The Enemy Within

by Tim Ayliffe

  ‘I know this is difficult, Bailey,’ Marjorie said. ‘I’m just giving you advice on the most sensible course of action.’

  ‘Right. Right.’ Bailey was shaking his head, speaking with a mouthful of pizza. ‘Sorry, Marj. I’m just racking my brain here. The Afghan stories. Hat’s murder. The raid. The timing of it all. There’s something more. Has to be.’

  ‘We need to think our way through this, carefully,’ Marjorie said. ‘I’m doing this pro bono, by the way. You know that, right?’

  ‘Thanks, Marj. Thanks. I really appreciate it. I do.’

  ‘It’s fine. Of course it’s fine, you know that. But I need to know everything.’ Marjorie cleared her throat. ‘Gerald told me about the new job with Neena. What are you working on?’

  Bailey hadn’t given much thought to the piece he was writing about Augustus Strong and far right nationalism. He’d only been thinking of his stories about Afghanistan and the documents that he’d been given by Harriet Walker and the Afghan Minister for Justice, Abdul Rashid Haleem, all those years ago. Whether they could somehow be traced back to Harriet. Her death hadn’t changed anything for him on that front. He would take their secret to the grave. Like she had. He just needed to know that the documents couldn’t be found.

  ‘Gerald –’

  ‘They’re safe, Bailey. Untraceable.’

  Bailey nodded gratefully.

  Before Gerald had published Bailey’s first story about the Uruzgan killings, Bailey had sent him the original files in the post. If Gerald was going to publish a story about Australian soldiers allegedly committing war crimes, he’d need to see the evidence. The documents were probably locked in a safety deposit box somewhere, along with any other secrets that a former newspaper editor kept under lock and key. Bailey didn’t need to know where. He didn’t want to know.

  ‘Thanks, mate.’ He took another bite of his pizza, holding up the slice in front of Gerald. ‘This is good. You should have some.’

  ‘So, what are you working on?’ Marjorie asked again.

  ‘I’m investigating right-wing extremists. The people getting excited about that Augustus Strong clown’s visit to Australia. Interviewed him last night, actually.’

  Gerald had said that he wasn’t eating but the smell of the pizza was too good and he picked up a piece, casually taking a bite. ‘What was he like?’

  ‘As you might expect, full of bluster. Big statements. Scratched the surface and there wasn’t much there.’ Bailey smiled as he remembered the interview. ‘He faked a headache and his PR flunky kicked me out.’

  Gerald laughed, almost choking.

  ‘What I don’t understand is, why now?’ Marjorie hadn’t reacted to Bailey’s commentary about Strong and she was frowning. ‘Why would the AFP suddenly be interested in the Uruzgan stories?’

  ‘Unless it’s not about that,’ Bailey said. ‘Unless this has nothing to do with Afghanistan.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Bailey?’ Gerald said.

  Bailey ignored the question and grabbed his phone from the bench, punching in his security code. The second he’d arrived home he had scoured through his laptop computer and his phone to see whether the AFP had ‘altered or deleted’ any of his work. It appeared that they hadn’t. Marjorie had demanded a list of the things that they’d copied, mostly innocuous emails and copies of handwritten pages from his notebooks. Bailey’s exchange with Walker on Signal was there too, but that hadn’t rung alarm bells for him because he’d already concluded that there was nothing incriminating in it. All the Signal chat did was confirm that they knew each other well enough to arrange a meeting.

  But there was something else.

  ‘I was due to meet Hat this morning,’ he said, still staring at his phone, thumb guiding his search. ‘I had asked her to look at something for me. A video.’

  ‘What video?’ Gerald had walked around the other side of the kitchen counter and he was standing behind Bailey, staring over his shoulder. ‘Bailey? What video?’

  ‘It’s gone.’

  Bailey looked up, confused.

  ‘What’s gone?’ Marjorie said. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Someone has deleted a video from my phone.’ Bailey clenched his jaw, breathing out hard, reaching across the counter towards Marjorie. ‘Show me that list.’

  Gerald and Marjorie watched in silence as Bailey flicked through the pages again, flinging the ones that didn’t interest him across the bench, some of them floating to the floor.

