by Tim Ayliffe
Bailey was baffled by what was unfolding in front of him and he found himself edging closer, intent on not missing a word.
‘Thank you, Assistant Commissioner. I’m going to be brief today because, as you’ve just heard, the alleged murder of Augustus Strong is now part of a broader investigation, so there’s only so much that I can add to the statement released earlier today.’ Appleby looked uncomfortable in front of the microphone. ‘At twelve minutes past five this morning a 7-Eleven worker discovered American national Augustus Strong severely injured on the footpath not far from where I’m standing. He’d sustained several significant head wounds. The staff member called an ambulance but unfortunately Mr Strong was pronounced dead at the scene at around five forty-five this morning.’
She paused, brushing a fly from her nose, breathing heavily into the microphone.
‘As you’ll have read this morning, we have a witness to this crime. Four men, all believed to be in their late teens or early twenties, were seen assaulting Mr Strong and then running from the scene. The men were of African appearance and we are appealing for information from anyone who may have seen a group of men fitting this description anywhere around George Street, or nearby areas, in the early hours of this morning.’
Appleby stopped talking and shuffled awkwardly to the side, making way for Harding.
‘Good morning everyone. As you’ve just heard, we’ll be investigating the murder of Augustus Strong as a hate crime. But Mr Strong’s violent death is, unfortunately, not an isolated incident. The AFP has been monitoring groups that operate in the shadows of the internet for some time, attracting people who don’t share the values that we Australians hold dear.’
Harding paused, checking his audience, prompting Bailey to drop his head so that his Yankees cap could give him some cover.
‘Let me be clear. An attack on an individual – or individuals – based on some creed is, most often, an act of terrorism. Ever since the Twin Towers attacks on New York, we’ve devoted considerable time and resources to disrupting and stopping Islamic-inspired terrorism. But extremists can be radicalised in many ways and today we are dealing with terrorist threats not just from the left but from the right too. The establishment of Taskforce Juniper is a significant step towards combating these new threats building in Australia.’
‘Commander Harding! Commander Harding! What are these other incidents you’re talking –’
‘We’ll come to questions in a moment,’ Harding said, calmly, knowing he had a microphone and that he was talking to a lot more people than the small gathering of reporters in front of him. ‘I just wanted to say one more thing. For those of you out there who have been angered by certain things in our society, violence is not the way to make your stand.’
Harding sounded like a schoolteacher and he raised his chin, searching the crowd to see that he had everyone’s attention. For a split second, Bailey thought he saw Harding squint in his direction, like he’d seen through Bailey’s hopeless disguise.
‘I say to the general public, if you suspect anyone you know of harbouring extremist ideals, or you suspect they may be part of a group that could be preparing to do people harm, I’d ask that you come forward. Discreetly. Anonymously. We need to know.’ Harding was looking directly at Bailey now. Eyes locked. ‘And to you, the reporters who write stories in papers and appear on TV, I’m also asking you to do your jobs responsibly. You may hold vital information that police may need to prevent more violent acts. Work with us. Now, questions?’
‘Commander Harding!’ The woman who had tried to ask the question earlier was at it again. ‘Aly Wong from The Journal. You mentioned that Taskforce Juniper will be investigating other incidents. Does that include the violent attack on a Black man at the White Lion Hotel two nights ago?’
‘I read your story, Aly, and that is an incident we’re looking into. But I don’t have any updates at this precise moment.’
Unnerved that Harding may have spotted him in the crowd, and also by the prospect of cameras eventually turning towards him, Bailey decided that he would catch up on the rest of the media conference later. That also meant saving his own questions for another time. Top of his list was trying to understand how Harding had managed to differentiate left-wing and right-wing terrorism. What the hell was the difference? Was he really suggesting that Islamic terrorism was left-wing, with far right extremists being the opposite end of the ideological spectrum? And how did Strong’s murder fit into all of this? Are his alleged attackers left-wing terrorists because he’s a darling of the right? The distinction was utter nonsense.
