by Tim Ayliffe
The lights to Ronnie’s car flashed – unlocked.
‘You get in the front,’ Dexter said to Bailey.
‘What happened to chivalry?’ Bailey tried to make a joke while carefully lowering himself into the seat. The pain was coming from so many parts of his body that every movement hurt.
‘Plenty of time for that later.’
‘I’m gonna light this.’ Ronnie picked his cigar off the dashboard. ‘Hope you don’t mind.’
‘I’m actually relieved to see you finally smoke one of those things.’ Bailey winced again. The cut in his lip had started to dry and any facial movement was causing it to crack.
‘We need to get you to a hospital,’ Dexter said.
‘Bumps and bruises. I’ll be okay.’
‘Bullshit. We’re going.’
‘Later. Trust me, I will go, but later. We’ve still got work to do to put this to bed.’
Bailey didn’t want to turn around to face Dexter. His eyes wouldn’t hide the pain. His head and jaw were aching. His cheekbone was fractured. His right thumb was broken. He might even have a few broken ribs from the beating outside the art gallery. But he couldn’t go to hospital, not now. Not after a man had just tried to kill him because of the story he was writing.
‘Hey Ronnie?’
‘Yeah?’
Ronnie wound down his window and blew some smoke outside.
‘That guy back there –’
‘Bo Leung. What about him?’
‘What’s he doing here?’
‘Cleaning up. That’s my guess anyway. A guy like him doesn’t turn up for no reason. Last we heard, he’d taken a desk job in the Ministry of State Security.’
‘What was he doing?’ Bailey wanted to know everything about the man who’d almost killed him.
‘Cybercrime. Everyone thinks Russia’s the big player. They’re not. The Chinese mastered it a long time ago – stealing company blueprints for knock-off designs. Hell, they built half their economy on it. But this fella took it to a whole new level.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘We think Bo was the guy in charge of their secret military hacking unit, run out of a rundown apartment block on the outskirts of Shanghai. We’ve never got close enough, never got inside. But we know what they do.’
‘Which is?’
‘Attack foreign government computer systems – bring them down, damage them, steal whatever they can.’
‘It still doesn’t explain why he’s here.’
‘I don’t know what to tell you, bubba. There could be something else at play, something we don’t know about.’
‘This is all very interesting,’ Dexter said from the back seat. ‘But we really need to get Bailey to a hospital.’
‘Not yet,’ Bailey said. ‘I will go, I promise. First, I’ve got to get back to The Journal to finish writing this story. Too many people have lost their lives. We’ve got to publish and put an end to it.’
‘Okay, then.’ Dexter knew there was no point arguing with him. ‘You’re a stubborn man, John Bailey. I’m giving you three hours. If we’re not on the way by then, I’m calling an ambulance. Got it?’
Bailey held up his mashed right thumb, without turning around.
‘Got it.’
CHAPTER 33
‘What the . . .’ Gerald’s jaw dropped when he caught sight of Bailey at the door.
Miranda saw him too. ‘Oh my God, Dad. What happened?’
Bailey limped into Gerald’s office with Dexter and Ronnie steadying him.
‘Been a long night, sweetheart.’ He reached out and took Miranda in his arms, ignoring the pain triggered by the contact. It was the longest hug he’d had with his daughter in a long time. Or ever. Bailey’s reason to live. The pain was worth it.
‘I’m fine. Just a few bumps and bruises,’ he said.
‘Bumps and bruises!’ The look on his daughter’s face told Bailey more than he needed to know about his injuries. Miranda touched his bloodstained cheek, which was already turning blue. ‘We need to get you to a hospital.’
‘You should listen to your daughter, Bailey.’ Marjorie was sitting with a pile of documents on her lap on the sofa. ‘You look like crap.’
‘Later. Gerald and I’ve got work to do. Unfinished business.’
‘I’ve been trying, honey.’ Dexter touched Miranda on the arm. ‘We’ll get him to a doctor as soon as this is done.’
‘Are you going to tell me who did this to you, Dad?’
