State of Fear

by Tim Ayliffe

  Benson puffed out his chest, holding his ground. It was pointless.

  ‘Bubba, get your things. We’re leaving.’

  Bailey didn’t have any ‘things’, but he guessed it was Ronnie’s way of telling him to start moving towards the front door.

  ‘Don’t go far,’ Benson called after them. ‘We may need to talk to you.’

  Bailey walked past Omar, who was leaning against the wall, shaking, his face the colour of ash. ‘I’m sorry, mate.’

  Omar looked away, trying to hide his shame.

  ‘Just do what the cops say, tell them everything.’

  Bailey wanted to believe that his old driver from Baghdad had no clue about his daughter’s involvement when he first came to The Journal three days ago, asking for help to find Tariq. Bailey wanted to believe that Omar was as shocked as everyone else. But Omar’s obfuscation during the last fifteen minutes had made it clear he knew something. A father’s first instinct was to protect his children. No matter what. By honouring that instinct, Omar was about to pay a hell of a price.

  Bailey stopped at the sideboard in the living room. He picked up the photograph of Sara and Ayesha, slipping it out of the frame and folding it into his pocket.

  Ronnie tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Let’s go.’

  Back in the car, Ronnie’s phone was buzzing again, the light from the screen highlighting the wrinkles in his cheeks and the fierce concentration in his eyes.

  ‘Where to from here?’ Bailey said.

  ‘London.’

  CHAPTER 40

  Developments were being drip-fed in short messages on Ronnie’s phone.

  The Brits had been hearing ‘chatter’ about another attack, but had no leads about the type of threat they were facing.

  Ayesha Haneef was a start. Another brainwashed soldier of suburbia. Finding her was going to be a challenge. Especially if she didn’t want to be found.

  ‘They want your help, Bailey,’ Ronnie said.

  ‘Who’s they?’

  ‘British Intelligence. They need someone who knows Mustafa. And there’s every chance that he might call you again.’

  ‘No thanks,’ Bailey said. They were talking in the car, heading east, on the way back to the city from Wiley Park. ‘I don’t work for spooks.’

  Ronnie reached across Bailey’s lap and grabbed a fresh cigar from the glove box, sticking it in the centre of his mouth. He sparked it, directing the smoke at the window just as he was opening it.

  ‘Don’t be so naive, bubba,’ he said, eventually. ‘We’re all on the same side.’

  ‘And what side is that, Ronnie?’

  ‘The side that takes down a mass murderer. The guy who ripped out your fingernails and threw a wet rag on your face, followed by a bucket of water. Whose men played Russian Roulette on your temple. The guy who –’

  ‘Enough!’ Bailey slammed his fist on the dash. ‘You’ve made your point.’

  ‘We need to give ourselves every chance to get this son of a bitch. Stop the attacks. The killings. That means you,’ Ronnie said. ‘Let’s make this right.’

  ‘Just stop talking for a minute, would you?’ Bailey was staring out the window, head spinning, trying to process. ‘I just need a fucking minute.’

  Maybe Ronnie was right. Maybe Mustafa al-Baghdadi was the exception to Bailey’s rule. The psychopath who was responsible for the attempt on Gerald’s life, who put a bomb under his car, the reason why his daughter was hiding in a safehouse. And all the rest.

  He knew Ronnie was preying on Bailey’s justice streak. Problem was that he was right. They needed to get this lunatic off the street. Shut him down.

  ‘Okay. I’ll do it. But, Ronnie?’ He turned his head, waiting to catch Ronnie’s eye. ‘I’m not taking orders from anyone. You, or your friends in Her Majesty’s Secret Circus.’

  Ronnie made an odd chortling sound. ‘Never expected you would.’

  Before Bailey was going anywhere, he needed to know that his daughter was safe.

  He called Dexter.

  ‘Bloody hell, Bailey,’ she answered, abruptly. ‘I told you not to go inside.’

  ‘Yeah, the big guy was with me, he’s not good at following instructions.’

  Bailey looked across at Ronnie, who smiled through a puff of smoke.

  ‘Don’t be cute.’

  ‘Sorry if we put you in a difficult position,’ Bailey said. ‘Time was tight. We had no idea Sara would be there.’

