DANGEROUS DAYS IV
ENEMIES WITHIN
(The autobiography of a photojournalist concludes)
‘As told to’ James Turner
Copyright 2012 by (James) J. William Turner
Smashwords Edition
(Original version copyright 2004 by (James) J. William Turner)
After saving his daughter’s life, I expected a fortnight’s holiday in London with my friends, as a guest of Emily’s father, to be full of fun, excitement and foreign adventure. Instead, it became one of revelation, suspense and intrigue, as we followed a trail of violence, greed and murderous intent into a world of power, finally exposing a long-forgotten act of cruelty, and an appalling betrayal of friendship.
Chapter Three - Corridors of Power
Chapter Five - Ancient History
This story is fictional. Any similarity to historical events, or to any person, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional
Other works by J.William Turner:
Dangerous Days I (Storm Ridge)
Dangerous Days II (Paddle Hard)
Dangerous Days III (Outback Heroes)
Blades I (Street Kid)
Blades II (High Country)
Blades III (California Dreaming)
Blades IV (Aftermath)
Fat To Fast
Jake’s Magical Easter Adventure
Saturday, 21 August 1982 - I remember sitting on my bed beside a large, open suitcase full of clothes, and caressing the cover of my new passport. Opening the document, I stared at the photograph sealed inside. My mother had once said how much she disliked her passport photo, and I grinned slightly to myself as I looked at mine. Not always one to smile whilst being photographed, I appeared quite happy in this picture. The prospect of a holiday in London as Sir Nigel’s guest had consumed me and my two mates, Graham and Scott, for several weeks. Up until then, my knowledge of England was limited only to what I had seen on television, and from Emily’s stories of her life there. Adventure had been a big part of my life during the previous, twelve months, but I was wishing, somehow, this would be more than just an adventure. I was looking for answers to aspects of what had occurred at Marapana, and I hoped an official inquiry into Emily’s abduction, of which I was to be a part, would provide them.
That Chief Superintendent Venturi deliberately leaked Emily’s whereabouts to the terrorists in order to catch them, and expose an informer in his department, had outraged everybody involved. But as the weeks slowly passed into months, I had felt a growing uneasiness. Reliving the past events in the outback, as well as on the lake and Mount Feathertop, during several sessions with a trauma counsellor had helped me, but more new questions and thoughts about Emily’s kidnapping came to my mind. I had spoken of these to my counsellor, who discussed them with me. But there was one question I was keeping to myself, and it burned inside me. Nobody had ever explained how, in the first place, the terrorists discovered that a girl as vulnerable to attack as Emily had been sent to Australia. Having seen the hardship that Emily had endured during her nineteen hours in terrorist hands, I knew that my lingering anger would never be resolved until those responsible were exposed. If a very senior, Australian Federal Police officer could betray her, then no one was above suspicion. Even though my fifteenth birthday was still three months away, I had been made a total realist and cynic by past events, and I really did not expect to find the answers I was seeking, in London, or anywhere else for that matter. All I could actually hope for was a lot of sightseeing and a taste of London’s nightlife with my friends.
“Hey Wes! You in there?” Graham called out loudly from the hallway on the other side of my bedroom door and I told him to come in.
Graham opened the door, and entered, followed by Emily. I greeted them, and held up my opened passport. “Not a bad photo, ay?”
Always the witty one, Graham looked closely, and flinched. “Eek, you really are ugly, aren’t you?”
His insult deflated me, and my shoulders fell. But Emily had already seen the picture, and was more complimentary, saying I was cute, and had a nice smile. Graham laughed, and I pretended to be embarrassed. Graham then told me that he had just spoken to Scott on the phone, that Scott was going to use his father’s power saw to make shelving for his room, and did we want to go over there. I shrugged. “Why not? We can have a look at his passport photo.”
I placed my passport on top of the clothes in the suitcase, followed the others from my room, down the hallway to the lounge room, and told my mother where we were going. Mum looked up from the magazine she was reading, smiled and reminded us to be back by five o’clock as we were going out to dinner. We walked out through the front door, and turned left at the gate. Despite the season still being winter, the last fortnight of August was surprisingly warm and mild. The evergreen trees in the leafy beachside Melbourne suburb of Brighton swayed slightly in the gentle breeze that blew in from the north-west off Port Phillip Bay, less than two kilometres away.
