Something was on the grass.
He set down the flashlight and crawled under. He closed his hand over the bulky object.
‘What is it? What have you found?’ Andrea said, squatting beside him.
‘Hate to say this. Some kind of bomb, would you believe.’
Ten sticks of dynamite taped together. A detonator attached to a timing device, a small clock. It was not ticking. A cluster of wires hung loose from it.
‘A bomb?’ she said.
‘It’s not set. I must have interrupted them.’
‘Shit. So … what are car thieves doing planting a bomb?’
‘I thought they were car thieves. Quite clearly they had higher aspirations.’
‘Jesus. I can’t believe this. You’re holding a bomb in your hand, and you make jokes about it.’
‘It’s no joke.’ Ten sticks. That’s enough to blow up the car and half the fucking house too. If they were going to time it to go off during the night, we would have been blown to the shit-house, or incinerated.
‘Are you sure it’s not set?’
‘I’m no bomb expert, but I’m pretty sure. The timer isn’t ticking. The wires aren’t connected to anything.’
‘Maybe it can go off anyway.’
‘I don’t think so. The detonator has to be activated.’
‘If you drop it, can it go off? Can’t it just explode if it’s … unstable?’
‘No. Or only in certain circumstances. But don’t worry, I’m not going to drop it.’
‘People mess around with dynamite, they get blown up, Barrett.’
‘I’m not messing around with it. I’m holding it.’
She started crying. That wasn’t like Andrea. But then she’d never had to deal with amateur bombers before. Barrett had – once or twice. Thrice, now. Not an experience to relish, then or now. Bombs were nasty, deadly shit. And the people who used them were never fucking about – they wanted to blow human flesh away in barbecued strips.
‘What are we going to do now?’ she said in a half-whisper, as if too many sound waves might trigger the device. Barrett could see she was making an effort to get herself together.
‘We have to call the cops, for a start.’
She nodded. Wiped her nose with her fingers. ‘Christ.’
‘Yeah, Christ. Go on, love. You get on the phone. I’ll just … wait out here.’ His problem was: what do you do with an unexploded bomb once you have it in your hands? Christ again. Anyone who has had first-hand experience of the damage explosives can inflict doesn’t forget it easily. He suddenly had a flashback to 1969: he was a twenty-year-old infantryman in South Vietnam, nine and a half months in the country. His platoon was a close-knit bunch; most of them had gone through recruit camp and then jungle training at Canungra together. Their officer, Lieutenant Rory McIntosh, knew and understood what a piece of unwanted shit this war was, and did his best to strike a balance between professional duty and common sense. In the Australian army, formalities were non-existent in the field: everyone was on an equal footing, and the fact that the men called him ‘Mac’ or ‘Jock’, or even ‘Bloodnut’ – he was a real red-head – did not indicate a lack of respect. Quite the reverse. He wanted to live, same as everyone else. Mac was a national serviceman; he had a real life and a real job to go back to. But he’d got a leg infection, become seriously sick with gangrene, and had to be shipped home. Unfortunately his replacement, a freckle-faced little firebrand named Colin Christie, was a lifer and a mad gung-ho bastard. In direct contravention of the unwritten law of survival in war, he’d gone out of his way to make contact with the enemy. He’d sent men on dangerous missions when it was not strictly necessary. He’d sent men who were on short time, who had paid their dues, into fire zones instead of giving them a soft run home. He’d insisted on being addressed as ‘Lieutenant Christie’, or ‘Mister Christie’. This tin god actually believed in the war; he hated communists. ‘Fight ’em here, or fight ’em at home. I know which I prefer,’ he’d say. In war, no-one hates anyone else; not really. No-one gives a shit about any of that. You care about your brothers, but not the cause. The cause is shit. All of you just want to get out of there alive. But not Lieutenant Christie – he loved it. He called himself a ‘warrior’.
