Grk Undercover (25 page)

Red Jelly laughed too. He was enjoying himself. He threw another hazelnut to the dog, followed by a few more.

Grk jumped into the air again and again, grabbing each hazelnut and gulping it down.

Someone clapped. Then others joined in. And soon a vast wave of applause spread through the auditorium. Three thousand people cheered and whistled and stamped their feet, applauding the antics of a fat man and a little white dog.

Suddenly there was a loud BANG!

And the clapping stopped.

Red Jelly pointed the pistol at the roof. He had fired once, but there was no need to fire again. The audience was quiet. Everyone was looking at him, waiting to hear what he said next.

Grk was looking at him too, hoping for another chocolate-coated hazelnut. He had eaten the whole packet, but he still had room in his stomach for more.

“Thank you,” said Red Jelly. He had clipped his microphone back on. Now his deep voice boomed from every loudspeaker in the auditorium. “This is a very special evening, my friends. You’ve been raising money for some wonderful charities and you’ve had lots of fun. Now it’s time to get serious.”

He stood there for a moment, looking at the enormous audience, the crowd of rich and successful people, the highest of Australia’s high society. They lived in big houses protected by tall walls and strong gates. You wouldn’t usually see them walking down the street or buying their food in a supermarket.
They were too rich and too busy and too important to worry themselves with such stuff.

Well, today was different.

Today, Red Jelly didn’t have to switch on the TV and listen to them talking about the economy or the crime rate or global warming. Today, they had to listen to him.

“As you must have guessed, this is a robbery,” said Red Jelly. “My men are now going to hand out some bags. Please put your valuables inside. We’d like your jewelry, please, your purses and wallets too. Your phones, your pens and pencils, your tie clips and cuff links. Take them off and put them in the bag. Do you understand?”

He looked at the audience for a moment. No one spoke. No one even nodded or shook their heads. But they all understood what he had said.

“Here’s a piece of advice,” said Red Jelly. “Whatever you do, don’t try to cheat me. I want
everything
, please. Your cash and your credit cards, your diamond chokers and your pearl
earrings—I want them all. For your own safety, don’t hide anything. We’re going to search you later. If we discover that you’ve been hiding anything from us, you know what we’ll do?”

Rather than answering, he lifted his pistol and pointed it into the audience.

“That’s right,” he said. “We’ll blow your brains out.”

Red Jelly had twenty men positioned around the auditorium. They were dressed in black uniforms and armed with guns and grenades. Each of them looked like an efficient and highly trained soldier.

Now they reached into their backpacks and pulled out black bags. They walked down the aisles and handed the bags to the people sitting at the ends of the rows. Each person, they explained, should fill the bag with his or her valuables, then pass it on. The full bags would be collected at the opposite end of the row.

There were three thousand men and women in the audience. If they had worked together, they could have overcome Red Jelly and his men. Some of them would have been shot, of course. And there was always the risk of being blown up. But if they had charged forward together, they could have beaten their common enemy.

But they didn’t charge because they didn’t want to get shot or blown up. Instead, some of them took the bags that had been given out. Others wept or closed their eyes. The rest of them sat in silence and waited to hear what Red Jelly was going to say next.

But Red Jelly didn’t speak.

He just knelt down and tickled Grk’s ears.

Grk rolled over onto his belly and waggled his tail. Then he rolled back and begged.

“Sorry,” said Red Jelly. “You’ve finished the lot.”

You’re probably shocked that Grk was taking treats from an evil criminal.

Well, it is shocking.

But he was very hungry.

And he had another excuse too.

He didn’t know that Red Jelly was evil.

Grk is only a dog, you see. And dogs don’t know the difference between right and wrong. As far as Grk was concerned, his belly was empty. Nothing else mattered to him. He just wanted something to eat.

