Greater Good
Page 26
One of the surfers made it to the first wave just before it broke, turning on the crest in time to get his reward. A rush of powerful strokes and he was on his feet, guiding his surfboard across the face with his back to a wall that rose high above his head. He boldly cut into the water with the edge of his board, turning up and down the face, before bending his knees, tucking low, and disappearing – for a few seconds, at least – inside a sheeting barrel.
It was beautiful.
Dexter followed his ride all the way to the shore where, in one casual movement, he gracefully flicked his board over the back of the wave and dived into the white, churning water, having tamed something wild. Eventually, his head poked up. He collected his board and began paddling back out towards the break, ready to do it all over again.
CHAPTER 37
They closed the doors of the taxi out the front of The Journal. Bailey was in no condition to have walked the four blocks from The Fox Hole and they were in a hurry.
Mick was back manning the front desk when Bailey hobbled through the foyer with Ronnie by his side.
‘How’re you holding up, Mr Bailey?’
‘Taken a few, landed a few,’ Bailey said. ‘Tell Gerald to clear out his office. We’re heading up.’
‘Will do.’
Marjorie, Penelope and Miranda were standing in the newsroom’s tiny kitchenette, sipping from their cups of tea, when Bailey and Ronnie walked out of the elevator.
‘Copy’s good, mate! Gerald flicked the switch about twenty minutes ago!’ Marjorie called out.
‘Dad! Dad!’ Miranda put down her cup and hurried across the newsroom floor to cut them off. ‘I think it’s time we got you to a hospital, don’t you?’
‘Give me a minute, sweetheart.’ Bailey didn’t stop for her. ‘One more loose end.’
‘A minute is all I’m giving you. I mean it!’
The two men walked into the editor’s office. Gerald was sitting, alone, in his big chair facing the building across the street. He still liked to stare out the window, despite having lost his view across the water. It helped him to think. Right now, he was reflecting.
‘We set the country on fire today, boys.’ He had heard them come in but didn’t turn around. ‘The other papers are already quoting us online. Morning radio shows love it, social’s gone ballistic, just waiting for the TV channels to catch up.’ Gerald pointed to the big flatscreen on the wall in his office playing one of the morning chat shows.
There was nothing a newspaper editor liked more than breaking a news story that captured an entire nation’s attention.
‘Yeah, about that, we need to talk.’
‘The girl tell you anything we didn’t already know?’
‘Not what she told me.’ Bailey was rummaging through his coat pocket while Ronnie closed the door behind them. ‘It’s what she gave me.’
He tossed the photograph onto Gerald’s desk. His boss turned around after hearing it land on the wood.
‘What’ve you got there, bubba?’
Ronnie walked to the other side of the desk beside Gerald. Bailey had refused to show the photo to Ronnie until they were all back in the office together.
There were three men in the picture, each wearing the same uniform.
‘They’re wearing Princeton jackets,’ Ronnie said.
‘How d’you know?’ Bailey said.
‘You knew I was Ivy League, right?’ Ronnie grabbed a half-chewed cigar from his coat pocket and shoved it in the corner of his mouth.
‘Seriously?’ Bailey wasn’t in the mood.
‘I’ve worked with enough Ivy League types in the bureau to know the insignia. And there isn’t another college in the world pretentious enough to give its students bright orange jackets.’
‘Princeton chess team of 1979.’ Gerald pointed to the placard beside the chessboard in the photograph.
‘A chess team has five players,’ Gerald said.
‘Yeah, well, these guys obviously liked each other enough to get their own photo. That’s Matthew Parker and Gary Page.’ Bailey tapped the heads of the young Australian students. ‘Third guy’s Bo Leung, the bastard who worked me over in the warehouse.’
‘Son of a bitch – you’re right,’ Ronnie said.
‘What does it mean?’ Gerald said.
‘Turn it over.’
Gerald flipped the photograph on his desk and Ronnie’s cigar slipped out of his mouth and dropped to the floor.
‘White dragons and chess.’ Ronnie read out the words scribbled on the back of the photograph. ‘Son of a bitch!’
‘What?’ Bailey said.