One starless night during a search-and-destroy mission, Barrett had been on guard when another digger came alongside him and chatted away for a few minutes. Barrett thought the guy must have been an insomniac or something, to be wandering around in the middle of the night when he didn’t have to. This digger – a good mate and a solid team man – put his hand on Barrett’s shoulder and suggested he go for a piss in the next few minutes. Make it a good long one, he said. Barrett had wondered, but he’d gone for the piss, and when he’d turned around again he’d seen the flash and heard the muffled detonation inside Christie’s hoochie. It was a very thorough job – there were bits of Lieutenant Christie plastered all over the trees. A couple of fragmentation grenades would do that, every time. Very little of him could be scraped together for the bodybag.
He sat on the grass and set the device down beside him. Cops would arrive soon. What good would they do? At least they’d take the fucking bomb off him. They would want to ask a heap of questions, get in his face – check Barrett out – and go after the would-be bombers in their own good time. The Mustang – if that’s what it had been – would be far away, maybe interstate or even in a chop-shop by the time these jack-offs got off their backsides. Barrett was remembering one of the main reasons he’d got out of the police force. It had a little to do with stress, and a lot to do with his inability to tolerate slackness, incompetence and graft. So he had a problem with local flatfeet. Worse than that, however – and he knew this in his heart – he was going to have an even bigger one with Andrea.
‘This isn’t exactly what I had in mind,’ she said. They were sitting in the kitchen as dawn broke, sipping coffee. The cops from Dee Why had come and gone, interrogated Barrett, searched the property, got up Andrea’s nose by sniffing around inside the house. She was very put out by that. She put on a star turn in fact, and Barrett thought: She’s scared they’ll find her coke stash. They also impounded Barrett’s car for forensic testing, which he hadn’t counted on. In the first instance there were two uniforms, who’d decided the matter was serious enough for reinforcements to be called in. An hour later, an unshaven detective in rumpled jeans and a Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt had turned up from North Sydney. He was supposed to be an explosives expert. As Barrett had expected, the questioning had focused on him, as if he were the perpetrator of a crime. It was so typical of cops, coming down on victims because they were a soft option, because they were there. Implicit was the assumption that the victims were somehow involved in an underworld vendetta, that they were tarred with the same brush as the perpetrator. Barrett was calm and cooperative, without mentioning the Mustang or speculating on who he thought might have done it: there was no point in floating names just for the hell of it. Nor did he tell them he was ex-firm, especially ex-Victorian firm: that could get a bad reaction from serving New South Wales cops. He could plainly see that this crew, including the Tommy Hilfiger hot shot, had no intention of putting themselves out by going after the would-be bombers. The rumpled detective in particular was less than thrilled at having been dragged out of his cot at this late hour. Police Rule One: never do anything until you absolutely have to, then do as little as necessary to pass muster. Shuffle paper instead. See if it won’t go away. Delay. Hand-pass. But give the impression everything possible is being done.
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning … I didn’t come through all that stuff with Ivan to put up with this shit, Barrett. I don’t particularly want to be blown to pieces by whoever you’ve got coming after you. This is way out of left field. I’ve got a life to get on with.’
It seemed such a trite thing to say, but it was meant from the heart. She was locking eyes with him, challenging him to argue the point. But he could see she was primed to go
right off her tree if he said one wrong word. Andrea did have a temper, and she could back herself.
‘You’re right, of course. I’m sorry it happened, Andrea. I wish I knew what the fuck it was all about.’
‘I’m sure you do. But I don’t. I don’t want to know the first fact. I think … I’m sorry, but I think it would be a good idea if we gave this a big miss, Barrett.’
Barrett didn’t say anything. By ‘this’ she clearly meant their affair. End of story. It was over, as of now. He was as welcome in her life as a truckload of toxic waste. Her arms were folded and her eyes down now, confirming it. Holy fucking Christ, here we go again. He wished he had some cigarettes, but he’d finished the packet down the street. Bugger. Why? Why was it that whenever he was in shit up to his eyebrows, his love life always took a powder? ‘Right,’ he said softly. ‘Can’t argue with that.’
She breathed out, pushed her copious hair back and held it there with both hands.
‘Don’t take it personally,’ she said, still not looking at him.