  ‘It’s not here. The bloody video isn’t on the list.’

  Bailey reached across the table, grabbing a copy of the warrant, turning the pages so quickly that he was tearing paper.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Marjorie said.

  ‘This.’

  Bailey slammed a page onto the stone, pointing at the paragraph he’d been searching for.

  ‘To add, copy, delete or alter other data in the computer or device found in the course of a search authorised under the warrant.’ Bailey was reading – word for word – from the page. ‘And that’s exactly what they’ve done.’

  ‘What was it?’ Gerald said. ‘What did they delete?’

  ‘I took a video of the crowd at Augustus Strong’s talk two nights ago. I passed the video to Hat. She said she was going to have a look at it, see if there were any interesting faces in the crowd. You heard the ASIO chief the other day, talking up the threat of white supremacist groups. Hat was interested in the video. From the way she was talking, I reckon she was already part of some investigation into these groups. With her rank, she was probably leading it.’ Bailey stopped talking for a moment, massaging his temples. ‘I did a deal with her. I gave her the video with the hope that she’d share anything interesting she found. The AFP have been on to these groups for a while. That’s why we were meeting this morning. She said she had something for me. Now she’s fucking dead.’

  ‘Calm down, mate,’ Gerald said. ‘We don’t know if it’s connected. The cops are talking about her death at Maroubra as a robbery, or something. What you’re suggesting is a stretch. More than that. It’s a big leap, Bailey.’

  ‘Yeah, well. As I said, I don’t think it was a coincidence.’

  ‘Think rationally for a second.’ Gerald was speaking slowly, an obvious ploy to get Bailey to calm down. ‘If the feds are looking into hate groups in Australia, maybe the video had something on it that compromised an investigation? Maybe that’s what Harriet was about to tell you?’

  ‘Are you being serious?’

  ‘I’m just speculating. Trying to understand why.’

  ‘Why? Why? You mean why would the AFP be given such extraordinary powers by a judge to literally do whatever the hell they want? Turn my life upside down?’ Bailey was so angry that he was shaking. ‘There’s nothing to understand! It’s simple. The AFP have deleted a video from my phone that has no relationship to the subject of the warrant, which is a series of articles that I wrote in 2011 about what amounted to Australian war crimes in Afghanistan. A video of far right nationalists couldn’t be further away from those stories. They are entirely unrelated. This is absurd.’

  ‘Bailey, I wasn’t defending what happened here.’ Gerald was doing well to stay calm. ‘I’m just trying to look at this from another angle, trying to get a grip.’

  ‘Boys, look at this.’

  Marjorie was pointing at the small television in Bailey’s kitchen, where they had earlier watched the stories about Bailey on the six o’clock news. Inside Story had just started and there was a strap across the screen with Harriet Walker’s name on it.

  ‘Turn it up, Marj,’ Bailey said.

  ‘Harriet Walker was out walking on Maroubra Beach when she was attacked in what police believe was a violent robbery.’ The presenter had a stern look on his face as he delivered the breaking news. ‘Inside Story has more startling revelations to bring you tonight. Annie Brooks joins us now from the Sydney suburb of Paddington. Annie, what can you tell us?’

 
; Annie Brooks was standing directly outside Bailey’s house.

  ‘You are fucking joking,’ Bailey said.

  ‘Isn’t that –’

  Bailey waved his hand at Gerald. ‘Quiet. Quiet.’

  ‘Good evening, Jim. I’m standing outside the home of the prominent investigative journalist, John Bailey, which was today raided by the Australian Federal Police over a story that Mr Bailey wrote almost nine years ago about an ADF operation in Uruzgan that led to the deaths of eight Afghan nationals. I’ve seen a copy of the Australian Federal Police warrant and tonight we can reveal that the name Commander Harriet Walker – who of course we have just identified as the AFP officer murdered this morning on Maroubra Beach – is named in the warrant. In fact, it seems very clear that John Bailey’s house was raided today due to his connection to Harriet Walker.’

  The presenter, Jim Connors, appeared in a box on the screen again as he prepared to ask a question.

  ‘Annie, what more do we know about the connection between Harriet Walker and John Bailey?’

