by Tim Ayliffe
About one hundred and fifty people on the watch-list had returned to Australia after fighting for groups like Islamic Nation in Iraq and Syria. Others had made the list simply because they had friends or relatives still over there and police feared that they might have the same radical tendencies, or could be sending money overseas to buy guns and make bombs for the battlefield. Most of them were connected. Brothers. Sisters. Cousins. Neighbours. Someone from the same mosque, or prayer group. There was always a link, you just needed to dig.
Tariq’s name wasn’t on the list. He was a complete unknown. ‘Lone-wolf terrorists’, or ‘cleanskins’, didn’t turn up that often and they were always the hardest to find. Tariq had been missing for approximately a week. He was fifteen years old. Someone out there must be helping him. Someone must know something.
‘He can’t be working alone. Keep looking.’
Dexter had asked her team to zero in on the people on the list who lived in Western Sydney to see if they could pick up any chatter that might involve the kid.
‘Exactly what we’re doing, boss.’
Dexter had been in the office for five minutes and she’d already had enough of Nugget’s attitude and the stale coffee breath that was hovering above his computer terminal.
‘Keep at it,’ she said, before tapping Nugget’s fat neck. ‘And Nugget?’
‘Yeah?’
‘You might want to get yourself a mint.’
Dexter ignored his huff and walked over to where Kate and Michael were sitting.
‘What about our special friends?’
‘Pretty quiet,’ Kate answered. ‘Couple of chats, nothing exciting.’
Dexter watched as Kate clicked on the name of one of the people using encrypted messaging services, which they’d recently been granted permission to track, and up came a conversation from late the night before.
Cuz
Where u?
Darlene’s house. Come
Who there?
Usual crew
Got anything?
Bit of gear
Cool. C u soon
Bring your wallet, no free rides
Get fucked
Seriously. No pay no point
‘Can you believe these guys?’ Kate said. ‘One minute they’re talking about sharia law, next, they’re smoking ice pipes together. Fucking hypocrites.’
Dexter knew the link between drug use and extremism was surprisingly high, with terrorist suspects moving in and out of the party scene and the mosque. Some of them had even admitted to becoming religious fanatics because it helped them kick a drug habit.
‘Give me a shout if there’s any chatter about the kid. I’ll check in with the feds, see what they’ve got,’ Dexter said, pointing to the office up the end of the hall.
Dexter had only made it a few steps before Kate called her back. ‘Wait!’
A message was flashing on the screen. An alert about a new conversation involving another guy on the list.
‘What’ve you got?’
‘The Salmas.’
The Salma brothers – George, Benji and Alex – were thugs. Muscled-up labourers who all worked for their father’s construction business. They had a reputation for intimidating other building contractors and developers, and not always paying their debts. More recently, the brothers had come to the attention of authorities when their cousin, Ahmed Sajed, travelled to Turkey on George Salma’s passport, and then turned up in an Islamic Nation video in Iraq. That was enough to get a warrant to access George’s phone. Rather than bringing George in for questioning, they’d decided to monitor him. See where it led.
Dexter leaned across Kate’s shoulder while she operated the mouse, zooming in on the conversation.
Bro, we gotta make that movie
When?
Now
Camera?
Yep. Meet at the house?
Ok
C u in 20
The conversation ended.
‘Nugget!’ Dexter called out. ‘We need eyes on the Salmas, as many as you can. Now!’
They couldn’t know what the brothers were talking about. It could be anything. But this was how they operated in counter-terrorism. Jumping at any lead. They didn’t have a choice.
CHAPTER 11
‘Is that all you’ve got?’
The old priest was needling the kid, willing him to hit harder.
‘C’mon, I can hit harder than that!’
The kid slugged the heavy bag with a right hook. It swung to the left, sending Father Joe with it. The old man would have fallen over had his feet not been shoulder-width apart. Six decades in the gym had taught him that.
