by Robert Sims
He caught an odd tone in her voice. ‘Where are you?’
‘At the Diamond,’ she replied. ‘Chatting to Freddy Hopper.’
‘Is he cooperating?’
‘Yes, he’s answered all my questions.’ She watched Freddy tense but waved a hand at him to lighten up. ‘Nothing new though.’
The words reassured him. Freddy’s expression relaxed, their verbal agreement sealed.
‘I’ll join you there,’ said Jarrett. ‘There’s been an interesting development. One that’s got Bryce stumped.’
He hung up.
‘My colleague’s on his way here,’ Rita told Freddy. ‘Better make yourself scarce.’
‘No sweat.’
He downed the rest of his drink.
‘Before you go,’ added Rita. ‘Is anyone else looking for Stonefish?’
‘Yeah, the guy who owns this joint. I work for him on and off. The odd bit of hacking.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Billy Bowers - local hard nut.’
Rita froze. ‘Billy “The Beast” Bowers?’ she asked. ‘Ex-boxer?’
‘Yeah, that’s him. Ex-champ, ex-primate. You know him?’
‘Only too well.’
Rita sat on a bar stool putting together a mental jigsaw puzzle to which Freddy had supplied several new pieces. Perhaps the most illuminating involved the man whose picture she’d only just noticed in pride of place behind the counter. The ringside close-up showed his gleaming physique towering over a defeated opponent, the title World Champion emblazoned above his ferocious head in gold lettering.
When Jarrett arrived he climbed onto a stool beside her, his eyes doing a quick sweep over the clientele.
‘Was it worth the visit?’ he asked.
‘Oh, definitely,’ said Rita.
‘But Freddy gave you nothing fresh?’
She brushed that aside. ‘Forget Freddy. I’ve found my connection to Whitley.’
‘What is it?’
She pointed at the gilded photo mounted behind the bar.
‘Him.’
‘You’re kidding,’ said Jarrett. ‘Billy Bowers?’
‘Uh-huh.’ She nodded.
‘Bugger me. That’s a bit of a jaw-dropper, if you’ll pardon the pun. You met him in the course of your inquiries?’
‘That’s right.’
‘With Sex Crimes?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘That means your name in a dead man’s boot leads straight here. Could be a bit awkward.’
‘Why?’
‘Billy’s a local hero. Not to mention a multi-millionaire.’
‘Hero? Because he runs a sleazy club? I assume you know he’s got a criminal background.’
‘I know some of his associates are crooks, yes. But it’s not just this club he owns. He’s got a whole business portfolio - a restaurant, a gym and a charter boat company for game fishing on the reef. He’s also into showbiz promotions and property development - he’s building a resort complex up in the rainforest.’
Jarrett paused, frowning. ‘Of course, that brought him into direct conflict with Rachel Macarthur and the environmentalists. She organised protests and Billy was none too pleased. But he’s got a lot of pull with the council.’
‘In spite of his gangland credentials?’
‘Lots of businessmen up here have got a shady past, councillors included. It’s par for the course. The accepted wisdom is: don’t knock what’s good for the local economy. He’s even on the board of the sailing club.’
‘Don’t tell me - he’s one of your drinking mates.’
‘As a matter of fact, yeah, we’ve enjoyed a few beers together.’
Jarrett caught the disappointment in her expression. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Do you know how he got his nickname?’
‘“The Beast”? He told me it’s from his fight style. Because he’s a brute in the ring.’
‘Then the laugh was on you,’ she said with disgust. ‘It’s got nothing to do with boxing.’
Jarrett was peeved. ‘What then?’
‘It’s a nasty joke his manager came up with because of Billy’s proclivities.’
He looked at her askance. ‘No! Not bestiality?’
‘Yes, but not in the way you think. He forces women to do it and laughs while he watches. It’s a sadistic sport to him.’
‘And your connection?’
‘I arrested him for it. It was my first year in the squad. I found out after a young hooker broke down in hysterics when I was questioning her about something else. She was nineteen.’
‘Well, don’t stop there. What happened?’