What about Harriet Walker? Had Harding just been put in charge of an investigation that she had been running? And what about the AFP raid on Bailey’s house? Was the AFP still interested in finding Bailey’s source for his Afghanistan stories?
Too many questions to count. Some of them could wait. Others would require some poking around.
CHAPTER 19
Police media conferences could last for anywhere between two hours and two minutes, so Bailey needed to get moving in case it wrapped up early and one of the many reporters on George Street spotted him. He’d decided to head east and pick up a taxi along the edge of Hyde Park where there was always a steady stream.
‘Hey, fella!’
Bailey stopped out front of the State Theatre, where the woman who had earlier been huddled under a blue sleeping bag was sitting up, sipping on a coffee, a copy of The Journal beside her, Bailey’s head plastered across the front page.
‘Thought that was you.’ She pointed at the paper and then at Bailey. ‘Thanks for the ten bucks, by the way.’
So much for his bloody disguise.
‘No worries.’
‘Busy morning round on George. Interrupted my beauty sleep.’ She smiled, exposing a cut on her lip that reminded Bailey about what it meant to sleep rough. ‘That why you’re here?’
‘Came down for a look.’ Bailey wasn’t one for small talk with strangers but he wondered whether the woman had seen something. Whether she was the witness who had talked to the police. After all, the attack had happened less than a hundred metres from here and this was her neighbourhood. Her home. ‘See anything?’
‘Me? No. Not much, anyway. Not pretending I saw more either.’
The comment struck Bailey as odd. ‘What d’you mean by that?’
The woman pushed the sleeping bag down past her knees. It was warming up and the sun had a bite in it that was making Bailey sweat. With his cover already blown, he unzipped his jacket, flapping it open to let the air blow against his skin.
‘Sounds like some people are telling a few porkies, that’s all,’ she said.
‘About what happened?’
The woman looked past Bailey down towards George Street, and then back up the other way.
‘Yeah. The fella with the funny name.’
‘Augustus Strong.’
‘That’s the one.’ She laughed, awkwardly. ‘Augustus.’
Bailey didn’t like looking down on the woman, so he dropped onto one knee beside her.
‘Police say they’ve got a witness who saw four men of African appearance running away from the spot where the attack happened.’
‘Heard that too,’ she said, smiling at Bailey, flashing two rows of stained teeth. ‘Hey, you don’t have another spare tenner, do you? Lunchtime soon.’
Bailey hesitated, wondering whether he should cut a deal first. Answers for cash. She didn’t seem the type to play the game so he reached inside his wallet where he only had a red twenty-dollar note, handing it over. ‘Might get you some dinner too.’
‘Thanks.’ She snatched the note, stuffing it inside her sleeping bag, out of sight. ‘What was your question, again?’
‘The police witness. That you?’
She laughed. ‘I don’t talk to cops.’
‘So, who –’
‘Margie’s the one with the big mouth. Vivid imagination, that one.’
‘What d’you mean?
’
Bailey looked back down the street, checking that the police media conference hadn’t ended and sent a stream of reporters in his direction. It wouldn’t be long before news got out that Bailey had sat down with Strong for an interview in the Hilton two nights ago. That information would be interesting to anyone covering the story, maybe even the police.
‘I mean, she told them a bunch of bullshit. How could she know these guys were Black when they were wearing balaclavas on their heads?’
‘What?’
‘They ran right past where you’re standing.’ She was pointing her arm up the street towards the park. ‘Dark hoods pulled down. Last I checked, you can’t tell the colour of someone’s skin through their eyeballs. That’s about all I saw through those hoods. Don’t know how Margie reckons she saw a bunch of African blokes.’
Bailey was confused by what he was hearing. Why would a homeless woman lie?
‘Where’s Margie now, do you know? Think she might talk to me?’
