Any Means Necessary. Shane Britten

I was satisfied with five separate planned routes and enough additional features that I could create a counter-surveillance route on the fly if need be, I moved towards the venue. It was in a fairly quiet street away from the centre of the CBD, with cafes and restaurants at one end, a few multi-storey parking structures opposite the hotel itself, and a stretch with office space running down towards the Brisbane River.

      I spent some time over the next day with my laptop at a small café called Cheddar that offered an uninterrupted view of the Four Points Hotel from a safe distance. Most laptops had a small webcam above the monitor and mine was no different, though it was covered with a security tab. Mine was also equipped with a disguised camera on the lid of the laptop, facing the same way I was. The clever technical addition meant that as I worked, it captured a live stream of the hotel driveway.

      While I was busy with more research on the group that I would be attempting to join, that hidden camera was surveilling my ultimate destination. The camera was high resolution and equipped with video analytics software that automatically grabbed faces and vehicle number plates, sending them back to Philip and Jack for matching.

      The waitress brought my first long black of the day and I took a quick sip, determined to make the most of the time before the conference. I needed to better understand WOLF and its motivations, so I started trawling through the internet and a short list of bookmarks Jack had sent me.

      Their missive was far from simple. While the group’s underlying message seemed to be anti-globalisation, there appeared to be nationalistic ideals mixed into an odd hybrid with closed-border advocacy that hinted at the use of violent tactics.

      There were glossy pictures on a fairly standard webpage of people sitting in groups, laughing and talking. A lot of the publicity was about the group’s leader, Eran Tuso. A self-styled prophet of the new world, Tuso seemed like a typically charismatic figure, linked to a range of legitimate charities and issues over his 50-odd years of life. His credentials and background were vague and appeared to me to be largely smoke and mirrors. Naturally, I disliked him immensely. I wondered whether it was the charities that linked the unlikely pair of Tuso and Edward.

      I glanced at the ‘What to expect’ section of the conference information pack. Enlightenment seemed to be the overwhelming achievement. Just what I’d always wanted. I was a little concerned about the potential that this was wasting a lot of time. I had no confirmation that this was actually the group I wanted or that the rebellious lovers would be anywhere near the session. I swallowed my frustration at the assignment, unable to completely dismiss the annoyance at what I saw to be involvement to avoid political embarrassment. If this didn’t work, I had a fall-back plan that was far more tactically focused. There would be an electronic trace of Edward or Jessica somewhere, from a phone, a credit card, a vehicle’s GPS, something. Blanket investigative coverage of every known vector associated with them was bound to find something. Truly going ‘off the grid’ was a near impossibility in the modern age.

      So far, my plan of attack was simple. Attend the conference, see what I could find out about WOLF and, if luck reigned supreme, Edward and Jessica might even be in attendance. Slim chance, I knew.

      It was remembering Philip’s last words that gave me pause. Any means necessary was our typical rule of engagement, or ROE. But bringing two young adults away from a group that might embarrass their fathers hardly seemed to warrant the use of violence. There was something darker, more sinister about the entire ordeal, and I hated not knowing what that was. It was an itch at the back of my neck that no amount of scratching would remove. I wondered whether Philip knew more about the reasoning behind the assignment than he’d shared.

      A few coffees and a light lunch later, and it was time to move on. In truth, I could have stayed longer as I drew very little attention and people avoided the quiet figure with a laptop who was content to order the occasional coffee and some food. But too long on-target before tomorrow and I ran the risk of my presence being seen for what it was by someone who would know.

      The conference was due to commence at 0900hrs tomorrow, so I still had some time to work out my story. Cover was fine. I could wear and shed identities with ease after years of covert work. What I wanted to be confident with was a reason, a cause. Something that had driven me into the arms of Tuso and his merry followers. In the intelligence world this was called a pretext – something that initially seemed easy enough but was one of the most difficult skills to master and one that saw more covert operations ruined than any other factor.

      A pretext was the story for why you were there. Poor practitioners had stories that were too basic or too complex, or divulged their entire, beautifully crafted story in one long narrative that sounded unnatural and created. A talented practitioner followed the ‘onion’ model of delivery, providing fewer personal details initially, followed by increasingly private or detailed elements of the story when requested or probed by the target. It wouldn’t do to blurt out my entire pretext up front, or they’d know I was lying. But if I could craft a story that was believable and delivered it selectively, I might be able to win enough trust to try to locate the targets. Having gone through my return counter-surveillance route to the Treasury Casino and detecting nothing, I was still preoccupied with my reason when the elevator doors opened on the sixth level of the hotel, my floor. My instinct immediately kicked in and adrenaline started pumping.

      Two men in suits were at my door.

      They were mid-conversation. To my mind, they had knocked and had no answer and were debating what was next. I took a few steps closer, leaving the elevator and moving within four doors of them. One of the pair had an object mostly obscured in his hand. If it was a gun, I wanted to be closer. Distance meant a lot of time for the person with the weapon to keep trying, including reloading as required, and even a poor marksman could hit someone if they had enough shots. Proximity meant evasion, angles, a chance to grapple and re-direct. It took confidence though, to approach someone with a firearm. Or stupidity. I wasn’t sure which was dominant in me.

      A few more steps and I was within three yards. Only then did they notice or sense my presence. I could see now that it was a room key card the taller, older one held. The survival part of my brain relaxed but the analytical part went into overdrive. Law enforcement was the most logical answer, as they could get a key to my room from the hotel front desk with little worry. Warrants were a strict requirement but the reality of the modern world was that most hotels would offer assistance first and worry about legality second. After all, who wanted to be the hotel keeper who harboured a fugitive or dangerous criminal?

      But neither of the individuals wore the Kevlar-strengthened belt of most plain -clothes cops, an important ingredient for carrying a weapon, radio and other standard issue equipment. They also didn’t have the stiff, upright demeanour of cops. And one of them was young, lucky to be much past 22 or 23 to my eye. His aggressive stance and failure to assess my close proximity as a threat stank of arrogance or ignorance and that meant one conclusion – ASIO. As I thought about the head of security at the hotel, it was the only conclusion that made enough sense. Even an experienced former military head of security would acquiesce to ASIO’s demands and be too concerned about electronic monitoring to give me a heads up on their presence.

      But in the broader scheme of the situation, it made no sense. Why would the spy agency be here? It was terrible for my cover. Surely James would have shut down any further investigation into the matter, with my involvement.

      ‘Valentine Tyler?’ the kid asked with a note of superiority to which he had no right.

      I suppressed the urge to grimace at the use of my full name. It would be hard to find it on a document now, having done my best to erase my birthright. Before she died, my mother would say with her usual fondness for oversharing that I was conceived on Valentine’s Day and it was therefore her favourite day of the year. It was only fitting that she named me after it. Valentine became Valen pretty quickly after she shared that story in my mid-teens. She had encouraged me to shorten it to Val if I was going to at all, but I was concerned it would make me sound like an older woman from an American sitcom.

      In the hallway of the hotel, I remained silent, just over a yard and a half away now, breathing calmly and muscles relaxed. They were in a terrible tactical position, the kid half a step in front