Chogm Pt 01

In February 1978 a Regional Meeting of the Commonwealth Heads of Government (CHOGM) was being held in Sydney, Australia.

In the early hours of February the 13th 1978 an explosive device detonated inside a garbage truck outside Sydney's Hilton Hotel. Two council workers were killed by the blast and a policeman died later from injuries received. This much is fact.

This story is about this incident and is based on information that is freely available in the public domain. This information when taken in isolation might seem to mean little, but when linked together forms a very large and messy conspiracy. Self preservation has meant that I have sat on this story for the best part of twenty-five years, and as you read it you will understand why.

It is emphasised that the events and characters, other than those identified as fact, which are depicted in this narrative are fictitious, and any similarity between these and any persons living or dead, is coincidental.

Several organisations are mentioned and, while it may appear that these are accused of involvement in this incident, I must again stress that this is a work of fiction and any actions attributed to them are fictitious and any similarity between members of these organisations and any person, living or dead, is coincidental.

Headlines and leaders from the Sydney Morning Herald are used to establish time, and as an indication of the relative importance placed on these incidents at the time Or could it be an indication of the amount of pressure being brought to bear in order to keep a lid on a certain organisation's involvement in this plot.

Like most of my stories there is a certain amount of romance involved, simply because I'm a Romantic old fart. CM

1

New York 01 August 1995:

It was all she could do to walk briskly down the street. The once tight jeans flapped against her pencil thin legs and her coat hung loosely around her gaunt frame. Walking as if she was fit and healthy was taking more out of her than she had anticipated, but she had to keep up the pretence of someone who wasn't about to let her illness get the better of her.

She didn't dare look behind her for fear that she would give away her fear of being followed, which she hoped that she wasn't. She had the feeling that she had been followed ever since she had left Washington. Even though she hadn't noticed anyone, logic told her that she was being followed because that's what they did. Hope told her that the precautions that she had taken had ensured that she wasn't being followed, and she was living on hope.

Her walk took her to a record store on the Lower East Side. She had not been there before but had spoken to an assistant over the phone from her hotel where she was sure that her followers would not have been able to bug the room.

She had taken all of the precautions that she had read about in all of the best spy books, making reservations with one airline from Dulles to La Guardia but taking a stand-by ticket at the airport and flying with another to Kennedy. She fought for a cab from Kennedy to Times Square before taking the subway across town and catching another cab to her hotel. She hadn't booked at that hotel either, having made a reservation at a more expensive hotel uptown. She took the risk that the three star hotel would have a vacancy when she checked in. It did.

The hotel reservation was part of her elaborate smoke screen that she had set up around her visit to New York. Her official reason for being there was medical, which was essentially true, she was scheduled to see one of the country's top oncologists in a last desperate attempt to fend off the disease that she knew in her heart was not about to let go.

She was preparing to die, not as she lived in virtual obscurity, but with one final act of glorious and public defiance, that only those for whom she had worked for so long would ever know about.

She showered and changed into jeans and a windcheater, covered her sparse grey hair with a blonde wig and tucked the whole lot into a woollen cap and wrapping her face in a woollen scarf, not so much to shield herself from the cold because it wasn't, but to cover her thin, haggard face from view before venturing forth into the bustle of rush hour New York. She figured that she would be harder to track in a crowd than on a deserted street, if such a thing ever existed in New York and she was not yet ready for them to find her.

The bell over the door of the record store tinkled as she pushed it open and a small, long haired man came from the back room into the front of the store. "Hi, can I help you?"

"Yes, I rang a few minutes ago about the new CD of the Carmina Burana; you do have it don't you?"

"Of course."

"May I have a look at it?" The assistant took the disc from the pack and handed it over. "Do you mind if I have a listen to it?"

"The player is there in front of you, I have some unpacking to do out back." He left. She inserted the disc into the player and soon her ears were filled with the crescendo of the opening passages of 'O Fortuna'. While she was listening she took another compact disc case from her bag and removed the disc from it. Taking the liner from the Carmina case she scribbled a few words inside it and replaced it into the case. The disc that she had brought with her from Washington she placed in the case and she replaced it into her bag just as the assistant came back into the store. "Is it OK?"

"Yes thank you." She handed over the money and left the store.

She stopped at the nearest café and ordered a cup of coffee to still her nerves as she took the CD case from her purse and placed it into a small cardboard package. She read once more the address on it:

'Mr Russell French

14 Windsor Way

SOUTHVALE SA

AUSTRALIA'

She walked from the café to the nearest post box. Reaching it she stumbled against it and, using her coat to hide her movements, took the package and slipped it into the box.

She stayed in that position hoping that some kind soul would not insist on helping her, until some unkind soul told her to get out of the way so that others could use the post box, before pushing herself upright and walking off with renewed vigour.

The burden of almost twenty years knowledge had been lifted from her frail shoulders. She didn't care now if she was being followed because she had just started a chain of events that would now run its course. Revenge was hers.

She hailed a passing cab and gave directions to her hotel. The driver glanced briefly into the rear view mirror as she settled into the seat. He thought that she must have been running from something because, from where he sat, the disguise was obvious, but then he gave it no more thought because many of his passengers were running from something or someone. He had learnt from experience that it didn't pay to get involved in other people's problems.

