The Imperium: Book One: Wayan

By Phillip Ebrall

Set in contemporary Australia where both a female Governor-General and a female Prime Minister control the nation activities a concern arises among senior Public Servants and some of the Diplomatic Corps. Were they to become known the country would be destabilised.

The Governor-General forms a covert security agency to protect her and the PM. James, an experienced operative is seconded from DSD and given the task to assemble and lead a small but deadly-effective team. The alcohol-dependant Prime Minister worries that her estranged husband might be involved in some way with the child pornography ring which is whispered about in Canberra but has always stayed hidden. James and his team commence their investigations which take them through Malaysia, Indonesia and Thailand to identify whether the rumour has substance and how if at all it may implicate the PM and the G-G.

The gardens of Government House Canberra have never looked better and Her Excellency has never seemed happier than she does since a handsome young Mexican gardener was appointed by The Keeper of The House. He reveals a house secret to the team and provides operational space for them in a former rum cellar accessed through a pantry in the kitchen of Mrs Graviston, The House cook.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Dec 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796008753

Book preview

Copyright © 2020 by Phillip Ebrall.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2019920117

ISBN:              Hardcover              978-1-7960-0877-7

                        Softcover               978-1-7960-0876-0

                        eBook                    978-1-7960-0875-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 12/10/2019

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CONTENTS

Song List

Prelude One:   The Flight

Prelude Two:   Nagatacho

Chapter 1     The Governor General

Chapter 2     Kuala Lumpur

Chapter 3     Hamilton Island

Chapter 4     The Speakers’ Suites

Chapter 5     Lost Nights And Lazy Mornings

Chapter 6     Bali (Part One)

Chapter 7     Bali (Part Two)

Chapter 8     A Beautiful Sting

Chapter 9     Chiang Mai

Chapter 10   Christmas

Epilogue

DEDICATION

THIS VOLUME IS FOR SAMUEL Browning Ebrall, my great-grandfather of Shrewsbury, noted by Queen Victoria and His Imperial Majesty the Sultan of Turkey in the 1860s for his exquisitely engraved handcrafted shotguns, and his son Herbert Henry Ebrall, my paternal grandfather, whose genes are expressed in my capability to capture my imagination and release it as words on a page.

DECLARATION

PHILLIP EBRALL ASSERTS HIS MORAL rights as author of this work. It may be freely cited for review and scholarly purposes, with full attribution. Phillip Ebrall states that all references to commercial entities in this work are gratuitous and that no consideration in any form has been or will be received. Facts such as flight numbers and times may change to reflect scheduling.

SONG LIST

Spring (Concerto #1 in E major, RV 296) Allegro/Largo/Allegro—Antonio Vivaldi

‘It Came upon a Midnight Clear’—Norah Jones

‘The Wonderful Thing about Tiggers’—Tigger

‘Bridge over Troubled Water’—Elvis Presley

‘Sitting on Top of the World’—Delta Goodrem

‘Proud Mary’—Tina Turner

‘Tonight’—Tina Turner

‘River Deep, Mountain High’—Tina Turner

‘Dancing Queen’—Cher

‘It Had Better Be Tonight’—Henry Mancini and his orchestra

‘It Had Better Be Tonight’—Harrison Craig

‘Love Is a Many Splendored Thing’—Henry Mancini and his orchestra

‘Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man after Midnight)’—Cher

‘Take Five’—The Dave Brubeck Quartet

‘Sing, Sing, Sing’—Benny Goodman and his orchestra

‘Hallelujah’—Leonard Cohen

‘Hallelujah’—K. D. Lang

‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’—The Beatles

‘Silent Night’—John Farnham and Olivia Newton-John

‘Brilliant Disguise’—Bruce Springsteen

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PRELUDE ONE

The Flight

THERE IS AN INTERESTING NERVOUSNESS when we do something familiar but hold a fear somewhere in the back of our psyche.

Is it the same as the fear of the dentist? Who knows, but James settled into the left-hand seat of the Boeing 737 cockpit with a nervous assurance showing comfortable familiarity.

