by Tim Ayliffe
Bailey looked at his watch: it was just after four o’clock.
‘I know a place.’
The Old Hen was only a short walk up the hill from Bailey’s townhouse. Sydneysiders had been drinking there for more than a hundred years. Bailey liked it because it still resembled a place where blue-collar workers mixed with lawyers, bankers, advertising execs and the footy players who went searching for a beer after stepping off the grass down the road at Moore Park.
In reality, the Old Hen wasn’t so inclusive any more. The clientele was mainly business types, retirees and the occasional rich divorcee tired of sitting home alone. The only thing these people had in common was the fact that they had cash to burn and most of them liked to show it.
Bailey led them through the door and they settled at a table in a quiet corner of the pub.
‘Nice,’ Ronnie said. ‘Better than the dump you took me to yesterday.’
‘At least you got invited,’ Gerald said.
‘I’m going to get a round of drinks while you two sort out whatever it is that you need to sort out.’ Bailey pointed at the bar. ‘You’ve got the time it takes for me to walk over there and back. Whisky?’
Both men nodded.
The carpeted floor muffled Bailey’s footsteps when he returned with the drinks. Gerald and Ronnie sounded like they were only just getting started.
‘Bubba –’
Gerald held up his hand, gesturing for him to stop.
‘I’m nervous, Ronnie. I’ve got to be honest with you . . . the last time we worked together, Bailey almost got killed.’
They hadn’t noticed Bailey standing beside them with a handful of tumblers. Bemused, he just stood there and listened.
‘C’mon, Gerald!’
‘No, I’m serious.’
‘I thought we’d moved past this? There was no master plan in that place and, yeah, it got hairy. You knew the risks.’ Ronnie raised his big right hand and pointed his index finger at Gerald. ‘And don’t you forget, bubba, we got him out.’
‘It took almost a year as you dangled him like a carrot in your backroom game playing with the Sunni and Shia militias –’
‘We got him out.’ Ronnie repeated the words, as if they were all that mattered.
‘Yeah, we did, but not without that bag of cash I gave you.’
‘Everything comes with a price, and it was better than Bailey starring in a movie where he gets his head cut off.’
Gerald leaned forward across the table. ‘And how did the money get spent?’
Ronnie shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
‘Go on, answer me that. Ronnie?’
‘Bubba, why are we even talking about this? It was over a decade ago! I was at your goddamn sixtieth birthday party a few years back.’
‘Why?’ Gerald said. ‘Because it looks like you’re knee-deep in something on my doorstep. I don’t like it.’
‘Bubba, this isn’t Iraq.’
‘Too right. This is my livelihood, my reputation, and my family is here.’ Gerald was raising his voice. ‘I run the largest newspaper in the country –’
‘You’ve got nothing to worry –’
‘Let me finish. You’re right, this isn’t Baghdad. We have rules here and one of them is that journalists don’t work with people like you.’
‘Since when?’ Ronnie’s face was starting to go red. ‘And what do you mean – people like me?’
‘Enough!’ Bailey slammed the glasses on the table – all doubles, neat – along with a small jug of water that almost tipped over. ‘What is it with you two?’
The two men looked up, startled.
‘Do we need to keep going over this old ground? I know I don’t. We’re all friends, aren’t we?’
Gerald and Ronnie were eyeing each other across the table, waiting for the other to blink.
‘Boys?’
Ronnie sat back, a smirk on his face. ‘I never understand why you insist on adding water to a perfectly good glass of whisky.’
‘You know it releases the flavour,’ Gerald said. ‘We’ve had this discussion a thousand times, you uncultured Oklahoman.’
‘That’s my boys,’ Bailey said. ‘One happy family again.’
‘Not quite,’ Gerald said.
‘Come on, Gerald, let’s stop this.’ Ronnie sounded like he was pleading.
‘If we’re going to start sharing information,’ Gerald said, ‘I don’t want any games.’ Gerald lowered his voice and eyeballed first Ronnie, then Bailey. ‘And I want to make something crystal clear – we can share information but we’re not working together. Got it?’