‘Who knows?’ She shrugged, grabbing her paper coffee cup off the ground, taking a sip. ‘Usually sleeps round on George, that’s why the police asked her those questions, I guess. They’re pretty quick to move us on round there. Because of all the shoppers. It’s why I camp outside the theatre. Like my sleep-ins.’ She laughed, placing her cup beside her again. ‘Uh oh. Speaking of which.’
‘Morning, Silvie.’ A man wearing a bow tie and black vest appeared out of nowhere. ‘We’re getting ready for the matinee soon. Time to move on.’
Bailey stood up, ignoring the guy behind him. ‘If I have any more questions, where will I find you?’
‘Here. There. Around. Depends. The exciting life I lead. Could be anywhere.’
Bailey heard the guy in the vest laugh. ‘She’ll be here, mate. She’s always here.’
Silvie frowned at Bailey, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Like the man says.’
Bailey handed her his card. ‘In case anything comes up.’
‘No phone, Mr Bailey.’
It was the first time she’d used his name.
‘Keep it anyway.’
She held Bailey’s stare without saying anything, like she was reading his mind, finding the common thread between them. Swapping painful stories.
‘Roundtree.’
‘What?’
‘Margie’s surname. It’s Roundtree. Usually scabs a feed from the soup van in that little park near St Mary’s most nights. Turns up round six. Didn’t hear it from me, though. Okay? Won’t win me any friends on the street, if you know what I mean.’
‘Thanks, Silvie. Mum’s the word.’
CHAPTER 20
The little red crosses had turned green above four northbound lanes on the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the traffic was moving freely, which was a relief for Bailey because he was running late. He was supposed to have been at Gerald’s house at midday for a meeting with Marjorie to discuss the AFP charges against him. The clock on the dashboard said it was almost 12.30 pm. Gerald was a stickler for time, but Bailey figured that his old friend would cut him some slack, considering his life and house had just been turned upside down.
From a distance, the Sydney Harbour Bridge was like a giant coathanger dangling across a big blue bath of water, hooked on a cloud. Up close, it was all big arches and steel. The view on either side of the bridge was spectacular, even in today’s smoke haze. The big cruise ship parked down by Circular Quay. The Opera House. The Manly ferry motoring north-east on one of the world’s best commutes. Beyond the train track on the bridge’s western flank, Bailey could see the top of Luna Park and the boats parked up alongside the waterfront mansions of the little suburbs that he could never name.
Beep!
Bailey suddenly realised that he was driving almost half the speed limit, angering some knob in a Lancer who had given up on tail-gating Bailey’s wagon, and was now flashing his lights, changing lanes.
The city of Sydney had engineered a masterstroke with the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Pity the same couldn’t be said for the city’s high proportion of road-raging drivers.
‘Yeah, okay. Dickhead.’
Bailey smiled and gave a thumbs up to the driver who had sidled up beside him to make his point, mouthing obscenities, waving his finger.
Beep! Beep!
Bailey’s smile seemed to only enrage the guy more and he swung his Lancer into Bailey’s lane, jamming on his brakes.
‘Good one, mate. That’s safe,’ Bailey said to himself, shaking his head.
The guy dropped his foot on the accelerator and shot off along the bridge. Point made. A win for his narrow little world.
The light turned green just as Bailey arrived at the Military Road exit and he made it through Neutral Bay without even touching his brakes. Gerald lived down near Taronga Zoo and Bailey had been there so many times over the years that he knew all the backroads. Five minutes later he was pressing the intercom outside the big iron gate at the bottom of Gerald’s driveway, waiting to be let in.
‘It’s the convict.’
The gate squeaked open and Bailey waved and smiled at the security camera before driving up the long, snaking driveway. There were two other cars parked in the turning circle outside the double garage, one of them was Marjorie’s Mercedes and the other was a Toyota Prius with a rental sticker on the rear window. Bailey killed the engine, the white pebbles crunching under his feet as he made his way to the stone steps that led to the front door, where Gerald was already waiting.