  ‘Well, Jim, John Bailey’s story sparked a huge controversy when it first broke in 2011 and it would end up leading to a war crimes investigation at the Hague. Although the ADF’s own investigation cleared Australian soldiers of any wrongdoing, the Afghan Government’s inquiry accused Australian soldiers of executing eight civilians during a botched raid on what was thought to be a Taliban safehouse. The International Criminal Court would eventually deliver an open finding. Central to John Bailey’s story was a leaked copy of the ADF’s investigation and today’s warrant suggests that the AFP suspect the source of that leak may have been Harriet Walker. Today’s raid on John Bailey’s home seems to be an attempt by the AFP to find proof. But why would the AFP suddenly be interested in a series of stories from eight years ago? And there’s also the peculiar timing of Harriet Walker’s tragic death on the same day that the AFP decided to raid John Bailey’s home. These are all questions that the team at Inside Story, and no doubt many Australians watching, are now pondering tonight. Jim.’

  ‘Fuck this.’

  Bailey threw his pizza crust into the cardboard box and charged down the hallway towards the front door.

  ‘Bailey!’

  CHAPTER 17

  ANNIE

  Fletch killed the light that was beaming a white glow across Annie’s cheeks and the hedge inside John Bailey’s front yard.

  ‘Good cross, Annie.’

  ‘Bit of a rush job. Hope I made sense.’

  ‘You did. Nice and punchy. You got it all in.’ Cameramen knew how to pack up quickly and Fletch was already folding his light stand. ‘Bill would have been happy for sure.’

  A sound over Annie’s shoulder caused both of them to jump.

  Bailey’s front door opening.

  The man of the moment stepped out onto his front porch, staring in their direction. Probably relieved that the other television crews had gone, although clearly annoyed by the one that was left.

  ‘Here we go.’ Fletch went for his camera, a reflex action from his years in the business capturing moments, making stories.

  Annie raised her hand. ‘No, Fletch. Don’t.’

  Bailey slowly walked down the steps and through his front gate.

  ‘Annie.’

  The coldness in Bailey’s one-word greeting told Annie all that she needed to know about what he thought of tonight’s performance on national television. Any bridge that had been built between them after they had been reacquainted at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting not so long ago was now burning, along with everything else in the bushfire summer.

  ‘Just doing my job, Bailey. You of all people should know that.’

  Bailey stood there silently, arms folded, staring at her. Cold eyes, uninviting. His house – his life – now a sorry sitcom for the world to watch.

  ‘Are you just going to stand there?’ Annie said, losing empathy with every second that passed. ‘Bailey?’

  Fletch cleared his throat. ‘I’m going to keep packing up, Annie.’

  Annie turned to her cameraman, nodding. ‘Sure, Fletch. No worries.’

  The sky was littered with clouds, making it unusually dark for a summer evening, although not quite dark enough for the driver of the car that was edging along the street to turn his lights on. They both watched and waited for the car to disappear down the end of the street.

  ‘Are you going to say something?’ Annie said, finally.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ Bailey said, his hands still tucked under his armpits.

  ‘People usually start with hello.’

  Annie’s attempt at humour drew a squint from the guy standing in front of her. And a word.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘C’mon, Bailey. Don’t be an arsehole.’

  Annie knew all about being the subject of stories, especially when she had been Sydney’s most popular news presenter. Even more so when she wasn’t. The icing on the cake was when she was hospitalised with a broken jaw after being beaten by her ex-husband. Annie Brooks had lost count of all the times that she’d been the story and she was already tired of Bailey’s grandstanding.

  ‘We’ve both been doing this long enough to know how it works,’ Annie said. ‘No one likes being the story.’

  ‘You got that right.’

  Finally, more than a one-word sentence. Progress.

  ‘You also know that this – that you – are a bloody good story. It’s outrageous what happened here today. The feds raiding your home. The ridiculous powers they’ve been given. I’m sorry, Bailey. I am. It’s shit. Really shit. Are you okay?’

  Annie stepped towards him. A gesture. She wanted to reach out and touch his elbow, get him to unfold his arms. Remind him that they were friends.

