*
Thursday
June 3, 2005
My Dearest Marnie,
I know that by the time you receive this note, you will be terribly distressed. I deeply regret leaving you and Jessica and Sarah in the way I have, and, though it will be meaningless to you now, I am truly, truly sorry. I feel however, that I have no choice.
I have always worked hard at maintaining our relationship and I have loved and respected you as powerfully as I could. I deeply love our daughters and would always protect them against harm; certainly I would never do anything to hurt them in anyway.
As you know, I have worked hard for the Government and for my constituents. Work was the most effective means I had of suppressing a dark secret in my life, a secret which has always made me feel ashamed but sadly, could not change. I do not want my sins rebounding on either you or the girls; this is the only way I can think of to prevent that from happening.
Some horrible people have discovered my secret and I greatly fear the consequences. Certainly, I do not trust my persecutor. I suppose, working in public life, I have always known that truth would catch up with me. Well, that day has come.
As best I can, I have protected your wellbeing against this day. All legal matters are in order and there should be no obstacles in your way. John Rattree of Devlin, Dunne and Devine has seen to everything and will help you through this period.
I am so sorry. I love you all, but do please get on with your lives. Marnie Darling, I hope that one day you can find it in your heart to forgive me.
Lance
*
‘What does this mean for God’s sake? What’s going on?’ Marnie was anguished and again, wept uncontrollably. Campbell sat, quietly waiting, feeling the strain.
After a time she said, ‘I don’t know what this note means. But I did want to ask if you were aware of anything adverse going on in your husband’s life?’
Feeling weighed down, Marnie shook her head. Brokenly she said, ‘The only thing I can think of is the election. He never discussed anything with me that sounded like trouble. He certainly didn’t hint at any secrets, or a persecutor. I don’t know anything about that. This is really scary. I told you we had a row that last morning he went to work. I said he was putting in too much effort and I didn’t think Meadows appreciated his work. I told him so in plain terms and he was really cranky about it. Other than that, I don’t know of anything that worried him. Now, I have this awful feeling of dread. How could he be so cruel to us?’
Aleisha detected a shift in mood. ‘I really don’t know but I’ll ring your sister now. As it’s going to be a while before she gets here, is there anyone else you’d like to have with you while you wait?’
‘Yes, please. The Jennings next door at 48 are dear friends. They’ll come and stay until Michelle gets here. I would like that. Thank you.’
Campbell went to the lounge room and rang Michelle Brown at Korumburra. After a ten minute conversation she returned to the kitchen. Marnie stood, walked to Aleisha and embraced her. She spoke quietly, more composed. ‘I have a thousand questions but I don’t know where to start. You have been so kind and so understanding I cannot thank you enough. I realise now that when I met you last Friday you were on your way home after nightshift. Yet you stayed with me – all that time. If all the police were like you, we’d have the best force in the world. Thank you is inadequate I know, but I mean it sincerely.’
Aleisha nodded and smiled, her eyes moist. ‘I’ll go next door and talk to the Jennings and briefly explain the situation. Are you okay with that?’
Marnie nodded.
Chapter
TWENTY-SIX
Enveloped in the fug of his favourite Cusano cigar and the syrupy tones of the Ink Spots, Pescaro sat in his study. Comfortably settled in a deep leather arm chair and sipping aged brandy, at 9:00 p.m. he was hard at work.
Pescaro adored luxury and found the solace of his study conducive to clear thinking. For him, success was measured as much by the degree of thought devoted to a task as the final outcome.
He was thinking about Teresa. Her silence on Santini’s security box interested him, he was even beginning to think she might not have inspected the contents. Yet here was a small mystery – a locked strong box for which she had the key. Not inspecting the contents would contradict everything he knew about her. If nothing happened soon, he would have to prod her.
But enough – Teresa was the least of his worries. It was his black waste business that required serious thought. Of itself, this was a major irritation. His empire and interests were extensive, yet this one issue was beginning to seem like his only interest. To an extent, he blamed himself; he might have been too hasty pressuring the Aldrittsons.