  He wanted to say that she should have been grateful because, without their help, Sara probably would have still been on the run. Still a threat.

  Dexter sighed into the phone. ‘You were lucky, Bailey. You guys missed something.’

  ‘Hang on, Sharon, I’m going to put you on speaker so Ronnie can hear.’

  ‘Sara had weapons. Guns.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ Ronnie called across the seat to Bailey’s phone. ‘There was nothing on her when I found her.’

  ‘We found a bag with a Glock and an assault rifle stashed in the bushes out the back of the house,’ Dexter said. ‘Anyway, what matters is that we stopped her from shooting up Martin Place at lunchtime today.’

  ‘What?’ Bailey said.

  ‘I’ve been through the messages on Hassan Saleh’s phone. He changed the target to Martin Place after what happened yesterday.’

  ‘What was the first target?’

  ‘The public transport system,’ Dexter said. ‘A bus, a train. We don’t know. The communications about that are vague. When we found the bombs, things changed.’

  ‘What I don’t get,’ Bailey said, ‘is why Sara went back home.’

  ‘I think Saleh made a mistake by telling her that Omar was going back there to get fresh clothes for the family. Maybe she wanted to see her father one last time? Maybe she wanted to know about Tariq? Only she can tell us that.’

  At least Sara hadn’t been armed with a bomb. Dexter told them that, according to Saleh’s phone, the last of the explosives were seized in Raymond’s van. Suleman – the driver – had already told that to police. Now she had a second source. The terrorist threat to Sydney could well be over, but Dexter wasn’t about to make that bold declaration just yet. Not until Ayesha had been found.

  ‘Sharon,’ Bailey took the phone off speaker-mode, ‘apparently British authorities want me in London.’

  ‘You should go.’

  She already knew.

  ‘And this is you advising me as my partner or as the head of the Joint Counter Terrorism Team?’

  ‘I don’t have time for this, Bailey.’ Dexter sounded cold. ‘If you don’t want to be a part of stopping this, that’s up to you.’

  ‘Haven’t made up my mind,’ Bailey said. ‘This isn’t black and white for me.’

  ‘It should be.’

  Bailey was done with the dance. ‘I need a favour from you.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I need to speak to Miranda. I need to know she’s okay.’

  ‘I can do that. Give me an hour.’

  Dexter hung up.

  Ronnie had been puffing away on his cigar, waiting for the call to end.

  ‘What’s the play, bubba?’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere until I speak to my daughter,’ Bailey said. ‘And I want to see Gerald.’

  Ronnie looked at his watch. ‘Plane leaves in four hours. We’ve got time. Let’s hope the old boy’s up for an early visit.’

  CHAPTER 41

  Nancy was fast asleep in the reclining armchair beside Gerald’s bed when Bailey and Ronnie walked past the bleary-eyed policeman guarding the door and into the room.

  ‘Hey . . . Hey, Gerald, you awake?’ Bailey was tapping Gerald’s foot through the blanket, whispering so that he wouldn’t wake Nancy. ‘It’s me, old boy. You awake?’

  Bailey heard a grunting sound. He tried again, shaking his friend’s foot some more. ‘Gerald, I need to tell you something.’

  Gerald had been sleeping in an upright position. Bailey could see his face in the lig
ht that was reflecting through the open door. His eyes opened.

  ‘Mate, how are you feeling?’

  Gerald tried to say something and started coughing. He pointed to a glass of water on the table beside his bed.

  Bailey handed it to him and Gerald took a sip, coughing again to clear his throat, before taking another longer gulp.

  ‘What the . . .’ His voice was raspy, although slightly clearer than it had been the night before. The swelling in his neck must have been going down like the doctor had said it would. ‘What are you guys doing here? Isn’t it the middle of the bloody night?’

  ‘More like very early in the morning.’

  ‘Where’s Miranda?’

  Typical Gerald. And one of the reasons why Bailey loved him.

  ‘She’s in a safehouse somewhere up the coast,’ Bailey said. ‘I’ll be talking to her when the sun’s up.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  Ronnie appeared on the other side of the bed, checking out the room. ‘This is a bit different from that flashy house of yours overlooking the water.’

