Turn A Blind Eye

by Neil A. White

  Miami:

  Increased internet traffic, cyber-clutter, etc. all euphemisms for hacking linked to an affiliate in Panama. The bane of all companies conducting business electronically in the 21st century. Well, he thought, let them try. The level of cyber security Williams & Teacher employed between its offshore cut-outs was top notch; nothing could penetrate their labyrinthine network back to the head office, although it wouldn’t hurt to double check their own standards.

  Sinclair made a note to speak with his security director. He thought it a damned shame to be bolstering the barricades at the back door only to have someone waltz through the front.

  ***

  Mate. We need to talk.

  Having stayed out late at the Corner Hotel the night before, I hadn’t yet hit full-speed at work. At first, I didn’t recognise Dayne’s voice; he too sounded tired.

  Sure. What time do you get off work? You want to hear about the show you missed?

  What? No, that can wait. I called in sick. And you need to meet me ASAP.

  Okay, okay. I can get away at lunchtime. Meet me at the fish shop around the corner?

  No. Too close to work. Como Park, by the pavilion, at noon.

  I wondered about the cloak and dagger charade until my memory kicked in and his reason for skipping the show.

  The clock read 11:30 as I hung up the phone. Twenty minutes to waste before I could make my escape. I stared blankly at my monitor for the entire time doing absolutely nothing, though my mind spun like the teacup ride at Luna Park. At 11:50 I rose from my desk and made for the front door. I expected Eric to call me back at any moment, wondering where I was off to in such a hurry, but fortunately, a lively phone conversation kept his attention.

  Heading west on Toorak Road, I manoeuvred slowly through lunchtime traffic. It was no more than 1,000 metres to the park, probably faster to walk, but the familiar interior shell of the Beast helped to calm my nerves. Turning into Como Avenue, I parked in the curve of the cul-de-sac facing the park and took the trail sloping down towards the cricket oval.

  The sun warmed my back, the urge to lay down under one of the tall gum trees and take a nap was extremely tempting. If only I could wake in a different place and time. If only I hadn’t told Dayne what I’d discovered. That was the striking difference between us, where I wanted to run and hide, he would always choose to stand his ground and fight. A moot point now, this cat was well and truly out of the bag.

  The trail wound downhill through a small copse of trees then merged onto a larger path circling past the pavilion and around the playing fields. I found Dayne sitting on a bench 50 metres from the two-storied facility. I slumped down beside him.

  He continued to scan the pathways in both directions without acknowledging my presence.

  Weren’t followed, were you?

  Jesus, Dayne. Been reading too many le Carré novels? Bit jumpy, aren’t you?

  You’d be jumpy too if you knew what I know.

  Dayne looked like hell. His face drawn, eyes puffy, as if he hadn’t slept for days. The dark circles under his eyes made his face look haunted. He chewed through one fingernail after the other as he explained the situation.

  Is it worse than we first thought?

  Much, mate. Much! I don’t know all the facts, but I know enough to be shit scared. I’ve seen Garth’s client list, and there’s more names on it, big names, than just a few old dead folks.

  How it affected me, I couldn’t yet comprehend. If these people weren’t bank clients, what did I care?

  Let’s just call the cops, and I’ll start looking for a new job.

  And what if the cops are his clients? Or the corporate elite? Or State and Federal politicians? You still want to do that? He, or his firm at least, has a shit-load of heavy-hitters on the books. And that’s not all.

  Before Dayne finished his statement, I’d already begun looking for a hole big enough to bury my head.

  Mr O’Neal’s speciality is setting up a suite of products outside the jurisdiction of the Australian authorities. I’m talking offshore bank accounts, shell companies, etc.

  This wasn’t necessarily illegal activity, but it depended on what funds were channelled through the accounts, and for what purpose. For your average citizen, at worst, it could mean anything from tax evasion to money laundering. And for a politician, just the exposure of an offshore account could kill a career. An American presidential hopeful whose hopes were scuttled four years prior quickly came to mind.

  I’ve already talked with my compatriots in cyberspace and filled them in on what I’ve discovered. Williams & Teacher operates worldwide, so my friends are going to take a peek. I’ll know more of how to proceed after I talk with them again.

  Dayne reached into his pocket; I looked down to see him holding a small thumb drive.

  Here take this.

  What’s this? What am I supposed to do with it?

  It contains a snapshot of the files I downloaded last night. Enough to prove your story is legit. You need to find someone in authority you can trust. When you do, send this to them. Luckily, we have the Easter holidays coming up, think you can get through two more days at work?

  Should I call in sick?

  No, too suspicious. Two days, then keep out of sight for the four-day break. Hopefully, by then I’ll have a workable course of action.

  Dayne, what the fuck? You’re scaring me. Are we in danger?

  Dayne breathed deeply and scanned the park.

  I don’t know for sure, but the material I discovered is extremely damaging. It goes way beyond your banker friend’s little scam. Best to assume people would do just about anything to keep it under wraps. For now, everyone is clueless. They won’t have any idea we have this information. Let’s hope it stays that way.