‘Can’t be.’ Ronnie was shaking his head. ‘This can’t be right.’
‘Can’t be what, Ronnie?’ Bailey said. ‘It’s been a long bloody few days, mate. I’m not up for the runaround from you this morning. In fact, I dare you to even –’
‘Bubba.’ Ronnie held up his hand. ‘Give me a minute.’
‘What for?’
Ronnie stared at the photograph in silence.
‘You want a minute for what?’
Ronnie picked up his cigar, slipped it back into his mouth and stepped away from the desk towards the window. ‘We heard Victor Ho mention the words “white dragon” in an exchange with another student at the university. He said something about ensuring that nothing could compromise Operation White Dragon. Nobody knew what that meant.’
‘An operation?’ Gerald said. ‘What operation?’
‘Our guess – the scam over defence contracts had threatened to undermine something else, something bigger.’
‘What? Chinese students like Victor Ho helped run some kind of intelligence operation?’ Gerald said.
‘Goddamn it,’ Ronnie said under his breath. ‘Bo Leung’s devoted his life to State Security. He must have recruited Parker and Page at Princeton. Or, at least, they started a friendship that turned into something else later.’
‘Do you realise what you’re saying?’ Bailey said.
‘Operation White Dragon is Parker, Page and China’s top spy, Bo Leung,’ Ronnie said what all three were thinking.
‘Former top spy,’ Bailey said. ‘You made sure of that.’
‘Does that mean it’s over?’ Gerald asked.
‘You win, you lose.’ Bailey repeated Bo Leung’s dying words on the floor of the warehouse.
‘We win, we lose,’ Ronnie said. ‘There were two moles inside the Australian Government. One of them got greedy. The other’s the most powerful person in the country – the prime minister – and we’ve got nothing to prove it.’
‘What about the photograph?’ Gerald said.
Ronnie was shaking his head. ‘It’s just that – a photograph! Three Princeton students from the chess team. Bo Leung’s a mirage. The Chinese will have a cover for his identity even before his body’s repatriated.’
‘What on earth have we walked into?’ Bailey asked the question, knowing Ronnie didn’t have the answer.
‘With Bo Leung dead, the Chinese will know that we know.’
‘And that’s why Parker was here,’ Bailey said.
‘Oh my God!’ Gerald was looking at his television, reading the breaking news flashing across the bottom of the screen.
NEW SOUTH WALES TOP COP DAVID DAVIS FOUND DEAD IN HIS MAROUBRA APARTMENT.
The television was showing footage of an ambulance and police cars blocking the street outside an apartment building. The pictures were from earlier in the morning, Bailey could tell by the sunlight. A body covered in a sheet was being wheeled on a stretcher towards the open doors of an ambulance. They could see Dexter in the background speaking to a small group of police officers before she walked out of the picture. Gerald turned up the volume and the newsreader declared that there were no suspicious circumstances, the media’s coded language for suicide.
The men had been mesmerised by the breaking news on the television and they missed the gentle knocking on the door.
‘Mr Summers?’ Penelope’s face appeared t
hrough a crack.
‘Yes?’
She walked over and handed Gerald two pieces of paper, both still warm from the printer. ‘The prime minister’s released a statement about Gary Page. And there’s one from the Chinese Embassy too.’
He took the paper from her hand and started reading.
‘And Mr Summers?’ Penelope said. ‘Detective Dexter’s downstairs. Shall I show her up?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Bailey answered for Gerald, who was distracted by the statements.
‘Slimy bastard,’ Gerald said. ‘Parker’s temporarily stood Page down and launched an investigation. He’s even suggesting Page could be innocent.’
‘What the fuck?’
‘You know how this runs, Bailey,’ Gerald said. ‘It says here that Page’s being investigated for leaking classified information about defence materials. Their statement stresses that we’re talking about design specs for boots, tents, clothing, cups and saucers.’
‘What about Li Chen?’
Ronnie turned the page. ‘Only one line. “The ambassador’s been recalled while the investigation takes place.” He’s probably already on a plane.’
‘Why’d we bother?’ Bailey thumped the desk with his good hand. ‘This is bullshit.’