He had received Ben’s briefing paper for the Premier, a slick and practical document he had to admit, and understood he couldn’t control the timing for his scheme. He even conceded that trying to win government support for the concept right now was probably close to impossible. It was too close to the election and other ‘vote catchers’ would be occupying the minds of the Premier and his Ministers. His timing was totally awry. But that was only part of the problem. The driver creating his nightmare was the Russian Mafiya.
Russian criminals were arriving in Australia any way they could and were quietly planting themselves in the community. Just like the USA, law enforcement authorities here seemed largely ignorant of their presence. But unlike America, two elements impeded Russian establishment: Australia’s relatively small population overall and, within it, a tiny Russian community. The minuscule Russian populace severely curtailed opportunities for exploitation and extortion and compelled the Mafiya to look elsewhere. And it was this that had become the focus of Pescaro’s concern: intense Russian scrutiny and jealousy of his long held preserves.
The Russians were trouble. Even though they likened themselves to the Mafia, there were many differences. For instance, they had no firm family structure, a matter of significance to the Mafia. The only sense of family Pescaro could see was their predilection for inflicting unfettered violence on other Russians. There was little to suggest a heritage of close familial support and evolution. Their clans were loosely structured and bosses frequently came and went. Even their roots were a matter of conjecture. Some believed they stemmed from Communist Russia’s black market economy while others argued they sprang from the horrific prison camps of Peter the Great. Those barbarous places had spawned violent criminals whose tight, vicious gangs followed an unbreakable creed which demanded they never work legitimately, pay taxes, fight for the army, or, under any circumstance help police unless to trick or harm them. As a fraternity, they called themselves the Vor V Zakononye or just Vors, meaning “thieves in law” or “thieves within the code”.
Pescaro’s North American experience had certainly not endeared the Russian Mafiya to him. To the contrary, after his visit in 2002 he began to study them fearing they would see Australia as a submissive frontier ripe for plunder. Such an assault would diminish his own empire – a most unpalatable prospect. He found that four dominant Vor groups had spread from Moscow across Europe and beyond: the Georgians, Chechens, Dolgoprudanskaya and the Ukrainians. In the wings, like wolves sniffing for carcases, were scores of powerful, but lesser brigades. To make matters worse, one of their intimidating features was that many of their leaders were highly educated – PhDs in maths, engineering, physics and computer technology. Many were also thoroughly schooled in the Russian political system. These strengths were consolidated by an abundance of followers whose military backgrounds bristled with weapons training and other deadly abilities.
This unwholesome blend of skill, violence and brains had resulted in what Boris Yeltsin once termed ‘a super power of crime.’ No more powerful an example could be found than in the Vors’ flagrant co-option of private Russian banking to a level where they controlled eighty per cent of the central banking system. Such immense influence provided unlimited access to sources of western aid
and financial support. The benefits had been enormous. Pescaro’s Sicilian colleagues had expressed their envy and apprehension at this extraordinary power. Vors had bled millions of dollars from these sources and entrenched their global criminal economy to a position of virtual impregnability. Indeed, some believed that Vor control of Russian funds exacerbated the 1998 Wall Street crash. Pescaro had no doubt the Mafiya was financially stronger than the Mafia and its collective ambition was to become the undisputed Czars of world crime.
Looking ever more deeply into their practices, Pescaro discovered that Perestroika had enabled thousands of Russian Jews to move into Israel, among them, huge numbers of Mafiya. Their consolidation and asset building was so voracious that some Israeli leaders considered them a serious threat to the country’s political and economic stability.
From experience, Pescaro knew that Vors established links with other criminal groups, like his own, including the Serbian Ravna Gora, Colombians, Triads and, when it suited, savage individual criminals. He also knew they could not be trusted. He had heard one of John Gotti’s associates grumble that the Russians were crazy and would wipe out any man who offended them, including his entire family. On his same visit to the USA, Pescaro read of a Los Angeles cop saying that ‘murder was a blood sport for the Mafiya and they would shoot you just to see if their guns worked.’
