The Enemy Within

by Tim Ayliffe

  Louis returned a tired laugh and Bailey could see by the kid’s puffy eyes that he was keen to go back to sleep. ‘Come inside. I’ve thrown some clean sheets on the bed in the spare room.’

  Bailey pushed open the front door and they could see Ronnie sitting in the kitchen down the end of the hallway with the blue light of a computer screen on his face. He waved his hand, clearly not interested in the guests.

  ‘Ronnie’s helping me with some research,’ Bailey said, noticing Annie staring at the big guy. ‘Working late.’

  ‘Is it connected to –’

  ‘Mum,’ Louis said, ‘can we go inside?’

  Relieved by the kid’s interruption, Bailey led them down the hallway, pushing open the door to his spare room and placing Annie’s bag on the bed.

  ‘Is that Ronnie’s stuff?’

  Annie was pointing at a duffle bag and a pile of clothes in the corner.

  ‘Don’t worry about him. He’s on the couch tonight.’

  Annie frowned, embarrassed. ‘Let me get Louis sorted and I’ll come out.’

  Bailey left the mother and son alone and returned to the kitchen where Ronnie was now standing by the sink, filling the kettle.

  ‘There’s shitloads of files here, bubba. Whatever Walker was thinking, looks like she dumped everything she had in a hurry. Not sure we’re even going to put a dent in it tonight. Could take days or weeks to piece it all together.’ Ronnie was now spooning coffee into Bailey’s plunger. ‘And what’s she doing here, again?’ He lowered his voice. ‘Sensitive material here. You sure you want a TV reporter sticking her beak in?’

  Bailey stepped closer to Ronnie so that he could keep his voice low. ‘She asked for my help. I wasn’t going to leave her hanging. Anyway, I trust her and I –’

  ‘You guys done talking about me?’

  The two men hadn’t noticed Annie walk into the kitchen and she was standing beside the fridge, arms folded, half a smirk on her face.

  Ronnie coughed. ‘Annie.’

  ‘Ronnie.’

  ‘Thanks for the room.’

  ‘Not a problem.’

  ‘How’s Louis?’ Bailey said.

  ‘A little rattled. I’ll go back and check on him in a sec. You sure this is okay?’

  ‘Of course, it’s fine. Now, what happened?’

  ‘Someone sprayed racist graffiti across the front of my house. Must have seen me on air tonight or read my story online about Abdo.’

  Annie stopped talking and looked over her shoulder, stepping back into the hall to see that her son hadn’t come out of the room.

  ‘That cop I told you about, he was in Bankstown. Told me off the record that someone drew a swastika on the wall of Jonny Abdo’s apartment. Presumably whoever killed him,’ she said, lowering her voice to a whisper, speaking quickly. ‘Lam. Augustus Strong. Now Abdo. Hell knows what’s coming next.’

  ‘What’d it say?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The graffiti. What’d it say?’

  ‘At my place?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Lying Jew Bitch.’

  ‘Nice,’ Bailey said, clearly meaning the opposite. ‘Notice anything else? Sign of a break-in?’

  The kettle started rumbling and Ronnie lifted it from its cradle, pouring the boiling water into the plunger, steam billowing out the sides. ‘Want a cup, Annie?’

  ‘Bit late for me. Got anything herbal?’

  Ronnie stopped pouring for a moment, forcing a smile, probably wondering how he’d suddenly become the waiter. ‘I’ll check.’

  Bailey pointed at the pantry, amused. ‘I think there’s some chamomile or something back there.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What have you done about the graffiti?’ Bailey said, glancing at the USB stick and the two laptop computers shining light on his kitchen table. He didn’t care for a visit from the police tonight. State or feds. ‘We’re going through some sensitive stuff here and, well –’

  ‘I think whoever did it was just trying to intimidate me,’ Annie said. ‘I called that detective on the way over here, told him I won’t make a statement tonight. That Louis and I had somewhere else to stay.’

