by Tim Ayliffe
‘Boom!’ Ronnie slapped his hands together, sending a spray of ash onto the coffee table. ‘He might have attitude, but that kid can throw a ball.’
‘Are you done?’ Bailey said.
Ronnie watched the Sooners players backslapping their quarterback as they celebrated another touchdown and then he switched off the television, turning his head to Bailey. ‘What’ve you got?’
‘Mustafa called again.’
Ronnie got up off the couch and stubbed his cigar in an empty coffee cup. ‘When?’
‘A few minutes ago. I recorded it.’ Bailey was holding up his phone, proudly. For a technology luddite like him, the recording felt like a coup.
‘Old dog has a new trick.’
‘Funny.’
‘What are you planning to do with it?’
‘I want to talk to Gerald and I want to talk to Sharon.’
‘You know I’ll do better than the locals,’ Ronnie said.
‘I’m hoping you will.’ Bailey had always planned to give Ronnie a copy. ‘I owe it to Sharon. Mustafa knows more than I do about a raid that I just watched go down in Wiley Park. And there’s more on the recording than just our conversation.’
‘Like what?’
‘Sounds, outside noise. I don’t know,’ Bailey said. ‘That’s for you people to work out.’
‘Forgive me for asking,’ Ronnie said. ‘But what has Gerald got to do with this?’
Gerald was Bailey’s best friend. His boss. Someone who knew Omar and the one person Bailey turned to for advice. Gerald had everything to do with this.
‘You’re forgiven.’ Bailey was already walking towards the door. ‘We’re going to the paper. I’ll play you the recording on the way.’
There must have been a half-dozen lawyers sitting on the sofas and chairs in Gerald’s office when Bailey opened the door, without knocking. He wasn’t interested in counting the suits, he just wanted them gone.
‘All right, you lot. Out!’ Bailey was pointing over his shoulder at the open doorway behind him. ‘Work to be done here. Journalism.’
‘Bailey? You can’t –’
‘I’m serious, Gerald. We need to talk. And they can do the sums on my redundancy in their own time.’ He was pointing at the lawyers without looking. ‘While I’m still here, I’ve got stuff to do. And we need to talk.’
Gerald looked over at Ronnie like he was pleading with the big Oklahoman to grab Bailey by the arm and escort him outside to talk sense into him.
‘It’s serious,’ Ronnie said. ‘You need to hear this.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Gerald sighed, turning to the men and women in the room. ‘Just give us a few minutes, would you please?’
Bailey watched them all file past him in their flashy ties and pinstriped shirts, pant-suits and pumps. Now he knew where all The Journal’s money was going.
‘What is it, Bailey?’ Gerald said.
Bailey waited for the door to click closed before he got started. ‘Listen to this.’
He put the phone face up on the wood of Gerald’s old mahogany desk, and clicked play.
‘Is that who I –’
‘Yes.’ Bailey held up his hand. ‘Listen.’
They were all standing with their palms flat on the desk, leaning forward, chasing the sound. The recording lasted almost two minutes. When it stopped, the room remained silent. The only noticeable sounds were the car horns in the traffic fourteen floors below.
‘Eye for an eye,’ Gerald said. ‘What the hell’s he talking about?’
‘I don’t know. Sounds like he’s blaming me for something. I don’t know what.’
‘Bailey.’ Gerald had a sudden look of panic on his face. ‘Where’s Miranda?’
Bailey grabbed his phone off the desk, fumbling with it until he found her name.
She picked up. Relief.
‘Miranda!’ Bailey was almost yelling.
‘Dad, what’s wrong?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Peter and I were at the movies. We’re on the way home. Why? What’s wrong?’
For the first time, Bailey was relieved to know that Doctor Peter Andrews was living with his daughter. But he didn’t have a plan. He’d just wanted to hear her voice.
‘I need you to go . . . to go . . .’
‘Mate.’ Gerald touched him on the arm. ‘Send her to my place.’
