible. ‘Okay, so what’s the go? What the fuck do you want from me this time?’

Tyler appeared not to have heard the question. He continued to stare into his glass, twirling it slowly between his fingers as if expecting to find inspiration in the shapes and colours reflected there.

Moran lit a cigarette, allowing the match to burn out between his fingers in a gesture of defiance. He glared at Tyler with an enigmatic mixture of loathing and respect. He felt cornered. His discomfort burgeoned and he fidgeted uneasily. He thrust his hands back into the pockets of his coat, his right hand fingering the revolving chamber of his Smith and Wesson. The feel of the metal was somehow reassuring.

‘Well? Get the fuck on with it!’

Tyler released a laconic, lopsided smile. Slowly, he looked up and reached inside his coat. Moran’s eyes widened and he stiffened visibly. His grip on the handgun tightened, his training surfacing once more. He relaxed a little as a large brown envelope was tossed on to the table in front of him.

‘The details are all in there. In essence, we need some inside information on the plans and aspirations of a would-be high-flyer named Skase and his Qintex company. He is an upstart who works out of the Gold Coast a lot of the time and seems to be getting in way over his head. Somehow he has mustered quite an array of investors—mostly family and business acquaintances. He has bought the jewellery mob, Hardy Brothers, and a TV station in Brisbane. He has also bought some pretty significant pieces of land on the Gold Coast and in Port Douglas in North Queensland and the most expensive fucking mansion in Brisbane. His assets would appear to be worth around 115 million, but it’s all smoke and mirrors. Or more like a mirage maybe. He doesn’t seem to have the equity to back it all up. My principals think he owes a hell of a lot more than he owns. And lately he seems to be buying up small parcels of shares in a television network at inflated prices. No need to tell you which one. You can work that out for yourself. Our principals are concerned that the network may fall into the wrong hands. So far, overt enquiries have turned up little we can use. He’s running a tight ship. This guy’s a maverick who lives by his own rules, and he is already out of his depth. We need hard data on all of his holdings and any other material you can lay your hands on—plans, budgets, forecasts, letters, anything that will reveal what he is up to and where his weaknesses are. Your usual fee will apply, and as usual, you don’t contact me until you’ve got what I want. Clear?’

‘Who is this guy?’ Moran could safely enquire about the target but could only guess at the identity of the ‘principals’, whoever they were. He knew better than to ask.

‘It’s all in there.’ The thin man tapped the envelope with his skeleton-like fingers—the orange-tipped fingers of a chain smoker.

‘You’ll discover that he moves about a lot, staying in luxury hotels and resorts. He owns the Brisbane Bears AFL Club–their headquarters are at Carrara on the Gold Coast in Queensland and lately he’s been spending quite a bit of time up there. The word is he’d like to build a marina complex somewhere up on the Gold Coast. He’s up there now. That should suit you – you look as if you could use some sunshine and fresh air.

‘One piece of intelligence that isn’t in there is that whenever he goes back to a place, he always stays in the same room. Apparently, he doesn’t have your obsession for security, Moran. You would never let yourself slip into such a dangerous pattern, would you, eh?’ The gaunt man chuckled; it was the rattle of a heavy smoker. He was goading Moran although he knew not to push him too far - his reputation for violence and a volatile temper was widely known.

The strain showed in the muscles in Moran’s face as he fought to keep his cool. His fiery eyes were wide, his nostrils flared and he ground his teeth. So tight was his grip on his glass that his knuckles blanched and the tendons on the back of his hand stood out like tiny taught steel cables. He was stifling the urge to crush the glass and stuff the shattered pieces down this smart arse’s throat with the barrel of his Smith and Wesson. He probably would one day, he reasoned, but that, he knew, would have to wait. Moran didn’t handle his anger well. His usual response was to smash a face or two, and there were a great number of faces that bore the legacy of his flash-powder temper. For the moment, the glass became the focus of his angst; the lucrative contract he knew was in the offing alone restrained him. His dark eyes flashed, avoiding any contact with Tyler’s.