I walked with Graham and Emily along the familiar street towards Scott’s house. We eagerly discussed our long-awaited flight to England the next day; albeit with Inspector Bert Beldon as our chaperone and a key witness at the official inquiry. While having mixed feelings about being questioned at this inquiry, the social activities that Emily had planned for us with all of her rich, high-society friends from her old school sounded very appealing; a touch of the ‘good life’, maybe.
“Just as long as they’re not a bunch of stuck-up snobs,” Graham and I had both thought to ourselves. We knew the English teenagers we would be meeting came from families much wealthier than our own, and in some cases, more influential. But if Emily’s friends were all like Emily, then the holiday would be unforgettable.
We were less than a hundred metres from the Willis’s house when the quiet of the street was shattered by the wail of a siren from behind us. We turned to watch the ambulance approaching rapidly and then flash past. But our curiosity became sudden shock as we saw it stop outside Scott’s home and two ambulance officers then alight from the vehicle, before walking quickly onto the property. Our hearts began to race as Graham exclaimed loudly, “Ah no! No! What the hell’s going on?”
It was not a question to which he expected an answer. Without another word we broke into a run, arrived at the front gate within seconds and continued quickly up the driveway beside the house towards the garage, only to gasp at the horrifying and grizzly sight that met our eyes in the backyard. Graham almost dry-wretched.
With his father kneeling beside him to offer comfort, Scott was sitting on the path, his back and shoulders supported by the garage wall. The boy’s face was pale and drawn from pain as the paramedics quickly applied a bulky, dressing pad to his left hand and wrist using a heavy bandage. Beside him, a large area of concrete was covered by a thick pool of bright-red blood. There were also several bloodstains on his jeans and shirt, and on his dad’s hands.
I was the first to approach the scene, and stopped a metre away. “Scott, Mr Willis, what happened?”
My voice was higher-pitched than normal from the sudden fear for my mate that now gripped me. Jason Willis looked up, his forehead creased with worry, but it was Scott who answered first, telling us that he used the power saw without permission, as he half-apologised to his father. The man stroked his son’s head gently, and said in a low voice, “It’s okay mate, accidents happen. Just take it easy now.”
Although he was going into shock, Scott understood that he was very seriously injured, and the consequences that would follow. The tears in his eyes were not just from the pain as he looked up with sadness at the three of us, realising that he would not be going to England the next day. Forgetting about the official inquiry, I offered to wait and go later, as I knew it wouldn’t be the same without him. But Scott accepted the inevitable, and shook his head. It was his fault, and he acknowledged it. We did not know what else to say, and it was Emily who spoke for us when she said that her father wouldn’t mind if he came for a visit later when he was better.
Scott nodded and sighed, “Yeah, say ‘hi’ to your dad for me.”
Emily’s voice was breaking up as she answered, “I will.”
It was then that the sound of heavy footsteps approaching along the driveway distracted us. Two, uniformed, police officers appeared from around the corner, and strode quickly up to the group. I thought how very strange this was. It was, in fact, to be potentially very ominous for all of us. The officers, Senior Constable Knox and Constable Barber, told us the police had received a message about the emergency call, and the senior constable said, “What happened to the boy, Mr Willis?”
Jason was bemused by the unexpected presence of the police, told them that it was just an accident, and asked why they were there. It seems the police were notified by the ambulance service, as the Willis’s address was one of three tagged for having any emergency calls referred to them. Graham and I looked at each other when we heard this, and Graham openly and cynically echoed our thoughts, “Not hard to guess what the other two addresses are,” before turning back to face the police and adding, “So why are you lot still interested in us? All the terrorists are dead or in jail.”
The officer was dismissive in his attitude, said he couldn’t comment on security matters, and that he had his orders. I, though, was very unimpressed by this typical display of officialdom, and told Graham in loud voice not to worry about it, and that we would ask ‘Inspector Bert Beldon’ on the plane to England the next day. The senior constable glanced back at the semi-defiant look on our faces, not knowing whether to take us seriously, before asking our names. When I told him he grunted, “Yeah, I might have guessed it was you two.”
He then turned back to Jason, said that his junior colleague would ride in the ambulance to the hospital, and that they would be needing a statement about the incident as soon as possible. We were not surprised that the demanding behaviour of this officer annoyed Jason, as he waited for a stretcher to be brought from the ambulance, who replied sharply, “You’ll get my statement when I’m ready to give it! Right now, I’ve got more important things on my mind!”
“Good on ya, mate!” I thought to myself. “You tell ‘em to shove it!”
As soon as the stretcher had arrived and been lowered to the ground, Scott was lifted onto it. A few, local residents who had heard or seen the emergency vehicles arrive watched as the stretcher was wheeled down the driveway to the ambulance. Accompanied by his father and the second, police officer, Scott was placed inside.