These were the factors that fuelled his concern. Reports had been trickling in from various quarters that pressure from Russian criminals was mounting. Pescaro sensed a restlessness and growing impatience among them. They wanted a piece of his action. So far however, no Vor had requested a “sit down” to discuss boundary realignments or any restructuring of criminal activity. Even if they had, he would have pissed them off, he had been Don for too long to give anything away. While he was confident his Mob could match anything the Russians had to offer he was reluctant to become involved in a blood bath, the Vors were clever and cruel adversaries. What was particularly pissing him off now was their increasing forays into waste disposal – his waste disposal business.
Additionally, they were slack-arsed and arrogant about local custom and culture. Out to make a quick buck, they employed standover tactics and disposal practices that were certain to attract attention, attention that could so easily rebound on his and Aldrittson’s long nurtured and well planned activities. I’ve invested too much money, time and effort on our project to have it ruined by a bunch of fuckwits from Russia, he thought. But, at seventy-four, he was feeling too old for heavy conflict and thus far had not taken retaliatory action. Furthermore, no one was certain about how many Vors were in the country which meant that assessing their resources and capability was difficult.
To make matters worse, his successor was awaiting burial. Pescaro had intended for Santini to become the new Don once their waste scheme won government acceptance. But Santini’s death and the growing Russian pressure had wrecked his plans. He worried too as to whether Teresa was strong enough to withstand a Russian onslaught if it all broke loose.
Teaching the Russians a lesson would be hard; they were formidable foes. He had even heard the FBI say the same thing. He smiled inwardly as he thought about that. Coppers were inevitably in a “no win” situation fighting with one hand tied behind them. They were compelled to follow all the rules with few resources while his, and other criminal groups, had unlimited resources and none of the rules. The cops would present little barrier to Russian plans.
Pescaro had no intention of playing second fiddle on a stage he considered his own. Yet, Mafiya boldness was breathtaking. They had taken prostitution to a new level by kidnapping scores of women, girls and boys from Croatia, Bosnia, Poland, Russia and the Ukraine. Then, sold as sex slaves with no regard for their wellbeing, they were slipped into different countries, made into sexual or pornographic objects, subjected to appalling depravities, discarded or killed. Heroin and global weapons trade, including atomic bomb ingredients such as Caesium-137, Strontium-90 and uranium, were all part of Vor activity. And, for light relief, they had raped the diamond mines of Sierra Leone to build lavish casinos in Costa Rica. These were hallmark signatures of the Vor code: wealth accretion and social disruption.
Pescaro grinned wryly to himself. He could hardly complain, many of their activities were similar to his own. However, the breadth and scale of their ventures in other countries heralded conflict for his own empire and the more he pondered that dynamic, the less he liked it. Although the Vors and Mafia often teamed up, particularly for fraud and tax scams, such a partnership was unlikely here. Keeping them at bay would be difficult.
It was the sum total of these pressures which had caused him to lean on the Aldrittsons. Their secret waste disposal plan just had to be ready for the election. The advantage of progressing the scheme was relief from an accelerating demand for disposal of black waste. This had grown slowly over time as a consequence of ‘encouragement’ by Santini. It was now approaching boilover as a result of some sneaky enquiries into illegal dumping by the New South Wales Government. If their scheme gained approval their clients would at least be able to store their waste knowing a legitimate solution was underway. This decision, Pescaro believed, would diminish the Russian’s opportunity for exploiting his plans. Yet nothing could be taken for granted – especially when it came to politicians.
Chapter
TWENTY-SEVEN
An extraordinary and unscheduled Cabinet meeting was about to commence in the premier’s office. It was eight o’clock Monday morning and the agenda was Lance Baker’s death.