‘Bad guys, sweetheart.’ At least he wasn’t lying. And there wasn’t any point telling her about Bo Leung’s torture kit. Anyhow, as painful as it was, what had happened to Bailey in the warehouse wasn’t part of the story.
‘You need to do better than that, Dad.’
‘Couple of thugs working for a corrupt politician, I think. They’re trying to throw us off the scent, intimidate us.’
Even absent parents could justify a white lie to their children.
‘Okay, Dad.’ Miranda backed off. ‘As soon as you’re done here, we’re taking you to a hospital, whether you like it or not.’
‘I’ll make sure of it,’ Dexter said.
‘Couldn’t imagine better escorts than you two,’ Bailey said. ‘And Miranda, meet my old friend, Ronnie Johnson. He’s an American spy, a real one.’
‘Your old man’s a comedian.’ Ronnie chuckled uncomfortably. ‘Your dad and I knew each other in the Middle East. He’s told me all about you. Nice to finally meet you.’
‘You too.’ Miranda’s hand disappeared inside Ronnie’s big mitt. ‘You’re the bloke from Bondi the other day!’
‘Told you she’s sharp, Ronnie.’
Bailey was eager to change the subject. He sidled up beside Gerald and pointed to the documents spread out on his desk. ‘What’s happening here?’
Gerald leaned in. ‘You okay?’ After almost thirty years of friendship, he could clearly tell when Bailey was bullshitting. But he wasn’t about to make a scene.
‘Fallujah . . . Mark II.’ Bailey realised how ridiculous the words sounded.
Gerald placed his hand on the back of Bailey’s neck and pulled him close. With glazed eyes, he studied the face of a man he’d seen banged up too many times before.
‘For the last time, mate.’
‘Yeah, banking on it.’
Bailey slowly lowered himself onto a leather sofa in between Miranda and Dexter. He wasn’t going to hospital until they’d published the story, which meant they needed to get back to work.
Gerald walked back around his desk to his computer screen. ‘I think we’re good to go with this, right, Marjorie?’ He had spent the past few hours working on Bailey’s draft.
‘Yeah. Sands Enterprises checks out. Li Chen and Gary Page are the sole two directors. We’ve also got a copy of Page’s reform bill that will open the door to overseas contracts. And guess what?’ Marjorie said. ‘The bill’s due before parliament next week. Anderson also had the paperwork to show how the Chinese companies operated, so we’ve got the designs Page lifted from Treasury and Defence.’
Marjorie tapped her finger on the pile of documents on Gerald’s desk. ‘The usual legal risks aside, this is about as solid as we’ll get it.’
‘Do I get a look?’ Ronnie was standing on the other side of the room, pouring himself a glass of whisky from Gerald’s silver drinks platter.
‘Sorry, Ronnie. You’re welcome to stick around but you’re a passenger now. And help yourself.’
‘Get me one, would you?’ If anyone needed a drink, it was Bailey.
‘Sure, bubba. Two swollen fingers coming up.’
‘Did you learn anything from the manager of the apartment building? Mario whatever-his-name-was?’ Gerald remembered the reason Bailey had left his office in the first place.
Dexter looked at Ronnie and Bailey. Both nodded for her to be the one to break the news about the involvement of the New South Wales Police Commissioner.
‘We have evidence that makes David Dav
is at least an accomplice in Catherine Chamberlain’s murder.’
‘What?’ Gerald was shocked. ‘How?’
‘You mean, we had the evidence,’ Bailey said.
‘Check your email,’ Dexter said to Gerald.
Bailey was looking at Dexter, confused, while Gerald fidgeted with the mouse, searching his inbox.
The room went silent, with everyone waiting for him to open the file.
‘Good God!’
Bailey tried to get up off the sofa, groaning from the pain of the struggle. It took three goes, but with a little push from Marjorie, he was up. He hobbled over to join Gerald at the other side of the desk. ‘What is it?’
Gerald was watching his computer screen, shaking his head. ‘Bloody genius.’
‘What the hell?’ Bailey couldn’t believe he was staring at the faces of David Davis and Victor Ho, the same footage he’d watched earlier that night.
