The Squad

by Yoni Bashan

  DEDICATION

  To the owners of the original Double D record store.

  This one’s for you.

  CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  PREFACE

  PROLOGUE

  1 NO PAIN, NO GAIN

  2 THE LAY OF THE LAND

  3 MEOCS TAG: THE EARLY YEARS

  4 ROCKET MAN

  5 TELOPEA STREET

  6 MEOCS TAG: THE RISK

  7 ALL IN THE FAMILY

  8 MEOCS TAG: THE INFORMANTS

  9 A FATEFUL MEETING

  10 THE SHOOTING OF FADI IBRAHIM

  11 GANGS OF AUBURN

  12 SIGNAL ONE

  EPILOGUE

  PHOTO SECTION

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AND A NOTE ON SOURCES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  PREFACE

  The story of the Middle Eastern Organised Crime Squad (MEOCS) canvassed in this book spans the years from 2006 to 2011, an era immortalised as a ‘golden age’ by many of its staff, and a time when big personalities were in charge. In some ways criminals had the upper hand in the lead-up to this period, and in parts of southwestern Sydney they intimidated officers, running amok on the streets of certain neighbourhoods. MEOCS was established as an ironhanded response. Its officers were a brotherhood, something tribal, almost an outlaw gang in themselves. They didn’t break the rules, but they wrangled with them at times. The Squad’s official charter spoke of crime reduction but, unofficially, there was a deeper imperative to take back the streets.

  This era produced a plethora of strike force investigations, hundreds of them, too many to unpack in one book. Telling the story right meant I had to choose the Squad’s most defining cases. Within these pages are the ones I felt best captured their work – tales of daring undercover missions, informants making deals, spectacular detective work and, as with any great story, painful losses.

  The point of it all was to give people a view of the landscape of organised crime within Sydney’s Middle Eastern community. I wanted to shed some light on the elusive crime barons, many of whom are still around today, and try to give some insight into their evolving tradecraft. But, really, this is a story about the officers who were shadowing them. Their work was at risk of being forgotten. Hopefully this book goes a little way towards acknowledging their slice of history.

  Yoni Bashan

  Prologue

  13 OCTOBER 2003

  Adnan Darwiche sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor of his safe house and picked up a bullet from the pile in front of him; Winchester brand, 9 millimetre. He sprayed it with gun oil and then wiped it carefully with gloved hands to remove any fingerprints and DNA. He didn’t want either to be left behind at the scene.

  ‘Make sure you wipe them properly,’ he said to the three men sitting with him. Dozens more bullets were laid out in front of them and each one had to be polished. They had to be clean.

  Darwiche’s safe house was a ground-floor unit in the suburb of Punchbowl, an enclave of southwestern Sydney brimming with gang activity. Safe houses were everywhere, each one a place where street deals of drugs could be weighed and then sold, or weapons stored for attack. Darwiche’s unit was empty of furniture but he used it to store an arsenal. In the kitchen cupboards, he’d been storing military-grade SKS assault rifles, modified handguns that could empty a magazine in less than two seconds, and a MAC-10 sub-machine gun so powerful it could cut a person into two pieces. In a black garbage bag under the kitchen sink he’d hidden his latest acquisition: a live, loaded and fully operational rocket launcher stolen from the army.

  Sitting on the kitchen floor with Darwiche were three of his trusted lieutenants. Each one helped him with the bullets, picking them up between thumb and forefinger to wipe them clean according to their boss’s instructions. They worked in silence but occasionally Darwiche spoke, giving directions. ‘Make sure you don’t get any hairs on them,’ he said, according to one of the men sitting there, his closest friend, who would later turn Crown witness.

  These men were mere hours away from one of the most violent nights in Sydney’s history, prepping for an act of carnage that would redefine the city’s struggle with Middle Eastern organised crime.

  The concept of MEOC, as it would become known, had been germinating across the suburbs of southwestern Sydney for years, eventually manifesting in a tentative criminal strata, a world of dog-eat-dog where drug dealing and car rebirthing had become their own industries, and were treated like trade skills that could be handed down within families – father to son, brother to brother, cousin to cousin. You could start your career at the bottom and work your way up.

