The Haha Man

by Sandy Mccutcheon

  Ray moved ahead and took a good look around the park. Near the river several families were set up for picnics. A frisbee was making its erratic way backwards and forwards between a young couple. A baby stroller was parked in the shade of a tree beside them. People. Walking. Normal. ‘I don’t like untidiness. And at the moment things feel distinctly messy. If Karim started asking around about his father, all sorts of alarm bells might have gone off.’

  ‘We don’t know that,’ Fossey suggested. ‘It really could be just a misunderstanding.’

  It was hot in the sun and, as a result of the overnight shower, the humidity was up. They made their way to the shady area under the trees by the gate onto Brunswick Street.

  ‘So is there anything we can do?’

  Ray squatted beside the dog, which had rolled on its back, legs in the air, waiting to be scratched. ‘Fossey, I have a feeling it’s going to get a little iffy for a while. From what I hear, things may be about to happen.’

  ‘Things?’

  ‘Rabia’s crusade.’

  ‘It’s still going ahead?’ He imagined they would have abandoned it once they’d thought it through.

  ‘It looks like it. I’m not certain of the timing, but my gut tells me that if they go ahead, the shit will really hit the fan.’

  Fossey didn’t follow the logic. ‘But why should that cause us a problem?’

  Ray patted the dog and got stiffly to his feet. ‘Might not. But there are a few key people who could have my name. And if the government is caught out they may lash out in all directions. You know the scenario …’ He glanced at Fossey but all he got was a blank stare in return. ‘They get egg on their face and they’ll want a scalp. So, what do they do? They run through their lists of people they think are a bit suss and wheel in a few to make it look like they’re doing something. I don’t want either of us caught up in that.’

  Fossey couldn’t agree more. ‘So, is there anything we can do?’ he repeated.

  ‘I think we should take a few precautions.’ Ray tugged at the leash and led Walter over to where his car was parked. He unlocked the door and stood back as Walter, with the first display of enthusiasm Fossey had witnessed, leapt into the car. Going home was obviously his favourite exercise.

  ‘I think we should ditch our hard drives,’ Ray said.

  ‘Ditch them? I’ve been going through that rigmarole of deleting then wiping each night. It’s a bloody pain.’ And it was. Not to mention storing all the Haha Man emails on the internet and having to decrypt them every time he needed to check something. Fossey was convinced that most Year 12 students could have arranged better security with half the effort …

  ‘And not all that effective.’

  ‘Great! Tell me that now. You were so keen on the wipe. I must have wasted hours making sure that machine is clean.’

  ‘Not a waste, Fossey. But from what I’ve read lately there’s only one way to render the information on a hard drive unreadable.’

  ‘And that is?’ Fossey failed to keep the irritation out of his voice. He was hot and sticky and had just driven halfway around the city in order to hear that Karim was running loose and Ray was having a paranoid episode. The idea of going home and sprawling out in front of the TV with a beer was suddenly very appealing. New Zealand was playing Australia in a one-day match and there was nothing he liked better than seeing the Kiwis get trounced.

  ‘Have you got a gun?’

  Fossey wrenched his mind back from beer and cricket. ‘What?’

  ‘A gun. I don’t suppose you have one?’

  Fossey pulled a face. ‘Not on me …’

  ‘That’s the only way, I hear. A bullet through the hard drive makes it impossible for the police to retrieve any usable data.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’ Fossey gave a dry laugh. ‘Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind. I suppose an axe would pretty much fuck them as well?’

  Ray looked at him disapprovingly. ‘I’m serious, Fossey.’ He leaned into the front seat of the car and retrieved a small parcel. ‘I kind of assumed that you wouldn’t have a gun. Here — a new hard drive. I take it you can swap them over?’

  ‘I’m not a complete idiot …’

  Ray grinned. ‘No, but you might feel like one if you don’t. And remember to bury the old one somewhere out of harm’s way.’

  For a moment Fossey contemplated where he would like to shove the hard drive, but he bit his tongue. With the motor running, Ray wound down the car window.

  ‘And, Fossey, happy Australia Day.’