Again he said nothing, but turned away and made a sound at the back of his throat that was something like a snicker.
‘I know, I know. That sounds so … so fucking stupid. How can it not be personal.’
‘It’s all right. I get your drift. Your reasons aren’t personal.’
‘Look. I don’t want to get tangled up in this shit, but I don’t want anything to happen to you, either.’
‘Thanks, Andrea. Appreciate that.’ A hint of edge had crept in unannounced. He was feeling like punching something … or someone. The shivering animal within was threatening to uncoil.
‘You’re not going to blame me, are you?’ Just try.
‘Blame you? No, of course not. Any sensible woman in your position would pull the pin. Excuse the shithouse pun, won’t you.’
In a couple of minutes she stood up, turning her back to him. He bit back his anger. If only he could reach out and touch her … But no, no. Not possible. It was all over. Strange to think, a few hours ago they were fucking each other like stray cats, playing at Warren and Madonna. Now they were non-existent. They were ex-lovers. He could no more turn her on now than he could climb to the stars. The back that was facing him was no longer inviting, vibrant with promise, but cold, exclusive, utterly unapproachable. It said: Fuck off. This was the classic cold shoulder, a shut-out. He was a shot duck, dead on the water.
‘I’d appreciate it if you could go now, in fact,’ she said. No feeling now, none at all, in the voice.
‘It’s a bit hard without the car. Do the local taxis operate at this hour?’
‘I don’t know.’ Or care. Just go, please. Now.
An hour later he was in a taxi, passing Narrabeen on his way home. The sun was up on his left, its golden shafts flooding him through the window. Andrea did not see him off, but had gone instead to her room, shutting the door. He’d gone upstairs to knock on it and say something – he knew not what – when the taxi arrived, but the knuckle of his forefinger hovered and froze in mid-air. So there had been no last farewell, no words to mark the demise of whatever it was they’d had going for two years.
Halfway to Sydney he was missing her already and wondering how easily he would get over her. But that would have to be put to one side for now. Some people apparently wanted to blow him away, and his feeling was they weren’t going to stop after one botched attempt. Were they the two men in the Mustang? It was a strong possibility. But the fact that he’d noticed the Mustang, seen it twice on the way to Andrea’s, could be giving it undue prominence in his mind. One V8 sounds pretty much like another V8, after all. At the time, even though the windows were tinted, he believed – from the close-up glimpse he’d had when they’d overtaken him – that the occupants were of Middle Eastern appearance. It was an easy leap, maybe too easy: Arab did not necessarily equate to crazed bomber, as they’d discovered in Oklahoma City. Even so, he had a line or two to follow up, some suspects in mind – but Anthony Diaz was not among them. One: too much organisation required in too little time; two: he did not see Diaz, major fuck-up that he was, going this far for being tossed out of a restaurant. But then … he was wildly unpredictable, perfectly capable of a ridiculously disproportionate payback. Anthony Rugulio Diaz. Maggot that he was, Diaz worked his way into your brain and worried you, even when you weren’t consciously thinking about him. What did he say? You’ll be dead before the sun goes down tomorrow. Well, Barrett had passed that deadline – just. Unlikely as it was, a car bombing had Diaz’s stamp on it. You couldn’t afford to rule out the bastard completely.
9
There was no question of sleep when he got home. Feeling over-tired, over-wired and with his knee killing him, he lay on the bed in his jocks for a time, zapping the TV on and off, worrying, thinking and feeling hard done by. Strange how a perfectly pleasurable occasion can suddenly morph into a total nightmare. Vivid as the memory was, the whole episode felt weirdly unreal, as if he’d seen it in a movie. He shut his eyes and relived it yet again: the wind chimes, the foot on gravel, dragging the guy out from under his car … then the searing pain of an iron bar smashing into his knee. There was an odour about one of those guys, something distinctive like a body odour, but Barrett couldn’t get a handle on it.
Then he thought about Andrea, saw her turn her back to him and throw him out of her house and her life. That hurt much more than his knee.