  I hunched forward on the rough bench seat, my elbows resting on my knees, hands clasped. To anyone passing, it would appear I was praying.

  One more thing. There’s a few matters I’ll need to take care of for you. Precautions. Just in case. This is what I need.

  He told me his plans. My blood turned to ice water midway through sending a chill down my spine.

  Think you can take care of all that?

  I… I don’t know. It all seems so…

  Mate. This is the real world, there’s no closing your eyes and hoping it all goes away. And if they discover we’re on to them, we’ll both be balls deep in shit. So… again, can you take care of what I need?

  I nodded yes with more confidence than I felt. Without another word, Dayne stood and hustled off towards the pavilion. He’d scurried out of sight before I dragged myself from the bench and slouched off in the opposite direction. A young mother passed pushing a baby stroller; she smiled and said hello, I was too distracted to reply.

  Retracing my steps back to the parking lot, I wondered how I’d ever make it through the next two and a half days at work. I felt the uncomfortable sensation of my shirt sticking to my back; the cotton material drenched in sweat, yet the day wasn’t nearly that warm.

  Dublin, Ireland

  Tuesday, March 22

  Joseph O’Donovan clutched his coffee mug in one hand and ran his fingers through his short grey hair with the other. He stood before his sixth-floor office windows, the glass stretching from floor to ceiling, and gazed down upon the Samuel Beckett Bridge below. Traffic was light for a mid-afternoon. Three cars and a delivery van headed north over the Liffey, a lone cyclist made his way southbound. From his vantage point, it was hard to discern if the river was flowing out to sea or overwhelmed by the incoming tide.

  The conflicted battle between river and sea summed his day up perfectly. Earlier, he’d received a courtesy call from James Swann, senior partner with Williams & Teacher in the London office, letting him know the firm’s security team would soon be on his turf. Exactly why? Well, best not to enquire.

  Though, as he enjoyed the odd flutter, he’d wager it somehow involved his friend Dominic Previti and their email correspondence the d
ay prior. Even still, although his office’s hands were clean, it was still disconcerting to have the security folks in his backyard.

  Mishaps did sometimes occur. Unavoidable really, thought Joseph, given the complexity and magnitude of the firm’s sphere of influence. Situations sometimes spiralled out of control and corrections, to put it nicely, became necessary. And when the client involved is the Holy See, well, the sky became the proverbial limit in moving heaven and earth to ensure they were appeased. He just hoped if there was any fallout it didn’t create too much of a mess.

  Joseph’s gaze drifted skywards to watch a Shearwater puffin ride the currents. At a distance, the white plumage of its breast blended with the puffy white clouds above, only the black tips of the wings and tail feathers stood out in stark contrast. It circled sedately, high above the glistening river, in search of an afternoon snack. In the blink of an eye, with a target selected, it quickly picked up speed in its downward spiral.

  Joseph turned from the window knowing how the scenario would end but not needing to see the proof. He drank the last of his coffee, placed the empty mug on his desk, then rubbed his palms together as if washing his hands of the nefarious thoughts racing through his mind.

  In another section of Dublin, two men geared up for their own search. Their prey, he felt confident, was a man by the name of Eamonn Mahoney. And the manner in which they dealt with him? Well, as with watching the puffin, Joseph thought it unnecessarily stressful to worry one’s self with those matters.

  Melbourne, Australia

  Wednesday, March 23

  Ambrose Sinclair steadied his stance and lined up the three-metre putt. He knew it would break a small amount to the right, which he put down to the settling of the building over time. Several years ago, he’d replaced the thick plush carpet of his office for a short-looped Berber, which better replicated the speed of the greens at Royal Melbourne.

  With a smooth rocking motion of his shoulders he drew back his putter before bringing it forward to meet the ball. An instant before impact the electronic beep of his intercom system shattered both his concentration and rhythm. The ball slid by the left edge of the cup.

  Bloody hell. What is it now?

  Sinclair rested the club against the credenza behind his desk and pressed the intercom button on his phone.

  Yes, Maggie. What is it?

  Mr Sinclair, I have Mr Hughes from ASN Technologies holding for you. He said it was urgent.

  Alfonso Hughes gave birth to ASN Technologies in 1995 and for the past 20 years nurtured its development into the pre-eminent cyber security company in Australia. As well as Alfonso being a client of Williams & Teacher, his firm oversaw the computer protection systems for their Melbourne office.

  Sinclair propped on the edge of his desk and punched the blinking light, his left leg swinging with nervous tension. An urgent call from Alfonso was exceedingly rare and, from experience, rarely a pleasant conversation.

  Alfonso, how can I help you?

  Good morning, Ambrose. And it is hopefully I that can help you. We’ve uncovered some unusual activity.

  Fifteen minutes later, Ambrose silently hung up the phone. Then he began pacing. From his desk, to the bookcase bursting with law tomes, and back. Five steps in either direction. And with each change of direction, his course of action became just a little clearer. His premonition from a few days earlier regrettably coming to pass. The small nagging kernel of doubt in the back of his mind suddenly bursting into a full-on migraine. His firm was under attack. And the immediate question demanding an answer; were the hackers getting help from the inside?

