by Tim Ayliffe
Walker pushed through the beads that separated the room from the carpet shop, the sweet smell of scented tobacco wafting in, irritating Bailey’s nostrils. He could hear her saying a few words to the guy smoking the hookah out front, probably handing him a fistful of American banknotes, before the ringing bells of the door signalled her departure.
Bailey wasn’t sure who Walker had arranged for him to meet. ‘Someone who knows more than I do,’ she’d said. ‘You can trust him. At least as much as you can trust anyone around here. But you’ll get something on the record for your story.’
Those words had been meant to reassure him, but all they did was make him more nervous. Bailey was the type of guy who walked into situations with his eyes wide open, knowing where he was going, what he was doing, who he was meeting. But he trusted Walker. After all, she was the one who’d put her career on the line to tell him about the massacre of innocent civilians during a botched raid on a farmhouse in Uruzgan. And now she had handed him proof.
How long would he need to wait? Bailey had spent long enough in Kabul to know that time had many meanings here. The usual rules around clocks – like scheduled meetings – didn’t apply. He decided to rip the top off the envelope in front of him, check whether he really did have the story she’d promised. There was a thick, bound folder inside, the ADF insignia on the front, along with one word: CLASSIFIED.
It was all there. Everything she’d told him. Transcripts of interviews. Summary findings signed off by high-ranking ADF officials, pointing to intelligence failures but highlighting the fact that a cache of weapons had also been discovered on the property. Justification for what had happened. Why Afghans had to be killed. He sifted through the pages, speed-reading, taking in as much as he could, pausing only when he came to the collection of photographs. The family. Children. Neat bullet holes in foreheads. Executions at close range. An adult male with rope tied around his wrists but not bound together. Puzzling. Bailey wondered whether his hands had been freed before, or after, he was shot. Another question that he’d put to the military brass before the story went to print.
He couldn’t find any photographs of the cache of weapons that the ADF had supposedly found on the property. Evidence supporting the justification for the raid. The killings. A significant omission from the internal investigation that had cleared Australian soldiers of any wrongdoing. Where were the weapons?
The bells in the shop rang again. Footsteps and voices out front.
Bailey hurriedly packed up the folder and had just finished stuffing it into the bag at his feet when the curtain parted and three men walked in, assault rifles dangling from their shoulders. They were dressed in Afghan military uniforms, the nation’s red, black and green flag stitched on their shoulders.
Bailey should have been relieved by the uniforms but, if anything, they made him even more nervous. It wasn’t hard to get hold of an army uniform in Kabul. The Taliban had made stealing them an artform, sending suicide bombers into crowded bazaars dressed as the soldiers who were supposed to be there to protect people.
‘Up!’
The man closest to Bailey gestured for him to get to his feet. Bailey did what he was told, raising his arms in the air, palms up.
‘Easy, fella,’ Bailey said. ‘I’m a friend of Commander Harriet Walker.’
‘I know who you are,’ the man said, his English polished and clear. ‘Legs apart.’
Bailey winced as he copped the kind of overly thorough pat-down that, in most other countries, would have seen this guy arrested.
After Bailey had been checked, the man grabbed the radio from his belt, barking something in Pashto, while gesturing for Bailey to remain standing.
Bailey waited in silence with the men, their stern expressions and dark eyes not filling him with reassurance. There was barely enough room and they were standing so close together that Bailey couldn’t help thinking that at least one of them was in need of a bath.
The bell on the door went again. Voices. More footsteps.
Another man with a gun pushed through the beads, holding them to the side for a man in a suit. A man Bailey recognised from countless media briefings and his appearances on television. Afghanistan’s Minister for Justice, Abdul Rashid Haleem.
‘Minister.’ Bailey broke the silence, holding out his hand. ‘John Bailey. Thanks for seeing me.’
The two men shook hands before Haleem sat down, gesturing for Bailey to do the same.
‘I only have a few minutes,’ he said, brushing dust from the elbow of his jacket. ‘What do you need?’