‘Billy took some of his gangland pals to a brothel in Carlton -
along with a pair of German shepherds. Three girls were working there that afternoon and they got slapped around until they complied. Billy entertained himself and his mates with a sex show between the girls and the dogs.’
‘That story never came out.’
‘He was never charged. I was a rookie detective and couldn’t make the allegation stick. The girl who spoke to me vanished, the other two vigorously denied the story and Billy had plenty of chums to give him an alibi. No case. And I got a lecture about being impulsive.’
‘But you were right.’
‘I heard later why the other two girls were so emphatic in their denials. I was told, off the record, that the nineteen-year-old was chopped up and fed to the dogs.’
There was a strange glint in Jarrett’s eye. ‘It may interest you to know he still keeps German shepherds. Guard dogs at his villa.’
He glanced over at the brassy women in the booth. ‘I wonder if any of the girls here could tell us a story.’
‘Or the man in the mud,’ said Rita. ‘Maybe that’s why my name was in his boot.’
‘He might’ve been planning to give you an update. If only we could identify him. Somehow I don’t think Billy will help. Have you asked if he’s around?’
‘Billy’s gone fishing, schmoozing up to a Hollywood veteran with a macho self-image.’
‘Your profiling tell you that?’
‘No, the barmaid,’ smiled Rita. ‘She says it’s a producer who wants to hook a marlin like Ernest Hemingway.’
Jarrett gave a grunt. ‘What - a fish with a beard?’
‘So what’s your news?’ she asked.
‘Something out of left field. We’ve been summoned to attend a meeting at the research base. Bryce, me and - wait for it - you.’
‘Oh, shit,’ Rita groaned. ‘Maddox wants to carpet me offi cially.’
‘Calm down,’ said Jarrett, placing a hand on her arm. ‘It’s not about that. It’s the upgraded terror alert. The government’s ordered an urgent security review of Whitley Sands and surroundings, including the town itself. The introductory session is this afternoon and we’ll all have a level-one clearance. Looks like there’s a good chance we’ve got a terrorist cell in our midst. A review panel’s being organised with base security to include emergency services, the local council and police - and we’re on the list.’
‘Why me?’
‘Yeah, that’s got Bryce flummoxed. He’s none too pleased to be conscripted himself but says your inclusion smacks of an ulterior motive. “Wire-pulling” he calls it.’
‘I think he’s right.’
28
Rita felt a chill go through her as the police car stopped at the security barrier of the Whitley Sands research base. It brought back the brutal experience of two nights before and Dr Steinberg’s allusion to the Stasi. This time, though, she wasn’t heading to their compound but to their citadel. From the car windows she could see the chain-link perimeter fence stretching in either direction, topped with a frill of razor wire. Tall metal poles, each with a brace of cameras, flanked the fortified checkpoint where the guards inspected ID before waving them through. Jarrett was at the wheel, looking uncomfortable in a suit and tie, with Inspector Bryce in the passenger seat beside him wearing full uniform. Ri
ta was in the back seat on her own. She’d put on the pale turquoise linen suit that usually gave her an edge in male company. It was light, cool and showed off her curves. It was also a way of making a statement of self-assurance to Maddox and his ilk.
A small procession of civilian delegates was winding from the car park to the entrance of the main building. As the three members of the police contingent got out of the car, Bryce turned to Rita.
‘This isn’t meant to sound condescending, Van Hassel,’ he began, ‘but my advice to you is to say nothing unless you’re asked a specific question. This meeting is fraught with pitfalls, not least for you.’
‘I agree, sir.’
‘This applies to you too, Jarrett. No uninvited comments. Don’t offer advice. Don’t expand on police tactics.’ Bryce straightened his jacket with a tug. ‘This review is ostensibly in response to an upgraded alert but don’t doubt for a moment we’d be safer off paddling with stingers. We’ll be dealing with military administrators and federal apparatchiks who didn’t get where they are by being nice. Lethal politics is second nature to them. They’re experts at the blame game. What makes it worse is that we’ll have our civilian colleagues as an audience.’