‘Who else’s here?’ Bailey said, without saying hello.
‘Good afternoon to you too,’ Gerald said, dryly.
‘Sorry, mate,’ Bailey said. ‘Shitty mood. How are you?’
‘Good.’
Bailey arrived at the top of the steps where the two men shook hands.
‘Now we’ve got that out of the way,’ Bailey said. ‘Are you going to tell me who else’s here?’
‘Come in.’
Gerald turned around and walked into his house, leading Bailey into the sitting room where Marjorie was perched on a sofa, the AFP search warrant in front of her along with a pile of other papers that Bailey could only guess were somehow linked to him.
‘Sorry I’m late, Marj,’ Bailey said. ‘Didn’t mean to muck you about.’
‘It’s fine, Bailey. Gave me a bit more time to gather our wagons. See what we’re up against.’
Bailey got distracted when he noticed the door to the balcony that overlooked the water was open, the pungent smell of cigar smoke wafting in. He could see the edge of a man’s shoulder outside, leaning over the railing. The driver of the other car parked in the driveway.
‘Never picked you for a Prius driver, Ronnie.’
Ronnie Johnson.
One of the CIA’s most experienced field operatives. A former station chief in Baghdad, Kabul and Beirut, where Bailey had first met him beside the charred wreckage of a car bomb more than thirty years earlier.
‘Not by choice, bubba. Last rental in the lot. I can barely fit in that thing.’
Ronnie was almost six and a half feet tall and despite nearing the end of his sixth decade on the planet, he’d somehow managed to hang on to the build that had made him one of the toughest tight ends playing college football when he was running around with the Oklahoma Sooners. Ronnie had tried to retire from the CIA a few years ago only to be pulled back into the agency to run a number of special operations in Australia. First, it was Chinese spies infiltrating the Australian Government, before he was assigned into an area he knew better than anyone – counter-terrorism.
Although Ronnie spent most of his time in Sydney these days (often sleeping in Bailey’s spare room), he had been working in Canberra the last few months, tying up loose ends on a fledgling Islamic terrorist network that stretched from Syria to London and into Sydney’s western suburbs.
‘Good to see you, mate.’
Ronnie squeezed Bailey’s outstretched hand so tightly that Bailey almost winced.
‘You too.’
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‘What are you doing here?’
‘Saw you on the television last night. Spoke to Gerald. Thought you could do with some help.’
‘Did you now?’ Bailey looked over at Gerald, who shrugged.
‘Looks to me like you just poked a hornet’s nest, bubba. Lot of angry bugs flying around.’
Bailey wasn’t all that surprised to see Ronnie. They were good friends, after all. Ronnie had left Bailey two telephone messages since yesterday and although Bailey knew that the offer of ‘help’ was genuine, Ronnie’s enthusiasm was also likely driven by something else. The events of the past twenty-four hours. The murders of Harriet Walker and Augustus Strong. The AFP raids on Bailey’s house. Walker’s name on the warrant. Bailey was the common thread, somehow caught in the middle. He knew it. Ronnie knew it too.
‘Drove up first thing this morning. Apparently we were meeting at midday.’ Ronnie looked at his watch, smirking, puffing smoke out the corner of his mouth.
‘Sorry about that. Got held up.’
‘Sounds like you were one of the last people to speak to Augustus Strong,’ Ronnie said, making it blatantly obvious he knew things.
Bailey scoffed, shaking his head. ‘And it sounds like you’re not just here to help.’
‘American national dies, sometimes I get a call.’ Ronnie took another puff on his cigar, this time blowing it towards the water. ‘Truth be told, I was actually in my car on the way to Sydney to see you when the call came in. Hell of a coincidence what happened, bubba. And you’ve known me long enough to know how I feel about coincidences.’
Gerald cleared his throat. ‘Ronnie, how about you put out that cigar and come inside so that we can talk properly?’