She Walks the Line Read online

  Also by Ray Clift

  Fiction

  The Journey of Hamlyn Baylis Wells

  Always In Denial

  Smithy’s Cupboard

  Shaken & Stirred

  Shalom Samuel

  The Last Journey of Hamlin Baylis Wells

  Non-fiction

  Maybe Blue Ghosts

  It’s a Fine Line

  Ray Clift

  She Walks the Line

  Author’s note

  The characters in this story are fictitious. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. However, I have met many women who could fit the profile of Suzie Smith. This story is dedicated to all those women who helped shape my life.

  SHE WALKS THE LINE

  eISBN: 978-0-9925553-3-7

  This ebook edition published and distributed 2014 by

  DOCTORZED PUBLISHING

  10 Vista Ave, Skye SA 5072

  www.doctorzed.com

  Print edition first published 2011 by

  GINNINDERRA PRESS

  PO Box 3461 Port Adelaide SA 5015

  www.ginninderrapress.com.au

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and dialogues are creations of the author or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any individuals, alive or dead, is purely coincidental. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  Contents

  Prologue: Smithy, Arlington National Cemetery, USA, 2008

  1. 48 Hours Earlier

  2. Da Nang, Vietnam, February 1968

  4. USA, 2006

  5. Suzie, 2008

  6. Suzie, 2009

  7. Suzie, 2014

  8. Suzie, Australia

  9. Suzie, Melbourne

  10. Suzie, Canberra

  11. Suzie Perth

  12. Federal Prison, Washington DC, 2017

  13. 2018

  14. Suzie, 2024

  15. Washington DC, 2025

  Prologue

  Smithy

  Arlington National Cemetery, USA

  2008

  It’s two years since I was here, standing with Major General Lincoln at a funeral for another dead comrade. My trip had another agenda back then, which involved a killing, all in the name of justice and security for our two countries and the alliance, an alliance which allows us ‘dirty job people’ to carry out orders cloaked in the world of espionage.

  I’m no stranger to espionage, which began with my SAS service when I rubbed shoulders with the Green Berets in ’Nam and with the CIA. They were heady days.

  Somewhere along the way is a bullet, a knife, a crossbow with my name emblazoned on it. When life ends with a painful gasp, I’ll be free to face my god and listen to what he has to say about my life. I’m a confessional tragic – the priest’s ears must tingle when he hears what I have to say. My priest has provided a conduit to God and afterwards, when I walked away from the church, there was always Joan, my beloved. She understood much about my secret life, though it was not spoken about lest I put her, and the kids, in harm’s way. Is the universe paying me back for your tragic death, Joan?

  Here I am, still stuck, ready, willing and able to obey my orders, usually a phone call away. It’s a habit, because I put the phone down and feel the excitement stirring in my solar plexus and rush in for a shave, carefully avoiding the deep scar which divides my face and seems to get deeper and negotiating the lumps and bumps left after many skin cancer operations.

  The phone calls at all hours remind me to stay in shape. As I get older, it’s a lot harder. No weights, no personal trainers (who wouldn’t know a bee from bull’s foot when it comes to killing an enemy of the state), only martial arts, swimming and running to keep my sixty-two-year-old body in shape.

  Major General Lincoln walked away after the usual flag ceremony and presentation to the next of kin. It’s time for me to distance myself from people saying, ‘Sorry for your loss.’

  I knew him well. He was riddled with the big C and told me he wanted to end it all. ‘Smithy, can you get me some tablets? This is bullshit.’

  I would have if I could, but gaol is not somewhere I want to visit again. Powerful forces have worked on my behalf and still do. Yet it comes with a price: it’s a pact with the devil, of that I’m sure.

  I sit on a seat under the shade of a big sycamore and watch the mourners disperse. I bring out the bulky envelope which holds all of Suzie’s postcards since she went to the USA with her country and western group and became a star, and I rummage through them once again. I smile at the memory of when she started as a kid and could impersonate Johnny Cash and June Carter to a tee. I remember how good she was at martial arts – and still is, I imagine, from the belts she has accumulated. With them come the scars, some broken ribs and lots of anti-inflamms to ease the pain. It’s not all beer and skittles.

  At least she doesn’t know about her dad’s life and his sniper stuff. Not like Shane her brother, who has got the message, and why wouldn’t he, being a Victoria police drug squad detective with snitches who are paid for good info about drug dealers. I fear for him at times, because it’s so easy to come unstuck with desperate liars willing to sink a copper and look formidable in the eyes of other dealers.

  I flick through the twelve postcards which had been sent each month. My eyes light on Suzie’s group in the photo, standing under the Bay City Bridge. She gets around; now in Frisco with its lovely old trams hurtling down the many hills.

  I look up again and see a shiny black Cadillac, US flags flapping in the wind on the bonnet, parked on top of a hill. Funny. Why there? Why isn’t it down here with the rest of the folk?

  I figure it’s the president, who maybe would not wish to be seen shaking hands with all the men in black. The presence of those who do the dirty work is always a reminder for him of what they do and thanks to the media he’s already in the shit with lots of voters for not getting out of Afghanistan.

