Tehran Decree (28 page)

‘Let’s not forget our democratic roots, the
government’s job is running the country for the people who put them
there, it is not there to gag the press because of a few
speculative articles.

ChapterFifty-two

Jenkins had a great scenic travel plan, which he used
to transcend reality when the going got tough. Washington to
Tenerife, then Cape Town, with a quick fuel stop at Mauritius,
followed by a longer haul, using extra fuel tanks to Hobart in his
private jet. A quick check through customs, then straight to The
Queens Palace Hotel in his special Mercedes-Benz E-Class hire car
-- it was a wonderful escape route to instant obscurity. Situated
in outback, south west Tasmania, the hotel had a fantastic
panoramic view of Cradle Mountain and the wild national park
hinterland -- it was one of the best natural views Tasmania could
provide. But the full vista was only available from suite 24, a
collection of delightfully appointed rooms Jenkins always insisted
on when he visited the Apple Isle.

The exclusive enclave had a huge stretch glass window
which revealed the true beauty of the southern rain forest. He
would spend three to four weeks luxuriating in the complex, then
explore and potter around the wilderness in complete peace and
privacy.

It amounted to the Lord of Manor syndrome as some
psychiatrists referred to it. He would imagine himself as a
gentleman of substance (which he was) living in a grand manor (The
Queens Palace Hotel) and roaming and exploring his large estate
(Cradle Mountain National Park). It was the perfect place to be if
you wanted solace and a thinking ambiance, as well as the sort of
hideaway a wounded fox might willingly crawl into.

In spite of the rampant tourism of late, Tasmania was
still one of natures few pristine haunts, Jenkins loved the sunsets
the evening stenches and the primordial cacophony generated by
unspoiled rain forest.

Chapter Fifty-three

It was one of the oldest public libraries in Sydney
and specialised in back copies of obscure magazines, comics and
daily Sydney newspapers. Housed in a derelict factory which had
been repeatedly refurbished and refitted with metal shelving and
storage cabinets. Multiple layers of paint showed their way through
the walls as coarse textures which seemed to be virtually holding
up the building.

Most people saw the library as an old fashioned
world, cocooned in the present, with modernity desperately trying
to find its way in. It boasted that most of its literary
acquisitions went right back to the very first issues and all the
way up to the present day. One could spend a quiet hour going back
in time for a modest fee in complete privacy.

Rosey Chester was one patron the library could depend
on, and she would often scroll through back copies of several
different Sydney newspapers and magazines for her Ladies Club
historical assignments.

Browsing the back issues of the newspapers was such a
nostalgic delight and she used it as a fix for her sagging mental
state. She often drank a coffee from a paper cup purchased at a
Macdonalds cafe from across the road and dipped her arrowroot
biscuits in the hot liquid. There were no restrictions on drinking
and eating in the library just as long as any messes were cleaned
up. It was so different from the stuffiness of the major literary
institutions where any display of human propensity drew instant
condemnation from staff and patrons alike.

She would often browse without reference to the year
of publication of the newspaper. It wasn’t so much the dates that
interested her, but the actual content which stimulated her memory
banks, sending her off into paroxysms of long lost reverie.

She suddenly stopped at the middle page of one of the
papers -- then went back two pages -- the hair on her neck began to
stand on end and her pulse quickened.

There was a grainy black and white photograph showing
a newly appointed vice president Jenkins dinning in a famous
American restaurant with the Australian Police Commissioner Clement
Chester, sitting next to him. She looked up the date at the top of
newspaper -- it was exactly four years ago -- in fact, just about
the time Chester went to the USA on a FBI training course for
senior police officers.

The two must have met up in the States during
Clement’s FBI course...clearly he knew the man quite well. Clement
often talked about police business and frequently raked over
‘under-the-carpet’ issues, as well as high security political
matters, most of which was classified material. She had often
berated him for telling her secret tid bits, but Clement dismissed
it, telling her he just had to tell someone to get it off his
chest.

