Outback Heroes (Dangerous Days Series Part 3)

DANGEROUS DAYS III

OUTBACK HEROES

(The autobiography of a photojournalist continues)

‘As told to’ James Turner

Copyright 2012 by (James) J. William Turner

SmashWords Edition

(Original version copyright 1999 by (James) J. William Turner)

I had survived a blizzard and a drug-trafficker’s gunshots. Now it was Easter, and I was returning to the place of my birth, in the harsh outback of far-west New South Wales, with my mates and a foreign guest, a young, wealthy, English girl from a politically-influential family. But international terrorists had menacingly followed her to Australia. So we, her teenage companions and two, new, aboriginal friends, had to join forces to protect her, while a cynical police officer followed his own agenda.

Table Of Contents

Chapter One - Gatherings

Chapter Two - Good Friday

Chapter Three - Tracking Emily

Chapter Four - The Way Out

Chapter Five - Showdown

Epilogue

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 IV (Enemies Within)

Blades I (Street Kid)

Blades II (High Country)

Blades III (California Dreaming)

Blades IV (Aftermath)

Fat To Fast

Jake’s Magical Easter Adventure

CHAPTER ONE - GATHERINGS

In detailing the following, tragic event that occurred on this day in France’s capital city, and its far-reaching aftermath, I have relied on anecdotal and documentary evidence gathered many years later through my political, military and police contacts made through my work as a journalist. I spent countless hours sifting through files and interviewing, as many of the major players as I could, to arrive at what I believe is a reasonable account of the moments preceding a terrorist outrage that, as it was to emerge later, had its origins in the British Civil Service.

Friday, 2 April 1982 - The weather in Paris was cool. With only a week to Easter, Paris residents and tourists, dressed in warm coats, were crowding the city’s main streets. Light drizzle was falling from the heavily-overcast sky on that Friday afternoon as two men in expensive business suits, and a young, well-dressed boy finished a late lunch in a fashionable restaurant on the Champs-Elysees, not far from the Arc de Triomph. Sir Nigel Pontington-Hunt, a senior diplomat at the British embassy in that city, and now a very powerful friend of mine, often dined with Marcel Dufaux, an important official with the French Foreign Affairs Office. The men and their families regularly visited each other’s homes. The traditional mistrust between British and French government representatives had been replaced by a genuine friendship. As a thirteenth-birthday treat, Marcel had invited his son, Phillipe, to have lunch with them.

Sir Nigel sipped the last of his white wine, wiped his lips with a napkin, and said with a satisfied smile, Marcel, this would have to be the best restaurant for seafood in the whole of Paris.

Marcel nodded. Oui, Nigel. C’est magnifique.

The two men looked gravely at each other. The increasing number of terrorist bombings and shootings on continental Europe by Middle East extremists had them worried, and was dominating their conversation that lunchtime. The frequency of these incidents had the Foreign Office very concerned, as the safety of British citizens on the Continent was being compromised. But French citizens were also in danger, even in England. Marcel had made a point of commenting on the tourist from Calais who had been killed the previous year by an IRA bomb in London, and Sir Nigel agreed that the situation was intolerable.

At least your daughter, Emily, is safe in Australia, away from all this, Marcel continued. I am starting to worry about Phillipe.

Then send me to Australia as well, Papa, Phillipe smiled, and I can stay with Emily. She wrote on her postcard from Melbourne how much she likes it there.

Marcel chuckled, patted him on the shoulder, and told him he wasn’t quite old enough to be an exchange student. Phillipe then asked Sir Nigel if he had ever been to Australia, to which Sir Nigel said that, due to having official business to conduct in Canberra in late-January, he had been able to go to Melbourne first to meet her host family; my parents and me. This made Phillipe even more curious. Please tell me about them.

After thinking briefly, Sir Nigel had described my parents as a very nice couple with a son, about a year older than Phillipe, who seemed like 'a decent sort of lad'. Coming from a man like Sir Nigel, that was high praise. He said that Emily was attending my school, Elwood Grammar School (Senior School), ‘a private establishment,’ adding that she was doing well there, but that he missed her sometimes. He paused in mid-sentence at this point, before telling them about his first encounter with my best friend, Graham, who was still living next door, describing him as ‘really not the most tactful of boys.’ Much to our amusement, these days, I can say that he was in the front lounge room with my parents and Emily, when Graham came in through the back door, and asked me, who was in the kitchen, and I quote, Has the pommie chick arrived, yet?

I’m told Phillipe tried to suppress a laugh as his father said, That was a bit rude!

Of course, Sir Nigel agreed with him, expressing sympathy for me, as he had heard my attempt to scold Graham when I said, Shh, not so loud you bloody idiot!

But, to his credit, Sir Nigel conceded that in a recent letter, Emily had written that Graham and ‘another of Wesley’s chums, Scott, are really nice boys,’ which must be true as ‘she’s a good judge of character.’ Emily had also gone on to describe how we had been trapped on Mt Feathertop the previous year by the blizzard, and chased by those armed, drug smugglers on the lake the week before she and Sir Nigel had arrived; though she had not gone into any detail.

But Nigel, if true, that is amazing! Marcel had said with a massive note of disbelief in his voice, to which Sir Nigel said he would ask her for more details, and Phillipe commented, Australia sounds like an exciting country!

The men chuckled, and Marcel looked at his fob-watch. It was, indeed, time for them to be leaving, but it was raining heavily outside. It was then that Sir Nigel made the most fateful of decisions to have his own chauffeur drive Marcel and Phillipe back to Marcel’s office, two kilometres away, before returning for him, adding, I’m meeting a colleague here in fifteen minutes, anyway, so it’s not a problem.

