Document Z

by Andrew Croome

  The American consulate was inside the MLC building at Martin Place. He passed through its doors, finding himself in a foyer of wood grain and granite. Clocks everywhere. He went to the third floor, US Consulate General, and pressed the bell.

  He liked the Americans storing themselves in a building like this, where the floor tiles were polished by machine and the corridors screamed deep focus.

  A woman waved him in. An eagle was set into the panelling of her desk. Bialoguski asked for Harry Mullin, the vice-consul, whom he’d met once at an orchestra reception. The Americans walked by him, a flash looseness in the fit of each man’s suit.

  Harry Mullin wore thickly framed brown glasses and looked twenty years younger than a vice-consul ought. He showed the doctor to a chair. They chatted in a small way about the orchestra, Bialoguski’s practice, little zones of context. The man’s accent was plain American. He offered the doctor a cigarette. Eventually Bialoguski said, ‘My reason for calling is that for a long time now I have been an agent for the Australian Security Organisation.’

  ‘The Australian Security Intelligence Organisation?’ asked Mullin.

  ‘Yes . . . that might be a surprising thing for you to hear?’

  Mullin drew on his cigarette.

  ‘As part of this service,’ the doctor went on, ‘I have been engaged in activities of international importance. Activities, I think, that would be of interest to the United States.’

  Mullin lifted a hand. ‘They know you’re coming here, do they?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Australians.’

  ‘No. The connection we had has been broken.’

  ‘Broken.’

  ‘I’m a free agent now.’

  The doctor liked the idea of Americans as straight talkers. He felt as if he should put some kind of deal on the table. A take-it-or-leave-it-bud.

  ‘If there’s an American service here,’ he began, ‘an operating service that might interest itself, I’d be prepared to cooperate on two conditions. First, I won’t under any circumstances reveal details of the Australian Security Organisation. I’m a naturalised Australian and a patriot. Second, as such, any US organisation interested in my services would need the direct permission of the Australian government. These would be the terms.’

  Mullin leaned back in his chair. The view behind him was towards Darling Harbour: rooftops and cranes. ‘Well, it’s really beyond my scope,’ he said, producing a notebook. ‘Let’s backtrack. Get at the details. I thought the body politic here had you firmly marked as Red?’

  ‘That’s cover. In truth I’m a reliable citizen.’

  ‘Truth,’ Mullin said. ‘The truth is an interest of ours. There’s some guys here who undertake studies of truth using protractors and little bits of tape. They tell me some crazy things.’ He looked up and down, pen suddenly to paper. ‘Listen, as I say, it’s not my field. I’ll just report your offer up the line.’

  ‘B-I-A-L-O-G-U-S-K-I.’

  He left the building feeling happy—so happy he rang Petrov at the embassy. ‘Vladimir, it’s about time I met this wife of yours. Why don’t I drive down tomorrow? There’s some business in Canberra I have to attend to.’

  He was in the capital just after midday the following afternoon. He considered at first staying at the Kurrajong, but that wouldn’t do lest he encounter one of his contacts from the unions. Instead, he drove down Commonwealth Avenue and turned into the Hotel Canberra, impressed by its squared gardens and hedges, brilliant in their rigidity and control.

  It was just after two o’clock by the time he arrived at Parliament House. He walked up the steps and stood in the lobby. There was no one on the desk and so he took the opportunity to walk up the inner stairs and into a large open hall. Men in suits walked past him briskly. He saw a sign that said ‘Government Party Room’ and went towards it down a corridor. Outside the room he stopped, looking for more signs. A man with a briefcase and a coat over his arm approached and told him he looked lost.

  ‘I’m after the prime minister,’ he explained.

  He was directed further down the hall. At its end, another man was coming out of an office holding a newspaper.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here to see Mr Menzies.’

  The man looked at him. ‘I didn’t think he had any appointments this afternoon. Can I ask your name?’

  ‘I’d prefer not to mention.’

  ‘Not to mention?’

  ‘The matter I wish to discuss. My name may not be something that Mr Menzies will want to know.’

