CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
The assassin was in a lot of trouble, he had an early week visit from some nasty people. The Arab consortium backing his horse racing had already expressed concern at poor performance and suggested he attempt to purchase Flaxmead or Celtic Storm with their assistance. Knowing this was a logistic impossibility it was not his main concern. Three members of the Sydney underworld were in his office and had brought character that lacked a sense of humour. Scrawny framed Jib Habib a Lebanese refuge came into Australia five years ago on a boat from Indonesia. He was processed through Christmas Island detention centre and upon being granted asylum discovered the western legal system could be exploited. Mingling with the Sydney Lebanese community he quickly used his experience of civil war to gain respect in the underworld. Of poor stature, thin build and a distinctly scarred face his use of weapons was second nature, that's how he had stayed alive on the streets of Lebanon. Part of his growing organisation was a debt collecting service for major casinos. He employed the worst mercenaries with proven backgrounds he could find paying them well.
He had with him Joel Renoir going under the name of Rick O'Brien. An ex member of the French Secret Service he had been on the run from French and British authorities for years. He worked door nightclubs as a bouncer in Sydney's Kings Cross for years rarely venturing from the area. Habib noticed his talents one night and asked a few questions, a few weeks later with a heavy salary Renoir began to work for Habib feeling he had hidden long enough to be forgotten.
Years before Renoir had leaked information to Libya's Gaddafi regime that led to the death of several members of the French Secret Service and British MI6 at the hands of Gaddafi's secret police. He had been paid well and the money was used to hide him among the less law abiding. A young MI6 operative called Bradley Stanton was one of the British operatives killed by the leak of Renoir's information, first son of John Stanton. Stanton had been looking for Renoir since the death of his son. The presence of Renoir put Habib's operations within the creed of government sanctions and well within the realm of Stanton's ability to be able to strike with a blind eye from authorities. The smiling assassin had no idea what he was getting into, but greed and desperation can sometimes tip the misguided past the point of no return.
The assassin's office was full of well rehearsed confrontation and counter reassurance. Habib paced up and down in front of Delores desk massaging his hands together, clicking his knuckles and twitching the scars on his face. "My clients are becoming very concerned and want to convey in the most vigorous way that they want their money. One million at the end of the month and a further million for the next three months," Renoir stood just behind Habib as he paced up and down looking staring in Delores eyes, he didn't blink or move his face was like wax. "My friends also wanted to convey that they are doing this out of desperation, had your horse done well at the weekend they would not have been concerned. They also wish it be known your line of credit has been temporarily suspended."
The assassin sat with a smile on his face, impeccably dressed and presented he was very convincing. "You're referring to Carronade in the Sydney Cup. I promised the takings to your friends. We have a few problems that are being attended to; it wasn't the only horse that I had run. Some funds from other wins are at this present time being transferred to our friend's accounts."
"The winnings of your other runners are a pittance in comparison to your debt. Things are getting serious. My friends are worried and want you to understand the position you put them in. They don't want you to sell them cars they want money," replied Habib.
"I understand and will attend to this immediately, our friends have been patient and I appreciate that. I have over a hundred and fifty horses at my disposal I cant see what all the fuss is about," added Delores.
Habib nodded with a long face. "Our friends as you put it understand this, that's why the softly softly approach for the present."
"I have a horse that's a problem, perhaps you can be of assistance. If a couple of horses meet with an accident it would be very helpful and pay well," offered Delores.
"You are talking about this horse Flaxmead?" asked Habib.
"Yes."
"Are you mad man, owned by two children, under media scrutiny twenty four hours a day. My wife and family follow the damn thing in the papers; she's never had the slightest interest in horses in her life. My entire organisation talk about the horse, it's the only time they can make a sure bet. I can't get anyone to work while the damn things running unless I have a job at Randwick, in a way it's helped. We can find anyone we are looking for at the track on the day it runs. You want to pull a stunt like that then leave me clear. Besides I won fifty bucks the other day, felt great. I saw this thing run. I have a respect for its honesty and raw power, put on a hell of a show. I want to see it run again. Made your horse look like it was double parked," quipped Habib. Renoir chuckled in the background.