‘Harriet Walker… Commander Walker said you wanted to meet.’ Thrown by the question, Bailey stuttered. ‘You know about the incident in Uruzgan?’
‘The execution of eight Afghan civilians is hardly what I’d be referring to as an incident, Mr Bailey.’
The intensity of Haleem’s stare was unsettling Bailey and he wasn’t sure that the justice minister had even blinked since entering the room. But he needed to pull himself together, ask the questions he needed to ask before Haleem lost patience with him and left.
‘What do you know about what happened at the farmhouse?’
‘I know exactly what happened.’
‘Are we on the record, minister?’
Haleem sighed. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
Bailey bent down and grabbed his notebook from his bag, while maintaining eye contact with Haleem. ‘And what is your response?’
‘The Afghan Government has serious concerns about the conduct of the Australian soldiers involved in the raid. An innocent family was slaughtered, including women and children. We demand a thorough investigation and for that investigation to be shared with us.’
Bailey was unnerved by the response, knowing that he had the report that Haleem was talking about stuffed inside the bag at his feet.
‘And do you think that Australia will grant you access to that report?’
Haleem paused, blinking for the first time. ‘It would be in Australia’s interests to do so.’
Bailey was scribbling down Haleem’s every word in the barely legible shorthand that only he could decipher.
‘Does this incident… will the deaths of Afghan citizens at the hands of Australian soldiers have a detrimental effect on relations between the two countries?’
‘A life is a life, Mr Bailey. Thousands of people have been killed in this war. When innocent civilians die for no apparent reason, that is a war crime. We have conducted our own investigation and determined that the people killed had no links to the Taliban, as previously stated by the Australian military. So yes, without proper justice, the unlawful killing of Afghan civilians will have a detrimental effect on relations.’
‘Minister Haleem.’ Bailey cleared his throat. ‘Would it be possible to get a copy of your report about what happened?’
Haleem held up his arm, pointing his finger at one of the men behind him, without looking around. The man in uniform who had accompanied the justice minister into the room produced an envelope from inside his jacket, handing it to his boss.
‘This is a summary. It supports what I’ve told you, with details about the victims. Names.’ He slid the envelope across the table towards Bailey, tapping the paper with his fingers. ‘You’re an experienced reporter, Mr Bailey. I have confidence that you will write the truth. But if I can ask you one small favour?’
Bailey baulked at the word. When a politician of any stripe asked for a ‘favour’ it was never good.
‘What is it?’
‘Name the victims. All of them. The victims had names. They had families. Friends. Give them the respect they deserve. Print their names so their deaths don’t get lost in this war.’
Bailey was taken aback by the comment. His experiences in Afghanistan had led him to expect something else. Before he had a chance to respond, Haleem was on his feet, holding out his hand. ‘And you did not get that report from me.’
‘Of course.’ Bailey nodded, shaking his hand, watching the me
n push through the beads and file out of the room. He was still standing when he heard the ringing bell on the door.
Haleem wanted the truth to be out there.
Bailey could give him that.
CHAPTER 10
The vibrating phone on the coffee table sounded like a growling dog and Bailey sat upright, startled, wondering what the hell had gotten into Campo.
Looking around, he spied her sleeping on the rug beside him, before noticing the flashing, humming phone.
‘Bailey.’
He caught it just in time.
‘Hiya, Mr Bailey, it’s Candy here from Chrystal Talent Management. Chrystal wanted me to give you a call to let you know that Augustus Strong is available for an interview with you.’
Candy was sounding much more pleasant than she had earlier in the day.
‘Sounds good. When and where?’ Bailey said, still trying to focus his eyes.
‘Ten-thirty at the Hilton on George.’
Bailey looked at his watch, wondering whether it was morning or night.
It was 9.55 pm.
‘Tonight?’
‘Yes. Augustus is really busy. He’s just gotten back from a meeting with some politicians in Canberra but he says he’s fine to talk to you. Jet lag, and all that. He’s up half the night.’ Candy laughed to herself on the other end of the phone. ‘Can we confirm that please? I’ll need to let Chrystal know you’re coming.’
