The Game

The Connecticut Committee met Thursday evening. They decided that immediate action was necessary. Barbara O'Reilly caught the next plane to Australia. A week later, she was still in Sydney, lunching al fresco at the Bondi Trattoria Café on Campbell Parade.

People moved along the sidewalk toward Bondi Beach or heading back downtown. Few took notice of the tall, well dressed brunette having a seafood salad in the open air. Barbara watched each pedestrian carefully, her sapphire eyes alert to every detail. Blending well, she was just another thirty something business woman having lunch.

Her waiter returned with Barb's check. She carefully laid out the exact change for the meal. Tipping is considered rude in Australia, and she didn't wish to stand out. Her watchful eyes soon saw what she was waiting for. The swarthy waiter standing by the cafe's side door nodded almost imperceptibly to an old woman shuffling along the opposite side of Campbell Parade. He dropped his cigarette, stepped on it, and quickly 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 casually stepped into the light flow of sidewalk traffic. Barb and the ancient woman were both heading downtown.

Barb strode gracefully along the street, keeping her subject in sight. The crone seemed unaware that she was being followed, but Barb knew better. Ten blocks and five direction changes later, Barb was standing in a dank alley, her back against the rear entry of a closed haberdashery. After moving ahead of her subject, she'd stopped in a public toilet and disposed of the chestnut wig and dark business suit she'd been wearing. Now, she was a tall statuesque redhead, wearing a white turtleneck, yellow vest, and designer blue jeans. Her right hand held a small silver revolver.

The target entered the alley from the street. Her now youthful pace quickly carried her to within a few feet of Barb. Suddenly the door of the abandoned store burst open, slamming Barb into the alley's opposite wall. She managed to stay on both feet. Instinctively, Barb raised the Colt and fired. The waiter froze in mid swing, the stiletto's long blade missing Barb by less than an inch. A dark hole appeared between his eyes, looking like a squinting third eye as he crumbled to the damp bricks. Barb's gloved left hand deftly retrieved the waiter's dagger. The young man disguised as an old woman had no time to change his course. The 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.

The untraceable Colt was placed in his lifeless hand. His plot would be exposed and his bombs destroyed during the investigation. Amin's jihad was over.

Jimmy Buffett music from her iPod filled Barb's ears as the 767 lifted into the warm Sydney night. "Next week," she thought. "Another game."