  ‘You stink of cigars, Ronnie. Don’t get too close. Nancy wakes up and you’re both toast.’

  Bailey laughed. ‘Don’t we know it.’

  ‘So, what’s happened? Please tell me that you’ve found the kid and this thing’s over.’

  Ronnie looked over at Bailey, waiting for him to be the one to run Gerald through everything that had happened since the attack.

  ‘What happens now?’ Gerald said when Bailey had finished.

  ‘We’re going to London,’ Ronnie chimed in. ‘Believe it or not, this guy’s going to help me catch the world’s most wanted terrorist.’

  Gerald’s laughter quickly turned into a coughing fit and Bailey handed him the cup of water again.

  ‘He’s joking, right?’ Gerald directed his question at Bailey without looking at the big Oklahoman to his left. ‘Please tell me he’s bloody joking.’

  ‘He’s not.’

  ‘Ronnie, thanks for the visit.’ Gerald held up his hand so that Ronnie could shake it. ‘Now, get out.’

  Ronnie laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Gerald. I’ll be keeping an eye on him.’

  Gerald waited for Ronnie to walk out the door before he gestured for Bailey to come closer so that he could talk quietly in his ear.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘Not really,’ Bailey said. ‘But it’s got to end somehow.’

  ‘Don’t go being a hero,’ Gerald said.

  ‘Heroes don’t come dressed like me, mate.’ Bailey tugged on his second-hand shirt. ‘Anyway, they want me there to help profile Mustafa, or something.’

  ‘It’s the something that worries me.’ Gerald shifted in the bed so that he could sit higher, eye to eye with Bailey. ‘The guy tried to kill you, Bailey. And me.’

  ‘Yeah, well. He’s had his chance.’

  Gerald pointed his finger at Bailey like a school teacher. ‘Have you seriously thought this through?’

  ‘Not really.’ At least Bailey was honest. ‘Decision’s made though. I’ve got a flight to catch.’ Bailey paused, preparing for the important bit that made what he was about to do all the more real. And stupid. ‘Anything happens to me, you’ll take care of Miranda, right?’

  ‘Like she was my own.’

  Gerald Summers. Bailey’s brother from another.

  Bailey bent down and put his arms around his mate, whispering in his ear. ‘Back soon, old boy. There’s going to be a wedding.’

  Gerald waited for Bailey to let go before he answered. ‘The doc popped the question?’

  ‘He’s about to. Miranda will want to tell you herself, so don’t let on.’

  ‘Big news, mate.’

  ‘Yeah. I’d better put in that insurance claim on the Corolla. Might at least pay for one of her shoes.’

  ‘Call me when you get to London.’

  ‘Will do, old boy.’

  ‘Bailey,’ Gerald stopped Bailey at the door, ‘send in the redneck. I want to talk to him again before you guys leave.’

  Ronnie’s head appeared at the door. He’d probably heard every word.

  ‘Shut the door.’

  CHAPTER 42

  Guys like Ronnie Johnson and John Bailey knew how to pack in a hurry. They’d taken enough last-minute plane rides to enough places to know exactly what they needed.

  Bare essentials only, stuffed in carry-on bags so that they could make a quick exit at the other end when the plane touched down.

  For Bailey, that meant passport, bankcards, notebook, pens, toiletries, and changes of underwear and socks. If the weather was anything like last week, it was going to be bloody cold, so he packed his old leather jacket, a spare pair of jeans – identical to the ones that he was wearing – and the three remaining flannelette shirts that he’d picked up from the charity shop in Redfern.

  By 6.05 am, the two men were standing on the footpath out front of Bailey’s house waiting for a taxi to take them to Kingsford Smith International Airport.

  After the hospital visit and the time it had taken them to pack, they had two and a half hours before their plane was due to depart. With an unavoidable stopover, the trip would take them thirty-one hours.

  ‘That was my contact in British intelligence,’ Ronnie said. ‘They’ll be waiting for us at the other end.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ Bailey said. ‘Any news on Mustafa?’

  ‘Not much. All those sounds together from the recording gave up a hundred different locations in and around London.’

  ‘London’s a big place, mate,’ Bailey said. ‘How the hell are the police going to find him?’

  ‘They’re hoping he calls you again.’

