The
Connecticut Committee met every Thursday evening. One particular evening in late October, they
decided that immediate action was necessary half-way around the world. Committee member Barbara O'Reilly left the meeting and caught
the next available plane from New York's Kennedy International Airport. Her
destination was Australia.
One week
later, after five days in Sydney, she was lunching al fresco at the
Bondi Trattoria Café on Campbell Parade.
People moved
along the sidewalk either toward Bondi Beach, or the opposite
direction toward downtown Sydney. Few took notice of the pretty,
tall, well dressed brunette having a seafood salad in the open air.
Barbara eyed each pedestrian carefully, her sapphire eyes noting
every detail. Blending well into the busy scene, she was just another
thirty something business woman having a leisurely lunch.
When the
waiter returned with Barb's check, she carefully laid out the exact
amount of the meal. Tipping is considered rude in Australia, and she
didn't wish to stand out. She soon spotted what she was waiting for.
The swarthy waiter standing by the cafe's side door nodded almost
imperceptibly to an elderly woman that was shuffling along the
opposite side of Campbell Parade. With no change in his facial
expression he dropped his cigarette, stepped on it, and slipped
inside the cafe.
Barbara took
one last swallow of Perrier and stood. She slowly arranged some items
in her purse, smoothed her skirt, pushed her chair in, and stepped
into the light flow of pedestrian traffic. She and the ancient woman
were both heading downtown.
Barb strode
briskly along the street, keeping the old lady in sight. The crone
seemed unaware of being followed, but Barb knew better. Ten blocks
and five direction changes later, Barb was standing in a dark alley,
her back against the rear door of a closed haberdashery.
After moving
ahead of her subject, she'd stopped at a public toilet and disposed
of the chestnut wig and dark business suit she'd been wearing. Now,
she was a tall, striking redhead, wearing a white turtleneck, yellow
vest, and designer blue jeans. She held a small silver colored
revolver in her right hand.
Barbara's
target entered the alley from the street. Her suddenly youthful step
belied her age, and her pace quickly carried her to within a few feet
of the waiting redhead. Suddenly the door of the abandoned men's
store burst open. Barb was slammed into the wall on the opposite side
of the narrow alley. As she crashed into the wall she recognized her
attacker. It was the waiter who'd served her lunch.
Barbara
reflexively raised the Colt and fired. The knife in the menacing
waiter's hand froze in mid-air. The stiletto's razor-sharp blade had
missed Barb's throat by less than an inch.
A small dark
hole appeared between the waiter's eyes. The wound looked like a
tiny third eye, as the man crumbled and fell to the damp bricks. Barb
quickly retrieved the dagger with a gloved left hand.
The young man
disguised as an old woman, had by then come face to face with Barbara
and the waiter. He had no time to retreat. The long thin blade
slipped silently between his ribs and through his heart. His last few
seconds were wasted trying to understand his fate. "Allah
Akbar," he whispered, and his eyes lost their light.
The
untraceable Colt was placed in his lifeless hand. The knife remained in his chest. His plot would be
exposed by Sydney police, and his homemade bombs would be found and
destroyed during the investigation. The Holy War had come to an end
for the young Jihadist named Amin.
Tropical
music from her iPad filled Barb's ears as the Boeing 767 lifted into
the warm Sydney night.
Next week,
she thought as she closed her eyes. Next week, perhaps there will be another game.
The Game
By Don Winfield