Deep in his coat pocket, his hand caressed his revolver, slowly rotating the chamber, feeling the inaudible clicks as it turned. The smooth blue metal of the weapon, warm from his body heat, had a strange calming effect on him. For him, this old and trusted friend at least partly restored the balance of power and helped to alleviate the cause of his angst.

At length, he allowed his eyes to meet Tyler’s. He relinquished his grip on the glass and, in a childish, menacing gesture, picked up his cigarette and crushed the burning tip slowly and deliberately between his finger and thumb.

Tyler snorted his derision and rose to leave.

‘Don’t waste any time. You have only a couple of weeks at the most.’ Without waiting for a response, the two men melted into the haze and were gone.

With tangible relief, Moran shifted instinctively into the vacated chair in the corner and lit another cigarette. As he reached into the large Manila envelope, the floorshow began a repeat of its tired, bawdy acts that might have evoked a cheer and a leer at any other bar, but this was Marty’s. The show was a cover. Marty’s patrons were not there for the entertainment.

He glanced through the contents of the envelope then stuffed them back and threw down the last mouthful of his beer. Folding the envelope, he tucked it into the side pocket of his coat and tapped his coat pocket with his fingers. He cast a final glance around the room and strode towards the door. At the door, he turned up his collar, hunched his shoulders against the cold that he knew was waiting and lurched once again into the night.

*     *     *

Three days later, Moran was squinting to shield his eyes from the bright Queensland sun as he emerged from the plane at Coolangatta airport. The air was crisp and clean and the sky shimmered with that deep azure freshness that only a subtropical winter can induce. He stepped onto the tarmac and hurried towards the terminal building.

Once inside, he cast a suspicious eye around the meagre facility. His luggage consisted of one small suitcase that he carried with him, so he hurried straight to the taxi rank. Settled in the back seat of a Yellow Cab, within ten minutes of landing he was clear of the airport and being driven along the highway, north towards Surfers Paradise. Through Coolangatta and as far as Burleigh Heads, the highway followed the shoreline fairly closely, and there still existed in 1988 some largely unspoiled stretches of coastline that greed and the tourist-driven high-rise mania had not yet adulterated.

Here and there, the beach was separated from the highway only by an occasional single-storey motel and a row or two of little fibro holiday cottages that looked for all the world like so many sand crabs that had just now scurried there and were crouching in rows, protecting the beach from the outside world. Between them, Moran caught glimpses of vast stretches of golden sandy beach and the breakers of the eternal Pacific that discontentedly curled and foamed and crashed before rushing up the beach as if always needing more room, only to die in the effort and slink back to the sea. Beyond the breakers came the reinforcements—relentless waves rippling and lurching and flashing reflections of the blinding sunlight straight into Moran’s unprotected eyes. He grumbled a curse and turned away to face inland.

‘Staying on the Gold Coast long, mate?’

The slow drawl the taxi driver applied to the question confirmed to Moran that he was indeed in Queensland. He had booked ahead just one night at the hotel, but he didn’t bother to reply to the cabbie’s attempt at conversation. This window of opportunity would not be open to him for long, so he had to act quickly and not let anything distract him from his plans. He scowled but made no reply.

‘Bloody Mexicans,’ the driver muttered under his breath, but he had got the message and kept to himself for the rest of the journey.

Following his chilling meeting with the thin man at Marty’s, Moran had studied the information in the package and had supplemented this with a good deal of research of his own. He had learned that this would-be tycoon was a hard worker who spent weeks at a time away from his Sydney residence and his socialite wife, Pixie. He had grandiose plans in the making, and he would book into the same hotel and take the same room every time, sometimes rarely emerging except for an occasional meeting or a meal.

Skase, Moran had ascertained, was not on the Gold Coast but in Sydney that night. What neither Moran nor his present employers knew was that Skase was at this very moment plotting to buy a television network at the other end of the continent, in Western Australia.