‘Now you’re getting it!’ Father Joe’s words were finally getting through, and being belted back at him with force.
The kid followed through with a four-punch combination, two left jabs, right hook and an upper-cut. Simple, effective. Boxing 101.
‘Two more minutes, Jake,’ Father Joe said. ‘Make them count!’
Jake was mixing it up now. Five-punch combos, six, then eight, twelve. The blows on the bag were getting harder as the seconds ticked down. The kid wasn’t tiring. Sixty-odd kilograms, all muscle. And he could hit, all right. Hard.
Joe hadn’t noticed Bailey standing in the corner, watching the old man at work. ‘One minute left, Jake. Go for it!’
The clock in Joe’s head was usually spot-on. Bailey remembered it from his university days when the boxing priest was willing him to punch out the pain of losing his brother.
The old man always had a project, a kid to mentor. Someone with spirit who deserved something better than the cards they’d been dealt.
Bailey could see that Jake wasn’t just a kid who needed someone to look out for him. Jake had talent.
‘Get those legs apart!’ Joe yelled at him. ‘Don’t lean in! You’ve got it, Jake. Let them know!’
He kept on going, hitting harder. Bailey had known kids like him before.
Whack!
For the parents who didn’t want him.
Whack!
The rich kids who looked down on him.
Whack!
The bullies who made fun of him. The girls who ignored him.
Whack! Whack!
The sound of his gloves slamming against the bag echoed throughout the gym.
‘Keep it going, kid!’
The minute was done but Jake wasn’t. Joe was letting him punch it out.
Some of the others in the gym, a couple of girls, mostly boys, stopped what they were doing and watched him bob and weave around the bag. He had so much energy he looked unstoppable.
‘All right, son.’ Joe eventually stepped to the side of the bag, easing the weight off his shoulder. ‘I think we’re done.’
Feeling the pressure go off the bag, Jake finally eased up. Stepping back, he wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his glove and put his hands on his head, trying to control his breathing.
Joe walked around and slapped him on the shoulder.
‘Suck it in, kid. Good session. Time to hit the showers.’
Jake shook his head. ‘I’ve got more, Father Joe. I want to keep going.’
‘Enough on the pads. You got something extra? Hit the park. Five laps, fast–slow intervals. Then back here, pronto. You need to get back to school soon.’
Jake looked at him, disappointed.
‘If you want to be a boxer, you need to shed a few kilos. Do you want to box, Jake?’
‘You know I do.’
‘Good. Because you’ve got it, Jake. I want to book a fight soon.’
Jake was peeling off his gloves and getting ready for his run when Father Joe noticed Bailey standing by the door. He looked away again, ignoring him.
‘How’d the new gloves feel, Jake?’
‘Red hot, Father Joe. Like a second skin.’ Jake had a big smile on his face. The gloves looked brand new. Bailey guessed that Joe had bought them for him. It was probably the only present Jake had ever been given. By th
e glint in his eye it was clear that he respected them, treasured them. Boxing was going to be Jake’s get out of jail card.
Joe watched Jake run out the door, then walked over to Bailey.
‘Kid’s got talent, mate.’
Bailey held out his hand and Joe shook it.
‘Reminds me of you, back when. Full of anger and needing to hit something.’
‘Yeah, well. I’m still full of something.’
‘Isn’t that the truth.’
When Joe laughed his shoulders bounced up and down in a happy rhythm.
‘Been a long time, son. What brings you to the mean streets? I take it you’re not here for a training session.’
Bailey sucked in his gut. ‘Good guess. Other priorities, these days.’
‘Like what?’
Bailey ignored the question. ‘I’m not here for a conversion, either. By the way, where’s the dress?’
‘Never was one for uniforms, and rules. Bit like you.’
‘Don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want to associate myself with those clowns in Rome. Big on dresses there, colours for all the seasons.’
‘They’ve given up trying to tell me what to do.’
