“Well, for crissakes, don’t let him get away! We need to speak with him urgently.”
McPhee sounded offended. “You seriously think I don’t know that,” he said. “Dave bolts like Cathy Freeman back here to tell me Billy’s back and we rush straight back out to bring him in – all o’ three minutes later – thinkin’ ’e couldn’t’ve got far. It’s a small town and the man’s ’andicapped for cryin’ out loud. We look everywhere, ask every bugger, but – Poof! – he’s legged it. Disa-bloody-peared inta thin air. He musta really fanged it outta here…”
“Legged it? Fanged it?” Mike asked, wondering if Gordo realised what he’d just said.
“Yair, took orf like a cut snake.”
Chapter 32
All hands on deck.
This hastily convened Saturday meeting of the White Snake team was a man down. The Feds had got wind of “something massive” about to hit, and Toby Winslow had been sequestered back to Counter Terrorism proper.
Eric Weiss was also on standby if necessary. Maybe even Brian and he wasn’t with CT anymore. It had the makings of a real ‘all hands on deck’ situation.
Apparently over the past three months, over 80 known members of The Base had been individually winging their way down under from America, Germany and, more recently, England. They were all low-profile rank and file members, not the lieutenants and captains; the Feds would have been right onto them. There may even have been some sleepers turn up that no one knew about. They’d flown into Sydney and Melbourne initially, but had been paired up with members of Home Base and had slowly started spreading out right across the country, including to some obscure regional and remote locations where tourists rarely ventured.
Why?
The Feds did have some undercover operatives within Home Base, however nothing was filtering down from the top; their generals were keeping remarkably tight lipped. Even Caldwell, after almost spilling his guts at Somerville’s wake, was keeping his cards close to his chest.
Once again Marr kickstarted the proceedings by giving Brian and Eric an Uluru Update…headlined by Van Heerden’ sad demise after falling 348 metres to his death, and the fleeting sighting of Lirru and Joe Guttuk.
“But what was Van Heerden doing up on the Rock in the first place?” Brian asked after Mike had described his gladiator-like injuries. “It’s still closed, isn’t it?”
“That’s exactly what I said,” Mike replied. “But the smart money is that he went out there – and up there – to face off against someone.”
“Surely you don’t mean…?”
“Yep, Lirru and Joe.”
Brian and Eric looked at each other and shook their heads. How were they expected to believe that?
“What?” Eric said. “You’re telling us that a skinny old man with one leg and a small-to-medium size kid kicked Van Heerden arse? Joe’s real name isn’t David – as in David and Goliath – is it?”
“I’m trying to visualise,” Brian said, “a 78-year old with one leg, on crutches, scrambling up the Rock. Hell, it’d be even harder going down. I’ve seen photos of people – able bodied people – crawling down backwards, on all fours, hanging onto the chain that used to be there for grim death. Nah, I can’t make it work.”
Mike opened up his laptop and started keying in a web address. As he waited for the page to appear, he turned to his associates.
“Well, you’ll have to ask them how they did it when we see them,” he said.
“What!? You know where Lirru and Joe are?” asked Brian.
“Not quite,” Mike replied, “but I know where they will be.” He turned the laptop screen around to face them. On it was the Medusa Hotel home page.
“The Medusa Hotel, Darlinghurst, 7th Floor, Room 702.”
***
The team spent the remainder of the morning sifting through the minutiae of Eddy Van Heerden’s short trip away…the Jetstar flight he caught to Alice Springs (Flight # JS212)…the bus trip to Uluru (Seat 12A, a window seat)…his check in time… the defiant CCTV footage… room number… his food, beverage and mini-bar bills and more.
Gordon McPhee had been busy too, sending through a stack of statements…
witness statements from Aboriginal Art Gallery staff to whom Van Heerden had spoken (and spoken down to)…statements from two very young call girls who said he was a “sick sadistic animal” who had made them perform “disgusting and depraved unnatural acts”…a statement from the young white guy whose car was stolen… and a couple from Park Rangers Charlie Mullagarra, who manned the gate, and Tommy Tjamiwa who patrolled the base of the Rock. Both said that Van Heerden had arrived alone and that they’d seen no one else.
The sergeant had also faxed the preliminary autopsy report. No surprises for guessing that death was due to ‘trauma associated with a fall from a great height’ however the coroner was ‘deeply concerned’ about the ‘significant cuts, contusions and breakages sustained prior to death’ and ‘would not rule out foul play’. He also added that ‘the lack of any cuts, swelling or bruising to the deceased’s knuckles suggest that he was not in a position to defend himself against a prolonged assault by a person or persons unknown’.
The coroner was also concerned that a large dose of snake antivenin was found in his blood system…despite the fact that he had not been bitten by a snake. This may not have eventually killed the big man, however he would have ‘definitely suffered severe Anaphylaxis’. The jury was out as to whether this had been ‘self-administered, or injected by a third party, either willingly or under duress’.