  ‘Did you –’

  ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t say we were coming here,’ Annie said, placing a hand on Bailey’s forearm, giving it a squeeze. ‘The detective said he’d send some uniforms around to check out my place, make sure there isn’t anyone hanging around who doesn’t belong. I’m going to meet him there tomorrow at seven when we’ve both had some sleep. Bill’s going to meet us there too. With a camera.’

  ‘I bet he is.’

  Annie tilted her head to the side, frowning. ‘Don’t be like that. This is part of the story. Anyway, I want it put on the record. People need to see this stuff. Bill said he’ll have someone clean it off as soon as it’s been captured in daylight.’

  Ronnie handed Annie a steaming cup of tea without mentioning the blend. ‘It’s hot.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Annie took a whiff, smirking at Bailey. ‘Ginger and lemon, I’m impressed.’

  ‘You and me both.’

  Ronnie carried the plunger to the table where there were already two cups waiting to be filled. He filled them both and sat down, eyes back on the screen.

  ‘So what are you guys looking at?’ Annie wagged her finger at the computers. ‘Or are you going to play secret squirrels on me?’

  ‘That’s up to him,’ Ronnie said without looking up.

  ‘What do you say, Bailey? Going to loop me in?’

  Bailey joined Ronnie at the table, sitting down in front of the other laptop screen, in no rush to answer. ‘Take a seat.’ He gestured to one of the empty chairs, picking up his coffee, taking a sip, nodding his chin at the big guy. ‘That’s good.’

  Ronnie didn’t care about the coffee and he was getting agitated. ‘Bubba, this isn’t a –’

  ‘Settle down, mate. We’re all pushing in the same direction here.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Ronnie grumbled.

  Annie sat there, patiently waiting for Bailey to tell her what he and a supposedly retired CIA agent were working on in his kitchen in the middle of the night. It had to be something.

  ‘You mentioned three names earlier.’

  ‘Abdo, Strong and Lam.’

  ‘You need to add one,’ Bailey said. ‘Harriet Walker.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘I’ve gotten hold of the investigation she was running into far right nationalist and white supremacist groups in Australia. Her files.’

  ‘How did you –’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  Annie tried a different tack. ‘You mentioned her investigation at dinner the other night. You’re now certain that’s why she was killed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was the first time Bailey had answered the question so succinctly.

  The USB stick that Walker had planted at Dexter’s house contained a link and a password for a secure online portal that appeared to have everything relating to her investigation. Bailey had already seen enough to lead him to think that Walker was close to blowing the lid on a highly organised and sophisticated extremist network that had money, power and, more recently, a shipment of high-powered military assault weapons.

  ‘Hat had been tracing extremists through the internet,’ Bailey said. ‘Connecting them to groups here and overseas, often by their white nationalist rhetoric and the handles they used in Facebook discussions and on messaging boards on the dark web.’

  ‘8chan?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Bailey wasn’t surprised that Annie knew about the dark web. Messaging boards like 8chan had supposedly been created to protect free speech but instead they had become safe havens for paedophiles, racists and criminals to share, sell, recruit and roam. The 8chan site was also where manifestos and live stream videos of violence had been shared by the white supremacists responsible for massacres in Christchurch and El Paso.

  ‘There are plenty of groups
named here. Some I know. Some I’ve never heard of before.’

  ‘Like who?’

  Bailey was driving his laptop with a mouse and he was pushing it around, clicking and searching for something.

  ‘Come here.’ He waved for Annie to come closer. ‘I’ll show you.’

  Annie placed her hot tea on the table and leaned in beside Bailey, close enough so that he could smell the perfume on her neck.

  ‘Meet the Lucky Lads,’ he said, tapping his screen. ‘There are literally hundreds of pages like these. Screenshots of websites, images and conversations.’

  They were looking at a screenshot of the Lucky Lads’ Facebook page, which was adorned with photographs from inside what appeared to be the group’s clubhouse but looked more like a garage gym because of the weight-lifting equipment, boxing bags and tattooed men in singlets. The walls were adorned with union jacks and confederate flags, along with a poster of a black eagle perched on a swastika.

  ‘Who are these guys?’ Annie said.