Bailey thought about it for a second. Gerald was the closest thing to a brother that he had. He was Miranda’s godfather. He lived in a big house in Mosman with a security fence and a long driveway. Nancy had put so many cameras around the place it was like Fort Knox.
‘Go home, pack a bag. I need you and the doc to go to Gerald’s house tonight.’
‘Dad? What’s going on?’
There was panic in her voice.
‘I can’t talk about it right now. It’s just a precaution. I’ll tell you more later. Promise. Right now, I just need you to do this, sweetheart. Please.’
‘Okay, Dad.’
‘Text me when you get there. And sweetheart?’
She was silent on the end of the phone, waiting for her father to speak.
‘I love you.’
‘I love you too, Dad.’
Bailey hung up. ‘Thanks for that, mate.’
Gerald nodded. ‘You know I’d do anything for her.’
Bailey looked at his watch. 10.04 pm. ‘It’s late. Better wake Nancy and tell her she’s about to have some visitors.’
‘That outside noise near the end of the recording,’ Ronnie said, getting back to the task at hand. ‘The beeps. A whooshing sound. It sounds like traffic, maybe a crossing.’
‘Can’t imagine there are any traffic lights in Al-Qa’im,’ Bailey said.
‘What?’ Gerald said.
‘I’ve been there.’ Ronnie ignored Gerald. ‘There aren’t.’
‘What’re you guys talking about? You mean Al-Qa’im along the Euphrates on the border with Syria?’
Gerald was good with geography. When he and Bailey worked together in Iraq, Gerald was always in charge of the maps.
‘Yes, mate,’ Bailey said. ‘Ronnie traced the phone Mustafa was using to a shop there. It’s one of the last places that Islamic Nation still controls in Iraq.’
‘So, where do you think he is now?’ Gerald said.
Ronnie stepped back from the table, checking his phone, his mind already on his next move. ‘Send me the recording, bubba. I’m going to get it to my people and see what we can turn up.’
He paused at the door. ‘And Bailey?’
‘Yes, mate?’
‘Are you sure you need to share it with the locals?’
‘Positive.’
Giving the recording to Dexter meant that another team would be analysing the sounds, trying to pinpoint Mustafa’s location. Bailey would have thought the more people on this, the better. Ronnie didn’t think like that. He knew how to keep secrets and he didn’t like sharing them.
And there was another reason why Bailey wanted Dexter to know about the recording. If Mustafa was threatening to hurt someone close to Bailey, that meant her.
‘What was that all about?’ Gerald said.
‘Just Ronnie being Ronnie.’
At least Ronnie had been sharing with Bailey. The CIA file was still weighing on his mind. The file had read like old news to Bailey, apart from one key detail. The cash. The million-dollar ransom paid by private Australian citizen Gerald Summers. Now that Bailey knew the truth, he needed to tell Gerald.
‘Mate . . . mate, there’s one more thing.’
Bailey didn’t quite know how to say it.
‘What is it, Bailey?’
‘I know about the ransom payment.’
‘What payment?’
‘Gerald, don’t.’ Bailey was finding this hard enough without Gerald pleading ignorance. ‘One million US. Cash. I know it came from you.’
‘Who told you?’ Gerald said, failing to conceal his annoyance.
‘The CIA has a file
on me. I read it.’
Gerald turned away, staring at the hotel rooms stacked on top of each other across the street. Looking for a light on. A distraction.
‘Well.’ Gerald stumbled. ‘You would have done the same for me.’
Bailey couldn’t help but laugh at that. ‘Where the hell am I going to get a million dollars?’
‘You made it out,’ Gerald said, not seeing the funny side. ‘That’s all that mattered.’
Bailey’s eyes welled and he didn’t know what to say next. Luckily, he didn’t need to say anything because his phone vibrated on the table, interrupting the thorny silence.
He looked down at the screen. A message from Dexter.
Still going with the Salmas
Let me know if you’ve got anything
He’d tried to call Dexter during the car ride to Sussex Street, but she hadn’t answered. Now he knew why. Bailey didn’t want to send her the recording without speaking to her first.