The doorman at the hotel opened the door for her but as she passed the reception the desk manager stopped her. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, I'm checking out in a few minutes and would like to settle my account now."

"Certainly, your room number is?"

"704." She took her credit card from her purse and handed it over. The transaction complete she strode to the elevator and was whisked from sight. She knew that the card transaction would set off alarm bells and a team of agents would soon descend on the hotel. She had to move fast.

Back in her room she removed her disguise and threw it into the waste basket. Sitting on the bed she opened her attaché case and removed a small container. From the container she took a syringe and an ampoule of clear liquid. Inserting the needle she drew off the entire contents.

She paused for several minutes before placing a tourniquet on her arm. When the vein was swollen enough she inserted the needle and injected the contents.

She moved over to the phone and dialled 911. "Yes, I need the ambulance. Yes, I have just accidentally taken an overdose of morphine and I don't know what to do." She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. "Take that you fucking bastards."

Even before the wail of sirens heralded the arrival of the ambulance, two men walked into the hotel and approached the reception desk. "Have you seen this woman recently?" One of the men held a photograph up to the receptionist.

"You have some interest in this person?" He was fishing for a reward.

The men produced official looking shields from their coat pockets and waved them in front of the receptionist's face. "Good enough, follow me." He led them to the elevator and within minutes they were at the door of her room. Using the master key the door was opened and he stood aside to allow the two men to enter.

"Shit and damnation!" The first of the men had seen the recumbent form on the bed. Moving quickly he checked for a pulse. There was none. "Quickly, look for it!"

"What are we looking for?" His companion was obviously not as well informed as he was.

"There should be a CD somewhere."

"Why are we looking for a CD?"

"We suspect that she has been accessing confidential files and down-loading them onto a CD so that she can pass them on to someone. We had hoped to intercept her before she could pass them on so that we could find out who she was sending information to. I hope that we aren't too late."

"Who is she?"

"Her name is Judith Treharne and she was for many years the Personal Assistant to our Operations Director. When he died she was transferred. It would seem that she didn't like the move."

"But to spy, what makes you think she was spying?"

"We suspect everyone."

"Trusting soul aren't you?" He rummaged through her purse and removed the CD case. "I think I have it."

His companion looked at for several minutes, a frown on his face. He took it over to the desk and placed it the CD Rom slot of his laptop computer and hit the keys that should have accessed any files on it. The screen remained blank. On a hunch he accessed the CD player, switching it on he was less than pleased to hear the strains of the Carmina Burana filling the room. "Shit and damnation!"

"Again? What is wrong now?"

"This is most certainly not what we are looking for." He quickly searched through the rest of her belongings without success. He took out his cell phone and dialled a number. "Hi. Yes it's me. No we have not found it. What we did find was a disguise, so it looks as if she knew that she would be followed if she went out so she took precautions. I don't think that we'll ever be able to find what she did with that CD."

The voice on the other end of the line expressed his dis-satisfaction at the news. "I don't care what you have to do or how you do it, I want that disc back and I want it before any third party has the opportunity to use the information on it. This is a matter of international importance and the information on that disc could have major negative repercussions for us with our allies."

"How can we find what she did with it if we don't know where she went or even if she went?"

"Back track on her movements. Find out if she went out at all today and see if you can find out where she went. She can't have gone far on foot so try the cab companies and see if she used a cab to come or go."

The sound of running feet reached them seconds before the feet's owners arrived. "Step aside please!" The head Paramedic shouted.

"You're too late. She's dead."

"Let the experts be the judge of that." He quickly checked for any vital signs before standing up. "She's dead. I'll call the police and arrange for a body bag. She said something on the phone about morphine when she called 911, have you seen any evidence of the drug in here?"

"Over there." One of the men pointed to the ampoule on the bedside table.

The paramedic picked it up and looked at it. "If she used all of this she was definitely serious about killing herself. There was enough in here to kill a horse."

Through the door walked a short, scruffily dressed man wearing a sports coat that was several sizes too small for him but probably wasn't when he bought it. "What has happened here?"

"Who are you?" Asked the first of the two men.

"Lieutenant Spinelli, and who are you?"

"Could we have a brief word with you, in private?" He led Spinelli out into the hallway. "What you have here is a Federal incident and the Firm is vitally interested in it. I want the autopsy report on my desk before the ink is dry on it, 'kay?"

Spinelli grunted his response and strolled back into the room. He was sick of these federal types pushing him around, but knew that there was nothing that he could do about it. "I want nothing, and I mean nothing, touched until we can pick up all the evidence that there is to pick up. Do I make myself understood?"

The group, minus the two men who had managed to slide out of the room un-noticed, mumbled there compliance and settled in for the long wait for re-enforcements.

* **

The front door of 14 Windsor Way Southvale opened and Russell French walked in with a post pack in his hand "I wonder who is sending me a CD?" He said to Jenny.

"Is there a return address?" Jenny was a still attractive 38 years of age, long blonde (natural) hair, slim build with bumps in all of the right places despite the obligatory two children.