  The man stared at him oddly. ‘I presume, then, you haven’t arranged an appointment?’

  ‘No, but the prime minister will want to see me. It’s a very important concern I need to raise.’

  ‘Have you checked in at the front desk?’

  ‘It was unstaffed.’

  The man smiled faintly. ‘Well, we have processes here, you see. We have trouble with what we call WPCs—Walking Persecution Complexes. Madmen, you know. People who are being deliberately and callously done in by some arm of government. They come seeking Mr Menzies’ salvation.’

  Bialoguski spoke with a deliberate clarity. ‘The matter I want to discuss concerns the national security. I should ask your name, in fact, for the record.’

  ‘The national security?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  He gave the man a letter he’d written on the Hotel Canberra’s stationery. Marked For the Attention of the Prime Minister Only.

  ‘My name is Mr Yeend,’ said the man. ‘I am deputised to read mail addressed to Mr Menzies. I’ll open this quickly if you don’t mind?’

  Bialoguski gave a nod. The note explained that he was a secret agent of the government. That he needed to raise with the prime minister an urgent issue regarding the national future.

  Yeend looked up. After a pause, they went into the small office from where he had emerged.

  ‘You’re a secret agent?’ said Yeend.

  ‘I’m an advanced agent. This means I live my part. I am engaged in it around the clock. Nothing by way of distance between this life and my own.’

  Yeend placed the letter on his desk. He asked Bialoguski which service he worked for.

  ‘Can I not speak to the prime minister?’

  ‘I have the authority to help you.’

  Bialoguski cleared his throat violently. ‘ASIO,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ said Yeend.

  ‘That is right.’

  ‘Who is the head of ASIO these days?’

  ‘You are testing. It is Colonel Charles Chambers Fowell Spry.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘My handler’s name is Michael Howley. I have no objection to you ringing them to confirm.’

  ‘Okay. Go on.’

  ‘The service and I are momentarily at odds.’

  ‘Loggerheads?’

  ‘In conflict of a kind.’

  ‘Concerning?’

  ‘Respect or the lack thereof.’

  ‘Respect.’

  ‘They don’t understand the effects of their policies on the individual.’

  ‘On the advanced agent?’

  ‘Yes, on the man who must walk and talk and inhabit himself constantly.’

  Yeend paused. ‘I’m not certain I fully understand.’

  ‘What I mean is there are policies that create enormous strain. For example, they refuse to answer hypothetical questions. Let’s say I rent an apartment. Let’s say I take time away from my employment to meet with left-wing individuals. Will I be reimbursed? There’s no predicting! It is the unexamined life trying to operate in the modern and scientific world. How is an advanced agent supposed to proceed?’

  Yeend leaned back in his chair.

  Bialoguski went on. ‘I operate in the dark, entering into obligations, courting personal and financial embarrassment. There is no sympathy displayed by Security. They are dis-trusting. They are suspicious beyond need. They want their agents to be timid. They want them to
follow the path of least resistance. Listen, I am in the orbit of those who would subvert this nation. I don’t mean ragtag communists. I’m talking about outside influence. The menace. What we’re obsessing about. People might sleep soundly in this country if they could believe that men such as myself are out there. Well placed and vigilant, keeping watch on the Russians. What I’m bringing to your attention should be embarrassingly elementary. Terms and conditions of employment. But it breeds larger questions. What is Security doing in this country? How professional and proficient can ASIO be when a prime asset reduces himself to begging in the office of the prime minister?’

  Yeend reached for a pen.

  Bialoguski straightened. ‘This is about money, but at the same time it isn’t. It is about internalising a bureaucracy and the bitterness that provokes.’

  ‘I’m sympathetic.’

  ‘When I say I’m at odds with the organisation, in other words I’ve threatened to resign.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘You’ll pass on my concerns?’

  ‘I’m surprised to hear this. I’m startled that such a situation could arise.’

  ‘You’re deputised. You can relay to the PM what you’ve been told.’

  ‘I could do that.’

  ‘I’m not here to create trouble. I’m seeking resolution in these affairs.’

  ‘I suspect I’m being drawn in.’