“Where’re you taking him?” Emily called out.
“The ‘Alfred’,” said the ambulance officer, and closed the door.
Both vehicles and the onlookers then made quiet departures as life returned to normal for the residents of the street, now leaving only the three of us on the footpath to show any strong feelings about what had happened. Without warning, our holiday plans had been turned upside-down. We were now torn between the desire for a new adventure in a foreign country, and loyalty to our mate. For Emily, there was no choice about her departure. She had to return to England. But for us two boys, thoughts of going while our badly-injured mate stayed behind caused within us feelings of guilt, official inquiry or not. Little was spoken as we trudged back to my house. I felt sick, both physically and emotionally. I assumed the others did, also.
Mum was still reading her magazine when we arrived home, and she was surprised to hear us return after less than an hour. She glanced up with a smile as we entered the lounge, but the smile quickly faded when she saw the grim look on my ashen face. Choking back tears, I told her about Scott’s accident, about the blood, about the ambulance, and that my friend would not be flying to England with us. Mum rose from her chair, placed one arm around my shoulder, the other around Emily’s, offered to take us to whichever hospital he had gone to, and asked if we knew.
“The ‘Alfred’,” Graham replied sadly. “I guess it’s the nearest.”
Mum told him to go and tell his parents what was happening, and then come straight back. Graham did as Mum said, and left the room. Meanwhile, she fetched the car keys, and wrote a note for my dad. When Graham returned, Mum drove out on to the street, and headed for the Alfred Hospital, eight kilometres away. Very little was said during the drive as we tried to come to terms with what had happened. We parked near the hospital about three quarters of an hour after the ambulance had arrived, and promptly walked to the ‘Emergency Department’. Mum approached the reception desk, addressed the duty, staff member, and asked to see Scott. The receptionist smiled and picked up the admission list. Her smile then became a look of concern when she saw Scott’s name, and asked if we were family members. When Mum shook her head and said we were friends, the receptionist apologised and told us, “The record is marked ‘Strictly family and police access only’.”
Mum was surprised with this news, and not pleased by it. The concerned expression on her face almost became one of anger, demanding that we young people be admitted as we were flying to England the next morning, and this would be our only chance to say goodbye. The hapless woman could only reply, “I’m sorry, I just don’t have the authority,” to which Mum suggested she find someone who does. Before the receptionist could respond, a tall man in civilian clothes walked up, showed her a police-identification badge, and spoke with firmness. “It’s okay, I’ll give you the authority!”
We looked round at the police officer, and he grinned back in return. “Good afternoon, Mrs Auld. We meet again.”
It was Inspector Beldon. Mum smiled. “What are you doing here?”
“Same as you; visiting Scott.”
He looked over at us, and we swapped brief, but friendly greetings. Bert Beldon then led our group into the emergency-treatment area. Scott was resting on a bed in one of the cubicles, his father seated beside him. Above the boy, suspended from a tall stand, hung an intravenous drip-bag of clear fluid, beneath which a plastic tube fed the liquid directly into a vein in his right arm. Scott’s face was still very pale, but appeared less drawn, and he was able to force a smile. Pain-killing medication administered upon his arrival was helping. I felt a little better when I saw this. Jason then advised us that an initial examination by the attending, emergency doctor indicated very serious damage to nerves and tendons in Scott’s hand, and that a plastic surgeon called in to discuss microsurgery would be coming to see them shortly. This was the only information Jason had at that time. When he had finished telling us all he could, Mum had another question. “Jason, do you know that Scott’s record is marked as ‘Strictly family and police access only’? If it hadn’t been for Inspector Beldon arriving when we did, we wouldn’t be in here.”
Jason shrugged, shook his head, and asked Bert if he knew anything about it. The inspector stood with his arms folded, and a serious look on his face, thinking about how best he could answer the question. Eventually he said there were still certain security issues surrounding Emily, Graham, Scott and me. Although the Palestine Unification Group had more-or-less ceased to exist as a terrorist force, it still had sympathisers here in Australia. So, any emergency incidents involving our families were of immediate interest to both the Victoria Police and the Federal Police. That’s why local police attended, and Bert had been informed quickly about Scott’s mishap.
The information concerned Mum, who asked just how serious was the risk to us. Bert shrugged casually. “On a scale of nought to ten, about two. Not really that bad.”