  In this world, violence was a by-product of a broken alliance, a wounded ego or a deal that had fallen through. Even this had been organised to an accepted scale: bashings were doled out to send a message; kneecappings were a punishment; and if your house got shot up that was often a final warning. Any of these were enough to start a war between crime families or the many street crews sharing borders in a suburb. If someone got whacked it meant the battle lines had been drawn.

  Amid this jail-yard environment, certain characters became like prospectors, looking ahead to identify lucrative markets and new ways of making money. They moved in early to the nightclubs of the inner city, the beach suburbs of the south, the hip bars and property markets of the east, and the taverns in the northwest.

  Among them was Adnan Darwiche, known to both his enemies and crew as ‘Eddie’: a drug dealer who had battled his way to dominance. This high-functioning crim, who could spot a surveillance detail a mile away and was surrounded by a community of good people too frightened to speak up for fear of retribution, epitomised the struggle to rein in the burgeoning organised crime problem in Sydney. When Darwiche first started dealing pot circa 1996 it was to a few friends around Bankstown. He was sixteen back then and his business was too small to pose a threat. Later, he went on to do muscle work for Danny Karam, a MEOC pioneer and gang leader who overplayed his hand for control of Kings Cross and died young in a hail of bullets. By twenty-five Darwiche had been charged over a slew of executions and blood-soaked crime scenes, having built himself a drug empire that stretched from Bankstown to Hurstville. He had stamped out rivals, wrested control of their turf, and was turning over dazzling profits each week. He’d cemented himself as one of the most notorious criminal identities in Australia’s gangland folklore.

  And in October 2003, the only thing Darwiche was thinking about was war with the Razzak clan.

  The Razzaks were a large extended family. Some members were heavily in the drug trade and controlled the runs around Hurstville, a lucrative patch, a staging point and corridor to customers west and south of Darwiche’s turf.

  The acrimony between Darwiche and the Razzaks was both complex and personal. Family honour and pride was at stake; their feuding had amped up over time from bashings to home invasions to kneecappings to drive-by shootings. People on both sides were marked for death. The tipping point had come in mid 2003 when the Razzaks had tried to kill Darwiche’s close friend Khaled ‘Crazy’ Taleb, a high-school dropout who carried a gun so often and so freely that he started wearing a holster. Taleb had been shot five times during the Razzak ambush, the holster ironically preventing him from pulling out his own gun and firing back. From then on Darwiche had banned anyone in his crew from wearing holsters – and he planned to carry out an almighty blitzkrieg of thunderous retribution. Darwiche wanted something memorable and permanent. If he failed he faced a lifetime in prison, or death. But if he succeeded it would restore a pride that had slipped.

  After cleaning the bullets, Darwiche and his crew left the Punchbowl unit and relocated to David Street, Greenacre, to another safe house where Darwiche’s weapons had been moved ahea
d of the shooting. It was a few minutes past midnight. He took a seat at the kitchen table, grabbed a paper and pen, and began mapping out the logistics of the upcoming attack. He plotted the route he and his men would take to the Razzak safe house and marked out where everyone would stand during the attack. Then he planned their getaway route.

  Just after 3am they rolled out in a stolen car and pulled up minutes later outside a fibro house at the bottom of Lawford Street, a cul-de-sac in the same suburb. It was a brittle-looking home, the kind that might sway if you pushed it hard enough. They didn’t know exactly who would be inside, but they knew at least some Razzaks would be there. It didn’t matter which ones.

  Masked in balaclavas, they lined themselves up on the road in their pre-marked positions to avoid hitting each other in friendly fire.

  On Darwiche’s signal they started blasting the house, moving their guns in an ‘S’ shape for maximum damage, so if anyone inside the house tried to dive for cover a bullet would still catch them. They shelled the house with bullets until all they could hear were the dull metallic clicks of cartridge casings hitting the tarmac. It was over in seconds. Out of ammunition, they drove off, dumping the car on a nearby street and setting it alight, incinerating any evidence they might have left behind. Another vehicle, left there in advance, was waiting for them. They hurried to yet another safe house, where they changed clothes and then sat in front of the TV, waiting for the morning news to reveal the body count.