  ‘Bailey?’

  ‘What else do you know about what happened to Harriet Walker?’ Bailey said, feet stuck to the concrete like a statue. ‘I presume more than what you just told Jim Connors and the rest of Australia on Inside Story. And, Annie, don’t bullshit me.’

  ‘Not much.’ Annie would need to let this one play out. Let Bailey calm down on his own. ‘I literally got copies of the warrant and the AFP media release about Walker an hour ago.’

  Bailey unfolded his arms, stretching an open palm towards Annie. ‘Let me see it. Your phone. Give me a look at the AFP release.’

  Annie bent down, rummaging her hand inside the bag at her feet until she found her phone. She unlocked it, spooling through her emails until she found the message from Bill, opening the attachment.

  ‘There’s not much there.’ She handed him her phone. ‘Just a name and the suggestion that it was a robbery.’

  ‘Annie, I’m going to go.’ Fletch closed the back door of his four-wheel drive. ‘You good?’

  ‘Yeah, Fletch. Thanks for today. Talk tomorrow, okay?’

  ‘Good one.’ Fletch was talking over the roof of the four-wheel drive, his attention now on Bailey. ‘Like she said, we’re just doing our jobs. You take care of yourself, mate.’

  Bailey nodded his chin and he and Annie stood in silence as Fletch drove away.

  ‘Good bloke?’ Bailey said.

  ‘Yeah. I’ve only been at work a few months, don’t know if I could’ve handled being back on the road without Fletch. Nice guy. Bloody good at his job.’

  Somehow, the conversation had slid somewhere else and, for a split second, Annie felt like she was talking to the guy she had taken walks with in the park. Shared secrets. Like the day she’d told Bailey that she had blown up her sobriety by downing half a bottle of vodka after learning that her violent ex-husband was being let out of prison.

  ‘I’m glad you’re working again. Way too young to give it up,’ Bailey said, the hint of a smile edging the corner of his cheek. ‘And you get to escape that autocue. Be a real journo again. Must have been a shock to the system.’

  Annie laughed. ‘It was, actually. And no offence taken.’

  ‘You were always too good for that commercial newsread
er crap.’

  ‘Again, thanks,’ Annie said, dryly.

  The sound of someone coughing made Annie and Bailey turn around.

  ‘Annie.’ Gerald waved from Bailey’s front porch.

  ‘Hi, Gerald.’

  ‘Are you coming in, Bailey?’ Gerald said. ‘We’ve still got a bit to talk about. Marjorie needs to push off soon.’

  Annie watched Gerald walk back inside the house before she looked at Bailey. The creases in his brow, his sandy blond hair. Eyes glazed by the sad stories behind them. His secrets.

  ‘I’m sorry about Harriet Walker, Bailey. You know, if you want to talk about it, I’m –’

  ‘I’m not talking to you about Harriet Walker.’ Bailey stiffened. ‘Not on the record. Not on background, either.’

  Annie sighed. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  It was exactly what she’d meant. That sick feeling again.

  ‘Yeah, well.’ Bailey flinched, embarrassed. ‘I’ve got a lot going on, Annie. Lawyer’s inside. Got to go.’

  ‘Okay, Bailey.’ Annie took a punt, reaching out and touching his arm. ‘I mean it about a chat. We go back a long way. If you’ve got someone to talk to, then fine. I’ll leave you alone.’

  This time she was offering as a friend.

  Bailey started walking backwards, running his hand along the top of his unkempt hedge. ‘Noted.’

  ‘You’ve got my number.’

  Bailey opened his squeaky gate and disappeared inside his house.

  CHAPTER 18

  FRIDAY

  ‘Have you seen the news?’

  Neena was almost yelling down the phone at Bailey.

  ‘What d’you mean? I am the fucking news.’

  ‘This morning, Bailey.’ Neena ignored the curt response. ‘Have you seen the breaking news this morning about Strong?’

  Bailey had checked the morning headlines before running the gauntlet of reporters stationed with satellite trucks in front of his house and heading out for his morning walk with Campo. Other than bushfires, the nation seemed only interested in him.

  ‘In the last five minutes, or five hours?’