‘Bubba, I’m going to surprise you here. I’m happy with those terms. This isn’t Baghdad, as you’ve been reminding me.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ Bailey downed his whisky in one.
Bailey started by telling them about the black hole in the security tape and the police commissioner’s ongoing interference in the case.
‘You said you talked to a girl at Petals today too?’ Gerald asked Bailey.
‘The girl said she was a good friend of Chamberlain’s, and guess what?’ Bailey unfolded the picture of Victor Ho, laid it on the table and turned to Ronnie. ‘I showed her the picture you gave me and she says he was a client of –’
‘Catherine Chamberlain,’ Gerald finished.
‘Here’s the other picture I’ve got of Victor,’ Ronnie told Gerald, ‘taken a few days ago.’
‘What the . . .?’ Gerald was staring at Victor’s bloodied, lifeless face. ‘Who is this guy?’
Bailey waited for Ronnie to answer the question.
‘We think he’s an agent, working for the Chinese Government,’ Ronnie said. ‘One of their so-called student spies.’
‘Students?’
‘Yeah, agents in universities, an old tactic they learned from the Russians. Student visas are the easiest way to get your people in. I’d be lying if I pretended we didn’t do it too.’
‘You wouldn’t want to be caught telling fibs now, would –’
‘The Chinese started doing it in the seventies.’ Ronnie ignored Gerald’s sarcasm. ‘They’re getting more organised and aggressive.’
‘How’s it work?’ Gerald asked.
‘Countries play the long game with these moves. It’s about establishing contacts, influencing opinion, tapping future business leaders and politicians. Unless you get lucky.’
‘How so?’
‘A few years back, this one Chinese kid at Brown got close to the son of a sitting congressman. They were friends, probably more. Anyway, he gets invited to his new pal’s home and manages to plant a bug inside the congressman’s personal computer. From there, you can probably guess. Chinese hackers get a window into committee rooms on Capitol Hill.’
‘And how come we never heard about this?’ Gerald said.
‘Never got out. We shut it down. Sent the kid home – with a limp.’
‘And now students are killing people?’ The leap from intelligence gatherers to murderers sounded a bit far-fetched for Bailey.
‘A thousand dollars says young Victor here is the star of the missing fifteen minutes on that security tape,’ Ronnie said.
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Bailey said. ‘But here’s a question for you – who killed Victor?’
‘Can’t answer that. Looks like someone’s cleaning up,’ Ronnie said.
‘Let’s put his picture out there. It can be a follow-up story about Victor’s death down by the casino. We don’t need to say much. Just that police are investigating a link with Chamberlain,’ Gerald said. ‘Reckon Sharon Dexter might play ball?’
‘I’ll send her a message.’ Bailey tapped his fingers on his phone slowly. No typos this time.
We want to publish the photo. Investigating link to the Catherine case. No direct source. OK?
‘I reckon she’ll play.’ Bailey knew Sharon Dexter better than anyone. Despite the baggage between them, she trusted him. ‘We’ll put it under my byline. Anderson’s readin
g my stuff online, so it might flush him out again.
‘Now, old boy.’ Bailey turned to Gerald. ‘You’ve been in a foul mood all morning and I’m guessing you’ve got something for us?’
Gerald’s frown returned. ‘I do, but not in front of him.’
‘C’mon, bubba. I thought we were good.’
‘Changed my mind.’
‘He’s right, Ronnie.’ Bailey wanted to show Gerald where his loyalties lay. ‘How can we trust you? We’ve been down this road. And I’m not talking about my time in the dark room with the mad sheikh. I’m talking about the drip, drip of misinformation you fed us –’
Ronnie’s fist crashed on the table, startling the few people sitting at the bar. ‘I’m tired of the lectures from you two sons of bitches! They were classified operations with people’s lives at stake. You two sit here sounding all righteous, but you’ve never got it, have you?’
‘What, Ronnie? What haven’t we got?’ Now Bailey was the one sounding defensive.
Ronnie took a sip of his whisky.