Moran had booked into the room Skase always used. It had taken some cautious enquiries and a bit of careful manoeuvring to identify the room and request a booking without arousing suspicion. Tonight was the only night in months that the room was available, so his timing was crucial.

The taxi drew under the hotel portico and had hardly stopped when the concierge had the door open. Moran paid the driver and waited for his change. Realising he wasn’t about to get a tip, the cabbie reluctantly counted out the change and almost flung it at Moran.

‘Thanks,’ he grunted and drove off as soon as Moran’s feet hit the driveway. ‘Southerners!’ he muttered as he merged into the Southport traffic.

Moran strode to the desk, taking in the foyer as he went. His experienced eyes took note of the layout of the furniture; where entries, exits and lifts were located; and where clerks, porters, valets and any concierge were stationed. Even with a cursory surveillance such as this, Moran could later produce an accurate drawing of the layout of the room.

At the desk, he identified himself, signed the register and pocketed the room key.

‘Do you have any luggage, sir?’

‘No’ was the only response he gave without lifting his eyes as he continued to write in the register, except to raise his small case high enough for the clerk to see it.

He made his way across the foyer to the lift, went straight to the suite and let himself in. The door opened into an anteroom, tastefully furnished with a polished table with a green leather inlay. The table was generous enough to accommodate a personal computer and a writing pad as well as the telephone, a clock radio and a reading lamp. Beyond was a sitting room, furnished in pastel tones of creams and browns, with a luxurious divan and two comfortable lounge chairs arranged around a small coffee table that was polished to match the table in the anteroom. The heavy floor-to-ceiling curtains on the far wall concealed a huge picture window with views of the coast, the famous beach stretching in a golden arc south as far as the New South Wales border.

Moran opened the curtain more as a precaution than to see the view and then closed it again. Facing the divan and the other chairs was a wall unit with benches, bookcases and an audio visual entertainment unit. Under the bench was a mini bar refrigerator.

He walked slowly through the rooms—a double bedroom with window views on two sides and a king-size bed, a smaller bedroom with twin beds and a bathroom with a bath, a spa and a shower. He meticulously checked each room in turn, opening wardrobes and looking behind doors. His eyes went systematically over everything. Satisfied at last that he was not being watched or listened to, he went back to the anteroom. On his way, he retrieved the case from the bed where he had tossed it earlier, took a blue can of Foster’s lager from the mini bar and drained half of its contents. He dropped the key onto the writing desk and put the can toward the back of the desk where he could reach it but it would not be in the way. Then he popped the catches on the case and took from it a small but heavy machine wrapped in a cloth. He placed it on the desk and unwrapped it. Sitting down in front of it, he took another swig of the Foster’s, plugged the cord of the machine into the power point and stretched and wriggled his fingers like a concert pianist about to play a concerto.

Moran’s plan to gain access to Skase’s room while he was in occupancy required him to gain entry to the room with a key so that he had unlimited access without having to break in. He was perfectly capable of picking the lock; however, his mission was critical enough for him to avoid any possibility of being caught acting suspiciously. The key was of a special design that no ordinary key cutter would copy without arousing suspicion. Had he been in Melbourne, he would have had at his disposal any number of associates who could have replicated the key for him, but on the Gold Coast he was in unfamiliar territory. To have simply stolen the key and reported it lost would have drawn attention to himself, which could jeopardise the task; however, with this machine he would make his own perfect copy of the key.

Deftly, he expertly removed the room key from the tamper-proof plastic holder and fitted the key to the jig of the machine. Reaching into his coat pocket, he spread several key blanks onto the cloth. He selected a blank and fitted it to the end of the machine opposite to the room key and secured it. Then he reached out and turned on the radio. He flicked the machine’s switch and it whirred into action, its steady grind well masked by the grating voice of Rod Stewart singing, ‘Wake