  ‘Let me assure you, it’s a limited intrigue.’

  Bialoguski reached forward, extending a hand. Yeend shook it. Bialoguski presented his business card—black print on white cardboard and a square hole at its centre where his name had been cut out.

  They both stood. Bialoguski said, ‘If you need to, you can reach me on this number.’

  ‘Ask for?’

  ‘Ask for Jack. Tell the prime minister he can use the name Jack Baker in any discussions he has.’

  The neighbourhood at evening with a dying lustre. He drove down Mugga Way. Homes here that were mansions. The time was right on dusk, Red Hill glooming. The houses sat on the upslope, dark hedges fortressing those longer established.

  At 7 Lockyer Street, the porch light was on, making a starkness of the front step. He supposed this was Petrova who had answered the door.

  ‘Michael Bialoguski,’ he said.

  She wore a blue skirt and a grey knitted top, a thin apron over both. ‘I thought perhaps you were him,’ she said. She took him to the lounge. ‘Volodya is finishing at the embassy,’ she explained. ‘Will you have something? A drink?’

  He thought the room austere. Furniture chipped and falling to bits. He accepted a glass of beer.

  They moved to the kitchen where she was cooking. She was attractive, he thought, though not in the stunning way Petrov stressed in his darker moments, overcome by drink, guilt and effusion. They talked about his surgery, how business was, how doctors in Australia made their living. They discussed Marxism, whether or not Australia was supplying arms to the French in Indo-china. He realised he didn’t really know where he stood with this woman, what Vladimir had told her, what kind of things she knew. She suggested that he was acquainted with Lydia Mokras, the young girl who came to the embassy, tall, light-haired and striking.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s right.’

  Was she going to ask about his marriage? Luckily, Vladimir came waddling through the door, briefcase and cigarette in hand.

  ‘Doctor,’ he said. ‘It’s just us tonight.’

  ‘What happened to the Kislitsyns?’ asked Evdokia.

  ‘Philip has gone to Melbourne. The Generalovs have demanded that Anna dine with them.’

  They ate with the radio on. Potatoes and mushrooms. His helping was the size of a small planet. The radio played popular songs. Vladimir seemed to be enjoying himself, smoking cigarettes throughout the meal, his apparent duty to top up everyone’s glass.

  Evdokia wanted to discuss an explosion that had occurred, a couple’s home in Armidale that had been attacked by a five-pound bomb.

  ‘Really?’ said Bialoguski.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she replied. ‘Their bedroom wall was blown in and jagged pieces of glass were buried inches deep in their walls.’ Evdokia wondered about the ordnance: gelignite and a twenty-foot fuse. Was this something the general public could gain access to and use?

  ‘I doubt it,’ said the doctor. He changed the subject, saying he’d run into an old friend, an oboist, in the bar at the Hotel Canberra. A complete lie, and he marvelled at the ease with which he produced it, how simple it was to create an oboist from nothing but setting, a shared brandy and a glass of wine. At his story’s conclusion, he dropped the name Pakhomov into the conversation, for no other reason than to see how it would run.

  ‘Pakhomov,’ said Vladimir. ‘Doosia, tell Michael to steer clear of Ivan and Anna.’

  ‘I did not know they were friendly,’ said Evdokia.

  ‘I wouldn’t say friendly,’ said Bialoguski. ‘I am the family doctor. The relationship is I treat them as patients.’

  Vladimir questioned the rate he charged. ‘Whatever it is, it could easily be doubled. The embassy reimburses our medical expenses. Evdokia herself handles it.’

  Bialoguski smiled. How many scams did the man want to run?

  Talk of the embassy changed the mood. Vladimir began grumbling about the treatment they were getting. Evdokia threw more salt on her plate and said that the embassy was run by vicious dogs.

  ‘Generalova,’ she spat. ‘This is her new portfolio.’

  ‘Obviously it’s getting to you.’

  ‘I think it is Lifanov’s influence in Moscow. We don’t know where he is. What department. Whom he can badmouth us to.’ The doctor was making a mental engraving of everything she said.