With a sigh, Bryce led the way to the front doors of the administrative block that sat atop the seven underground levels where the R&D was housed. Once inside they joined the queue of emergency service and civil authority officers being processed with base security tags - photos, digital codes and fingerprint biometric data. When it came to Rita’s turn she was presented with a ready-made smart card.
‘We’ve already got your details, Van Hassel.’
A thick-necked guard gave her a cold look of recognition, one that lingered, as he handed her the card. She took the pass, slapped it against a digital pad to open glass security doors and walked through into a cavernous atrium. It stretched six floors up to a glazed roof and two floors down to a basement cafeteria furnished with tables, chairs and rubber plants. The building’s interior was circular, with galleried walkways and glass-walled offices on each floor. Suspended in mid-air, like a satellite above the atrium, was a sphere ribbed with CCTV cameras. The elevator hall was clad in marble.
As she leant on the railing, craning her neck upwards, Rita could see grey clouds scudding overhead through the glass panels of the roof. Figures, some in military uniforms, were walking along the upper galleries. In a ground-floor meeting room, on the far side of the atrium, men in white shirts were seated before a flip chart.
On the floor below technicians were adjusting cameras and lasers in some sort of open studio. All of this, of course, was basic office work. Below the open basement floor stretched the underground chambers where all the restricted work occurred.
The place was unusual and deceptive. While the building’s exterior was bland and rectangular - a functional block of concrete and smoked glass - inside it was something of an architectural showpiece, albeit inward-looking and vertiginous at the same time.
And with a gasp of recognition, Rita saw the symbolism of the design. The Whitley Sands building was a physical expression of the secret project being developed beneath it.
The structure was a clever adaptation of the model prison advocated by eighteenth-century English philosopher Jeremy Bentham - a type of penitentiary that he called a Panopticon. The name came from the Greek word for ‘all-seeing’. The layout was circular, with the prisoners in their cells around the circumference and the officers, concealed from view, in an observation tower at the centre. The aim was to convey a sense of permanent surveillance or, as Bentham put it, a ‘sentiment of a sort of omnipresence’.
The Whitley Sands structure even mimicked a central watch-tower with its nest of security cameras.
Someone came and stood beside her at the railing. She turned to see the unsmiling face of Captain Roy Maddox.
‘This time we’ve let you in the front door,’ he said. ‘So you’d better behave yourself.’
Instead of military apparel, now he was wearing a dark blue suit, white shirt and precisely knotted tie.
‘Captain Maddox,’ replied Rita. ‘I didn’t recognise you out of your interrogation garb.’
‘Come on, Van Hassel. Let it go.’
‘I already have.’
‘Good girl.’
‘But if you go on patronising me,’ she added, just above a whisper,
‘I might not think twice about kicking you where it hurts.’
‘I’d like to see you try.’ Maddox let out an unfriendly laugh.
‘But let’s be straight with one another. Like it or not, we’re about to work together.’
‘Straight, okay,’ said Rita, folding her arms. ‘What’s the real reason I’m part of this review?’
‘Because you’re a random element in an unorthodox theatre of war,’ he growled. ‘And your path has already crossed mine.’
‘You don’t trust me,’ she said.
‘I’ve got enough to worry about without trying to second guess what your investigation will turn up. For all I know, you might stumble on something relevant. To put it bluntly, I don’t want you interfering wherever your female instincts lead you. I’d rather have you in the loop.’
‘That’s almost flattering.’
‘Well, it’s the only flattery you’ll get from me.’ He turned aside as Bryce and Jarrett approached. ‘Here come your colleagues.’ He reached out and shook their hands briskly as he eyed their security tags. ‘I see you’re equipped with your new dongles.’
‘My old dongle’s still in working order,’ put in Jarrett.
Bryce cut him dead with a look before turning to Maddox.
‘This is all a bit short notice,’ he said.
‘That’s why it’s called urgent,’ retorted Maddox. ‘Get used to it, Bryce. Things are hotting up around here.’ He gestured towards the lifts. ‘The review’s being held in the Situation Room, so we’re heading down to level one.’