The assassin lost his smile. "This damn thing doesn't help me get money that is owed to our friends. I'm sure I had a good year heading my way this thing's really put a spanner in it," replied Delores.
"I'm not a horse person but it looks as if you need a horse that can run faster than other horses. Pretty simple find a faster horse there's thousands of them. If I had a thundering menace like that with a pint size Sheila on it running all over me I could imagine how I'd feel. But I wouldn't go anywhere near that horse, be practical and political suicide," stated Habib.
"I want a Melbourne Cup and now have two pillars standing in my way!" replied the assassin.
"A spoilt little boy playing with his toys and cant get his own way. You don't have a family do you Mr Delores?" asked Habib.
"No, I don't like the idea, would interfere with my business," replied the assassin.
"You need to find someone with low morals and nothing to live for, a few years ago I may have considered it but now things have changed. I have a family and home. Careful your toys don't come back and bite you. The fact still remains if you miss payment we shall return. Goo day to you Mr Delores." Habib moved toward the door and a big man with olive skin and black hair standing by the door with an exposed firearm opened it for him. Renoir followed him out walking backwards staring at Delores as he left. The big man displayed the same behaviour and they left closing the door gently behind them.
This was a step up in tactics for the people chasing money from the assassin and it had shaken him. Scarred underworld figures and exposed firearms had usually been at arms length and on his payroll. He decided to contact Taggart.
Janeiro Coffee convened a hastily prepared meeting in Newcastle for upper management chaired by Raglan Crookborn direct from a board meeting in London. A fifteen percent across the board productivity spike had been apparent on the day of the Sydney Cup at operations across the hunter. Crookborn was forced to suggest to the board that the spikes from the last six production increases lined up with the running of a horse from the hunter valley called Flaxmead. A presentation of facts gathered by the board led them to believe there was some substance to the story. Board members on first names with Wilson Hornswaddle and Bartholomew Fothrington quickly found a vast change in the gentleman's attitude on contacting them for information. They were busy with wineries, horses and conveyed to the board members an idea they were working on should coal mining encroach on their ventures. They had proof of detailed plans with Japanese and Chinese consortiums to run coy carp and goldfish farms in the hunter valley. There were plenty of holes available to fill with water and the climate was just right. It was another venture that encouraged some action, the eccentric pair had been talking with London politicians on the purchase of Westminster Abbey to attract tourists to the city. The excess staff no longer required by the mining industry in London after the collapse of the mining giants to renewable power generation would be dressed as clowns with red noses and line the entrance to the Abbey in full view of the public. This would enforce the fact to all on how foolish they had become and encourage the
advantages of Christianity in a more positive light as the onslaught of science and the industrial revolution had stifled it.
The board was aware of a fleet of solar powered pleasure cruisers on the Thames River selling wine with the staff dressed as the people from Snowy River highlands of Australia. There were now several castles dotted around Ireland, Scotland, Wales and Europe powered totally by wind and sun with staff dressed in all manner of outfits to uphold local history and heritage. These were being decorated by governments, wine and horse industry buffs. They proudly displayed their first tourism awards. Wilson Hornswaddle and Bartholomew Fothrington suggested if equilibrium could not be struck a commercial war may be immanent. Democracy had begun to rear its head all over the planet even the Middle East. The boards sent Raglan Crookborn to the hunter to rally a plan from the ground up. They were convinced they needed the support of the people and did not relish the thought of working at Westminster Abbey. If a horse had rallied all and established common ground they wanted to know how to embrace it.
Wilson Hornswaddle and Bartholomew Fothrington had opened doors all round the world. The more they travelled and saw what was going on the more they admitted to taking over fifty five years to become educated on excitement and progress. They loathed what they had done at times, money in some places was not available, and other places had heaps. One of the reasons some places didn't have much was they had most of it and refused to part with it trying to make it grow. They didn't trust the call from the mining magnets so they dropped what they were doing headed to the hunter valley.
The eccentric pair winged into Sydney and passed through customs, reboarded and landed at Williamtown Newcastle. Waiting for transport in the terminal just inside the glass doors to the exit Wilson noticed a familiar face waiting at the luggage carousel. "I say Bartholomew, isn't that Raglan Crookborn."