  There’s another photo which intrigues me. On the edge is a man in black with short, straight brown hair He reminds me of Gibbs from NCIS. Late fifties but looks in good shape. He has the persona of a US marine. I study it with my heavy-duty glass and pick up a US flag badge on his left lapel and then see a USMC ring on his left index. I wonder why a US marine stands with her group. Not exactly what a muso would wear. By now my thoughts tumble over like a cardboard box being blown about in the wind.

  A stabilising thought comes into my muddled mind. Suzie loved military men. There were always some of them in our house. Maybe it’s just a uniform fixation. Certainly her brother Shane had one from an early age. I had one too, from my dad the great army engineer, as did Adam, my older brother, who went into the navy. He went to ’Nam and ended up marrying a Vietnamese woman.

  The black limo drives down to the path. The windows are tinted but I’m able to spot a female form just before she ducks down out of sight. Maybe mid-thirties, a trace of long red-brown hair.

  The penny drops as the limo flashes by. It was my Suzie. My god, I whisper, ‘She’s in the US secret service protecting the president. But how? Why?’ Thoughts about her impersonations of Johnny and June mingle with concerns about the danger she’s in.

  I shake my head and speak out loud. ‘Danger, danger, Suzie, in walking that line. Bloody hell, what have I done, willy nilly bl
undering along mixed up in a different world, separated from my family? And now she’s in it. Talk about the sins of the father being visiting on the children. But I can’t make enquiries; even that would put her at risk.

  *

  I couldn’t sleep for two nights. I made a phone call. ‘Jack, it’s Smithy, mate.’

  The soft southern drawl came through. ‘Two years now, isn’t it? What’s on your mind, Dave?

  I was aware the phone would be bugged, as had been customary for some time in the CIA. ‘How’s your golf? Can we play soon?’

  ‘Sure. Tomorrow, 0700. I’ll pick you up.’

  I slept a bit easier that night.

  Brigadier General Jack Curtis pushed me into his car at 0700 hours. I was surprised that it was his own car.

  ‘Spooks listening everywhere, Dave. Can’t take a chance.’ And he added, ‘Must have tipped a bucket on someone once.’

  We were soon on the nearby golf course engaged in small talk.

  Jack opened up after the third hole when there was no one about. ‘This about Suzie, Dave?’

  I nodded. ‘Bloody hell, what’s going on?’

  There was a short pause while Jack lined up the ball. He bent down stiffly. ‘Secret stuff, mate.’

  I drove the ball and we walked for a little. ‘How was the job wangled, Jack?’ I gave him time to think about an answer.

  ‘She saved the president’s life from a crazy drugged-up dude. He had an AK-47. She was near the White House gates and jumped him. She took him to the ground and wrapped him up just as the chief’s car idled out.’

  Unable to speak, I stood there with my mouth open like a gummy shark. But a short burst of pride came to me, coupled with a recognition of the danger of it all. It sounded like a Clint Eastwood movie.

  ‘Bloody hell, Jack, so the chief gave her a job right there and then?’

  Again a pause, which was a big part of Jack’s style. ‘And a bronze medal. She’s a brave lady. Just like her dad. You should be proud of her.’

  I thought, Jeez, a bronze medal – the third in the US pecking order of medals, but my lips didn’t move. I enquired about her band.

  ‘It’s an excellent cover when she’s on tour. Look, she’s been trained in how to collect data. Lots of right-wing cranks out in the mid-west. Many of them crazy and many of them in way-out cults. Hunted down at times by the FBI. All want to kill the chief.’

  We walked on.

  ‘She isn’t in much danger. Big Martin’s an undercover agent and goes with the band when they’re on tours. The info they gather goes straight back to the spooks, who sift through it. She breezed through the course, you know. Yeah, and you’re thinking about the band and wondering what they know?’ Once again the inevitable pause came. ‘She’s employed as a staffer and when not on tour the band gets compensated for her absence. So howzat, as you guys say in cricket?’

  ‘The guy in black – Martin? Senior agent, I suppose?’

  Jack walked on then knelt down slowly again. ‘Yep, ex-marine twenty years, sergeant major just like you. Served at Da Nang in ’68. He was wounded. Got the Silver Star. Plays a great harmonica. He’s a good old boy from Arkansas and, guess what, grew up near where the great Cash was born. I gave Suzie a sparkling report and I added stuff about you too. Anything else, mate, worrying you?’

  ‘Thanks, Jack. Maybe one day she’ll tell me.’

  ‘I guess so, Dave, but for the time mum’s the word, okay?’

  I got the drift. Jack’s conversation was never overly long, which is why we get on so well.

  1

  48 Hours Earlier

  The limousine picked up speed and flashed past the rangy ginger-haired man sitting in the shade of the giant tree. His khaki beret was worn at a jaunty angle with an Australian Army rising sun badge stuck on the side which sent a signal to those in the know: he was an SAS soldier.

  Suzie Smith crouched down on the left side.

  Martin MacRae the former marine watched his companion’s discomfort. He broke the silence with a whisper, delivered in his soft Arkansas drawl. ‘I know. I know, mate. That’s your dad.’