They filed into the lift with a handful of other delegates, glided three floors down and emerged into a long, high corridor that seemed to stretch for a kilometre in either direction. The floor was covered in linoleum and the walls were painted battleship grey. Maddox led the guests past several steel doors, some of them ajar, showing rooms where staff were busy at keyboards.
An intersecting corridor brought them to double doors, through which they entered the Situation Room. It was a broad, carpeted space dominated by a large oval table around which a couple of dozen people were milling, looking for their names in front of their allotted chairs. The room had a high ceiling and no windows, the walls were hung with flat screens and maps. A bank of computer monitors and digital communications were recessed into one of the walls in the form of a master control desk.
‘Right, we’re all here,’ announced Maddox, as the doors closed with an air-tight hiss. ‘Let’s get this show on the road.’
There may have been an irksome quality to Bryce, an undue formality in the way he approached his duties, but Rita decided he was right about the type of meeting they were now locked into. She’d been to taskforce briefings before, crowded squad rooms with too many detectives pumped up and edgy, yet none had prepared her for this. This was like a war summit. Those at the head of the table interpreted the rules of battle, government observers took notes, and the rest were there to follow orders or face the consequences. The setting was intimidating, like a hi-tech bunker, and the mood oppressive. The room itself was filled with an airless hush, a strain of expectation.
More than thirty people sat in silence at their allocated places as the man presiding rose to his feet.
‘Thank you all for coming so promptly,’ he began. ‘Let me introduce myself. I’m the director-general of the Whitley Sands Defence Research Establishment, Lieutenant Colonel Willis Baxter.
It’s my honour to be the man in charge here and the convenor of this opening session of the security review, ordered by the federal government. A heavy responsibility is being placed on the sho
ulders of all of you in this room, and I expect nothing less than total commitment to the task at hand.’
The introductory remarks confirmed Rita’s assessment. The format was rigidly institutional, with all that implied in terms of conforming to the rules. Failure to comply would invite censure or worse.
‘In addition to your normal duties,’ Baxter continued, ‘those of you employed by the civil authorities will be required to familiarise yourself with the directives, procedures and responses stipulated under the stages of the alert. I can’t emphasise enough how important it is to remain vigilant at all times. All reports of suspicious acts must be followed up. No threat, whether actual, potential or merely perceived, can go unchecked. I hope I make myself clear.’
What was becoming clear to Rita was Baxter’s sense of his own importance. He expected obedience. He saw himself as a martial overlord who projected a natural air of authority. His adjustment from active service to defence industry administration was an ongoing process. The way he addressed the meeting -
standing stiffly, hands clasped behind his back, chin thrust out, his message conveyed with a crisp, no-nonsense delivery - was the way he would have rallied his troops. Like Maddox, military logic controlled his thinking. But unlike his security director, Baxter assumed an aura of upright command, leadership with a refined sense of supervision. Tall, almost aristocratic in profile, he possessed a weighty voice, icy blue eyes and jet black hair. It was probably dyed to maintain an imposing image, consistent with his tailored black suit and regimental tie. While Rita recognised that Baxter cut an impressive figure, she couldn’t help feeling there was an element of pose, a certain vanity, in the way he conducted himself. In any commander, that was a dangerous flaw.
‘Before I proceed with the terms of the review,’ Baxter went on, ‘I want to go around the table and register each delegate’s presence. I’ll start by introducing the three men seated beside me.
Each is an expert in security and intelligence matters and has an intricate working knowledge of the research base. To my right is the Whitley Sands security director, Captain Roy Maddox.’ Maddox nodded grimly. ‘To my left is our international director, Rhett Molloy, who hails from Washington, and next to him is a senior adviser on counter-terrorism, Peter Luker from Canberra.’ Luker offered a smile of acknowledgement; the others remained stony-faced as Baxter continued. ‘Now, going in a clockwise direction, I want each person to state, for the record, their name, function and area of specialisation.’