  Alfonso’s firm set in motion a program designed to tunnel back through cyberspace to track the perpetrators. ‘But don’t expect success,’ he was told, ‘especially if the hackers are as professional as they first appear.’ ASN were also conducting a full investigation of the associate with the compromised workstation.

  In the meantime, Ambrose had a decision to make. He could sit back and wait for the results of the investigation, or he could shake a few trees and see what fell in his lap. For Ambrose, this wasn’t even a question worth pondering. Sitting and waiting was not now, nor would it ever be, something for which he’d be known.

  From behind his desk he retrieved his putter before depressing the intercom button one more time.

  Maggie, can you have Mr O’Neal come and see me, please.

  Ambrose decided a quick four or five putts would help him relax and get him in the right frame of mind for the upcoming conversation. He positioned the ball mid-point in his stance, eyed the cup, then smoothly swung through the desired line. The electronic cup swallowed his direct hit then spat back the ball.

  Each made putt released a further ounce or two of tension from his shoulders. Ambrose knew from experience, a relaxed body and mind energised his thought processes, which led to concise questioning and deft decision making.

  However, with O’Neal’s innocence or complicity still to be determined, Ambrose wouldn’t be allowing the solicitor the luxury of a few practice swings.

  Dublin, Ireland

  Wednesday, March 23

  Eamonn Mahoney was concerned. No, he thought, pissed-off, more accurately summed up his feelings. With everything in place for the Easter heists, he received an urgent message the day prior of the operation’s cancellation.

  Weeks of planning wasted. No reason given. Ferry tickets and travel expenses already distributed, the cost of which he knew would be impossible to recoup. Probably half of it spent at the pub already. Perfectly good money, literally, pissed away.

  Eamonn, having been around the block a time or two, knew not everything always went to plan. But this operation would’ve been the ninth to date and not once had even the most minor of details caused any concern.

  Though, for some reason, the unease tugged mightily on his conscience. Why a phone call and not an in-person meet with Clancy, as was the norm? And why was a deputy placing the call, not the man himself? The answer was as obvious as a young child’s lies.

  Clancy was distancing himself, but why?

  Eamonn stopped his pacing and stared through the bay window of his front room. Kavanagh’s Pub, on the far side of the grass verge, was barely visible in the misty gloom. The quiet verge; cobbled together with patches of grass, a few scraggly trees and a liberal sprinkling of animal droppings, turned the end of his street into an oversized roundabout.

  His brick two-up two-down just one of a dozen in a row on Prospect Square faced the 19th-century pub and the little-used gates to Glasnevin Cemetery. He was born in this house and would most probably die here. That was fine by him; he just didn’t want it to be anytime soon.

  Eamon de Valera, his namesake, rested across the way. He thought it a shame the nurse spelt his first name wrong on the birth certificate. His mother never noticed the difference. Also buried at Glasnevin was the great man, Michael Collins, a true hero in the fight for Irish independence. Along with the founder of Sinn Fein, Arthur Griffith. The memory of Griffith and Sinn Fein brought him back to the present.

  Why would Clancy need to distance himself? Had someone within the operation become compromised? He tried to recall if anything was different about this mission than any of the others. He checked each step off on his fingers:

  Five banks, or less, targeted in a new city each time.

  Two men per bank from various regions of the country hand-picked by Clancy.

  Half mature veterans of the cause.

  Half younger soldiers with limited exposure to the inner-workings of the mission.

  All men anonymous to one another.

  All new to…

  It was then it hit him.

  He should’ve noticed it when reviewing the list of men Clancy gave him the week previous.

  Stupid fucking eejit.

  Eamonn slammed his hand down on top of the television, the remote tumbling to the floor. Worry now mixed with agitation. The kind of worry which loosened the bowels just a touch.


  Clancy included in the original group one man from a previous mission. The big man missed the duplication, and worst of all, so had Eamonn. He wasn’t sure if this was the reason for his stomach doing Olympics-worthy backflips, but it was an excellent place to start.

  Eamonn grabbed the keys to his 2000 Opel Astra, the pad from the kitchen counter on which he kept his planning notes and hurried out the front door. He needed answers, and it started with a man he knew as Sam Coogan down in Bray.

  ***

  Across the verge, parked in front of Kavanagh’s, a blue late-model Ford with a Europcar sticker on the back window sat idling. At regular intervals, the windscreen wipers flicked across the glass clearing the accumulated precipitation. The two occupants within the warm interior sipped coffee from Styrofoam cups.

  The two men were as close as brothers. Former regulars with the British Army, both receiving dishonourable discharges after an unfortunate episode in Afghanistan.

  The incident occurred in a small village in Zabul province, the same insignificant smudge on the landscape where days earlier their regiment lost a third brother. It should’ve been a routine patrol for their Rifle Battalion; Taliban activity in the area minimal to non-existent for well over a month. Winning the hearts and minds of the local villagers now taking precedence, right up until the moment a rocket-propelled grenade fired from the jagged cliffs above the village tore into their armoured vehicle.