“That will teach the mongrel for stealing my antivenins” Ronda said when she read that and then felt instantly guilty for being vindictive. The man, murdering rapist that he was, had paid the ultimate price.
Eric chuckled to himself as he read one of the witness statements.
“What’s so funny?” Brian asked.
“I just noticed,” he said “that at the end of Tommy Tjamiwa’s statement he added that he hoped Van Heerden’s spirit would come back as Ukiri grass and that the karrpitji – that’s kangaroos – would eat him, hop way out into the desert and shit him out. Wouldn’t that be a fitting end.”
Chapter 33
Something right out of the box.
A Holden ute containing two male ‘twenty-somethings’ flew along a dirt road just outside of Duchess, near Mt Isa in Central North Queensland.
A Queensland Police motorcycle cop lying in wait behind a clump of trees hit his siren and lights and took off through the billowing dust in hot pursuit.
The officer – Sergeant Sam Prescott – pulled them over in a cloud of dust and walked over to the driver’s side door. He saw three rifles mounted on racks in the window behind the driver’s head. He unclipped his pistol as a precaution, but left it in its holster. For the time being.
“In a bit of a rush, boys?” he said, looking at them long and hard. Both were in their mid-to-late twenties, sported mullets and tattoos under checked flannel shirts.
“Yeah,” said the driver. “We’re keen to set up camp and get into some roos and pigs later on this arvo.”
“Uh huh. I noticed the guns. And the Victorian plates. Where you guys from?”
“Ballarat. Me mate, Blain’s from the States. I told him how good the shootin’ is down under and he came out to see for himself.”
Sergeant Prescott nodded his head.
“Sure. Don’t mind a bit of hunting myself. Can I see your licence...and your mate’s passport, please?”
The men dug out the requested documents and handed them across. The sergeant looked them over and handed them back.
“OK, Russell McBride and Blain DeWitt. I see that the .22 and the two .303’s are unloaded and safely stowed. I take it they’re registered in your name, Russell?”
“They sure are.”
He opened the centre console and removed a folder.
“The rego’s in there, along with our licences and hunting permits. Everything’s in order.”
> Prescott didn’t bother to look at the paperwork. He removed his pistol, flicked off the safety catch and pointed it at the driver’s face.
“Both of you, out of the car now! Slowly. Hands where I can see them. Walk around here, Blain. Right, both of you, face down on the ground.”
The men complied and the sergeant handcuffed their hands together.
“What the fuck is this all about, officer?” McBride asked indignantly. “We’ve got permits... the guns are kosher.”
“These guns might be...”
The eagle-eyed cop reached into the console and took out a box of .500 bullets.
“...but this highly illegal ammo is designed for semi-automatic assault rifles. So...where the fuck are they?”
Chapter 34
Shooting through.
“Hey, Ronda, I have some good news,” Brian responded, although he didn’t sound like he did. “And some bad news. Our financial guys received your Requisition for Recompense and they have agreed to reimburse you, however the department has capped your claim at $12,000.
I will appeal on your behalf, but well everyone is tightening their belt and…” His voice tailed off. It looked like that was that.
“Oh, that’s great, Brian,” she replied, trying to sound as upbeat and appreciative as she could, even though she was going to be at least three grand out of pocket, maybe more. “Thanks for all your help.”
“It was the least I could…excuse me, one moment.”
He removed his mobile from his back pocket and sat up straight when he saw the readout. “Hello, Acting Superintendent Brian Thurlow here….yes, Deputy Commissioner…”
A minute passed as he listened intently to his boss, occasionally making comments such as “… seriously? ....where?...when?…OK…bloody hell… that does not sound good…yes, of course…”
And finally, “We’ll be right there…yes, see you soon. Bye.”
He ended the call, stood up and grabbed his jacket. He looked at Weiss and said “OK, Eric…we’ve got to roll. That was Deputy Commissioner Rossfield. We’ve been recalled to the unit indefinitely. Apparently, a local copper out near Mt Isa pulled over a couple of boogaloo boys for speeding in their ute. He uncovered a pack of .500 ammo – bullets designed for semi-automatic assault rifles – and alarm bells started ringing. The Mt Isa team stripped the ute right down but didn’t find them, but Rossfield’s real worried…where there’s bullets, there’s rifles.”
He glanced around from face to face. Rossfield wasn’t the only one who was real worried.
“Mike, I’ll only be a phone call away so you can keep me in the loop if anything pops up, but as of now, you’re on your own.”
Chapter 35
Whatever you do, don’t....
Caldwell could feel the unbridled hostility surging through the phone. The man was ropeable. Positively fuming. Surely he doesn’t blame me for this fuck up?
The Benefactor: “They did what!??”
Caldwell: “Got busted with a packet of… the big ones.”