  ‘Your garden variety white nationalists. A reporter from The Journal wrote a story not long ago, tracing the Lucky Lads to a house in Concord where they apparently meet on Thursday nights. Probably still do.’ Bailey clicked his mouse a few more times, bringing up a page that showed a conversation involving the Lucky Lads and a photograph of a bunch of guys with fashy haircuts. ‘These groups all talk to each other, it seems. Attend each other’s gatherings. Recognise anyone?’

  ‘Benny Hunter.’ Annie spotted him instantly. ‘You think the Lucky Lads are an offshoot of Hunter’s group?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Bailey said. ‘Ronnie and I’ve been sifting through materials relating to at least a dozen or so groups like the Lucky Lads and Hunter’s Freedom Front and there are plenty of references that suggest they’ve been trying to organise themselves for a bigger, more united movement. And Benny Hunter’s name keeps popping up.’

  Bailey still hadn’t told Annie what he’d discovered about Hunter’s involvement in the murder of Augustus Strong. That Hunter had bribed and threatened the Roundtree sisters to tell the police that a group of Black men had beaten Strong to death on the footpath outside the 7-Eleven on George Street. Now was the time to share.

  Leaning back and folding his arms, Bailey turned so that he could look Annie in the eyes. ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘Bubba, not sure this is a good idea,’ Ronnie said.

  ‘She needs to know, Ronnie,’ Bailey said, shaking his head. ‘If these guys are orchestrating some kind of race war, then the truth needs to be out there very soon. We’re racing against the clock now. We don’t know what’s coming next.’

  ‘What are you guys talking about?’ Annie said.

  Bailey told her what really happened to Augustus Strong on George Street, only leaving out the fact that the Roundtree sisters were now staying with an old priest in Redfern. Although he trusted Annie, the fewer people who knew the whereabouts of the girls, the better.

  ‘Jesus, Bailey. You really think Hunter’s capable of that?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And what did you mean earlier by “race war”?’

  Bailey clicked his mouse a few more times, turning the screen so that Annie had a better view. ‘That’s Donald Sampson.’ Bailey tapped the screen, pointing at the photograph of an old man in handcuffs being led out of a farmhouse by men and women in FBI jackets. ‘One of America’s most famous racist arseholes. He’s been leading a group called The Dawning for many years. An offshoot of the Ku Klux Klan. He’s been communicating with groups all over the world, including Benny Hunter. This guy’s the real deal. Batshit crazy. He’s been running military-style training camps, preparing his followers for some kind of armed uprising. And he sent a shipment of guns to Sydney.’

  ‘How d’you know that?’

  ‘We know,’ Ronnie said.

  ‘And you think Benny Hunter has the guns? And this other theory of yours about what happened to Strong, if that’s true, why haven’t you told the police?’

  Annie was directing her questions at Bailey, judging him with her eyes, clearly wondering whether he was prioritising his story above the safety of the public.

  Bailey stood up, his chair squeaking across his floorboards. ‘Because an Australian Federal Police officer was murdered and we think the person, or people, responsible may be on the inside.’

  ‘Federal police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do –’

  ‘And it’s not just the feds.’ Bailey was back clicking his mouse again. ‘Ronnie and I’ve been at this for hours. From what I can see, Harriet Walker was close to blowing the lid on a network connected to money and power. We’ve got people boasting about politicians being paid off. We’ve got –’

  ‘Mum!’

  Bailey stopped talking at the sound of Louis’s voice.

  ‘I better check on him,’ she said, already on her way.

  The two men sat in silence while they waited for Annie to return. It didn’t take long.

  ‘Louis is pretty rattled,’ she said, folding her arms like she was cold. ‘It’s late, guys. I think I need to go be with him.’

  ‘No worries,’ Bailey said. ‘We’ll keep it down out here. We’re going to keep working. Try to piece all this together. Get some rest. We can talk more in the morning.’

  Annie put a hand on Bailey’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. ‘Thanks for letting us stay.’

  Bailey touched her hand, catching her eye for a moment. ‘Go get some sleep.’

