The King Koala

The Koala was set to attend a conference at Sydney’s Grand Harbour Hotel, staying overnight for events the next day. A perfect window. My intel, meticulously gathered, gave me the edge. I knew how to vanish into shadows, how to craft a device that’d strike without warning. No one would ever be able to trace it to me and so I’d get away scot free.

The Koala would vanish in a flash, and I’d be the phantom who lit the fuse.

– – –

The Grand Harbour buzzed with energy when I arrived out front. Lobby banners trumpeted the conference, and suits swarmed, their chatter a low drone. Security was tight but I was able to check in with ease. Looked the part I guess: impeccable suit, impeccable credentials. My cover was so good it would have fooled those yankee Secret Service lads.

(Maybe the King Cobra over in Washington should’ve been the target?)

I carried the device’s components in a discreet briefcase, waiting for the right moment to assemble them. The device was small, no larger than a wallet, packed with enough C4 to shred a room. It would go in the bastard’s bedside lamp. He’d turn it on for a late night read and, boom, smoke, fur and that big fat ego of his wallpapering the suite.

Precise, lethal, flawless.

My suite screamed luxury—plush carpets, a minibar of overpriced whiskey, and a view of the harbour glinting in the sun. I’d assemble the explosives in due course but I wanted to lap up the comforts for a while and gee myself up for the task. As I sat in an armchair, I went over the plan in my mind. Getting a schematic of this place was easy, if one had the right contacts. As I did. There were all kinds of ways to pull this off – the man-sized air conditioning shafts to every room practically invited someone to do this sort of thing.

This wasn’t just a favour to the nation: it was a public service, a civic duty. Heck, I felt I’d been born just for this assignment.

– – –

The next morning, I sat on the bed, bomb parts spread around me—wires, C4, the detonator. My hands moved effortlessly, piecing it together. Then, a sharp knock at the door. “Security,” a voice called, firm and official.

My heart lurched. I froze, the half-assembled device glaringly exposed. Another knock. Panic clawed, but I forced it down. Thinking fast, I yanked back the bedcovers, tossed the pillows into disarray, and swept the bomb parts under the sheet. I ran a hand through my hair, mussing it, and opened the door a crack.

A security guard stood there, his uniform crisp, eyes scanning. “Sorry to bother you, sir,” he said. “We’re doing standard checks of the building, extra sweeps on all the levels near the Prime Minister’s floor.”

I forced a smile. “Yes, of course. Important conference and all that.”

“Exactly, sir.” His gaze flicked past me, landing on the dishevelled bed. “Is everything okay?”

I was making it up on the fly, unsure if it’d be enough. “Yes, rough night,” I said, shrugging.

“I see, sir,” he replied, seeming satisfied, though it was hard to tell. I held my breath, praying he wouldn’t push. “Well, I’ll leave you to it then, sir. Have to continue our security sweep.”

He nodded and moved on. I closed the door, my pulse hammering. Too close. Hopefully, all would be well. I finished the device, plucked up some Dutch courage, as they say, care of the minibar’s wares, and then went about executing my plan. It went smoother than anticipated, entering the shaft, accessing the room in question, and going about my business—the device planted within the hour, security none the wiser.

The detonator was set. The Koala was done.

– – –

I sat in my suite, having showered to freshen up after the earlier effort. Pulling off a stunt like this made one sweat. A lot.

The blast that’d shake Sydney; that’s the headline that’d be seared into history.

A knock at my door broke my thoughts. I checked the peephole—a young woman in a sharp suit, her face familiar. I opened the door a crack.

“Sir,” she said, urgent but respectful. “It’s time. Your speech is in ten minutes.”

I nodded. “Speech time, of course.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” she said, slightly puzzled. “The keynote, downstairs in the function room. We’ve tweaked the speech—added references to your time in Afghanistan. The chief of staff thought it would pack a punch, given the theme of the conference.”

Afghanistan. That brought back the memories, mostly bad. My years in Special Forces, wiring explosives in hostile valleys, slipping through enemy lines. Those skills had built the device, helped me to strategise, let me move like a wraith. My role as PM gave me the rest—security layouts, guard schedules, the power to nudge the detail just enough to slip the parts through. I’d called myself the King Koala for years, as a joke, as if he were some distant dipstick. Light-hearted banter for my staff. But it had taken on a whole new meaning in office, and more so in the past year.

Pack a punch? At a conference called Global Unity Against Terrorism? Maybe. But the encore — now that would bring the house down.

I’d planned my own end, knowing the cull, the hatred, the polls left no other path. A spectacular death would make them remember me forever. Like JFK or Lincoln, the King Koala would be immortal, failures erased in a blaze of martyrdom.

I’d selected the room of a Middle East diplomat to plant some incriminating evidence, a trail of bread crumbs leading through the air conditioning shaft from his room to mine. Smoke and fire and all that.

Glancing at the mirror, I saw the Koala’s face carved with fatigue. The aide was waiting. I grabbed my jacket, forcing a smile.

“Let’s go,” I said, my voice steady.

As we headed for the elevator, I checked my watch. 8:50 p.m. Ten minutes until the speech. A couple of hours until the lamp, with my tattered copy of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar as some light reading material (set to get a whole lot more tattier).

Always was my favourite play.

The King Koala would exit stage left, and I’d ensure the world never forgot him.

© Anton Verma, 2025