She stared long and hard at the image of Jenkins; it
was a good photo and a good likeness. He was confident with the
poise of a man of power who knew exactly what he wanted, and where
he was going in life. This contrasted with Clement who looked tired
and twisted; like a man tainted with a thousand shabby deals. She
quickly returned her attention to Jenkins, who was so much easier
on the eyes.

It was common knowledge in Australian political
circles that Jenkins was a Machiavellian basket case and would stop
at nothing to further his grip on power. This was amply
demonstrated by his antics during the presidential abduction.

She carefully folded the newspaper, went to the
counter, paid her fee, smiled and thanked the attendant.

Chapter Fifty-four

Standing on the pavement outside the library Rosey
Chester watched the traffic go by and studied the shoppers in
singles and clusters fussing around the shops, and wished she were
one of them. Anyone would...that is, anyone who had a normal life.
She craved banal normality, that precious commodity that everyone
took for granted, until their world was turned upside-down.

She walked further down the street and stopped at
‘Nostalgia Incorporated’ an old fashioned cinema which specialised
in screening old golden movies from the Hollywood era. It was run
by the same people who ran the Library.

Cary Grant and Gary Cooper films were being shown
alternatively all day long. She ran her eyes down the program
listing which was fixed behind glass to the outside wall.

The following week it was a trio movie event with Dan
Daily, Richard Windmark and Glen Ford screened alternately all day
for a week. It was a fascinating line up but she still felt
terribly unsettled. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d sat through
an old movie with unseeing eyes, while her mind went through more
pressing scenarios in her head.

The trouble with a movie was that it demanded one’s
attention or the plot would be irretrievable lost. But everybody
had a secret internal life that went on relentlessly unobserved. It
was like being at the bottom of the sea where strange creatures
lurked with hidden life cycles taking part in inexplicable events
amongst alien environments. Maybe it was time we went back to the
sea from whence we came before our earthly atmosphere died of
asphyxia.

Taking took another look at the long list of
nostalgic films it became apparent that she was in for some
internal journeys of her own. Nostalgia Incorporated was the wrong
place at the wrong time.

She drove home, took her coat off, made a cup of tea,
and sat next to Clements laptop computer on his private desk. She
clicked on Clements private e-mail button and a swag of unread
mails filled the screen. Some of them were obscene, others were in
a coded language. The whole sordid build up of evidence now had her
seething. Out of disgust she highlighted the whole page and deleted
the lot. Making herself a second cup of tea, she laced it with
brandy, and slowly sipped the alcoholic beverage, taking in the
intoxicating vapour.

The wall phone buzzed and she lifted the
receiver.

‘Hello Chester residence...’

‘Hello Mrs Chester...let me offer you my sincere
condolences on the untimely death of your husband,’ the polite male
voice had a distinct American accent.

‘Thank you sir...may I ask who is speaking?’ There
was a pronounced delay, and the man continued.

‘It’s vice president Jenkins marm speaking from
Tasmania. I’m enjoying a lazy day beside the pool in your great
country as part of my annual vacation down under,’ Rosey almost
dropped the phone.

‘I’m awfully sorry to impose on you at this time, but
I wondered if I might be allowed to attend your husbands funeral. I
would be absolutely delighted...if perhaps, I could be one of the
coffin bearers. It would be entirely unofficial and my identity
would not be released to the media. I would be traveling
incommunicado with a handful of security agents at a distance --
the whole thing would be entirely low key of course,’ in spite of
Jenkin’s unsavory reputation Rosey was swept off her feet by his
charming rhetoric.

Here was a man of great status who knew how to treat
a woman -- expensive flowers, perfume, jewelry, diamonds, magical
outings, all flashed through her mind as Jenkin’s voice bathed her
auditory senses.

