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of New South Wales about one hundred and fifty clicks north of Sydney.’
    ‘Noo-kassle,’ said Section Head Creelman. ‘Never heard of it.’
    ‘I know it,’ said Bousseal. ‘The Australian Air Force has got a base there at Williamtown.’
    ‘The final triangulation is coming through now, sir,’ said Agent Moharic. He tore off the second computer printout. ‘Sir. The source is a house in Fenton Avenue, Newcastle, in a suburb called Bar Beach. The source belongs to a Michael Andrew Vincent. He’s an electrician. It’s a basic PC working on Windows 94.’
    ‘I wonder how the sonofabitch breached Project Piggie?’ said Section Head Creelman.
    ‘I don’t know, and I don’t care,’ said Bousseal grimly. He turned to Agent Moharic. ‘But as soon as I clear it, you and two field agents are taking an agency jet to Williamtown this afternoon to nip this in the bud.’
    ‘Yes, sir. Where do I render Vincent to, sir? Egypt? Turjekistan? Guantanamo?’
    ‘Forget Extraordinary Rendition,’ said Bousseal. ‘I want him terminated.’
    ‘With extreme prejudice,’ added Creelman.
    ‘And anybody else at the source,’ said Secretary Bousseal.
    ‘What will I tell the Australians, sir?’ asked Agent Moharic.
    ‘Leave that to us,’ said Creelman. ‘If they should ask you anything, we’ll have a terminological inexactitude prepared.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘In the meantime,’ said Bousseal, ‘stay on this while I organise your away team.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    Clay E. Bousseal and Hoyle Creelman left Agent Moharic and returned to the Secretary’s private elevator. The door closed and Hoyle Creelman turned to his boss as the Secretary of the NSA pressed the button for his floor.
    ‘Clay,’ he said, ‘I don’t mean to sound ignorant. But what exactly is Project Piggie?’
    The NSA Secretary returned the Section Head’s stare. ‘No one knows for sure, Hoyle,’ he replied gravely. ‘The one thing we do know is, if it ever gets triggered, we can all kiss our asses goodbye.’

I t was eight o’clock when Mick woke up on Thursday morning to find Jesse gone. He used the bathroom, then got into a pair of Speedos and walked out to the kitchen to put the kettle on, when he was suddenly confronted by an excited squawking coming from the other side of the flyscreen door.
    ‘All right,’ said Mick. ‘Don’t shit yourselves.’
    Mick got a slice of fruit and muesli bread, crumbled it up in his hand and opened theflyscreen. He stepped out onto the sundeck and Ike landed on his hand while Tina waited by their dish.
    ‘Hello, Ike,’ Mick smiled. ‘How’s things, old mate?’
    Ike jumped off as Mick put the bread in the dish then both peewees gave him a mixed look and started eating. Mick left them to it and peered down at the two dead myna birds now covered in ants and flies. That’s what I must do, he thought. Get rid of our two friends and Whipper Snipper the backyard. However, one can’t go rushing into the day. There’ll be plenty of time for that next week. Mick went inside, put the radio and the kettle on and got a light breakfast together. As he absent-mindedly watched Ike and Tina through the kitchen window, Mick slowly ate his breakfast and mulled over last night’s visit from Jesse.
    The contents of the two briefcases were startling to say the least. And if he and Jesse had uncovered some diabolical weapon of mass destruction, they had to inform the government. But knowing the government and the military, they wouldn’t want anyone else knowing about it. Which could put their lives in jeopardy. On the other hand, they couldn’t just leave the thingsitting there if it could blow up half the world. As he methodically chewed on a piece of toast and jam, Mick realised he and Jesse had inadvertently found themselves in an unfortunate dilemma.
    Outside it was a beautiful day and the soft morning breeze was still blowing offshore. Mick finished breakfast, put on his blue cargoes and a T-shirt, then got his