On any other day, Bailey would have wanted to hear the old Jesuit’s take on the Vatican’s response to the Royal Commission into the sexual abuse of children, especially considering most of the victims were assaulted in Catholic institutions. You didn’t find justice in the confessional, you found it in the courts. Joe knew that. But the cardinals were hell-bent on keeping their dirty secrets – and their cash – for themselves.
‘It’s them and us, always has been.’ It was like the old man was reading Bailey’s mind. ‘Anyway, this is my church.’ He pointed at the kids working out on the exercise equipment in his makeshift gym.
No one could deny him that.
Soup kitchens, domestic violence shelters and the gym he’d set up for troubled kids. Joe’s religion was people. He’d never been interested in kissing the ring.
‘They’re lucky to have you, mate.’
‘They keep me on my toes.’
The two men spent the next few minutes reminiscing about the days when they were both a little fitter, a little faster and – in Bailey’s case – a little thinner, until Joe signalled that he needed to get moving.
‘I’d love to stand around talking with you, Bailey,’ he said, bending down to pick up a pair of gloves off the floor, ‘but I’ve got to get this place cleaned up before the nuns arrive. If you’re not here to glove up, what are you doing here?’
‘I’m looking for someone. A kid,’ Bailey said. ‘He’s run away from his parents, a good family. He’s caught up in something, something bad.’
‘And?’
‘Wondering if he’s turned up in any of your shelters looking for a feed.’
‘Look around, mate,’ Joe said, arms outstretched like an eagle. ‘Half these kids are runaways.’
‘Tariq’s different.’ Bailey lowered his voice. ‘His dad’s an old mate from Baghdad. Somehow he’s got caught up with some Islamic radicals.’
‘Terrorism?’
‘He could be about to do something very stupid.’
‘I see.’ Jake ran back through the door, prompting Joe to look at his watch. ‘Good time, kid. You’re done.’
Training hours were almost over and the kids needed to shower and get back to school. But first they had to transform the gym into a soup kitchen. The nuns from the convent would start arriving soon and Joe needed to have the place ready, or there’d be hell to pay.
Everyone went to work – stacking mats, placing dumbbells in the corner and unhooking the bags dangling from the roof to clear space for the tables and chairs. If you used the gym, you had to help out. It was part of the deal.
The room wasn’t very big. It was an old flower shop in Redfern that Joe had persuaded the state government to lease for him. That was more than twenty years ago. Somehow, he had kept it going. The priest wasn’t as good at lifting tables and chairs as he used to be, but he did okay for someone who had just turned eighty-one.
With the boxing ring and the exercise machines taking up half the room, they could only seat about thirty inside, but they’d serve a hundred meals. Easy. Most people only stopped by for a quick feed and left, anyway. Not because they were ungrateful, but because they were ashamed. Hard lives were getting harder. It was the way the city was going. Joe had been watching the poverty divide grow, face by face.
Back when Bailey was a student boxer, it had predominantly been Indigenous Australians who would eat their meals at the gym. These days it was anybody. Anglo, Asian, Middle Eastern. People of all different backgrounds and creeds. A growing number of them were middle-aged women escaping violent or loveless marriages. Bailey knew the statistics. The people of Sydney were changing and so were the battlers who needed help.
There were two rules for the kids who trained at Joe’s gym. Firstly, if you wanted to use it, then you needed to work a few shifts serving food and cleaning up. There were six beds in a dormitory that Joe had built in his presbytery around the corner and to get one of those you had to work full-time, around school hours and homework, at the soup kitchen. Most kids only stayed a few weeks or months at a time.
Joe’s second rule was that he had to, at least, know first names. Some of the kids got cagey about their surnames, which was understandable, because many of them had been through a lot. But calling someone by their first name was a sign of respect. It was a subtle lesson for young people who had been disrespected their entire, short, lives.
‘Here’s a photo of Tariq.’ Bailey handed a print to Joe. ‘That’s your copy. Do me a favour and ask around?’