‘Well, that settles that.’ Ronnie had joined them behind the computer.
‘It’s the security camera footage from the night she was killed, straight from the monitor in Mario Monticello’s office,’ Dexter said. ‘Davis was the one who let Victor Ho into the building. All time coded. It checks out.’
Marjorie had a question. ‘Yeah, but –’
‘Wait for it.’ Dexter knew what she was about to ask – the lawyer wanted proof that the recording was genuine. ‘Meet the manager of Catherine Chamberlain’s apartment building.’
With the footage still running, Dexter had zoomed out the camera on her phone to record Mario standing beside the monitor with a bewildered look on his face.
‘And what’s your name please, sir.’ They could hear Dexter’s voice on the recording.
‘My name is Mario Monticello, the manager at 72 Leopold Street, Rushcutters Bay. Okay, darling, are we done?’
The recording stopped on a freeze-frame of Mario giving a thumbs up to the camera.
‘Got him,’ Gerald said.
‘Brilliant, Detective Dexter,’ Marjorie said.
Gerald turned to Dexter. ‘How hard can we go?’
Dexter knew precisely what they could print. ‘The New South Wales Police Commissioner is expected to be taken in for questioning today about his involvement in the murder of a woman in Rushcutters Bay.’
‘He was also a client,’ Bailey reminded Gerald. ‘And I think this gives us leeway on that fifty-thousand-dollar donation from Sands Enterprises for Davis’s campaign?’
‘It does,’ Marjorie said. ‘Use it.’
‘You’d better organise another print run,’ Bailey said. ‘We’re going to need the first five pages.’
‘Online first.’
‘Of course, old boy,’ Bailey said. ‘But won’t those headlines look good in print?’
‘Yeah, they sure will, Bailey.’
‘Penelope!’ Gerald yelled at the closed door of his office. ‘Are you still out there?’
The door clicked open and Penelope’s head appeared, sleepy-eyed.
‘I’m emailing you something. Make two copies on separate thumb drives and then drop the video on the server. It shows two murder suspects in the Catherine Chamberlain case. Andy on the online desk can help you. Nobody publishes without checking with me.’
‘No worries.’ Penelope disappeared again.
Dexter turned to Bailey. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Where?’
‘Davis,’ she said. ‘I want to be the one to bring him in.’
‘Be careful.’ He held her hand, then watched her walk out of the room.
‘We’ve got some work to do, old boy.’ Bailey pushed a chair up against the other side of Gerald’s desk and examined the state of his hands. ‘It’s lucky I’m a two-finger typist.’
‘I might as well hang around.’ Miranda curled her legs on the sofa. ‘It’s not often I get to see my old man at work.’
Gerald grabbed her a blanket. ‘Sleep here tonight. We’ll all walk out into the sunlight together once the ink is dry, and we’ve ignited a political firestorm.’
Miranda accepted the blanket and spread it over her legs. As much as she loved the idea of watching her father at work, the only reason she was sleeping on the couch was so she could take him to hospital when the story was done.
‘I’m staying too.’ Ronnie lay back on the other sofa and closed his eyes with a fresh unlit cigar wedged in the corner of his mouth. ‘Wake me when you’re done, bubba. I love a good story.’
‘I guess I’ll just make do with this armchair.’ Marjorie was sticking around too. Bailey knew she would want to read over the final draft. Thorough, as always.
‘That’s a full house.’ Gerald rocked back in his leather armchair, twirled around and stared out into the night.
For the next few hours, the only sound in the room was the gentle tapping on Bailey’s keyboard.
CHAPTER 34
‘Mr Summers.’ Penelope was at the door again.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but . . .’ She seemed unsure how to tell them. ‘You’ve got some, errrr, visitors.’
Ronnie had already sat up at the sound of Penelope’s voice.
Gerald looked at Bailey, still tapping away at his computer, and then at his watch. It was three o’clock in the morning.
‘Know who they are?’
‘Well, yes.’ Penelope looked confused. ‘It’s . . . they are . . .’
‘C’mon, Pen, it’s the middle of the bloody night.’ Gerald was tired and not in the mood for coaxing.