  ‘The burden is immense,’ said Petrov.

  His wife laughed then and tried to inject some humour. ‘Oh, it’s alright. We are being badgered by jealous mujiks. They’re toothless and not very creative. There have been worse occasions in our lives.’

  Vladimir went to open a bottle of wine he’d been presented by the Russian Library in Sydney. He screwed the cork and held the bottle against his stomach, pulling. Bialoguski tried to pass but was forced to drink.

  Dessert was a cake from the Highgate Café. Much later, the doctor drove home warily, consciously looking for policemen and trying not to crash the car.

  In the morning, a phone call. He stumbled out of bed.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Jack Baker?’

  ‘And to whom is he speaking?’

  But he knew already. It was Michael Howley, an edge to his voice. ‘This isn’t a good time,’ Bialoguski told him.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Stay by this extension, will you. Mr East is going to call.’

  ‘Who is Mr East?’

  ‘Colleague of mine.’

  ‘Mysterious.’

  The line went dead. He put down the receiver and waited and the phone rang. The voice was still and heavy. ‘My name is East,’ it said. ‘We haven’t met but I’m a close follower of your case.’

  The doctor foresaw what was to come. The man began with the Americans. He said that someone of Bialoguski’s name and appearance had paid them a visit, offering to contract as a spy. Interesting. The Americans had notified the protocol office at External Affairs. This was how everyone in the foreign bureaucracy knew that Security had a highly embarrassing former agent on the loose. The senior leadership of the organisation wanted to break him into little bits.

  Bialoguski jumped in. ‘No, no. I approached the Americans because I had resigned. You people. I told them I would work only with consent.’

  ‘With consent?’

  ‘That’s right. Of the government. I am a citizen of this country.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What you’re saying.’ The man went on. ‘We had a call last night from Geoffrey Yeend. On top of everything already. “Would you believe it, wha
t Jack Baker’s up to?” Colonel Spry nearly died.’

  ‘Dramatic,’ said Bialoguski.

  ‘Spry says he is in charge of Security, not the prime minister.’

  ‘Yes, but who is in charge of Spry?’

  ‘Personal message for you. He is in charge. You’re sacked.’

  The doctor laughed. ‘Sacked. I’ve resigned already. Don’t you recall? Maybe the system of memory employed by your bureaucracy is broken.’

  ‘That was you resigning us. This is us resigning you.’

  ‘Clever.’

  ‘M-letter,’ said East. ‘Appended to the last sheet in your file.’

  ‘Remind me.’

  ‘Termination.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the doctor. ‘Terminalia.’

  Neither man spoke for a while. Bialoguski began to wonder how they’d known that he was at the hotel.

  ‘If this is the case,’ he said, ‘you’ll need to stop keeping tabs. What will I do without my shadow?’

  East said nothing.

  ‘Do security know what they’re throwing away?’

  East said he thought they had a fairly good idea.

  ‘Wait,’ said the doctor. ‘How irrevocable is this?’

  ‘I don’t believe that particular word comes in degrees.’

  Bialoguski put the phone down hard and sat on the bed in his pyjamas. His alarm clock was about to ring. He turned it off and collected his towel for the shower. He’d been looking forward to this shower. The bathroom was spectacular, huge mirrors like dishes on the walls.

  He fumed as he soaped. Americans. You couldn’t trust them. Bloody empire of bloody new suits. Insurance executives. Maybe they knew how to wear their watches and sport their haircuts but none of them gave the slightest thought as to why.

  There was an electric dryer for women’s hair. He got out of the shower and tried it on his skin.

  He went to breakfast and smoked a cigarette, ate scrambled eggs, put milk in his Earl Grey tea. What happens to the secret life when it loses its confessor? He ate a pork sausage and pondered. He dabbed at breadcrumbs with a piece of bread. He looked at the sunlight burning the lawns.

  Was he secret because of them, or was he secret because this was the practice he lived by? Could you choose a secret life, or did it have to be officially sanctioned? He drank fresh orange juice, two glasses, and it was good. He ate bacon, a rasher with a line of mustard, mulling over the answer in his mind.