Bailey wasn’t about to turn down an interview with the person who was supposed to be the subject of his article for Enquirer Magazine. At this time of night, he could make it to the Hilton in ten minutes.
‘I’ll be there.’
‘Good. You’ll have twenty minutes with him. Chrystal will meet you at reception and show you up to his suite.’
‘Candy, do me a favour and organise a car spot for me?’
Candy went quiet on the other end of the line, like Bailey had just asked her to donate a kidney. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’
* * *
It seemed that organising Bailey a car spot underneath the Hilton was a problem, and so was his presence inside the hotel foyer at 10.25 pm.
‘Who are you again?’
A guy with a name tag that said Richard was tut-tutting to nobody as he searched what he called ‘the messages folder’ and tapped away on his keyboard.
‘My name’s John Bailey and I’m here to meet Chrystal Armstrong.’
‘I just don’t have any record of this. Tracey… Tracey!’ He was calling out to a woman in a uniform that matched his, waving for her to come over and join the conversation. ‘Do you know anything about a meeting with Chrystal Armstrong and… and…’
‘John Bailey.’
‘…this gentleman tonight?’
‘Excuse me, sorry. Sorry. This is my fault.’
Chrystal Armstrong pushed past Bailey, tapping the reception desk with her long, painted, nails, smiling at Richard. ‘I’m sorry, darl. We’re visiting Augustus Strong upstairs. My stupid assistant was supposed to have let you know.’
Richard had time for one more breathy ‘tut’ before he faked a smile. ‘Sure. Is he coming down to collect you? The elevators are card activated.’
Chrystal held up a plastic card. ‘We have one, thank you.’
Bailey followed Chrystal towards the elevators, struggling to keep up with her despite the fact that she was wearing heels so tall that it was like she was balancing on stilts.
‘Sorry about the mad dash,’ she said when they were safely inside the elevator, her eyes wandering from Bailey’s tradesman’s boots up his jeans to the red and black checked flannelette shirt that he’d been wearing all day. ‘It’s been mental.’
‘No worries. Did you go to Canberra with him too?’
‘Yeah. Awful trip that one. Drive or fly, it’s always three hours each way. Makes no difference.’ She sighed. ‘We flew, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘So, you’re involved with this new magazine of Jock’s, I hear?’
The mention of Jock Donaldson’s name annoyed Bailey. He must have put a call in to Chrystal to help arrange the interview. No meddling. That was the deal with Neena. He made a mental note to call her tomorrow so that she could remind Donaldson that Bailey didn’t need his help.
‘You’ve been talking to Jock?’
Her lips smiled while her face stood still. ‘Yes. He’s a darling.’
The elevator doors opened on the sixteenth floor and Bailey followed Chrystal as she raced down the corridor, resuming the cracking pace she’d set downstairs.
She stopped at the door. ‘Now, Mr Bailey. A few ground rules. You’ll have twenty minutes. I’ll be sitting in. Any uncomfortable questions and the interview’s over.’
Bailey had been doing this a long time and he’d dealt with ‘minders’ far more difficult that Chrystal Armstrong. She had issued her instructions with a calmness that told him that people rarely challenged her. Until now.
‘Sure. Sit in, if you like.’ He returned her smile. ‘I’ll ask any question I like and he can give me any answer he likes. But I’d hate for you to interrupt the interview, or end it prematurely. From this point onwards, everything’s on the record.’
Chrystal’s smile vanished and her eyes hardened. ‘I’m not here to be a part of your story, Mr Bailey.’
‘That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say.’
They were standing at the door, staring at each other, Bailey imagining that Chrystal was contemplating cancelling the interview before it had even begun.
‘Jock and I are good friends.’
‘Barely know the bloke.’
Chrystal had just played the type of card that probably worked on the typical entertainment reporter that she was used to dealing with, but it had had no effect on a seasoned investigative reporter like Bailey.