  Fossey didn’t change the hard drive over when he got home. Instead he pulled the curtains in the lounge, switched on the television and watched the cricket. It was shaping up as a great game until Australia went in to bat. Then, as one of the commentators succinctly put it, the wheels fell off. Fossey watched as they were annihilated by the Kiwis, and not even the cold Tasmanian beer lifted the edge off his mood. He switched to the BBC to see what was happening in the world. But there was no relief. The lead story was the international condemnation of Australia’s refugee policy and the waves of protest, hunger strikes and unrest in the centres. Even the Europeans were referring to them as ‘concentration camps’. There was a short grab of the Australian Prime Minister saying how they had a duty to stick to their firm but fair immigration regime. Angrily, Fossey switched off the set and went outside.

  As he looked up into a perfect night he had a surge of optimism. The three-quarter moon was shining brightly and the stars were burning. Surely, he thought, there is some intelligence out there. The moment passed and he went inside to a house as quiet as that in which he had woken. And still Layla wasn’t home.

  In the morning when he woke, it was again to the smell of toast and coffee, but this time there was a hand on his shoulder, gently waking him for breakfast.

  For Mandy Bryson, the first leg of the trip was a nightmare. Her normal self-confidence had vanished once she was out on the open road. The driving school and the test hadn’t been a problem, but crawling up the winding road to Cunninghams Gap she found herself grinding her teeth and snapping every time Andrea made any comment. At the top of the hill she pulled into the truck stop and burst into tears, her body shaking uncontrollably. Behind them there was a hiss of air-brakes as the bus came to a stop.

  Andrea moved across the seat and put her arm around Mandy’s shoulder. ‘Slide over, darling, I’ll drive.’ She opened the door just as Kate came over from the bus.

  ‘How are you guys going?’ she asked, her face wreathed in a huge smile. ‘Wasn’t that hill a buzz!’

  Andrea dropped down to the ground beside her. ‘Mandy’s having an emotional moment.’

  ‘What?’ Kate’s smile was replaced by a look of puzzlement.

  ‘Just a build-up of stress,’ Andrea said quietly. ‘I’m going to drive for a while.’ She moved around the truck and held out her hand to Mandy as she clambered down.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t know why …’ She wiped the tears from her cheeks and grinned at Kate. ‘First-day nerves. I just couldn’t relax into it,’ she said as Kate swept her up into a hug.

  ‘I know. The bus was the same at first, but then I think it is a bit easier than the truck.’ She brushed the hair from Mandy’s face. ‘Go and jump aboard the bus and keep Wilna company. I’ll ride shotgun for Andrea.’

  The bus had taken the lead and, travelling well within the speed limit, led the way down the rolling road into New South Wales. Wilna appeared totally relaxed driving on the open road. Now she checked the speed and eased off a little, bringing them back to ninety kilometres an hour. They were off to a good start but had a huge distance still to travel.

  She glanced again in the mirrors. ‘Chloë, I think we have company.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Behind the truck. There’s a white Commodore. It’s been there for a while now and doesn’t seem to want to pass, even when there’s an overtaking lane.’

  Chloë turned and waited until they rounded the next bend. Sure eno
ugh, there was the car sitting well back from the truck. ‘What speed are we doing?’

  ‘Ninety. So, what do you think?’

  ‘I think we’ve picked up a couple of mangoes. Goodie!’

  ‘Well,’ Wilna flashed her a smile, ‘I hope they don’t mind stopping for coffee.’

  Russ Dengler hadn’t liked the investigation right from the moment it landed on his desk and nothing he’d heard in the last thirty minutes had changed his mind. The case was like some undergraduate conspiracy theory. It stank. If somebody had it in mind to embarrass ASIO, this was just the sort of stunt they might dream up. He didn’t like the people who had been assigned to it either. This investigation was a poisoned chalice, and if he could he would pass it on to someone further down the food chain. His problem was that, for the moment, he was as far as the chain stretched.

  Through most of the briefing he had been stirring his tea slowly, watching the swirling liquid as though it had him mesmerised. Now he looked up and fixed Nigel Rootham with his gaze. ‘And where exactly are they now?’