‘Don’t worry, bubba. Parker’s desperate. You’ve got Page. He can’t hide from this. And my guess is that we’ll never see Li Chen again.’
‘And Parker?’ Bailey said.
‘Yeah.’ Ronnie bit down hard on his cigar. ‘That’s a whole new ball game now, bubba.’
They were interrupted by another gentle tap on the door. Penelope opened it and Dexter, pale, her eyes bloodshot, stepped inside. Without saying a word, she walked over to Bailey and buried her head in his chest.
He put his arms around her. ‘It’s over,’ he said. But he knew it was a lie. The kind you tell when you know someone is at rock bottom and can’t handle any more truth.
Truth.
The truth? It wasn’t over. Davis might be dead, along with the psychotic Chinese agent who had tried to kill Bailey. Ambassador Li was gone. But there was every chance that Page would beat any investigation. Politicians always found a way. Unless they were caught with a bag of cash, gun in hand, or with their pants around their ankles, they always made it back because they had other politicians to protect them. Who was Bailey kidding? He knew officials who’d sold out their families in order to keep their chair at the table. Keep a hold on power. Michael Anderson and Catherine Chamberlain had died for nothing. And so had David Davis. Collateral damage. All of them.
‘Dad!’ Miranda was standing beside Bailey, trying to get his attention. ‘It’s time. We’re taking you to hospital.’
‘Listen to your daughter.’ Dexter let go of him. ‘She’s smarter than you, remember?’
‘Okay, okay.’ His adrenalin had gone, replaced by exhaustion and pain. Everyone could see it.
They turned back to the television and listened to the newsreader finish her report about Gary Page.
‘Let’s call it a day, shall we?’ Gerald went to switch off the screen.
‘Wait!’ Bailey grabbed the remote control from his hand and turned up the volume.
The newsreader had moved on to a story about a series of suicide bombings in Iraq, carried out by a new terrorist group claiming to be behind a Sunni insurgency that had already taken control of the city of Mosul.
‘. . . and this morning we can show you the face of the insurgency that has led to more than a thousand deaths in three weeks,’ the newsreader said. ‘His name is Mustafa al-Baghdadi, the self-proclaimed leader of Islamic Nation, a group that has declared war on the government in Baghdad.’
A grainy photograph of Mustafa al-Baghdadi appeared on the screen. He looked older than Bailey remembered, but with the same piercing eyes.
‘Turn it off, bubba.’ Ronnie touched Bailey on the shoulder.
‘Wish I could.’
Bailey turned away from the screen and limped out of the room with his daughter and Dexter by his side.
CHAPTER 38
Bailey woke to the sound of laughter, familiar voices speaking over each other, sharing stories and occasionally mentioning his name.
He tried to open his eyes to see the faces behind the sounds, but his eyelids were weak and heavy – stuck together by a long sleep. It took a few goes before he got them apart.
At first, all he could see was the white ceiling, white walls, and silhouettes of people standing around his bed.
‘How, how long . . .’ He was struggling to get the words out, his throat was so croaky and dry. ‘How long have I been out?’
He might as well have been talking to himself.
‘Hey, anyone?’
Bailey started to identify the people in the room one by one.
Miranda was there. So was her mother, Anthea. Bailey could hear Penelope too. And Gerald, the lone male voice, laughing just the same.
‘Is anyone going to bloody answer me?’
‘Dad!’ Miranda noticed her father trying to sit up. ‘He’s awake!’
Bailey stretched his eyes wide open, so the air could clear the final fog of sleep.
Miranda’s face was the first to appear above him. ‘How’re you feeling, Dad?’
‘Like I’ve been hit by a bus. How long have I been out?’
‘About eighteen hours,’ she said.
Anthea, Penelope and Gerald filed along the sides of his bed.
‘And this one hasn’t left your bedside, mate.’ Gerald put his arm around Miranda, his soft smile making him look awkward.
‘Nice of Nancy to let you pop in too, old boy,’ Bailey said. ‘After the past few days I thought you’d be in the naughty corner and –’
‘Hello, John.’ Nancy appeared from behind Gerald.