Joe still had half an eye on the kids packing up the gym when he glanced at the photograph in his hand. ‘Where’s he from?’
‘Wiley Park.’
‘Right.’
Joe had helped set up food shelters all over Sydney and he knew what was going on in the suburbs better than anyone. Wiley Park was next door to Lakemba, the centre of the city’s Muslim community and home to Australia’s biggest mosque. It also regularly featured in stories in the news about terrorism.
‘I’ll put the word out, get in touch if I hear anything.’
‘Thanks, Joe.’ Bailey headed for the door.
‘And Bailey!’ Joe called out. ‘We should talk, you and me.’
Bailey turned back around. ‘About what?’
‘Life.’
Bailey was standing in the open doorway, contemplating his answer. ‘We can do that.’
CHAPTER 12
The ringing bell jolted Bailey awake and he banged his head on the car window.
He’d parked the car about fifty metres up the road from the set of big black iron gates at Tariq’s school. The traffic had been surprisingly good. After throwing down a lamb rogan josh in Glebe, Bailey had made it to Punchbowl with thirty minutes to spare. He’d been using those extra minutes to cash in on part of the sleep debt that had been giving him a heavy head since London.
A stream of boys in blue and grey uniforms were racing across the schoolyard. Thanks to the school bell, he was wide awake, rubbing his eyes, looking for Omar down by the gates where they’d agreed to meet at three o’clock.
The curry had gone down well but he must have got chilli on his fingers back in the restaurant because his eyes were stinging and clouding with water. Distracted by the discomfort, Bailey initially missed the sight of Omar charging past his car towards the school gates.
Bailey used the back of his hands to wipe away the water and with the sting easing to an itch, he climbed out of the car and headed towards the gates, where Omar was now arguing with a couple of school kids. Even from a distance, Bailey could see that he was agitated.
‘Tell me what you know! I know you know something!’ Omar said, ramming his finger into the chest of one kid, while holding the other by the scruff of his shirt.
The boys were staring at him with clueless, f
earful, expressions.
‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘Don’t lie to me!’
‘Omar.’ Bailey touched him on the shoulder, trying to get his attention. ‘C’mon, mate, settle down.’
‘Where’s Tariq? Where is he?’ Omar’s voice was rising with each word. ‘Tell me! I know you know something, you must know something!’
Bailey squeezed Omar’s shoulder again and he turned around. His blood-red eyes looked how Bailey’s felt.
‘Let the kid go, mate,’ Bailey said.
‘But he knows something.’ Omar was still holding one of the boys by his shirt. ‘He must know something. He must!’
‘They’re just kids, mate. This isn’t the way to get what you need.’
Omar let go, leaning back on the fence, his head shaking with frustration.
‘Sorry about that,’ Bailey said. ‘Omar’s just worried about his son.’
The two boys were trying to avoid looking at Bailey, their eyes darting from side to side, unsure whether they should stay, or go.
‘No one’s in trouble here, fellas. It’s just that Tariq hasn’t been home for a few days.’
‘We don’t know anything.’ It was the kid who, moments earlier, had Omar’s finger poking into his chest. ‘We haven’t seen Tariq since last week.’
‘Thanks for letting us know, mate. That’s helpful. Name’s John Bailey, what’s yours?’
Bailey held out his hand and the kid stared at it for a few seconds before shaking it.
‘Hamid, I’m Hamid. This is Geoff.’ He pointed to the other kid who was still straightening his shirt around the collar after it had been messed up by Omar.
‘Hamid. Geoff. Everyone just calls me Bailey.’
‘Well, Bailey, we don’t know shit.’ Geoff had finished fixing his shirt. ‘Who are you, anyway, a cop?’
‘Just an old friend of Omar’s.’
‘How do we know you’re not lying?’ Geoff was growing in confidence. ‘You could be anyone. We don’t have to talk to you.’