  ‘Night,’ Ronnie said without looking up as Annie left them to it.

  Bailey looked at his watch: 2.15 am. ‘How’re you feeling, Ronnie?’

  ‘Fresh as a daisy.’

  CHAPTER 35

  SUNDAY

  Sunshine Inc.

  The name was popping up all over the place in a collection of receipts and statements that Walker had grouped together in a sub-folder in the secure portal she’d used.

  ‘Ronnie, I think I’ve got something here.’

  ‘What is it?’

  It was 5.30 am and the two bleary-eyed men had been reading through documents, scribbling down notes, trying to connect dots, for hours. Finally, a breakthrough.

  ‘A money trail.’

  Bailey remembered something else and grabbed his phone, searching for the bank statement he’d copied back at Liam Callaghan’s house in Randwick.

  ‘That customs guy, Callaghan. He’d been paying ridiculously low rent to a business called Sunshine Inc. I made a copy of his financials.’ Bailey was speaking in an excited whisper. ‘The same company’s listed on an invoice for a shipment of Californian oranges. Can’t be a coincidence. Walker was on to these guys. She was close,’ Bailey said. ‘And there’s more. Political donations. Harriet had documents with “Sunshine Inc” listed on a register of Liberal Party donors and on a separate fundraising event for the Home Affairs Minister, Wayne McMahon.’

  Ronnie poured himself the dregs from the latest brew of coffee. ‘Did Walker discover who owns Sunshine Inc?’

  ‘Can’t see it. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘I think I’ve found something too. That –’

  ‘Hold on.’ Bailey sat bolt upright as a message flashed on his screen. ‘A conversation’s started.’

  ‘What?’ Ronnie stood up, placing his cup heavily on the table beside him, splashing coffee on yesterday’s newspaper. He brought his laptop to the opposite side of the table so that he could see Bailey’s screen. ‘A conversation? Where?’

  ‘A message board. I’ve had the one with the most recent traffic open for the last few hours.’

  While Bailey was still talking, a series of photographs hit the screen. Abdo’s dead body on the footpath. A swastika sprayed on the wall of the dead man’s apartment. A picture of Annie’s vandalised house. All posted by someone calling themselves Aussie Patriot.

  ‘This is how they do it,’ Ronnie said.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Posting it this way, t
hey know it’ll get out there. Reporters jump on this shit. Helps with the propaganda. It’s what you people never understand. The headlines and stories you write. You do exactly what they want. Deliver messages.’

  ‘I’m not up for one of your rants about the state versus the media.’

  ‘You don’t have to like it, but it’s true.’

  Bailey went to say something but another message appeared below the photographs, grabbing his attention in a way that not even the image of Abdo’s dead body had before:

  Brothers and sisters. We’ve been building towards this day. The race war has begun. Australia Day will be remembered as the day we started to take our country back.

  ‘Who the hell’s Wise Elder?’ Ronnie said.

  Wise Elder posted again:

  Remember the Fourteen Words.

  ‘How many people are seeing this?’

  ‘You only know someone’s there when they post something. These dark web boards are virtually untraceable. They are…’

  Ronnie stopped talking because Wise Elder had just written something else:

  We must secure the existence of our people and the future for white children.

  ‘Australia Day. The fourteen words. This is a rallying cry, Ronnie. Something’s going to happen. Today.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Ronnie sat down, spinning his laptop so that Bailey could see, keeping one eye on Bailey’s screen in case another message appeared. ‘I’ve got something here.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘That video you said was deleted from your phone the day the feds raided your house. I think I’ve found it.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Bailey watched as Ronnie opened a ‘.mov’ file on his screen and a video popped up, shaped like a rectangle. Filmed on a mobile phone. It showed the inside of the warehouse before Augustus Strong had taken the stage, the shaky footage capturing the motley crew of people who had paid for a seat that night. The video lasted for just over a minute and the two men watched in silence all the way to the end.

  ‘Anything?’ Ronnie said.

  ‘Play it again.’

  Bailey knew there must have been something incriminating in the footage. There had to be. Why else had Harding deleted it?