Marcel accepted the offer gratefully, so they rose from the table, and exited the restaurant through a side door. Sir Nigel’s grey limousine, with tinted windows, was waiting nearby in the car park behind the building. Marcel and Phillipe shook hands with Sir Nigel, and entered the rear seat of the car. The chauffeur started the engine and moved off. Sir Nigel waved briefly to his friends as the limousine cruised slowly along the short side street to the Champs-Elysees, before turning out of sight, and the man’s life changed forever.

Almost immediately, the sound of traffic was eclipsed by a three-second burst of machine-gunfire followed by a deafening explosion. People started running and screaming as smoke filled the street. Fearing the worst, Sir Nigel also ran to the front of the restaurant in time to see a large motorcycle with two men on it roaring away from the wreckage of his fiercely burning limousine.

Oh my God! he exclaimed quietly. Marcel, Phillipe. No!

He walked quickly towards the vehicle. The side windows were blown out, and there were multiple, bullet holes in the windshield and door panels. A passer-by who had been wounded in the shoulder during the shooting was being dragged away from the flames by two other pedestrians. The intense heat from the fire forced Sir Nigel to stay back, but he was able to see the lifeless, charring bodies of its three occupants. He stood numbly, looking at the carnage, unaware of the gathering crowd, as the wailing sirens of emergency vehicles became louder.

Finally, a gendarme put a hand on his shoulder. His eyes filled with tears of grief, not just at the deaths of those close to him, but at the realisation that he should have been dead, not Marcel and Phillipe. And for the first time in his life, he really feared for the safety of Emily. He knew from reports by British and Israeli intelligence services that Middle East terrorists had contacts and sympathisers worldwide. Even Australia, so far unscathed by such attacks, was not immune. The time in Melbourne was just after midnight. Emily was in bed. Sir Nigel decided that the dreaded telephone call could wait. Telling her the news was going to be hard enough. Telling her that she could not attend the funeral due to the danger would be even harder.

As one would expect, news of the murderous attack on Sir Nigel’s car swept around the world. Aware of Emily’s presence in Australia, the British High Commissioner in Canberra immediately alerted the Australian Federal Police and Australian Protective Service. The quick, serious and high-level responses from these two agencies certainly pleased the High Commissioner very much, but surprised him also. He had been expecting a reaction of a more-routine nature. Armed guards were soon stationed covertly around my house, and they shadowed our car whenever Emily was in it.

Monday, 5 April 1982 - A joint meeting of officers from the Federal Police, Protective Service, Australian Security and Intelligence Organisation, and Victoria State Police was convened at the headquarters of the Federal Police in Canberra on the Monday morning. But a request by the British High Commissioner for a representative to attend was declined, much to the annoyance of the High Commissioner. As the nine thirty meeting commenced at the police headquarters, he was sitting in his office with a senior official, Clement Davison.

The Australians aren’t usually this quick-off-the-mark, Clem, he said, resting his chin on his clenched fingers, as was his habit, and they’re not very forthcoming with information. The A.F.P. and or A.S.I.O. know something, but they’re not telling us. Any luck with your intelligence contacts?

Clement shook his head. No Commissioner; the silence is deafening.

Well, Clem, you’d better get a hearing aid, he continued in his customary, sarcastic manner, because word is Thatcher’s getting involved.

What? Thatcher? Why is the prime minister so interested?

The Commissioner grunted. It seems the prime minister of the day had a very high opinion of Sir Nigel and his family, and she wanted them kept safe. Besides, she was embarrassed enough by Argentina’s invasion of the Falkland Islands. To the British Establishment, it really would have been the last straw if anything happened to Emily; ‘too politically damaging.’

What about British Intelligence or Special Branch? Davison enquired.

The Commissioner grunted again, Nothing of any use, Clem, so keep pushing your own contacts. We really need to know what’s going on; at least, so I can tell the P.M. something, or she’ll start thinking I’m not a sound man, and we really can’t have that!

Bitter experience has shown me that raging paranoia and threatened egos are often the first signs and symptoms displayed by people in positions of power who are under stress, real or perceived. My old headmaster and nemesis, Oswald, was a classic case.

Meanwhile, as the High Commissioner was starting to worry about forced, early retirement, the meeting at Police Headquarters was being held in a windowless room. It was chaired by a Chief Superintendent Basil Venturi; a man who was to become infamous for his underhanded behaviour in this matter. Attending were two other Federal Police officers of inspector rank, a male and a female, an inspector from each of the Australian Protective Service and Victoria Police, and an A.S.I.O. representative. Much of the following dialogue etcetera involving Venturi is taken directly from transcripts of minutes obtained under the Freedom of Information Act after the very public and high-level inquiry held into his conduct, as well as from a couple of reputable officers with very good memories who were involved.

Ladies and gentleman, Venturi began, you’ve all read the briefing notes so let’s get down to business. Three days ago, in Paris, an attempt was made to kill British diplomat Sir Nigel Pontington-Hunt. Instead, they killed a French government official and his teenage son. The British government is now concerned about Sir Nigel’s daughter, Emily. She’s fifteen, and an exchange student in Melbourne. What they don’t know is just how immediate the threat is.

He nodded at one of the two women present. Helen from A.S.I.O. will fill you in.

Helen leaned forward in her chair. "Our Israeli Intelligence friends in the Mossad have confirmed the attack was the work of the Palestine Unification Group, P.U.G. for