‘The bad people out there – they’re smarter than you. You may not see it like I do, but there are many ways to do right, to do good. The world isn’t pure. You dig down deep and you’ll see it’s all mud.’ Ronnie stood up to leave. ‘It doesn’t matter where you live, bubba. It’s all mud underneath. People like me keep it down, keep that shit from rising up . . . for the greater good.
‘I always figured you two got it, that you understood the grey area. Maybe you just forgot. But I’m too old for the damned lectures.’
Ronnie grabbed his whisky and finished it.
‘Sit down, mate.’ Bailey knew they’d pushed him too far. He also knew they couldn’t do this alone.
Ronnie didn’t move. ‘Why? So you can lecture me again? Accuse me of screwing you over? That isn’t what happened. You’ve got no idea how many times I saved your skin in that hellhole. And you’ll never know because that’s my world.’
‘All right, all right,’ Gerald said. ‘Sit down, Ronnie, please.’
Ronnie stared at them for a few more seconds before finally settling back in his chair.
‘It’s all going to be on the table,’ Gerald said.
‘Why don’t we cut the bullshit, then?’
‘At the moment, we can’t print any of this. When it goes off, we print what we want. Got that, Ronnie? There’ll be no interference from your people and no bullshit stories about national security, compromising assets, and any of that other legal injunction crap you and your mates at ASIO like to slap on our stories.’
Ronnie shrugged his shoulders. ‘They’re the last people I’ll be talking to. Anything we discuss is yours. Best I can do.’
‘Okay, here goes,’ Gerald said. ‘Gary Page called me personally today to tell me that Michael Anderson is wanted on suspicion of spying for the Chinese Government – off the record, of course.’
‘And he’s telling you because Anderson’s been speaking to me and they want us to turn him over?’ Bailey said.
‘Fair assumption. But turning him over is something that we, of course, won’t be doing.’
‘Clever,’ Ronnie said. ‘He’s backed you into a corner. Page has linked you to a crime that could get you locked up for questioning without the slightest case against you – put you in a cage without charge. He must know something we don’t.’
Gerald looked confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Just talking to Anderson compromises you. Any communication could be interpreted as helping him,’ Ronnie said. ‘Aiding and abetting. Accessories after the fact. Remember, he’s a wanted man.’
Bailey sighed, shaking his head. ‘Sneaky bastard.’
‘It’s how you play it from here that matters, bubba.’
‘What’d you say to Page?’ Bailey asked.
‘I said you hadn’t had any contact with Anderson.’
‘How’d he take that news?’
‘Wasn’t happy. Warned me to be careful, that Anderson was dangerous.’ Gerald nudged Bailey with his elbow. ‘Then he told me to pass on his concerns directly to you. I get the feeling they know you met him.’
Maybe it wasn’t such a crazy idea that Bailey’s house had been bugged after all. ‘Either someone has been following me or they’re listening in.’ The thought made him feel sick.
‘I’d say that’s very likely,’ Ronnie said.
‘The bloke called me about fifteen times before I answered.’ Bailey held up his phone and showed them the long list of missed calls. ‘Can you trace a number from a missed call?’
‘If his phone’s on, he’s traceable,’ Ronnie said. ‘Everyone leaves a mobile data trail these days. The phone transmits a signal to, or from, the nearest tower. If he’s smart, he’ll have gotten rid of it altogether.’
Bailey remembered the recent headlines about privacy laws. The federal government was making it easier for authorities to get hold of people’s data by making telecommunications companies hang on to customer records for years. Not that the spooks needed any more help.
‘But there’s a simpler explanation,’ Ronnie said.
Bailey knew where he was going. ‘Don’t tell me – it’s my phone.’
‘You’re not running from anyone, or anything,’ Ronnie said. ‘I’d keep using it but be careful what you say. Turn it off or leave it behind when you need to.’
The conversation reminded Bailey about his message to Dexter. He looked down at his phone – still no response.
‘Let’s presume they know he was in touch. Let’s also presume they have something on Anderson, concocted or real – something that’ll stick.’
‘I’d bet Anderson has something even bigger on them,’ Gerald said. ‘And we need to get it.’