"No, but it's postmarked New York, I don't know anyone in New York, at least I don't think I do." He took the CD from the pack, "I wonder why anyone would send me this?"

"What?"

"Carmina Burana. It's one of my favourite pieces and this is a new version but that still doesn't solve the mystery." He walked over to the CD player and inserted the disc. Pushing the play button on the remote he waited for the music to fill the room. It didn't. "Strange?"

"Wait a minute!" Jenny removed the disc from the player and placed it into the CD slot on the computer that she had been using. She clicked into the Windows program and, using the mouse she clicked her way into the CD drive and the only file in it, 'Hilton'. "Whoever sent this has obviously taken a CD and written this data on it, copied the Carmina label onto it, and then placed it in the CD case of one that she had purchased for the occasion."

"What made you think of that?"

"Read this." Jenny handed him the liner from the CD pack. Inside were scribbled the words 'I hope you can do something with this, regards Win Hilton'.

The file that appeared on the screen was headed by a short note: 'Mr French, you don't know me and I should inform you that any attempt to find me will prove fruitless. By the time that you receive this CD I will be dead. I am pre-empting my death because I do not want to give my employers the pleasure of that responsibility and I have lost patience with Mother Nature. Whatever the reason, my death bears no relevance to the information contained here."

"I found your name on a file connected with the case about the bombing of the Hilton Hotel in Sydney in 1978 and read that you had come uncomfortably close to exposing the truth before being forced to shelve your investigation. I have decided that the truth is more important than the personalities involved, so have taken the liberty of copying the files and sending them to you so that you can complete the task that you started so long ago. Do not let anyone stop you this time."

This was followed by page after page of official files from the CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

Russell's first reaction was to stare in amazement at the computer screen as file after file scrolled over, his second was to exclaim 'fuck', a word he didn't normally use at home, and his third reaction was to pick up the phone and dial a number in England. "John, Russell, yes the car is still going beautifully. Listen, I have just got this load of files that seems to have originated from a friendly in the CIA, and I think that it is just about time we moved on this. I just rang to tell you that I need your permission to resurrect the old story."

"Russell, you know that you didn't need to ask, permission is granted and give 'em hell."

Russell hung up the phone and took a deep breath. "Well here we go again." Jenny was reading the last pages of the file and spotted a familiar name. "I wonder what Colin Winchester has to do with this?"

"He was the Assistant Commissioner of the Australian Federal Police who was supposedly shot by a disgruntled public servant. He had been the leader of a sting operation that was supposed to trace the cannabis distribution network between the ACT, Southern New South Wales and the West Coast of the US. There was a very strong rumour going around that it was a mob hit. Apart from that several names that appeared in that drug sting also appearing in the investigations into the marijuana cultivation and distribution around Griffith that featured one Robert Trimboli. According to one report I read, the Griffith operation was heavily financed by the CIA. I wonder if that connection is the reason that it rates a mention in these files."

2

Sydney February 1969

"Were did you get this?"

"The Texas Tavern."

"This is really heavy shit man. It's giving me the best buzz I've ever had."

The two young men lay sprawled on a large mattress, their backs against a wall on which were several large posters that were enlargements of album covers.

From another room two young women came into the room bearing bowls containing a reddish liquid with lumps in it. "We lifted some stuff from the shop down the road, it's not much but it'll do."

Looking at the bowl one of the men asked, "What is it?"

"It's tomato soup with tuna."

"Oh." He took a sip of the liquid, pause for a few seconds to allow it to slide down before spooning the rest of the bowl down.

Finishing the bowl he picked up a package from the floor, taking a small packet of Tally Ho's he joined two papers together and into this his placed a quantity of Drum tobacco and on top of this he crumbled some hash. Rolling it he lit it and passed it to one of the girls.

"Have some of this."

She took a large drag of the smoke and held it in for as long as she could before slowly exhaling. She then took another long drag and repeated the process before passing it on to the other girl.

She closed her eyes and sat against the wall for some several minutes before opening them again. "What's in this?"

"I don't know, it's some new gear that the Yanks are bringing in from Vietnam."

"I don't feel well." She closed her eyes again.

The others ignored her while they finished the joint. It was only then that they noticed that she was shivering. It didn't register even then that there was anything wrong with this, even though the weather was hot for that time of the year. It wasn't until she slumped to the floor and vomited on the tattered carpet that they realised that there was something wrong.

One of the men tried to wake her up without success. "I think we had better get an ambulance." He said.

The other man got unsteadily to his feet and left the house. He returned just as an ambulance pulled up out the front.

The ambulance crew had been confronted with similar emergencies in this part of town that had increasingly been inhabited by these long haired young people who claimed to be artists.

They lifted the stretcher into the back of the ambulance and one of them stepped in with her. His partner called in to the ambulance base and requested police attendance at the address. "I think that you should point out to the police that this is not a typical overdose situation or the effects of too much marijuana, this is something that we haven't seen before and I don't like it."

The police Drug Squad was called in and searched the house for traces of the drug that had caused the problem.

"Where is it?" The leader of the two man team asked the young men.