The Benefactor: “What the fuck were they doing with…wait, this is a burner phone, isn’t it?”
Caldwell: “Yes, same as yours. And the answer is I don’t know.”
The Benefactor: “Well those damn fools could have jeopardised everything. Fuck!!”
Caldwell: “So what’s the plan?”
There was a brief pause while the man thought about it.
The Benefactor: “The way I see it, moving forward we’ve got three options. Call it off, move it back, or bring it forward. The thing is I’ve invested too much time and way too much money into this to do either of the first two, so I say we bring it forward a week from the original date.”
Caldwell: “What!? Jesus Christ, that’s only two days away. You sure you can get the… the goods delivered in time?”
The Benefactor: “Leave the logistics to me. You just make sure your guys are ready to go. And mate..?”
Caldwell: “Yes?”
The Benefactor: “Don’t fuck it up.”
***
It was now almost midnight in Caldwell’s messy apartment. He had been on the blower all day and kept referring back to a spreadsheet on his laptop. Dozens of names – of Melbourne Cup winners in random order – had been struck through, only one remained. Caldwell called the number. It rang and was answered on the second ring by a sleepy voice.
Voice: “Hello?”
Caldwell: “Who won the Melbourne Cup in 1903?”
Voice: “Lord Cardigan.”
Caldwell: “I thought it was Counter Attack?”
Voice: “No, Lord Cardigan.”
Caldwell: “That job we spoke about has been brought forward approximately 48 hours. Understood?”
Voice: “Yes. 48 hours.”
Caldwell: “Your supplier will be in contact as discussed regarding delivery. Understood?”
Voice: “Yes. Delivery as discussed.”
Caldwell: “Do not – repeat, do not – proceed until we give you the Production Order. Understood?”
Voice: “Yes. Wait for the order.”
Caldwell ended the call and put the phone down. He highlighted the last line on his spreadsheet – Lord Cardigan 1903 – and hit ‘Strikethrough’.
Caldwell was exhausted, but there was still one call he had to make. The Benefactor answered on the first ring.
“Yes?”
“It’s done,” he said. “All the teams are in place, awaiting your order.”
“And the goods are in transit. The national offensive has begun my friend. The same glorious scenario will soon be playing out in a hundred large and small locations throughout Australia...in areas with the largest abo clans.
Now all you have to do is lie low and await my go. No one makes a move until I give the green light, understood? No one.”
“Loud and clear,” Caldwell answered.
“And mate..?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t fuck this up.”
Chapter 36
A walk in the park.
Ronda walked ahead of Nathan Bosito, well aware that he was checking out her bottom. He stepped in front of her now and opened the boardroom door. They went inside and sat at the oval Tasmanian Oak table, facing each other. He offered her tea or coffee, but she choose water. He was young for a CEO, in his late twenties or early thirties, fairly attractive in a northern Italian way, square jaw, collar-length brown curly hair, manicured beard, slightly tinted DYKN glasses over brown eyes. He looked good in his tailored Hugo Boss suit, and he knew it. He smiled and got straight down to business.
“And how can we at Bosito-Di Bella help you, Ms Hartley?”
“Er…that’s Miss Hartley,” she said, innocently toying with the lapel on her white silk blouse. Unbeknownst to her, her top two buttons had come undone. “And I need to restock all my antivenins, twelve of them in total if I can. Here’s my wish list.” She slid the typed list over to him, leaning over a little for a better look at the price list attached to the brochure in front of him, and to give him a better look.
He tried hard not to stare at her impressive cleavage for a few seconds, then glanced down the list. “Oh wow, there are some expensive ones here.”
“I know. My box of antivenins was stolen by some thugs in Penrith in broad daylight and smashed,” Ronda said, getting teary. “I tried to stop them, but they just laughed and…well, I had no one to protect me. And the serums weren’t insured, so now I’ve got to replace them. Don’t know how I’m going to afford them all at the moment. Might just have to buy some and take my chances that I don’t get bitten by one of the other snakes on the list.”
She looked across at all the framed Licences, CSIRO Certificates, Quality Assurance Documentation, blown-up excerpts from trade magazines and Awards on the wall behind him. In the middle of all these impressive credentials was a studio shot of the Bosito-Di Bella families. She could see a young Nathan standing beside an elderly gentleman, obviously his grandfather, with his right h
and affectionately resting on his shoulder.
“The worse part was,” she said, tears welling up, “the cigar box I had them in. It was given to me by my dear old granddad just before he passed away. He bought the cigars to celebrate my graduation. He was so proud of me,” she said, dabbing her eyes with a tissue she’d taken from her purse. “Handed them around to everyone, even total strangers, saying ‘See that girl. She’s not only brilliant, she’s my granddaughter’. I’m sorry, Nathan I’m getting way too emotional. I’ll just order the five or six I can afford and get out of your hair…”
***
Overkill : Pure Venom Page 19