I need to speak to you in person
Got something for you. It’s linked
Which station are you at? I’ll come there
‘Bailey?’
‘I need to go meet Sharon.’
‘Okay, mate. And don’t worry about Miranda, I won’t let anything happen to her. I’ll wrap this up and head home.’
Bailey’s phone vibrated again. Dexter.
Bankstown
Message me when outside
Don’t come in
‘Thanks.’ Bailey stopped at the door, turning around. ‘I mean it, Gerald. Thanks. For everything.’
‘It’s what we do, right?’
Bailey shrugged. ‘Right.’
The lawyers were all standing around in the hall outside Gerald’s office, waiting to be let back in. They reminded Bailey of a bunch of seagulls waiting for scraps, or vultures looking for more.
‘Don’t change the locks just yet,’ Bailey said.
CHAPTER 26
It was almost eleven o’clock by the time Bailey arrived at Bankstown police station. He parked his car next to the train tracks, then fired off a message to Dexter.
I’m here
Carpark across the road
Bailey had no idea how long Dexter would be. Interrogations took time.
He’d only been back in Sydney for a couple of days and his neck and back were still carrying the tension from the long flight. He was tired too. His eyebrows felt like sandbags.
It was finally cooling down outside and he climbed out of the car for some fresh air.
Bailey stretched his arms towards the night sky, swivelling his body, his back cracking with the movement. It didn’t change a thing. The tension was still there. So was the exhaustion.
Smoke was hovering above a barbeque outside the station entrance, where an old man was packing up his sausage stand. The bangers smelled good. Bailey was so distracted by writing his article a few hours ago that he’d hardly eaten any of the kebab that was supposed to have been his dinner.
‘Any of those left?’ Bailey said to the guy scraping the grill.
‘Five bucks, mate,’ he said. ‘Can’t guarantee the temperature and I’ve run out of sauce.’
‘Surely that qualifies for a discount?’
‘That is the discount.’ The old man dropped a tired, shrivelled sausage into a bun with a pair of tongs that looked like they hadn’t ever seen a scrubbing brush. ‘Take it or leave it.’
‘I’ll take it.’
Bailey walked back to his car and sat on the edge of the bonnet.
His phone vibrated.
Miranda had taken a selfie of her, the doc and Nancy.
Arrived safely.
He responded with a kiss.
Still no word from Dexter.
The sausage was lukewarm and full of fat, but it did the trick. His heart might not be thanking him, but his stomach was content.
Bailey lay back on the bonnet and looked at the sky. It was difficult to see the stars through the smog of the city, but there was no hiding the moon. It was a bright waxing crescent. He closed his eyes and his mind turned to Omar. His old fixer from Baghdad might be angry, but Bailey owed it to him to find his son. In fact, he owed Omar much more than that.
Omar was the guy who drove Bailey around Baghdad in his beaten-up Brazilian Volkswagen. In the early nineties, those cars were everywhere in Iraq. Like Holdens in Australia or Fords in America. The thing about Omar’s Brazilian was that it had been modified to include an important hiding place. There was a rectangular box under the back seat that was just big enough for a grown man to hide inside when they were passing through checkpoints, or dangerous neighbourhoods, like the Shi’ite slums of Sadr City. Omar used to call it ‘the bucket’.
Omar would stash bottles of water and dried fruits in the bucket because they never knew how long Bailey would need to be in there. Mostly, it was minutes, although there were occasions when Bailey had spent hours in there, emerging a sweaty mess, his muscles locked in spasm. He’d lost count of the times the car had been searched while he was hiding in the bucket. It may have been uncomfortable, but it was safe. He’d never been found. Not once.
Bailey’s phone vibrated. Dexter.
Down in ten
Bailey had always made sure that Omar had extra dinars to help get them out of a bind. Banknotes were the first and last resort in Iraq at that time, especially with cops. Baghdad police were the worst. Omar and Bailey had a saying back then – ‘pay it, don’t say it’ – because talking always got you into trouble. Omar was careful to carry only enough dinars to pay the small bribes demanded by Saddam’s policemen. Larger sums, and American dollars, only aroused suspicion and could get you arrested. When people got arrested in Saddam’s Iraq, they didn’t come home.