A hefty caffeine intake and a Panadeine Forte nullified the pain to some degree, then he spent half an hour in Lance’s spa. That made him drowsy. He slipped in and out of a troubled doze among the froth and bubbles, jerking awake whenever something crazy happened in that over-wired part of his brain. He dried off, got dressed and made himself a sandwich – not because he was hungry, but because he thought he ought to. Then he went to the safe, dragged out the Dolphin file on Seed of God, stretched out on a comfortable couch with his injured leg resting on cushions, and opened the black plastic cover …
Extreme religious sects were hard to think about without the ill-fated Branch Davidians springing to mind – even now, eight years after the event. The world had watched the tragedy unfold day by day on TV, so no wonder it had made such a powerful impression. In fact, Barrett had recently watched the documentary video about the Waco disaster: Waco: The Rules of Engagement. History is written, then re-written, and on it goes forever, like the JFK assassination. Everybody has a take on it, everybody knows the truth, and yet nowhere at the bottom of all this is the answer to be found.
There were not a lot of pages – maybe a dozen on the sect, and three more on Bunny Delfranco. There was a series of time-lapse colour images of him flying from the blocks, scything the air with his hands, with muscles ripping everywhere. Barrett studied it for a minute, then flipped back to the start and began reading …
Seed of God: A Cult for the Millennium
A perspective by former insider, H. William Enderby
The fundamentalist Christian sect known as Seed of God was founded by Carter Khormitch III in 1989. It is headquartered in an Alamo-style stone fortress in the rugged, inhospitable semi-desert country of south-eastern Colorado, about a hundred and eighty miles from the capital Denver. Like the Great Pyramids of Gizeh and Cheops, it is a holy sanctuary, a temple and future burial site for a man-God: Khormitch himself. It was built by the many willing factotums who have exchanged their earthly freedom and privileges for a place alongside their Leader in the journey to the everlasting hereafter …
There followed a detailed description of life in this fortress, which Barrett skimmed through. No surprises there – this Khormitch, like David Koresh, apparently had everyone whipped into shape. He had also written a book containing his teaching, which his followers had to recite by heart before being admitted to the sect. After that, according to this Enderby person, came intensive weapons training. Apparently Khormitch ran the place like boot camp. This was no problem for Enderby, who claimed to have been an ex-Green Beret.
So it we
nt on – Khormitch indoctrinating his disciples to believe that every natural disaster – and there were plenty of them – pointed to the fact that the world had nearly run its course. Although he had left the sect, Enderby, it seemed, was an impressionable man, and possibly not what you would call a reliable witness:
… I joined Seed of God in 1993, and left it in the fall of 1997. It was for me exactly the answer I was looking for at a difficult period in my life. My wife, a woman of limited intelligence, had succumbed to alcohol and drugs. Despite my strenuous attempts to save her, she could not find the will or the strength to overcome her addictions. One day when I came home I found her hanging from the willow tree in our yard …
… I had been raised as a Christian and I was a veteran of the Gulf War, so naturally I was drawn to the idea of serving under someone as inspirational and magnetic as Carter Khormitch III. I had heard so much about him during my seven years in the military. And the fact that he had denounced the vestments and trappings of power made him all the more magnificent in my eyes …
… For the first three years I was perfectly happy, at one with the Maker and the dreadful fate he had prepared for me. I knew my time had come, and I was unafraid. In fact I was looking forward to it. We all were. It was the same feeling of exhilaration and anticipation a soldier feels immediately before going into battle. Even small children passed through a period of fear into one of acceptance and finally, joy and celebration. I never had any doubts I had made the right decision, and I felt nothing but pity for the hapless legions of humanity who would not be saved but condemned to an eternity of blackness, desolation and despair …
Barrett skipped the next few pages, which painted a less than flattering picture of this Carter Khormitch III, who apparently screwed every female in the place and even – if Enderby was to be believed – sacrificed children whenever he felt the urge. Enderby became increasingly disillusioned before eventually flying the coop. There followed some details on the Great Leader:
Hard Yards Page 9