  ‘I should have listened to Gerald,’ Bailey said, feeling like a piece of cheese in a mousetrap. ‘By the way, Ronnie, what did he say to you back in the hospital?’

  ‘Said he’d break all my fishing rods and have me deported if anything happened to you.’

  Bailey smiled as a yellow cab pulled up beside them. ‘That’s our boy.’

  At the airport, there were people with guns everywhere. Two army trucks were parked out the front of the international terminal and Bailey counted more than a dozen soldiers walking along the footpath, staring at people, their luggage, their demeanour, searching for that extra bead of sweat above a pair of eyes that looked away too soon.

  Bailey didn’t even bother to try to count the number of Australian Federal Police who were doing the same thing inside the glass doors of the terminal.

  It took a lot to shake this city. A gun battle, a car bomb and a knife attack by terrorists in broad daylight had done it. Authorities had raised the terrorist threat level to its highest marker – imminent – and it wouldn’t be brought back down until Dexter and her team were one hundred per cent sure that it was over.

  Despite all the extra security, checking in was as painless as check-ins can be. Somehow, planes were taking off on time and Bailey and Ronnie had managed a serve of bacon and eggs before boarding their flight. The eggs were dried and the bacon was dripping with fat, but it was just what Bailey needed to push back on the hangover that was reminding him that he was back to day one.

  He had dodged another call from Annie Brooks while shovelling his breakfast – he’d sent her a message telling her that he was fine and that he was headed for London – but Bailey couldn’t ignore the next call that came through just as the plane doors were closing.

  Dexter.

  ‘There’s been a complication with Tariq,’ she said.

  ‘You’re going to have to turn that off please, sir.’

  The flight attendant had stopped in the aisle and he was staring at Bailey.

  ‘I’ll just be a minute, Marcus,’ Bailey said, acknowledging the name tag pinned to his vest.

  ‘It needs to go off now, sir.’ Marcus wasn’t having any of it. There were rules on planes and he was there to enforce them.

  ‘It’s an important phone call.’ Ronnie was sittin
g in the middle seat, closer to Marcus. ‘Cut him some slack.’

  ‘He needs to switch it off. Now.’

  ‘While I’ve got you, Marcus.’ Ronnie raised his hand, trying to divert his attention. ‘Do you know if my lactose-free meal has been ordered?’

  ‘We’ll go through the meal options later.’

  ‘I’d really like to get an answer now. If I get near any dairy, things could get ugly. Like Clark Kent and kryptonite.’

  ‘Sir?’ Marcus was leaning over Ronnie’s head now, trying to get Bailey’s attention.

  ‘Quick, Sharon,’ Bailey said. ‘We’re about to take off. Is Tariq going to make it?’

  ‘Don’t know. Something about the swelling on his brain,’ Dexter said. ‘Anyway, there’s something else. We’ve had people trawling through the devices we found at the house where the Salma brothers were holding Tariq.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We’d found a smartphone, badly damaged. The sim’s been crushed and our techs are trying to get the data off it. Could take a while. It was Tariq’s, but we think that it may have once belonged to Sara. A hand-me-down.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘The serial number’s registered in her name.’

  ‘Sir.’ Marcus was trying to stay calm.

  Ronnie tapped Marcus on the arm. ‘I would seriously like to know if my lactose-free meal has been reserved.’

  ‘Look, we’ll sort out the meals once we take off.’ Marcus leaned across the seats, tapping Bailey on the shoulder. ‘Sir! I’m going to ask you for the last time to get off your phone!’

  ‘Just one more second.’ Bailey held up his hand. ‘How’d you go with Sara?’

  ‘Nothing. She’s a closed shop at the moment. We’re trying.’

  ‘Get. Off. Your. Phone!’ Marcus had raised his voice so loudly that he startled some of the other passengers.

  Bailey had turned towards the window, cupping the phone to his ear so that he could hear Dexter’s voice above the commotion.

  ‘Our best chance is Tariq.’

  ‘Sir!’ Marcus had lost it. ‘I’m about to escort you off the plane.’

  ‘And Bailey?’ Dexter said. ‘The Brits have both counter-terrorism and MI5 on this. They don’t always play nice. You find out anything, you tell me. Okay?’