There were criminal gangs in Baghdad that were even more frightening than the police. They were the ones that specialised in kidnapping foreigners and selling them back to their families, employers or governments. Highly organised and prone to extreme violence, they had a business model that worked.
It was almost inevitable that one day a gang would come for Bailey. Luckily, when that day came, Omar had seen them coming.
‘Get in the bucket!’
Omar had spotted a fake roadblock up ahead and he wasn’t taking any chances.
Bailey had less than thirty seconds to get under the back seat and curl up so he wouldn’t make a sound. He closed the lid just as the car was slowing to a halt.
‘What’s the problem?’
Bailey heard Omar ask the question in Arabic.
‘Get out!’
Bailey’s Arabic wasn’t very good back then, although he knew enough words to know that these guys were on the hunt for a westerner. Eventually, the voices stopped and all Bailey could hear were the sounds of Omar being beaten to a pulp. He knew that much because he saw the aftermath.
When the punches stopped, the rear doors opened, along with the boot of the car. The gang climbed in the back, yanking at seats, ripping off the door of the glove box and tearing at the upholstery with knives.
The thing about the bucket was that it locked from the inside, with the fabric of the cushions reinforced by a metal plate. There was no way these guys were getting it open, even if they’d tried.
When the gang finally gave up on the inside of the car, Bailey heard someone lay into Omar one more time before they packed up their roadblock and left.
Bailey waited for the street to go quiet before he unlocked the bucket and flipped the lid.
Omar was lying, unconscious, barely breathing, in the dirt beside the car. Bailey lifted him onto the back seat and made it to hospital just in time.
That was more than twenty-five years ago. Bailey remembered it like yesterday.
He owed Omar, all right. He owed him his life.
‘Bailey . . . Bailey . . . Bailey.’
Dexter was patting Bailey on the shoulder.
‘Bailey!’
For a guy who didn’t sleep, he was proving difficult to
wake. She whacked him harder.
‘What?’ He sat up, shaking his head. ‘Sorry. Nodded off.’
He slid off the bonnet until his feet touched the ground, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands. ‘Get anything more out of them? Sara Haneef turn up?’
Dexter shook her head. ‘No and no. The Salmas are either good at playing dumb or they know nothing about Sara Haneef. I’ve got them in different cells, telling the same story. They might be telling the truth. Maybe this has nothing at all to do with the sister.’
‘Then why’s she gone AWOL?’ Bailey said.
‘I don’t know, Bailey. I really need to get back to work.’ Dexter was pointing at the police building across the street. ‘What else did you want to talk about?’
Bailey didn’t know where to start. How does someone ease into a conversation about getting phone calls from the world’s most wanted terrorist?
‘Seriously, Bailey.’ Dexter let out a long breath, clearly tired. ‘You said you had something, what is it?’
‘Mustafa al-Baghdadi.’
‘What about him?’
‘He contacted me again.’
Dexter went quiet and turned her back on Bailey, watching a train speed through the station without stopping.
‘This time I made a recording.’ Bailey was still feeling guilty about not bringing her in the loop earlier about Mustafa, especially now that he suspected that he might be involved. He opened the back door of the Corolla. ‘Hop in, I’ll play it to –’
‘Bailey.’ Dexter turned back around, her eyes catching his across the night. ‘I know about the phone call.’
‘What?’ He let go of the door, stepping towards her. ‘What do you mean? How?’
She went quiet again, leaving him to answer his own question. It wasn’t difficult.
‘You’re fucking kidding me. You’re bugging my fucking phone?’
Dexter folded her arms. ‘You can’t be that surprised. As I told you before, this is bloody serious. Time is everything if we’re going to stop this thing in its tracks . . . and it was for your own safety.’
‘Don’t give me that bullshit.’