But it was not a zero risk, and Mum quite rightly said that we should have been told, instead of finding out as a result of Scott’s accident. Nor was she interested in arguments of jurisdiction when Bert told us that the Federal Police were responsible for our security assessment and protection, not the Victoria Police.
“That didn’t stop you telling Emily’s father about Superintendent Venturi’s use of Emily as bait for the terrorists,” she snapped, “and not warning us of the danger until it was too late.”
Clearly, Bert disagreed with her comparison, saying that Venturi was a different matter, that the man was criminally negligent, and had to be held accountable, and that this situation was totally different. But, like a lioness protecting her cubs, Mum thought only briefly before telling Bert that she would never believe that. She then reminded him that for the coming, two weeks, he was being trusted with the welfare, in a foreign country, of two young people, one of whom was her son, and both of whom have been to hell and back. “What would you expect if one of them was your child?”
Bert obviously took her point. He nodded, and said for the record that if any risk did still exist, it would be much less in England than Australia, as our travel details were confidential and known only to a very select few.
“I bet that’s what Emily’s dad thought!” I said with annoyance.
I had been listening intently with the others to the exchange between my mother and Bert, and was not impressed by what I heard. Someone had to be accountable. The adults looked at me as I continued resolutely and with a quite-unusual bluntness for my age at the time, which I have never forgotten, “Sir Nigel thought Emily would be okay in Australia, but the terrorists got to her, anyway, and quite easily, didn’t they, Inspector?”
“Now Wesley, we all know that was Venturi’s doing.”
“Yes, after they were in Australia,” I persisted, and pointed at the girl beside me. “But how did they know to look for Emily here, in this country? How did they find out her confidential, travel details? A lucky guess?”
Taken aback by my almost-snarling, uncompromising directness, Bert was silent at first, not quite knowing how to respond. But I was not going to give up. “Well?”
Finally, he admitted that he didn’t know, looked at Emily, and made a shocking suggestion. Given her father’s high profile, and large circle of contacts, it was always possible that her whereabouts could be leaked, either accidentally, or intentionally.
Emily was aghast at the thought that someone close to her family in England was a traitor, and Bert shrugged once more. “Again, I really don’t know, Emily. But given the way the world is these days, anything’s possible.”
He acknowledged that all his years in policing had made him very suspicious and very cynical, and that he would hate to think that if she had been betrayed, it was by someone close to her or her father; someone trusted.
Emily shook her head firmly. “No, I cannot believe a friend of ours could do that!”
She was aware that her father was respected by a large number of people in the British Civil Service, and European diplomatic community, but she was still very naïve about human nature and the politics of Sir Nigel’s professional world. The idea that she could have been betrayed in such a manner was one Emily refused to accept.
At that moment, a dark-skinned man in a blue suit entered the cubicle, smiled and spoke to us in unforgettably-humorous, precise English, with a very heavy, Indian accent. “Good afternoon, I am Denzel Chirenda. I will be Scott’s plastic surgeon.”
He shook Scott’s uninjured hand, and greeted Jason in the same way. The surgeon then unwrapped and lifted the bloodied dressing on the other to inspect the horrible cut, six-centimetres-long and three-centimetres-deep, at the base of Scott’s thumb. Dr Chirenda’s face revealed nothing as he briefly studied the injury, before reapplying the bandage. “Young man, I am told that your last meal was lunch three hours ago at one o’clock, and that you have had nothing to eat since that time. Is this correct?”
Scott nodded silently.
“Then I will schedule the operation for nine o’clock tonight, by which time you will have an empty stomach. That is most very important. I expect the microsurgery procedure will take about three hours.”
Despite the seriousness of the situation, I was only just able to stifle a laugh at his manner of speech. And I could tell from Graham’s face that he had the same problem.
Dr Chirenda turned to Scott’s father, said the structural damage caused by the partial amputation of Scott’s thumb appeared to be extensive, but not irreparable, and shook hands with them again. “We will speak once more, just as soon as the injured area has been x-rayed for bone damage.”
The surgeon departed as quickly as he had arrived. The rest of us stayed on for another hour, until Scott’s very worried mother and younger sister arrived. Nobody wanted to leave, but we knew it was time. Scott looked at us with mild envy. His obvious disappointment at missing out on a holiday in England overshadowed his current, medical crisis. The fact that he may lose the use of his thumb, and therefore the effectiveness of his hand, was not on his mind at that moment, as we, his three best friends, stood closely around him. Sadly, he told us to take care, and this time, at least, to stay out of trouble, even if we couldn’t. We all chuckled at Scott’s indirect reference to past events, and it was Emily who was the first to move nearer. She sat on the edge of his bed, and leaned forward so they could hug each other. “Get well quickly, darling,” she whispered in his ear, “so you can spend this Christmas with us.”