Bailey’s phone vibrated. ‘Sharon says publish. Line is: The Journal understands that Victor Ho is a person of –’
‘Thank you, Bailey. I’ve done a few of these in my time.’ Gerald stood up to leave. ‘Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’d better get back to the office.’
‘Okay, boss.’ Bailey winked at him.
Gerald ignored Bailey’s cheek and walked out of the Old Hen without turning around.
‘Back in a minute, bubba.’ Ronnie was on his feet too. ‘Nature.’
Drinking with Gerald and Ronnie made Bailey think of the years he’d spent in the Middle East. About the man he was back then, when he was spending more time trying to escape from life than running towards it. War correspondents were like that – they thrived on the adrenalin rush. As a young cadet sitting in the back of a courtroom, or chasing ambulances, no one ever warned him about the highs and lows of the job, how to deal with them. Whisky was the only way that Bailey knew how.
He stared into the bottom of his empty glass, wondering how many more it would take today. He hadn’t always been a heavy drinker. At least, not in those early days in Beirut when he was a young hack trying to make sense of Lebanon’s civil war. Ronnie Johnson was there, on the scene of almost every violent attack – the type of bloodshed that people would simply call terrorism these days.
Bailey remembered the day he first met Ronnie. Blood and body parts were scattered on the street in West Beirut when a car bomb was detonated next to the motorcade of newly elected President René Moawad, in the last days of the war. It was November 1989, and the moderate Maronite Christian leader was one of almost two dozen people who died. The screams from the families of the innocent victims were sounds that Bailey would never get out of his head. He remembered seeing Ronnie chipping residue from the wrecked cars. Later, he shared a beer with the CIA agent, who told him about the 250-kilogram bomb that did all that damage. Bailey even remembered the story he wrote that day under the headline ‘Beirut Bloodbath’.
The hard times for Bailey weren’t the days he’d spent documenting the horrors and the evils of war. Those were the times when the feeling of doing something important brought the highs. The darkness set in when everything was normal. It was why Bailey always found so
mewhere else to go, which meant leaving someone behind. There was always someone.
Ever since he’d lost his brother, Mike, Bailey had been on the run. He lived by the rule of motion: never turn around, keep moving. He had to keep the adrenalin pumping, which meant more days in conflict zones, on the scene of the latest bomb attack, walking past the wounded with nothing to offer them other than a paragraph in a story. For two decades, it was the only life he knew how to live.
‘Another whisky?’
Bailey hadn’t noticed Ronnie standing beside their table.
‘Why not?’
The warm fuzz of forgetting.
CHAPTER 15
‘Get your fucking hands off me!’ Bailey screamed.
‘Bailey. Bailey! Wake up.’
‘Let me go!’
‘Wake up, bubba. Wake up.’
Bailey jolted upright in his bed.
‘It’s okay,’ Ronnie said. ‘It’s just a bad dream. It’s me – it’s Ronnie.’
The sweat was stinging Bailey’s eyes and he had a dry, smoky taste of a long whisky session on his tongue.
‘Ronnie?’
‘Yeah, bubba, your old pal.’
The smell of coffee brought Bailey back to reality.
‘Some nightmare, hey, bubba?’
Ronnie was standing over him, balancing two steaming cups in his hand.
Bailey rubbed his eyes. ‘One of those for me?’
‘Irish – thought you’d need it. Know I do.’
Ronnie had forgotten what it was like to go drinking with John Bailey, now he had a pounding headache to remind him.
‘You know me too well.’ Bailey took a long swig. ‘That’s good.’
His head was throbbing, but at least his heart rate was slowing.
‘Nightmares.’ Ronnie paused. ‘We all get them. What was it – Beirut? Kabul? Iraq?’
It was always Iraq.
Bailey pretended not to hear the question and switched on the television.
‘You’ve got to be joking.’
Ronnie followed his eyes to the flatscreen fixed to the wall. Two men were patting each other’s backs and waving at a friendly crowd.
‘Page and Davis.’ Bailey couldn’t decide which face he wanted to punch more.