If Red Jelly had threatened Grk’s family or friends, of course he would have felt very differently. If Tim or Natascha or Max had been in the audience, he wouldn’t have rolled on his belly or begged for a chocolate-coated hazelnut. If Red Jelly had shot at Tim’s head or threatened to hurt Natascha or Max, then Grk would have been the first to bury his teeth in Red Jelly’s ankles. He was ready and willing to give up his own life for those he loved. But he didn’t know any of the people in the
Opera House, just as he didn’t know Red Jelly. He didn’t know which of them was good and which was bad, and he didn’t understand that anyone was under threat. He just knew that he was hungry. And so he begged and simpered and rolled on the floor, wagging his tail and hoping to be given another treat.

Red Jelly tickled Grk’s ears one last time, then stood up and stared at the audience.

He could see a wealthy couple sitting not far from the stage. A bald old man with a red nose and big ears was reluctantly picking through the contents of his jacket, looking at his plump leather wallet, his gold-plated pen and his platinum cuff links, knowing that he would never see them again.

Beside him, a gray-haired old woman in a velvet frock was unclipping a pearl choker from her skinny neck and slipping a pair of gold bands from her wrinkled wrists.

All around the auditorium, the same scenes were being repeated. Elegant women were unpicking their earrings and
necklaces, their brooches and their bracelets. Sleek men were reaching into their pockets. The black bags were getting fuller and fuller.

Red Jelly smiled. He liked what he was seeing. Every minute, he was getting richer.

But now he had to escape.

He opened his mouth and spoke into his microphone. “Hello, my friends. Could I have your attention for a moment, please?”

His voice boomed throughout the auditorium, amplified by speakers in every corner of the room.

“I’d like to invite four very important people to join me on the stage. The mayor of Sydney, Mr. Jimmy Hu. The chief executive of the Bank of Australia, Mrs. Rebecca Ward. The managing director of the Corrigan Media Group, Mr. Robert Corrigan. And, last but certainly not least, the chairman of the Anglo-Australian Committee for International Business
Cooperation, Sir Tristram Tinderbiscuit. Could all four of you come up here, please?”

Five minutes later, three men and a woman were standing on the stage, staring nervously at Red Jelly, wondering why he had called out their names.

Red Jelly stared back at his four hostages: the banker, the media mogul, the mayor of Sydney and the diplomat. All of them were sleek, smart and very well dressed. They had expensive clothes and expensive shoes and expensive haircuts and expensive smiles. They were the type of people who were used to getting their own way.

Not tonight.

Unclipping his microphone, Red Jelly leaned forward and spoke in a low voice that could only be heard by his four hostages.

“Good evening,” he said. “Do you know who I am?”

The three Australians nodded. They knew all about Red Jelly. In fact, they had recognized him already.

Sir Tristram Tinderbiscuit shook his head. “Sorry, old chap. Not a clue. Must have missed the briefing.”

“Let me tell you about myself, Sir Tristram. My name is Red Jelly, and I’m an ordinary bloke who wants to earn a few dollars so he can buy a beer or two and have some fun with his mates. That’s what I’m doing tonight. And you’re going to help me.”

“Help you?” Sir Tristram blinked. He wasn’t quite sure that he had heard correctly. He’d only been in Australia for a few weeks, and he still wasn’t used to the local accent. “How do you expect
me
to help
you
?”

“It’s very simple, Sir Tristram. You’re my ticket out of here.”

Sirens filled the air. Police came from all directions. Cars screeched to a halt. Vans disgorged men and women with rifles and pistols and bulletproof jackets.

For years, the New South Wales Police Force had been training for an event like this. For years they had been imagining how to prevent a major terrorist incident. They had practiced how to deal with a hijacked airplane at the airport or a ferry packed with hostages adrift in the bay. Once or twice, they had even rehearsed what they would do if someone put a bomb inside the Opera House.

Now their moment had arrived. Their opponent had finally announced himself. He had made his move. And they were ready for him. As soon as the order went out, the officers had grabbed their guns and their jackets and jumped into their vans.

Now they were here. The Opera House was surrounded. The roads were blocked. The air was guarded. The sea too.

No one could come in or go out.

Marksmen took up their positions and peered through their telescopic sights, searching for a target. Helicopters hovered overhead. Boats bobbed in the harbor with officers lining the sides, holding guns and binoculars, and waiting for instructions.