"I'd say you're right Wilson. He was involved in that Brazilian metals loan years back, you never forget a face attached to a rear end. I hear he's on the board of Janeiro Coffee these days."
"That makes sense, my bet he's meeting upper management here. They have their hands full with this gas mining lark."
"The calls we received from members of the board that makes sense. Let's make sure he understands our view. They asked questions about Flaxmead of all things, can't possibly see the angle there."
They approached Raglan Crookborn tapping him on the shoulder from behind. "May we have a word," asked Wilson.
Crookborn turned around, he had already caught the scent of polished leather, tailored tweed and expensive brandy wondering in which direction it had came. Without paying to much attention he answered. "You have an appointment?" he asked.
"Yes thank you and if we spend too much time here with you we'll be late for it," answered Bartholomew.
Crookborn waved his hand in front of his face gesturing them away, "I'm a busy man call my secretary and," the penny suddenly dropped. "Goodness me Hornswaddle and Fothrington you'd be the last people Id expect to see here."
"Not if you're in the know, we are currently conducting business in the region," replied Wilson.
"Yes so I'm lead to believe," replied Crookborn.
"Now would you like to meet out of earshot outside or like us to raise our voices here," enquired Wilson.
I'll just get my bag and be with you," replied Crookborn.
"Raising our voice here it is then. We are about to swing all our resources to putting a spanner in the works. Go anywhere near our wine interests or horses and you will spend the rest of your life in court or even worse gain control of your assets and rechannel energy."
"Gentlemen please I agreed to meet outside when I get my bag," pushed Crookborn.
"Bit of your own medicine taste a bit rough, my way or the highway. I offered to meet you outside for a chat you can pick your bag up anytime. You already stressed your pressed for time. We've completely run out of ours so have to be going. I'll ring the board members we know and tell them how accommodating you were. Now if you'll excuse us your time has expired." They headed for the exit where Elderslie had just pulled up in a hire car.
"Gentleman please if you could just hang on!" harped Crookborn. The pair did not respond and left the building.
A member of the Hunter Valley Peoples Lobby Group was standing next to Crookborn next to the carousel also waiting for his bag. He watched in amusement at the encounter. He was just returning from a rally in Sydney in protest of gas mining in the Valley. He nudged Crookborn in the arm. "That went well then," he chuckled. "He's right though, last time we wanted to speak with you we got less time and far more colourful language. Couldn't happen to a nicer bunch, excuse me," he said as he picked up his bag and walked away.
By the time Crookborn convened the meeting at the Crown Plaza in Newcastle he had received several calls from London and Brisbane head office. When the meeting began he was in a furious mood, he didn't know what to do. People he generally turned to for help were turning on him from all directions. He convened the meeting and previous meeting minutes were read out. He informed the management team that although the government were still supporting gas mining indirect parties could adversely affect the coal operations all over the globe.
It was obvious by his raised voice he was struggling. "I'm still pushing for the formation of a gas mining arm of the organisation in this area. I plan to use Australian Resource Selection Enterprises and Hybrid Organisation for Low Emissions amalgamation to cloak the push. As soon as the election is over I will meet with them and draw up a detailed plan. I have nothing more to say about it until then."
Rutland Girdwood Greedy Piggy Creek operations manager brought something to Crookborn's attention. "Someone in the media used this gas mining alliance first letter of each word as an anomaly in the paper only yesterday,"
"And," Crookborn asked with a sneer.
"Well Greedy Piggy Creek Coal we always use GPCC to avoid the unfortunate name we inherited. This gas alliance works the other way, they've become a laughing stock overnight," replied Girdwood.
"Talk sense man don't waste my time," pouted Crookborn.
"Write the first capital of each word out yourself and see if you want to be associated," suggested Girdwood.
Crookborn wrote the first capital of each of the alliance corporation's name. ARSEHOLE. He looked at it and checked again, he blinked in disbelief but it was still there. He held silence for a few seconds before he looked up. "The media has already printed this fact in the papers?"
"Front page yesterday," replied Girdwood.
"I don't care we're coal miners that's what we do," said Crookborn.
"Where do you live Raglan?" asked Girdwood.