Today the right-hand seat was occupied by Clive, a check pilot. James was fulfilling his annual requirements to maintain certification on a range of aircraft, from the twin-prop Dash 8s to the A380. Clive was a retired senior captain from Qantas and relished his new role in checking pilots of various government services, federal and state. It brought some much-needed, if imagined, adventure to his otherwise sedate life. His skill set included mastery of the finicky variants of standard rules that applied when the RAAF and ‘others’ flew in and out of commercial ports.

James needed competence with them all. As the most senior agent in Australia’s highly secretive dark agency, mobility was critical. His team did not refer to themselves as spies, yet they could know anything and usually did. He reported to his director, who in turn reported to the prime minister.

The next week, James was scheduled to review his driving on an eighteen-wheel B-double, including skids and side-slips. He would be tested on Australia’s largest skidpan at Lang Lang, used by General Motors to test their vehicles. As a site where ideas were played out and prototypes were the order of every day, security was watertight. He would also take a motorbike through its paces and, of course, cars, both front- and rear-wheel drive. This year, he was to be introduced to the newest model from Tesla, which could outrun just about anything else on the road.

His greatest excitement came the previous year when he steered a brand-new Bentley coupe into an eighty-metre sideways slide and kept it upright. It was essential to return every item without a speck of dust, let alone a scratch—or worse, a dent. This principle applied to the 737.

He adjusted the seat and rechecked the flight briefing, then ran through the preflight sequence with Clive. James had a warm glow inside. This was what he loved. A quick hop from a private gate near T4 at Tulla to Launceston, several touch-and-goes, then home for dinner. Tonight he was planning a pan-fried chicken Parmigiana, which he had bought ready-made from his local butcher that morning. He wasn’t sure of the quality of the crumbs, preferring panko, but that faded to black as he concentrated on the task at hand.

An efficient taxi out of Paul’s VIP terminal, albeit slowed by joining the queue of departing airlines from all nations, loaded with dreams of destinations. As he rolled towards runway 27, he felt satisfied. A final check with the tower confirmed he could gun it, which is a term for very rapid achievement of height from wheels-off. James said this quietly as his check pilot used the toilet. He smiled as he anticipated the look on Clive’s face as he blew the cost index and hit the scheduled flight altitude of 32,000 feet in about one-third of the usual time window.

James wanted a cost index of 999, which meant minimum time, maximum power. He’d have to climb much faster than the default value of 1,800 feet per minute but realised this would be only in the initial wheels-up phase until the air density faded around 12,000 feet. The 12,000 number was not one that worried him, as he had learned to fly gliders in Alice Springs, where 14,000-foot climbs were common. The desert air favoured the Pilatus, and when James found himself in the same thermal as a Wedgetail, twenty metres off his wing tip, then they could both enjoy their ride and breathe slowly and deeply. He was appreciative of today’s pressurisation.

Clive returned and did his post-toileting review: ‘We’ve checked the list? OK, let’s go.’ So James dropped the brake, added a little fire to the engines, and rolled off. They comfortably arrived at the holding zone next to the runway, and after the wake settled from QF431 out of Sydney’s Gate T3G, landing to the minute, James was given the all-clear to roll forward and hold.

He did this and, in speaking with the controllers in the tower, made a final confirmation that he could fly free. The tower confirmed the air was clear above, at which Clive turned to James and asked what he was doing.

James replied, ‘Just tick box 26 on your form. I’ve double-checked the density of other aircraft in our flight path and directly above us, and I have tower confirmation that all is clear.’

He advised the tower he was ready to roll and, on receiving ‘Roger, 378, go’, hit full power and flaps and, given that there was no load or freight on board, had wheels-up in what seemed to be an obscenely short period. In this game, aircraft were identified by individual pilot and not registration, to confound plotting by apps such as Flightradar24. James and the aircraft were 378.

Then came the climb, and what a climb it was. James was sure every pilot went to sleep at night dreaming of such a rocket ride to cruise altitude.

He was over Port Phillip Bay at 32,000 feet, on his track to Launceston, when Clive muttered into his face mic, ‘That was some take-off.’

James offered the assurance that when the technical competence of the equipment was confirmed, it could be used as designed at maximum levels, and he added, ‘There are times when we will need to actually do this, such as lifting our foreign minister and agents out of any spot of bother.’

The check pilot agreed and then passed the most sublime comment: ‘You did it well, and safely.’