‘Mr Summers, it’s the . . . the prime minister.’
‘What?’
Bailey had never met Matthew Parker, but he knew that prime ministers almost never visited the office of a newspaper editor. And they certainly didn’t do it in the middle of the night.
Penelope was awaiting her instructions. ‘What shall I do?’
‘What do you mean? Bloody well let him in!’ Gerald said.
‘Yes, yes, I did that. They’re down the corridor and –’ Penelope paused at the sound of footsteps slapping the carpet in the hallway, growing louder by the second. Like horses at the track, there was a pack of them, and right now the pack was charging towards Gerald’s office.
‘Prime Minister –’ Penelope tried to introduce Matthew Parker at the door, but he brushed past her and walked straight in.
The prime minister wasn’t alone. Parker’s long-time chief of staff, Felicity Coleman, and the head of the Australian Security and Intelligence Organisation, Richard Allen, followed their boss into the room. Each with a scowling face to rival the other’s. Three plain-clothed federal police officers stopped at the door, waiting outside.
The abrupt entry of Parker and his entourage had been orchestrated to interrupt and intimidate the tired, bewildered eyes staring back at them.
‘Gerald.’ The prime minister held out his hand and Gerald shook it.
Bailey looked up from his keyboard, a white glow of light shining on his face. Matthew Parker was smaller than he’d imagined, although there was no mistaking his presence in the room. He was a powerful man who carried himself like he had the keys to the country. In truth, after three election victories and having guided Australia through the global recession, he had a firmer grip on power than any prime minister for decades. He was proving untouchable for the Opposition, and political journalists often joked that he was coated with Teflon.
Parker seemed content being arrogant, as long as the public believed he was still the same working class union organiser who never stopped fighting for the little people as he rose through the rank and file of the Labor Party. He was also the guy who wasn’t afraid of making enemies on the left when he borrowed ideas from the other side of politics.
His popularity was boosted by the fact that he seemed to grow better looking with age. He was a fitness fanatic with a permanent tan, probably from all the days he spent running and riding his longboard at the beach. Bailey had always wondered whether he had cheated his years with a bottle of hair dye. Up close,
he was handsome; everything looked natural. Bailey was disappointed. Parker had been prime minister for eight years and it hadn’t aged him at all. At least, not like Tony Blair, who had entered Downing Street a youthful agent of change, only to leave a grey, weathered old man battling to defend his legacy.
‘It’s three o’clock in the fucking morning. Who are all these people?’ Felicity Coleman had a reputation for being blunt and aggressive.
Gerald was unmoved. Bailey knew his old friend was accustomed to dealing with political animals, even the feral ones. He knew when and how to bark back.
‘May I ask, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company at this ungodly hour of the morning?’
‘Don’t fuck with us, Gerald.’ Coleman understood power and she was wielding it like an axe.
‘Felicity, please,’ Parker intervened. ‘Let’s try to keep this civil, shall we?’
‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’ Gerald smiled at the prime minister’s chief of staff.
‘Firstly, I’d like to know who our audience is here tonight, if you don’t mind, Gerald?’ The evenness in Parker’s voice suggested he’d prepared a speech and was ready to deliver it.
Gerald pointed his finger around the room, introducing everyone, one by one. ‘Our lawyer, Marjorie Atkins. This is Ronnie Johnson from the US ambassador’s security detail.’
Ronnie’s job description invited a snigger from ASIO chief Richard Allen.
Gerald saved Bailey for last. ‘And this is –’
‘John Bailey.’ Parker finished the introduction for Gerald. ‘Celebrated war correspondent and contemporary drunk.’
‘Hard to argue with that,’ Bailey said.
‘But it seems you have come out of retirement, John?’ Parker had made a habit of addressing people by their first name. It gave him an instant level of superiority.
‘Could say that. Nothing like a good story about corruption in the halls of power to get you going.’
Gerald frowned at Bailey. He should have known better than to provoke the prime minister.
‘Well . . .’ Parker took a moment to meet the eyes of everyone in the room. ‘This little story of yours is precisely why we’re here.’
‘And just how are –’