“These zealots framed and, in cold blood, murdered those five young men, innocents who were moulded so easily to fit into the radical Islamist stereotype.
“But it was homegrown non-Muslim pariahs who did this. Not only did they organise the subway attack, they orchestrated for it to be foiled, though only at the last possible moment… to maximise panic with minimum collateral damage. Their goal was not mass destruction, rather the upswell of relief that comes after a cataclysmic near-miss, expecting it to flood voters back into a safe, right-wing harbour. But their plan failed… despite their despicable deceit, the people still elected Mitch Taylor and me, though not by much, that is true. So, silently waiting until after my Inauguration, this despicable group triggered the final climax of their murderous plan.”
He stooped to lift the pitcher to splash more water into his glass. “At this point, I have no choice but to reveal my own shameful part in this.”
Silence temporarily descended on the Chamber but the speculation among the TV commentators was approaching fever pitch.
Foster continued, “During the campaign, a… er, photographer was travelling with our team, making a record for the archives. Her name was Niki Abbott and her award-winning work includes a photo-series for Newsweek on… on Ms Diaz’s own campaign during the primaries.”
Mallord shouted now, “If I have to call for order again…”
“Ms Abbott had become an associate of Ms Diaz, and we also now know that she was a, er, confidante of Ms Diaz’s husband here.” Foster gestured toward the pair on the rostrum as they exchanged a quick glance between themselves which, especially in close-up on TV, now seemed to be screaming with mutual guilt.
DAISY’S Bar was in uproar when Andy shouted, “Foster’s not gonna admit he had sexual relations with that Niki woman, is he?” He slapped Paul Dawkins on the back. Paul’s wife had sent him to sit with Andy at the bar to hose him down, to keep him quiet, but it clearly wasn’t working.
TWO hours earlier on Butaka, under a canopy of stars and the glow of candlelight on her beach hut’s veranda, Niki’s soft pallor lingered alongside Mario’s all-over bronze. Apart from his wavy black mane and the fine stroke of hair that tapered down from his navel, he was shaved smooth all over. She selected a few lonely strands to twirl and tweak just above his penis, enough to spring it back to life. She lay back on the day bed and looked up at the night sky, using her old Air Force survival skill training to estimate the time. Suddenly, she whispered in his ear, but it was hardly what he expected: “Get me new batteries for the radio.”
She was an unusual customer, he reflected with just a little arrogance; their activities throughout the time she’d been here had so far proved that to his, and thus her, satisfaction. “You want music?” he asked. “Mario will sing for you?” He leant back on his elbows and broke into a lightly accented “Moon River” scraping even more rasp over it than Ol’ Blue Eyes ever did.
“I want the news,” she said, and the back of her hand flicked at his prick, setting it bobbing like a metronome.
“S-sure,” he squealed, and jumped to his feet partly to mask the sting, and ran outside to his buggy.
Niki heard him start it up over the waves softly lapping the sand. She guessed he had to drive back to the main pavilion on the other side of the island to fetch the batteries. From the airstrip to her hut yesterday had taken them thirty minutes… but she had no idea how much further away the service pavilion was. She put her Ted Williams cap over her face and dozed off, smiling.
IF she’d heard the beat of the rotors, Niki’s educated ear for aircraft would have identified it as a twin-engine Apache attack helicopter, but the chopper stayed far enough aloft not to wake her. A commando wearing night goggles tossed the end of a thick cable out the jump door, and once it hit the beach near her hut, he slid down it and thudded his boots into the sand.
“Mmm. Mario?” she murmured. She got no answer and rolled over to look, her only covering, her baseball cap, falling onto the mattress. The young man who was hovering over her—he’d been careful not to cast any shadows over her face—confirmed the telltale rose tattoo specifically mentioned in his order, then snatched at her wrists, in one slick motion handcuffing them behind her.
“Who the fuck are y…?” she started, thrashing her legs and twisting violently.
“No, it’s who the fuck are you!” he replied as he clamped her ankles. “Niki Abbott… or Diana Hunter?”
Her eyes bore into him.