‘Alright ladies and gents.’ Meadows rapped the table top with his knuckles. ‘A bit of shush please. I have called you here because, as you all know, sadly, Lance Baker our Minister for Environment, took his own life. I have asked John Plattern to address you.’
Plattern was the sixty year old Minister for Police and Emergency Services. A grizzled, crew-cut, ex-navy captain, he was dour, practical and didn’t waste words. His background had helped facilitate a first class rapport with the police, prisons, fire and emergency services people.
‘Thanks Mr Premier. Colleagues, a bit after six last night the Chief Commissioner of Police informed me that Lance Baker, formally reported as a missing person on Friday last, was found dead near Strath Creek. He was discovered in his car about 5:30 p.m. at Lades Hill. A hose was attached to the exhaust pipe. The post mortem is today. On the front seat was a half bottle of whiskey, an empty bottle of Temazapam tablets and a note which I’ll read. Needless to say, Chatham House Rules apply – the contents of this note stay in this room, and’…he looked around balefully, ‘there will be no copies.’
Plattern read the note Aleisha Campbell had earlier given Marnie Baker. When he finished he examined their faces. Most were troubled and the two women ministers were dabbing their eyes. He caught Ben Aldrittson’s expression – completely unmoved. That irritated him. He sat as Meadows rose again.
‘People, this note is a concern. We don’t know Baker’s secret and we don’t know the identity of his “persecutor”. I only hope to God no one here is involved. The police will be examining his life through a microscope: taxes, mistresses, bad habits – everything. The Chief Commissioner has indicated the force will be conducting a “no-holds barred” investigation – as they should – but collectively, we have a problem. I intend announcing the election date very soon. We all know it has to be before November 26 and I want a short, sharp, hard hitting campaign. The strategists believe mid to late September would be best. That will be enough time for our media program, funding, policy proposals and costings to coalesce into what I believe will be the tightest and most focussed campaign we’ve ever run. We are going for a third term and cannot afford complacency. Traditionally, voters get rid of governments in their third term, especially if there are signs of waste, dysfunction, friction, lethargy or cover-up. Baker poses a threat. Christ knows what skeletons are in his cupboard. Irrespective of what you thought of him before, his action now is not good news. Our tas
k is to get re-elected. So I’m reading the riot act. From here on, I want absolute cohesion and strict discipline. Anyone foot faulting in any way, shape or form, anyone not toeing the party line goes straight to the back bench after re-election. Lance Baker was an earnest and hard worker. He was a loyal party man. As far as we know, he was devoted to his family. His death is a shock to all of us and we can be sympathetic. We can’t discuss any aspect of his private life apart from what I just mentioned. Later I’ll distribute a list of Lance’s achievements as Minister for Environment, and before that, as Minister for Education. Use these to illustrate his work ethic and interest in the people of his electorate and Victoria. The media are going to hound us so we have to be singing from the same hymn sheet. Before going on, does anyone have any idea why Baker took his life? Who the persecutor is? What the secret might be? Anyone?’
Silent faces stared back at him.
‘Ben. I’m told you had a run-in with Baker last Wednesday. What was that about?’
Aldrittson was unfazed by the question. ‘I saw him after my address on the alternative power and land acquisition proposal. I suggested he might like to contribute to the infrastructure costs. Although I’m proposing this plan, it’s as much about the environment as business. He basically suggested I go screw myself and hit the Treasurer for more money. He was quite obnoxious about it, as I’m sure some of you will have found he could be. That’s all it was.’
Plattern scrutinised Aldrittson hard. He wondered about his lack of compassion for Baker and intuitively knew he was lying. Why, or about what he didn’t know but mentally, he took a big step back from his parliamentary colleague and resolved to treat him with caution. He had, from time to time, heard some oblique and unsettling whispers about Aldrittson – about his wealth and the way he made it and about favours traded. Nebulous and vague, there was nothing of substance. Yet muted undertones of sly dealings remained persistent. Was the Premier aware of them too?
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