  Nigel Rootham stared down at the file on his knee. ‘Whittaker and Appleby followed them down into New South Wales. According to their last report, the bus and truck stopped just outside Tamworth.’

  Dengler mulled over that for a moment and took a cautious sip of his tea. It was cold. He pushed the cup away and sat back in his chair. ‘So there is no indication that they are heading for Woomera.’

  Rootham thumbed back through the report until he found what he was looking for. ‘According to Edward Clancy Bishop, two of the women asked —’

  ‘Bishop?’

  ‘The driving instructor.’

  ‘Ah.’ Dengler nodded for Rootham to continue.

  ‘He said that at least two of the women asked him about the best route to Adelaide …’ He glanced down at the report again. ‘And one of them asked what sort of protection the bull bar would give if the truck was to accidentally hit a fence.’

  Dengler swung his chair towards the window. It was all too glib. Bull bars, fences and enough loose talk to … what? Send them on a wild goose chase. Questions would be asked. Answers would be demanded. Whittaker and Appleby were a couple of rookies and of course they would be swept along by the chain of circumstances, eager to find a conspiracy. But the key word was circumstances. All of the evidence was circumstantial, and at the end of the day every kilometre his people travelled — every litre of petrol — was going to be charged back to his budget. He shuddered at the thought that they might start booking into motels. For over a month the reports and rumours had been coming in about an attempted break-out. First it was Port Hedland, then Curtin and now the same stories were coming from Woomera. Except now it was supposedly a break-in? It was all too silly.

  ‘There’s also a mobile phone intercept where one of the women asks if they are in Woomera yet.’

  That was too much for Dengler. He swung his chair back and glared at the man. ‘Rootham, where were they when they made that call?’

  ‘Um … outside Stanthorpe.’

  ‘And how far from Woomera would that be?’

  ‘A bloody long way, sir.’

  Dengler thumped the desk angrily. ‘So maybe they were winding Whittaker and Appleby up? Maybe it was a joke?’

  Rootham looked at him blankly. ‘Joke, sir?’

  ‘Well, you think that Appleby and Whittaker can follow these women without being noticed?’

  Rootham stared at the folder.

  ‘I’ll tell you something. I think we’re being taken for a ride, literally. This de Villiers woman is Michael de Villiers’ wife. And Michael de Villiers is a personal friend of the prime minister. Does that sound like the kind of person who is going to drive a truck through the wire at Woomera?’

  ‘What about the report from the woman in Brisbane, Carol Brossi?’

  ‘What about it?’ Dengler snapped impatiently.

  ‘She insists that two of the women — Waxman and Colbert — were present at a meeting where this Rabia woman was speaking. She claims they were actively recruiting people.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘She wasn’t sure, sir. She indicated that she was willing to be involved, but there was no follow-up.’

  Dengler waved his hand dismissively. ‘And Rabia Balkhi? What have we found out about her?’

  Rootham moved uncomfortably in his chair.

  Dengler snorted. ‘Nothing? I thought not. Do you know how that makes us look?’ He rolled his eyes and opened the palms of his hands, imploring some higher power to intervene. ‘A woman in a burqa — not hard to spot, I would have thought.’

  Rootham, opting for safety, decided against offering a comment.

  Dengler heaved a sigh and put out his hand. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll get our friends over in Building L to send me emails and phone transcripts. Someone must have mentioned her name somewhere.’

  Rootham got to his feet and handed the folder over the desk. He was relieved that the interview was at an end, and surprised at Dengler’s candour about the so-called ‘friends’. Building L housed the Joint Intelligence Organisation, and though it was common knowledge that they, Defence Signals Directorate and ASIO shared intelligence when mutually beneficial, it was technically illegal to tap, record or target domestic computers, phones or individuals. Of course DSD did it all the time, but it was never spoken of. With the Echelon system at Geraldton,DSD could key any word into the ‘dictionary’ and it would be flagged for further scrutiny.

  Rootham had made it as far as the door when Dengler stopped him.

  ‘Has anyone rung de Villiers and asked him what the hell his wife is up to?’

  Christ, he couldn’t take a trick. ‘No, sir. I’ll get onto it.’