‘Nancy,’ Bailey said. ‘Lovely to see you. Thanks for coming.’
‘Look at all these people who care about you.’ Anthea was trying hard not to laugh at her ex-husband’s uncanny ability to offend.
Other than Ronnie, who wasn’t the visiting type, the only person missing was Dexter.
‘So, the main man’s awake.’ A young bloke with designer stubble, who looked more like a student than a doctor, appeared at the end of the bed. ‘Mr Bailey, can I call you John?’
‘Just call me Bailey, everyone else does.’
‘Okay, Bailey, I’m Doctor Andrews. You can call me Peter. How’re you feeling?’
‘Ready to get out of here, thanks Peter.’ Bailey didn’t like hospitals.
‘I’d like to keep you in for another night, I’m afraid.’
‘Nah, I think I’m good, thanks.’ Bailey also didn’t like taking orders from Generation Y.
Miranda pressed his arm. ‘Dad, can you just let him speak?’
‘Thanks . . . uummm?’
‘Miranda.’
‘Thanks, Miranda.’ He smiled at her.
‘Hey, Peter.’ Bailey was irked by the attention the doctor was giving his daughter. ‘Over here, mate. What’s the verdict?’
‘Not great, I’m afraid.’ Peter’s focus was back on Bailey. ‘Three broken ribs, a fractured thumb and cheekbone, significant bruising in your right arm, abdomen and liver. You were quite badly dehydrated and . . .’ He looked confused. ‘You seem to be missing three fingernails from your right hand. How did –’
‘But nothing too serious, then?’
‘Well, if you look at each injury in isolation, you could say that. But I’d say you’re in pretty bad shape. You need to –’
‘Go home?’
The charade continued for another few minutes before Anthea intervened. ‘John, Peter would like you to stay for another night, so that’s what you’re doing. Okay?’
Bailey gave up and nodded, defeated.
Gerald was trying not to laugh as he watched the doctor fumbling with Bailey’s patient chart. ‘Yeah, mate, young Peter here knows a lot more than you about this stuff.’
‘Thank you, Gerald,’ Bailey said.
‘Thanks, Doc.’ Bailey scowled grumpily. ‘I’d like you all to piss off now. Thanks for visiting.’
‘You’re such a bore.’ Anthea kissed him on the forehead and left.
‘Yeah, Dad. Behave yourself.’ Miranda gave Bailey a hug and followed her mother out the door.
Penelope patted him on the leg. ‘You rest up, Bailey.’
‘Don’t rush back to work, mate.’ Gerald and Nancy were the last to leave.
Bailey closed his eyes. He was exhausted. Maybe the doctor was right. A little more rest and he’d be good to go.
When Bailey woke again it was night time. The clock beside his bed told him it was ten o’clock. The nurse had let him sleep but she had left a tray with a tired casserole, stale-looking bread roll and a yoghurt for his dinner.
He sat up, already feeling better – stronger – than when the doctor had seen him earlier in the day. But he was desperate to get to the toilet to relieve his bladder.
There was a needle stuck in his arm on the end of a tube that was connected to an empty bag. It must have had some saline solution in it, Bailey thought, for the dehydration. He pulled out the needle and sat on the edge of his bed for a moment to get his bearings and let his body catch up with his brain. With his head clear, he stepped onto the lino floor and hobbled to the toilet adjoining his room.
His ribs, cheek and thumb were throbbing, but it felt good to be back on his feet. He was peeved that Doctor Peter wanted to keep him there. He was even more annoyed that Dexter hadn’t come to see him. He wanted to know why.
Bailey was leaving. Checking himself out the old-fashioned way.
Someone had brought him a bag with clean clothes and a toothbrush. He got changed, gave his teeth a scrub, and crept out into the hallway.
He could hear the nursing staff discussing patients at the reception desk. He limped past without being seen, pausing only when he noticed a trolley loaded with food and drinks with the smallest bottles of wine he had ever seen. He helped himself to a bottle of red – it was meant for patients, after all. A short ride in the elevator and he was breathing the cool night air outside the Royal Prince Alfred Hospital, congratulating himself for the tidy exit.