Chief Inspector Sam Somerville was in charge of the operation. He knew what he had to do. He had practiced many times, preparing himself and his force for a situation like this. He ordered his men and women into position. He also sent an urgent recall to all off-duty officers, summoning them back to work—Australia needed them. Sydney needed them. And, most of all, three thousand people trapped inside the Opera House needed them.

A phone rang. A junior officer picked it up. He listened for a moment, then looked at his boss. “Chief Inspector? It’s the call.”

“Thank you,” said Chief Inspector Somerville. “I’ll take it on this phone.”

Since the beginning of the siege, Chief Inspector Somerville had been waiting for “the call.” Now he picked up the phone. He took a deep breath. Then he said: “This is Chief Inspector Sam Somerville. Who am I speaking to?”

“Oh, come on, Sam,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “Why don’t you just say hello? We’re old mates, aren’t we?”

“No, we’re not,” said Chief Inspector Somerville. “If we’re anything, we’re old enemies.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Red Jelly. “If you were really my mate, you wouldn’t keep putting me in prison.”

“And if you were my mate, you wouldn’t keep escaping.”

“It’s the food,” said Red Jelly. “I have to tell you, mate, the food in Australian prisons is just terrible. Make the food a bit better and maybe I won’t have to keep escaping.”

“Thanks for that piece of advice,” said the chief inspector. “Now, what are you doing in the Opera House? Why have you taken all these hostages? Why don’t you just let them go?”

“I will,” said Red Jelly. “As soon as you give me four choppers.”

“Four? Why do you need four?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute, mate,” said Red Jelly. “Now, let me tell you about these choppers. I want each of them to be loaded with enough fuel to fly six hundred kilometers. I want them to be delivered to the Opera House at eight o’clock in the morning. I want me and my team to be allowed to get aboard them. And then I want to fly away without any interference from the army, the police or anyone else. And, most importantly, I don’t want you to put any trackers or bugs on these choppers. Because if you do, there’ll be trouble. Did you get all that?”

“You’re making a big mistake,” said Chief Inspector Somerville. “Why don’t you just let the hostages go and surrender yourself right now?”

Red Jelly just laughed. “You think I want to go back to prison?”

“You’re going back to prison whether you like it or not,” said Chief Inspector Somerville.

“That’s what you think,” said Red Jelly. “Now, listen to this. I’m going to give myself a little insurance policy, all right? I’m going to keep four of the hostages. When I leave in the helicopters, I’ll take them with me. Just to make sure that you don’t break your promises. When I’m satisfied you haven’t followed me, I’ll let them go. You know what will happen to them if you do follow me?”

“You’d better not hurt them,” said the chief inspector.

“Then you’d better not follow me. Now, Sam, I want you to make me a promise. You’ll get me these choppers, won’t you?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“And you won’t mess me around, will you?”

“Of course not.”

“No trackers? No tricks? No funny games?”

“There’ll be no trackers, no tricks and no funny games, I can promise you that.”

“Thanks, mate.”

“Stop calling me mate.”

“Sorry, mate. I’ll call again in an hour or two, see how you’re getting on. Good night, Sam.”

The line went dead.

Chief Inspector Somerville took another deep breath. Then he put down the phone and wondered what he was going to do.

At the end of the day, Tim was escorted to the school gates by a teacher, who waited with him until he had been delivered into his mother’s hands.

The headmaster wasn’t taking any chances. He had instructed all his staff to keep a good eye on Tim. He didn’t want one of his pupils to go missing. The school’s reputation might never recover.

Mrs. Malt was very relieved to see her son. She had half expected to be greeted by a tearful teacher telling her that Tim had disappeared.

As they walked to the car, Mrs. Malt said, “How was school?”

“A complete waste of time,” said Tim.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Malt. “Why?”

“Because I had to sit in a stupid class and do stupid lessons with my stupid teachers when I should have been looking for Grk. Has anything happened? Has anyone found him yet?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Mrs. Malt. “I spoke to Mr. Cuddle about an hour ago. They’re still looking. They’re very confident they’ll find him soon.”