  Crime scene officers got to Lawford Street within minutes of the shooting and began counting the cartridge shells strewn all over the road. There were ninety-nine in total. The recoil from the guns had sent many bullets wide of their mark; rounds were found in the trees and soil outside the property. They had shot clean through the chimney and side gate, into roof tiles that had exploded into shrapnel, and into the blue-and-white awnings that were hanging above the home’s shattered windows.

  The bullets that made it into the house had cut a chaotic path through kitchen cupboards and couches in the living room, perforating anything in their path and boring their way upwards into the bodies of two people who had been trying to sleep at the time.

  In the bedroom was Mervat ‘Melissa’ Nemra, twenty-two, a mother of two small children. She was a bystander, an unintended casualty. Her husband, Ali, had opened their home to members of the Razzak family, granting them safe haven while their war with Adnan Darwiche continued to rage. For weeks she and the kids had avoided the house, coming back only to clean up and do the laundry. But that night she’d decided to stay over, leaving the kids with her mother. The bullet that had passed through her neck was medium-to-large calibre, the kind made to pierce an armour-plated vehicle. She had died within minutes.

  Death had not come as quickly for Ziad ‘Ziggy’ Razzak, one of Darwiche’s arch-rivals. The paramedics found him slumped on a sofa in the lounge room, barely breathing but somehow still alive. His legs had been shot out and there was an exit wound in his forehead. For seven hours he fought to stay alive on the operating table at St George Hospital, succumbing to his injuries at 10:05am.

  The only survivor of the shooting was Melissa’s husband, Ali Hamka. He’d been sitting in a chair next to Ziggy when the shooting began. His recollection of the incident, given to police later, was a vivid re-enactment that seemed to play out in his retelling in slow motion, like a scene from a movie with the sound cut for dramatic effect. Bullets travel faster than the speed of sound, which might explain why Hamka hadn’t heard the gunfire at first; instead he’d seen an orange glow atop of his television set getting brighter and brighter. Half-asleep, he’d looked at Ziggy as the windows started popping, the blinds swaying as though pushed by a gentle breeze and not by the whir of bullets slamming into the house. Small black holes appeared in random locations along the walls. He told police he’d dived to the ground and kept his head covered as glass from the windows pulsed through the air. When the shooting was over he had crawled to the bedroom and found his wife’s body. He held her hand and dialled Triple 0, the operator instructing him to press a towel into her neck.

  The events of that night, later known as the ‘Lawford Street shooting’, galvanised the NSW Police Force and the state government into action. The ferocity of the attack, the players involved, the access to military-grade weaponry and the threat to community safety were emblematic of a much greater problem that had been festering without an adequate response. Many people have an opinion on why the police weren’t containing the MEOC situation, but the majority view is that everything traced back to the shakeup of police tactics after the Wood Royal Commission of the mid 1990s.

  Led by Justice James Wood, the Royal Commission into the then NSW Police Service exposed a toxic culture of graft and corruption. Bent cops were named and shamed in sensational hearings. Some quit the force; others committed suicide. The commission took a blowtorch to the organisation, applying heat to everyone. Clean officers, the good guys, were ordered to give evidence against their colleagues and grilled over basic law enforcement tradecraft, long-standing tactics that had been abused by bad eggs and were now considered suspicious. Search warrants were seen as a corruption risk because of the easy access to cash and jewellery. Recruiting informants was suddenly a bad thing, encouraging collusion with the enemy. Paranoia reigned. What followed was a drop-off in sources, which had always been the lifeblood of intelligence gathering.

  At the time, Middle Eastern organised crime was still a fledgling industry, but in this demoralised law enforcement environment, gangs and crime began to thrive in vulnerable areas where police were MIA. Areas like Telopea Street, Punchbowl, became a drive-through drug market – outside one house you could buy cocaine; at another you could buy cannabis. In Kings Cross, rival gangs went to war over the nightclub scene, the most notorious of them led by Danny Karam. His crew, known as DK’s Boys, battled over drug turf and then came after the police, taking violence to the next level. On 1 November 1998, they shot sixteen bullets into Lakemba Police Station, narrowly missing officers standing at the counter inside. Ten days later, thirteen shotgun rounds were fired into eleven houses on Eveleigh Street, Redfern, the heartland of Sydney’s Indigenous community. This was in response to a fight between Aboriginal and Lebanese inmates at Lithgow Correctional Centre. As the gunmen sped away in their car, they chucked an Aboriginal flag out the window, scrawled with a message that said: ‘Fuck with our brothers inside. We fuck with all your families outside. Blood for blood. P.S. LITHGOW GAOL … 2 DIE 4?’