For the first time in several days she smiled
longingly to herself. Where there was contact, there was hope, and
a possible association with such a powerful man was worth
cultivating. Rosey had gotten used to being carried around by a man
of some standing -- she loved the perks and the luxurious living
that usually came with it, and had learned the lesson -- that being
hard on a man, simply resulted in him being hard on her -- it
sometimes paid to be a soft touch.

‘Of course you can be a coffin bearer Mr. Vice
president, I’m sure Clement would be delighted if he were still
around,’ she soothed in her most compliant voice

‘Call me Frederick its less formal.’

‘All right Frederick it is...if I can be of any
further assistance please feel free, all you have to do is ask,’
Jenkins lingered a little on her last words, and continued with his
customary charm.

‘There is one little thing Rosey, which I would like
to convey to you in the utmost confidence, your husband and I were
very close buddies. He also had many sincere acquaintances in the
American security services, unfortunately this was in contrast to
the Australian police service. There were a number of people in the
Australian sphere who were hell bent on removing him from the top
position for purely selfish reasons,’ Rosey smiled at the thoughts
passing through her mind, Frederick didn’t know the half of it,
several pathetic assassination attempts had been made on him during
his long career -- Clement had made a point of hushing them up.

‘I hope you don’t mind Rosey, but for this reason I
took it upon myself to find out who had been allocated coffin
bearer duties at Clement’s funeral. I was told six of the forces
ablest policemen were arbitrarily assigned to this most important
duty. Is this true?’

‘Yes, it is Frederick...you see, I didn’t know a lot
of Clement’s friends, he was a bit of a secretive man, and I was at
a loss as to who might take on these duties, so the police minister
simply assigned suitable policeman from the officer pool. I must
admit, it was a blessing at the time. I was too emotional, and it
relieved me of making decisions I simply couldn’t make.’

‘I understand perfectly Rosey having been in similar
positions during my tenure as vice president. May I make another
suggestion?’

‘By all means Frederick, please do.’

‘Would it be too much of a travesty if I suggested
that these anonymous police officers, who would probably have no
inkling of how great a man Clement was in life, be replaced by my
own security men -- who new Clement for the man he really was,’
Rosey thought about it for a while and tears began welling in her
eyes, it was a drastic request, but undoubtedly Clement would
probably have wanted it.

She’d had a good marriage over the last forty five
years and Clement was basically a good man to her, but a great deal
of what Frederick had said was true. Clement did not have many real
friends in the Australian police force. In fact he had more enemies
than friends and Frederick’s kind offer seemed all the more
humanitarian under the circumstances. Finally after another quite
weep, more out of self pity than sorrow, she conceded.

‘Yes Frederick...I don’t see any great objection to
that. I’ll speak to the police minister...after all, the final word
regarding the funeral details is mine.’

‘Thank you Rosey...you’re a darling,’ Jenkins
terminated the call, replaced the receiver, and poured himself a
double Scotch from a complementary bottle provided by the Tasmanian
hotel.

He had chosen a plush hotel on the outskirts of
Launceston, because it was in his opinion, the best hotel in
Tasmania. An added attraction to the luxury was the high degree of
discretion exercised by the staff. It was possible for most
celebrities to visit Australia largest and most intriguing island
state, without the media knowing anything about it. It acted as a
sort of back door to the great outback and coastal cities This is
why he had made six previous holiday visits to the Island State,
staying at the same hotel in complete anonymity. Australia was a
mere nights sailing away in a luxurious suite with views which
faced outward to the Great Australian Bight. Flying was quicker but
it lacked the romantic sentiments of a night at sea on a modern
sailing ship.

He booted up his laptop and then keyed a two digit
number on his mobile.

‘Hello Eric...get in here will you,’ the security
agent on duty in the hotel lounge made it to Jenkin’s room in
seconds.

‘I‘m pleased to say Eric, that we have gained access
to the depositary, I’m putting you and the other agents on coffin
bearer’s duties, complete the airline booking to Sydney. Let the
others know, will you,’ Eric dutifully left the room. Jenkins made
a few notes on his lap top then finished his Scotch.