  ‘No. Get me a number for him and I’ll have a little chat.’

  He watched as Rootham left the room. Poor bastard. It wasn’t his fault. Nigel was in the same position he was: chasing phantoms.

  There was an official way of getting JIO cooperation, but Dengler knew that by going through the channels he ran the risk of bringing the entire affair to a grinding bureaucratic halt. Other interests would be engaged, and the next thing he knew the operation would be reduced to a nightmare of reports and briefings.

  The informal path was to approach his contacts; men he had worked with on previous cases. It was a risky strategy, because if his contact decided to file a report he could find himself carpeted and forced to explain his deviation from the established protocols.

  Then he remembered Klaus Wepner.

  Wepner was a computer freak Dengler had known since university days. An outstanding student, he had been drafted into ASIO shortly after graduation and then cherry-picked by the Joint Intelligence Organisation. They bumped into each other socially from time to time, and on the last occasion Wepner had made no secret of the fact that he was less than impressed with his chances of promotion.

  ‘They take one look at my name and pass me over,’ he complained. ‘Not Anglo enough.’

  Dengler had nodded in agreement, having long ago come to the same conclusion about his own slow progress through the ranks. He bought another round of drinks and returned to the subject.

  ‘So, you want to come back to us?’

  ‘ASIO,’ Wepner sneered. ‘No offence, but the general attitude in JIO is that you’re run by a bunch of wallys.’

  Dengler raised an eyebrow, but didn’t contradict him.

  ‘Mind you,’ Wepner continued, ‘our mob are not that much better.’ He took a sip of his drink and glanced around the pub. They were in a relatively quiet corner and nobody appeared to be paying them any attention. ‘It’s the place,’ he said softly. ‘It’s like Building L is sick. Six storeys of laminex veneer and pink carpet, although there’s more bloody holes than carpet. But the fourth floor is the thing … ‘ He shot Dengler a quick glance. ‘Doesn’t exist, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Dengler smiled. He was used to the absurd non-existence of things.

 
‘I mean, of course the floor exists, but it’s the computer section and so out of date —’

  ‘I thought that was only our problem.’

  ‘No. I’m talking seriously out of date.’ Wepner frowned. ‘And because nobody wants to share information, you’re never really sure of what they actually want.’ He sipped his drink again and lowered his voice. ‘I spent a month creating a paper trail — credit cards, bank accounts, you know the stuff — I worked my arse off and made it watertight. I tell you, it was a serious piece of art. Then some idiot bores it up me because it was supposed to be flawed. Like I knew that? Like I had been told?’ He screwed up his face and adopted a British accent. ‘“Dear me, Wepner, this will never do. We wanted a trail that might have existed but never did, and if it did then it would have been obvious after a little digging that the trail was a phoney and QED the individual was bogus.” Give me a break.’

  Dengler had nodded sympathetically and made a mental note to cultivate Wepner; the man’s dissatisfaction could prove useful. He drained his glass and was about to suggest that they call it a night, but Wepner wasn’t done.

  ‘You know, each time you leave your work area and have to go to another floor they treat you like a bloody spy. It’s freaky. There’s a central hall in each floor and as you walk along heads pop out from behind the partitions to check you, and if some idiot doesn’t recognise you they start locking the doors …’

  ‘So where do you want to go?’

  ‘Defence Signals Directorate.’

  ‘Building M?’

  ‘Or one of the new ones they’re building. I’ve been in M a couple of times and I have to say it is bloody claustrophobic. Those underground floors …’ He shrugged. ‘I went to a meeting above ground and it’s not much better. The so-called anti-rocket windows don’t give you much of a view. Mind you, the garden in the middle is nice.’

  Yes, Dengler thought, Wepner was a definite possibility. He picked up the secure phone and made the call.

  ‘I’ll ring you,’ Wepner said and hung up.

  Fifteen minutes later he called from what he described as an ‘isolated’ phone. Wepner was cagey at first, unwilling to divulge anything, but when informed that national security and possibly terrorists were involved, he agreed to do a trace. Within the hour he called back and reported that, yes, they did have material on someone by the name of Rabia Balkhi.