Aha, thought James, another tick on the checksheet.

Before they could blink, LST was looming, so descent and tower communication came into play. Yes, they were cleared for three touch-and-goes. This required three approaches, straight ahead from turning off base to final. Next would be a sharp left turn with another touch, which is the normal. To confound the mix, a third but right-turn landing was added. As soon as the jet’s wheels hit the tarmac, the power would be back to full throttle for lift-off and iteration.

The straight-ahead touch-and-go was a doozy. James ‘kissed it down’. The weather was moderate, with four-eighths cloud cover as stratocumulus, a decent tarmac temperature of 18.5 degrees (which was good for LST), and no wind.

Well, wind was a matter yet to be discussed, as it became a critical factor in the right-hand landing. But first, the sharp left turns went well. The tangent lined up on the radar, and the plane simply came in and tipped the tarmac before heading off for the final test.

A right-hand approach. It was not standard procedure for LST, but it was one which may be needed in the line of work that occupied James most days. Against all instincts, he headed upwind, turned base, then again to final at 1,000 feet. He checked—‘Wind report, please’—to which Clive replied, ‘A twenty-knot from the port, with a bit of downdraft.’

Normally, this would not worry any experienced pilot. It basically meant he needed to work a bit harder to keep the plane level, giving attention to what might be coming from the left.

James was happy with this and, having sorted in his mind the right-hand approach and computed the wind, which was theoretically behind him, with a predicted cross at twenty knots, did a perfect line-up for his third touch-and-go. The Parmigiana was beckoning as the afternoon slid into an early Tasmanian twilight.

Then it all fucked up big time. At about 200 feet on final, seconds before the tyres kissed, a gust of wind much greater than twenty knots came from the right.

James had been set in his mind to expect and compensate for winds from his left, so of course, he stuffed it. With the tailwind, he had no traction. The 737 virtually flipped. James had been landing with a set-up that allowed winds from the left to flow over him. The gust from the right really spoiled his approach. Not only did the plane nearly flip, but it skewed on landing. That was a bad thing.

The 737 crunched the tarmac at 60 degrees off-true. It slid and sparked, and the port landing gear buckled and snapped. It bounced and slid off to one side of the western junction strip and took out the tower. It then exploded in flames as the control tower collapsed around it.

Clive laughed his tits off. He thought this was the funniest thing he had seen in a week—a cocky, self-confident agent being brought undone in a simple stuffed-up landing.

It took a minute or two, and then James laughed as well. His laughter came from his gut, not from spite but because he had had another lesson: to never rely on the information provided by those around him. This had a deep and meaningful effect that would become evident in the future, but for now, he laughed.

James and the check pilot stood, shook hands, and walked out of the simulator. ‘You bastard,’ muttered James. ‘You passed,’ said Clive. ‘You are certified again for the 737.’

The only thing James could think of at this point was the wisdom of doing this training and certification in a simulator. Some were commercial, such as Melbourne Central, while this one in the Tulla precinct was fully professional and operated by the airlines themselves. But they all offered an experience that could be translated, seamlessly, into a real-life situation.

James knew from his past engagements that he was the backup pilot to take prominent politicians and world leaders, such as his own Australian prime minister, into the darkest depths of the war-torn Middle East. He was always on board, down the back, waiting for that awe-inspiring moment his advanced skills may be called on to achieve the mission. He knew it was his responsibility to bring Australia’s best out safely.

Today he had shown he could fly the most commonly used aircraft and one operated for VIPs by the RAAF, at its maximum allowable levels. He could hit cruising altitude before most guests could get out of their seat to scratch their arse. He implemented only one rule: ‘I don’t care who you are, I’m in charge. You will sit and stay belted until I advise it is safe to walk around.’

The interesting observation is that every single one of his passengers always complied. James was known in government circles as the man to fly with.

Clive had a little win up his sleeve, but it was a win based on deception, including wind direction and force. However, James was a perfectionist. His aPhone had recorded the voice of the check pilot giving that weather information. He later used software to process the parsing and intonations.

He identified Clive’s language style of when untruth was uttered. ‘A twenty-knot from the port, with a bit of downdraft.’ The analytic trace exhibited a little strain and a slightly raised tone on the untrue syllables. Its parsing was a little slower, suggesting that creative thought was used over simple iteration of data from a read-out.