  With these shootings at Lakemba and Redfern, the public got their first taste of MEOC – a new wave of criminal, more aggressive and daring. Politicians felt the blowback, coming under fire for a lack of action. The response from police in some southwestern Sydney commands was to conduct sweeping targeting of Middle Eastern men; a zero tolerance approach that created hostility and broke whatever fragile trust was still left after the Royal Commission. Victims of crime, family men, potential witnesses – all of whom wanted to achieve the same objective as the police: safer streets – felt bitter about getting jacked up on the streets, frisked and forced to answer questions. This was not the way to win hearts and minds. Those who did the right thing and tried reporting crimes got only a sporadic response from officers. Crimes weren’t getting solved, and as a law enforcement agency, the police had become impotent.

  In the days after the Lawford Street shooting, newspaper headlines depicted southwestern Sydney as a rogue territory controlled by armed gangs and drug dealers. The city’s biggest tabloid newspaper, the Daily Telegraph, ran a prominent editorial demanding action. ‘All of us must demand an end to the violence, a return to civility, a return to the Sydney we all know is the best city on earth,’ the editorial read.

  Even Police Commissioner Ken Moroney branded the violence ‘urban terrorism’. His response was to set up Task Force Gain, a contingent of 160 police officers whose job would be to dedicate themselves to the problem of Middle Eastern organised crime.

 
In the past there had been similar efforts but these were piecemeal in the scheme of things, Band-Aid solutions. There had never been a dedicated, overarching law enforcement response to what were viewed as isolated incidents, like a gunshot victim staggering into a hospital, or a half-naked body found floating in a creek. The reality was these incidents and others like them were all symptomatic of a much deeper and clandestine industry of organised crime. They pointed to family structures, business relationships, tentative alliances, and cunning methodologies.

  To preserve the fragile relationship police had with the Middle Eastern community, there was no public mention of the fact that Task Force Gain was specifically geared towards the issue of Middle Eastern organised crime. When it was launched on 22 October 2003, its officers immediately took control of ten active murders and nine separate strike forces. They were divided up into teams of criminal investigators, uniformed police, highway patrol officers, and a unit known as the Target Action Group (TAG), whose role would become something of a new concept in policing methodology.

  One thing that quickly became apparent was that every crime scene had its roots in drugs and drug territory. Every shooting, every murder, every conflict was somehow planted in a conflict about drugs: a disagreement over money, an import that went awry or a runner who had ventured into rival turf. ‘All roads lead back to drugs,’ became one police chief’s memorable refrain.

  Within a year, coming off a relatively cold start with few informants or inroads, Task Force Gain had proven its worth. It made 1069 arrests, seized twenty-three handguns and recovered around $3.5 million worth of drugs.

  The only problem was the price tag attached: Task Force Gain was a bloated, expensive initiative. It took up too much manpower and couldn’t keep going forever.

  For years prior, some senior officers had been making quiet submissions to police brass for a permanent Middle Eastern Organised Crime Squad, but they had been met with resistance from state politicians and representatives of the Middle Eastern community, some of whom saw the notion as racist and unfair, a form of ethnic profiling. The work of Task Force Gain seemed to soften their stance, but by the end of 2005 there was still no firm commitment to create a permanent task force, and warnings were being sounded about the ramifications of doing nothing: crime would creep back up, new players would emerge, intelligence would become outdated. This type of crime wasn’t going away, and the most dire predictions forecast that another expensive Task Force Gain–style initiative would be necessary within a few years. If, however, the state acted to establish a scaled-down replacement, as one briefing paper suggested, the problem could be managed and it would ultimately save the state money.