After a few more seconds she sighed and put her key card in the door, turning the handle. ‘Don’t make me regret this, Mr Bailey.’
‘I’m not making you do anything.’
She rolled her eyes at him, undoubtedly annoyed at having organised the interview. Too late to back out now.
‘Augustus, darling? Are you decent?’ Chrystal called out as she walked, slowly, inside.
‘Yeah, babe!’ Augustus called back. ‘Come in!’
Chrystal turned to Bailey. ‘Be nice.’
‘Of course. I’m really excited about meeting him.’
Bailey winked at her, enjoying watching the concern spread across her face as he feigned the fan boy.
Strong was sitting on his bed wearing one of the hotel’s white bathrobes, a plate with a half-eaten hamburger and a few leftover fries beside him.
‘Augustus, this is that reporter I told you about. John Bailey.’
Strong climbed off the bed and walked over to them, a hand outstretched to Bailey. ‘Hi, bud. Great to meet you. Thanks for the interest in my trip. Australia’s been a lot of fun. Just great.’
‘Augustus, I thought we’d all sit over here for the interview?’
Chrystal was gesturing towards the lounge area in the adjoining room, where two glasses of water had been arranged on a coffee table in between a pair of armchairs.
‘Perfect.’
When they were sitting down, Bailey pulled out his mobile phone, switching it to flight mode and activating the recording device. ‘If you don’t mind?’
‘Of course.’
Strong appeared friendly and charming, which was at odds with some of the vitriol that Bailey had seen on his Twitter account and from some of the other interviews he’d done.
‘Now.’ Strong clasped his hands together, sitting back in his chair. ‘What would you like to talk about?’
‘You’ve become somewhat of a controversial fellow, Mr Strong –’
‘Please, call me Augustus.’
‘How do you feel about being the pin-up boy for far right nationalist and white supremacist groups?’
Bailey had decided to go in hard but
Strong didn’t flinch. The seasoned professional. ‘All sorts of people like what I have to say. Most people are actually quite ordinary. They’re just tired of political correctness. I’m not afraid of calling that out.’
‘And what about those critics who say you’re racist?’
Strong smiled, like he was enjoying the barbs being thrown at him. ‘You see, this is where people misunderstand my words. My positions. Let’s take immigration, for example. It’s true that I’m dead against Muslim immigration in America, but not because I don’t like Muslims, or anyone from the Middle East for that matter. What I’m concerned about is the disintegration, the erosion, of American culture. My country is the greatest country on earth. I’m a proud patriot. What I want is for people to be able to talk openly and honestly about how different Muslim culture is from our own. I want America to hang on to the values, the traditions, we hold so dear. If I get vilified by overly sensitive left-wing fanatics, so be it.’
‘So you don’t believe that you’re racist?’
‘Absolutely not. What I am is someone who’s brave enough to call out stupidity and political correctness when it damages free speech. When it has a detrimental effect on our society. People often confuse my staunch defence of western culture with some kind of racist crusade. I’m not a white supremacist. It’s ridiculous.’
Strong was speaking so quickly and eloquently that Bailey felt like he was listening to a routine that had been rehearsed a hundred times before.
‘I’m sure you’ve heard some of my comments about what happened in Barnsworth, England?’
Bailey had. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘More than a thousand young girls were raped by Pakistani gangs over a ten-year period. It happened because nobody wanted to talk about it. The police were afraid. Politicians were afraid. Everyone was afraid due to mindless political correctness. Everyone was afraid of calling out these Pakistani Muslim rapists for fear of upsetting people. Spare me!’ Strong rolled his eyes, taking a sip of water to oil his larynx, smooth the pipe for the next rush of words. ‘Spare me the offence! Had a bunch of white guys been responsible, they would have been called out and hunted down. But because it involved migrant communities it was somehow too delicate to talk about? Come on, Mr Bailey. That’s just ridiculous. Ridiculous.’