  Her hair was much shorter since her thirty-fourth birthday, as if to celebrate her five years with the service. She folded her long manicured fingers, calloused after years of guitar playing

  The occupants were lost in other thoughts as they approached the gates of the White House.

  ‘How many secrets have those walls seen?’ Martin mused. Among them was the secret of their two-year relationship.

  Suzie thought often of the drama five years ago when she was a tourist taking photos of the big house. Her martial arts session had concluded and she was walking back to her digs nearby wearing her favourite blue track suit and Puma training shoes. On that hot August night with the stars shimmering a morse code to all who looked upwards, all her martial arts practice was put to good use, providing her with a life-changing moment. It was a time when her band was doing gigs in Washington DC; it was a very small window of time, the kind of synchronicity Carl Jung wrote about. It was a time when she flung herself through the air and knocked sprawling the insane man who rushed towards the gates with an AK-47. She side-stepped his path and tripped him at the same time and then wrapped him up in a painful twisting of arms, held tight with nowhere to go, until the guards rushed out, along with the president, who jumped out of his bullet-proof limo.

  A job offer followed. The band was a concern to her, though. It was her baby and the crew needed her loyalty. ‘We’ll sort something out to accommodate everyone,’ the men told her. The president made similar remarks to her and said someone would get back within twenty-four hours. Which they did. Two men in black appeared on the doorstep of the flat she shared with her friend Joan, an older wiser woman who owned other flats throughout the USA; her money management was legendary.

  The agents had a solution. The group would be a perfect cover in its travels around the country. She would be trained how to gather information, which might be useful at some future point in time. The group would be compensated for the times when she was in training; they would be told she was a part-time staffer. It appeared to be a very good offer. She was given a number to ring back as soon as she could. Which she did.

  ‘Agent Martin MacRae speaking. Have you made a decision?’ His Arkansas accent was prominent.

  ‘Yes, I am interested. Can you tell me more, though?’

  He was brief. A car would arrive shortly to convey her to the White House.

  She put down the phone and felt the rumbling tummy which told her when an important time in her life was on the horizon. On the short journey, she thought about her father and wondered if he had just stumbled into his CIA involvement through something very simple. She knew he had started out as a sniper with the SAS because she snuck into the bedroom one day when her parents were out and spied a commendation letter signed by a major general at the head of the CIA.

  The driver knocked on the door with the engraved sign which said ‘Senior Agent Martin MacRae’.

  ‘Enter,’ came the voice from within. A tall man with rangy build, just like her dad but with much shorter close-cropped brownish hair, stood and offered her a chair.

  She saw photos of the man in a marine sergeant major’s dress uniform with yellow stripes everywhere and bags of ribbons.

  ‘Look, Suzie, the job is virtually yours if you accede to what I’m going to tell you, though I have to fill in some spaces.’

  She saw the big file marked ‘Top Secret’ which he brushed with his strong brown fingers carrying a marine ring.

  ‘Naturally, we’ve made some checks and you come up pretty good. Are you aware that your father is one of ours? He’s served Australia and this country in many joint operations.’

  ‘I know but he doesn’t know I know.’

  Martin studied the five foot eleven-inch girl with the build of a netballer, fresh clean lines and a great posture. Hands not busy, just like her steady eyes, unblinking and searching his face
. They were in the kind of no-blinking contest that he usually won but this recruit was different: she was not going to surrender her gaze and within seconds he was forced to look at the file.

  ‘Have you heard of Brigadier General Jack Curtis?’

  ‘Yep, but he was a major when he came to our house once. Looks like Gibbs from NCIS.’

  Martin smiled in agreement and wondered whether Jack Curtis belted the marines on the back of the head just like Gibbs did. Obviously she knew military ranks. He handed her a page signed by the general. She read it and gasped at the honours her dad had received in the USA.

  He concluded by giving her a big tick in the box. But the thought came into her mind, ‘Am I being embroiled into all this secret stuff and what if I want to get out? How dangerous is it going to be?’

  Martin, as if on cue, intruded on her rambling thoughts. He shifted in his big chair and lowered his voice when he spoke. ‘Look, we’re not asking you to go out and kill people.’

  ‘Is that what Dad did?’ And when Martin’s face took on a serious look she instantly knew she had lurched into a minefield. A sudden change. No more Mr Nice Guy

  ‘That’s classified. So what about the job? Are you interested?’ The words had a curt sharpness as a result of her nosey question.

  She nodded, having thought it out the night before.

  ‘Very good, Suzie.’ Martin leaned back with a relaxed posture. The nice guy had returned. ‘I’m a fan of you and your great group.’

  She raised her right eyebrow and waited for more from him.

  ‘My accent ought to help. I was born near Kingsland, where Johnny Cash lived. My mother Bea went to his church. She was born in 1925. Ben my dad was born there in 1923.’

  ‘Do you play an instrument?’ She knew this was the killer question which could stuff any operation.

  ‘The harmonica. Quite well, I’ve been told.’ Martin waited for a follow-up.