Even though James had achieved his clear check for this aircraft, he would remember not just the words but the way they were said.

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PRELUDE TWO

Nagatacho

A SOLITARY FIGURE STOOD IN silent meditation before one of the statues that mark the cardinal points of the central chamber between the Diet’s two houses. It is an intersection within which mingled the authority of the emperor and the will of the people, as expressed in the Kokkai.

Each of three statues represent a turning point in the history of modern Japan. The stained-glass windows above represent the four seasons, important markers of time for Japan’s former agrarian economy. Today the North Garden’s Prunus serrulata, known globally as sakura, was laden with blossom, the totem of life’s beauty, fragility, and impermanence. Mihori stopped and gave a short prayer to her kami, then resumed her brisk walk across the forecourt, into the magnificent halls, stopping only when she reached ‘the intersection’.

With the ‘oasis of Tokyo’ now behind her, Mihori prayed, caped in a soft grey cloak of the finest Australian merino, with the hood folded across her nape, signalling respect for Taisuke Itagaki. She mentally recounted his role in the Meiji Restoration through aligning the Satsuma Domain to overthrow the shogun and establish the power of the people. Knowing how close he came to death because of a right-wing militant had set Mihori’s career path through a combined arts and IT degree, a master’s in political science, and a PhD in applied clandestine technology.

Her position within the Cabinet Satellite Intelligence Centre was earned through outstanding work in the Ministry of Defence. Mihori preferred active fieldwork over roles offered in open-source intelligence, saying that ‘knowing something anyone can know is not much fun’. Her early skills with untangling encryption led to the introduction of two-factor authentication in an attempt to thwart her; however, her motto remained: ‘If there is a front door, there is a back door’. Mihori always looked to find.

Her promotion placed her directly under the private secretary to the prime minister, and while official records listed her as a clerk in the Diet, she was anything but. Having been born and raised in Kitami, the commercial hub of Okhotsk Subprefecture in Hokkaido, she missed fishing through holes in the winter ice of Lake Abashiri and the thrill of the ski slopes that surrounded her home. Perhaps this longing kept her mind open to the internal notice that arrived that morning, marked Secret, about a placement with the parliamentary security team of the Tasmania Police.

That state’s police commissioner, a formidable woman, realised the state’s security would best be served by spinning part of her intelligence unit into an independent authority directly responsible to the Office of the Premier. Melanie was smart, and while the daily trudge of commanding a force of outstanding and dedicated men and women was straightforward, her knowledge and skills demanded fresh challenges to keep her wary and alert, especially when commanding the state’s disaster response teams, an all-too-frequent duty during the summers of bush fires. Otherwise, Melanie’s mind was an oracle for the direction the state’s security boundaries needed to take, and she was always two steps ahead of the nefarious who attempted to run drugs into the state.

The legal protection of the opioid industry was a boon to the economy of Tasmania, as well as a political lever to ensure the strongest powers were vested in her command. On the other hand, the cannabis industry struggled for legitimacy, due in part to the fringe element who abused and carried delusions of being a political party of sorts. Melanie had no time for riff-raff, and this was reflected in her tailoring. It was not every commissioner of police who wore bespoke uniforms.

Mihori sought guidance from her maternal great-grandfather, and later that night, she sat alone on her rooftop garden, reflecting on what life may hold for her. She had achieved a grand and spacious four-bedroom home of over four floors in Tairamachi 2-Chome, in the refined residential streets of Meguro. There was hardly ever a quiet weekend. Being close to all her family, especially her nieces and nephews, meant a constant flow of house guests. As they were humble countryfolk, a visit to Mihori in Tokyo was like going to Disneyland. Indeed, going to the real Disneyland was always a treat provided by Mihori for each little cluster of kids, twice every year. No wonder they looked forward to their visits with Aunty and marvelled at her ‘family season pass’, even though Mihori could not take the rides with them.