Crookborn frowned. "You know I live in London"
"Yes I'm damn sure you don't live here," said Girdwood. "How would you like someone to drill a hole next to your mansion in Devon and start pumping gas and there was not much you could do about it."
"It wouldn't happen, I live in a zone where things like that are scrutinised and banned," replied Crookborn.
"Yes and so will I," replied Girdwood. "You really can be summed up in the first letter abbreviation of the gas alliance and don't even have the guts to stand up in front of it," stated Girdwood.
Crookborn shot to his feet his chair flying out from behind him and hitting the window, his South African accent sharpened. "I'll have you sacked for that man!"
Girdwood gathered his things and put them in his case, closed it up and walked calmly to the door stopping beside Crookborn looking right in his face. "No need," He looked down at Keith Richardson Manager for Hunter Valley operations sitting beside Crookborn. "I was born here and I'll die here and it won't be from gas mining or water contamination. I'll see you directly after the meeting and tender my resignation letter Keith," he looked back at Crookborn. "I told you at the last meeting that it would happen over dead bodies. I failed to mention one of them was mine. Now if you'll excuse me the air in here stinks." Girdwood left and slowl
y closed the door.
"Impertinence of that man," said Crookborn as he sat down.
John Gifford processing manager for the valley operations rose to his feet picked up his bag and walked towards the door. Before he closed the door He spoke to Keith Richardson. "Ill see you after the meeting as well If I could Keith," he closed the door and left.
Wesley Cleland sales and transport manager for valley operations packed his case, rose to his feet, put his chair under the table and walked quietly to the door. "When you're finished here Keith I'll have a letter ready." He left and quietly closed the door.
"What a bunch of weak need losers. What kind of team do you have here Keith?" spurned Crookborn.
Keith coughed under his breath pouting at Crookborn. "I don't come from here Keith, where I was born there was no mining that's why I move around. I don't know where you were born or brought up but I'm sure it wasn't a place like the hunter valley. Mining workforce's are generally transient, most in the valley were born here and live here. The last thing I would want is a methane gas hole in my back yard let alone hundreds of them. I understand the opposition although I'm an outsider. I will not have you treat my staff like that, now what's it to be?"
"Go and bring them back in, I have no problem with fierce debate," added Crookborn.
"You don't know these people do you. We're not in the middle of the dessert with no contact with the outside world. This is not a mining operation under any scrutiny from standards. You can't just get rid of people put them on a plane with no contact with the aftermath and thus avoid consequences. The state premier released the government's environmental policy here a few days ago in a winery. These people you just called weak knead losers are some of the most respected members of valley society. They are not South African blacks of any importance unless yielding profit way above the pittance they are paid. You will feel the burden of this tomorrow or maybe before. Go back to South Africa they understand your methods there."
Crookborn looked bland and shocked. "My responsibility is results Keith, come on man. I can't have responsibility and no authority."
"I have never seen anybody question your authority here. Today I have seen people protecting family, friends and the environment where they live."
"I didn't even come here to discuss the topic, I came to find out about these productivity spikes and that damn horse."
"If you had mentioned that first you would have had common ground straight away. No, you had to take your bad day out on everyone you could, make you feel better. I work for you and I appreciate that and you lost my entire management team in five minutes. Go and get a team you'd like to deal with from me down because I quiet. I'm going home, if you want to wreck the joint go ahead but leave me out." Keith Richardson handed him a letter he had been writing as he spoke, he got up collected his bag and walked out.
Crookborn held his face in his hands with his elbows on the table. He turned his chair around so he could see the view from the window, put his hands on top of his head leaning back in his chair looking over the harbour.
Keith told the others he had resigned and couldn't accept their resignations. He could no longer make phone calls on behalf of the company so Rutland John and Wesley made calls themselves. They retired for a quiet drink at the Brewery bar not far along the harbour from the Plaza. Crookborn's phone began to run hot. He denied any resignations stating it was a few people letting of steam. The four were again contacted but stuck to their guns. All had made calls and found interviews for alternate positions with other mining organisations who couldn't believe their luck. A management team from Brisbane and Sydney head offices were instructed to head to the valley immediately to investigate.