Emily kissed him on the cheek, and stepped back. Graham and I then took turns to hold his hand, wish him luck, and say our goodbyes, also. As we turned to go, Mum spoke to Scott’s parents. “Jane, Jason, we’ll be going to the airport quite early tomorrow morning, so when the operation is over, please phone and leave a message on our answering machine. The kids, especially, will want to know.”
Jane nodded her agreement, and we left the emergency-treatment area. Outside the entrance door to the hospital, we departed for our cars in opposite directions, after agreeing to meet in Tullamarine Airport’s international departure hall at seven o’clock the following morning, for the aircraft’s scheduled take-off time of ten o’clock.
Although still subdued, we were more talkative during the ride home. Being allowed to visit and talk to Scott so soon after the accident, to see that he was receiving the best-possible, medical attention, and to know that he was no longer in pain eased our own worries. The time was almost six o’clock when we arrived home, and we were all hungry. Graham did not come in, but walked next door for a quick snack, and to get changed for dinner at the restaurant with my family.
Dad was waiting in the lounge when we entered. He kissed Mum, hugged Emily, ruffled my hair, and asked, “How’s the boy?”
Mum’s shoulders sagged as she sighed, told him how serious the injury was, and that he would be having microsurgery later that night.
She looked at Emily and me, and told Dad that we were at their house soon after the accident happened. “It was a bad scene, all-round, for everybody.”
Dad offered what words of comfort he could to us, but our lingering distress went undiminished. We headed for our rooms to change our clothes. And before they also went to prepare for the family’s evening out at a local restaurant, I heard Mum tell Dad about our disturbing conversation with Bert Beldon.
News that a potential security risk to his family still existed, and that we had not been informed, angered my father. After the events at Marapana last Easter, Dad resented what he perceived as the arrogance of faceless people, sitting behind desks, high up in office buildings that are the police headquarters in Melbourne and Canberra. He resented the arrogance of people who would withhold information from him concerning the welfare of those he cared about; the arrogance of people who thought they knew better than he did as to what he needed to know. It seemed to Dad, that after Chief Superintendent Venturi’s covert behaviour at Easter, history was repeating itself. Despite feeling that his trust in the authorities had been betrayed, he accepted that Bert was not responsible for these decisions. And although Mum now had misgivings about letting me travel to England, my father did not, and firmly, but gently, told her so; good for him.
I entered my bedroom, closed the door, and sat down on the bed. Beside me was my open suitcase, my passport still where I had left it on top of my gear. I leaned forward, closed my eyes, and placed my face in my hands, trying to make sense out of what had happened that afternoon. Visions of Scott’s blood spilled on his clothes and the concrete path had implanted itself immovably in my mind, as had the look of pain on my mate’s, ashen face. I sat in that position for several minutes fighting back the tears. After a while, I slowly lifted my face from my hands, looked at the suitcase with red, watery eyes, and swore openly.
Finally, I picked up my passport, and looked at the photograph inside it once again. The pleasure I had felt earlier was now gone, and part of me wanted to postpone the trip. I would have even preferred to stay home that night, and not go out to dinner. But this was Emily’s last night in Australia, after living in my home for nearly seven months, and I wanted it to be special. I knew that I may not see her again for many years to come, and, that as an only child, I would miss her company very much. Emily was also an only child, and our brother-sister relationship had become quite strong.
But during the twelve hours between her abduction being discovered, and her subsequent rescue by our aboriginal friend, Davo Banjira, my feelings for Emily changed. Now, four months later, in these final days leading up to her departure, my immature, adolescent mind had been wrestling with a difficult question.
“When we are adults, would a wealthy, high-society girl like Emily want to spend the rest of her life with an ordinary, middle-class boy like me, as my wife?”
But each time I thought about it, I always came to the same conclusion; that we could only ever be good friends. I expected that my time in England, meeting the people in Emily’s and Sir Nigel’s inner circles, would confirm to me that I could never be accepted into their world of affluence and power.
I replaced my passport on the suitcase, and rose from the bed. I only had time for the quickest of showers, and it was after six thirty when I had finished putting on the clothes I would wear for our night out. The booking was for a quarter to seven, and my parents, Emily, and Graham, who had just arrived, were waiting for me in the lounge. We left immediately for the five-minute drive to the restaurant.