Her training was to minimise all risks, no matter how small, and the demands of her work required twenty-four-hour application. Her Disneyland bag was a Louis Vuitton Keepall from the Ginza store, a hand-painted Mona Lisa model which perfectly blended with the colourful flotsam strung over the shoulders of the throngs around her. Its contents, however, always sent a shudder through those servicing the staff entrance, a mandatory portal given her ‘provisions’. A subtle display of the prime minister’s seal gave a welcome wave-through, with a knowing smile. Within seconds, the entire active team of park security knew of her mystical presence in the land of magic, hope, and dreams. The kids were always gifted express entrance to every attraction.

Mihori again read the note, presented in both logographic kanji and Roman English. The intellectual challenge of the newly created role in Tasmania suited her, being just beyond the comfort zone in which she had settled over the past three years in Tokyo. The lifestyle of Hobart attracted her, as it seemed more Kitami than Meguro, and a quick search online showed rustic stand-alone weatherboard homes a short thirty-minute drive south of Hobart, on the banks of the Huon River and in bush-fire country. A little deep searching, as is her skill set, led to the land titles office, where she discovered that a ramshackle shack next to a home she had in mind (just in case she decided to apply and just in case her PM endorsed her transfer and just in case she actually won the job) was once owned by Peter Wright, of Spycatcher fame. A knowing smile spread across her solemn face as she sipped her second glass of Arukari infused with lime and mint. She realised adding lime in particular altered the alkalinity of the water, but the difficulty in obtaining fresh limes in Japan presented a challenge she embraced.

The resolution was simple, of course, as all her resolutions were, however far they lay beyond a normal mind. Her pals who crewed the aircraft assigned to the prime minister were global gypsies, and Mihori never wanted for fresh limes. The mint was tended daily, when in country, on her rooftop. Another arm of Mihori’s family had settled as far from Kitami as a Japanese could get: in Ogimi in Okinawa. Even though they were now second generation there, they were still the newcomers in this haven of ageing, where ikigai included early rising, tending the garden, and fellowship. Mihori embraced Hara hachi bu, meaning she never ate until she felt full, and she knew the wisdom of growing most of her own fruits and vegetables. Her rooftop could be considered more a farm than a garden.

Relocation to a waterfront property on the Huon would maintain her lifestyle and bring a greater thrill to her kidlets through international travel, which would most likely mean dropping to an annual visit, with no Disneyland. But then she discovered Bruny Island in the Tasman Sea, east of the peninsula on the western side of where her new home could be. Then she remembered a meal a year earlier at Salt, Luke Mangan’s Marunouchi venture, where the oysters had made her feel like she had been kissed by the ocean. Luke had been in-house that evening for the prime minister, and the restaurant had been closed to all but the official party, a generous gaggle that had filled all tables. Luke had been delighted to explain the provenance of the oysters to Mihori, a mandatory companion of the PM at all times in public, serving as the higher level of security. Luke had explained to her, in fluent Japanese, that they were flown from Bruny every second day, through Townsville to Haneda, to ensure the road trip to Salt was as short as possible.

At that point, in her garden, Mihori’s mind was made up, and she went inside, saying, ‘Nē shiri vu~ivu~arudi haru’ (ねえシ, ヴィヴァルディ春). It was the perfect atmosphere as she enacted her vision of a new spring for her life. The private elevator opened to the ground floor, and she walked into her library, kneeling at a Japanese dragon table of the Meiji era, an intricately carved nineteenth-century tulip-wooden gem. Her first note took the form of shodo, the finest art of calligraphy, on paper made in the Kamakura style. Her hiragana syllabaries conveyed aesthetics and intent, beginning with ‘My dear prime minister …’ Her second mulled task was to complete the artless electronic form.

Mihori tapped Send on the attached keyboard of her iPad Pro with conviction, tinged a little with contemplative sadness, balanced with a passionate outlook for new challenges. Little did she suspect the year or two that would unfurl following the PM’s personal recommendation of her to the premier of Tasmania.

The two had met during a recent Tasmanian food fair in Tokyo and became friends with a common interest in Akio Toyoda’s Supra, Toyota’s best sports car yet. It had been tested on the challenging roads used for the Targa Tasmania rally with the premier’s approval, and having his own pre-release model brought joy to the PM’s heart, in dramatic contrast to his usual state of being serenely whisked through Tokyo cocooned behind curtains in a svelte black chauffeur-driven Century. Only twice had he let the Supra loose, on a closed rally track