‘The duty officer is Charles Ransome. You certain you don’t need me here?’ Fleischer glanced at the clock again. He could still make his date with Margaret if he got going within the next few minutes.
‘Positive, Fleischer. Just go about your weekend as normal. However, I may have to call you in on Sunday afternoon. I’m sure you won’t want to miss the fireworks if this break-out attempt actually goes ahead.’
‘Commander, I’ll make a point of being here Sunday from midday. Just hang on and I’ll get Ransome for you.’
Around the same time as Fleischer and Margaret were contemplating the vase of gerberas he’d set beside his bed, a large bus pulled through the gates at Woomera. Charles Ransome watched while his team shepherded the fifty detainees into the bus. Finally two officers assisted the sedated Karim Mazari into a seat. To Ransome’s relief the entire operation was over in under an hour and, as he watched them go, he thought of an expression his mother used: good riddance to bad rubbish. He wondered where the detainees thought they were being taken and how they would react when they realised that the Plym Detention Centre was a one-way ticket out of Australia.
By midday Saturday the two vehicles were approaching Port Augusta. They had left the Barrier Highway at Peterborough and cut across through Orroroo, Willowie and Wilmington to the A1. Port Augusta lay just twenty-one kilometres away and from there it was a straight run up the Sturt Highway to Woomera.
‘The mangoes are still with us,’ Chloë reported on the phone from the truck, which was maintaining a sedate half a kilometre distance behind the bus. ‘You think we should do the switch soon?’
There was a pause and then Wilna’s voice came on the phone. ‘Kate says she’ll pull over at the next truck stop.’
‘Okay with us. See you soon.’ She turned to Andrea. ‘Next stopping area.’
‘Gotcha.’ Andrea grinned. ‘You guys look after yourselves, all right?’
Chloë squeezed her arm gently. ‘Yes, Mum.’
Andrea laughed. ‘You know, my children insist on calling me Andrea; they think that “Mum” is far too naff, especially in front of their friends. Mind you, it’s a different story when they want something.’ She glanced in the rear-view mirror. There were only a few cars behind them. The third was the familiar Commodore. ‘Keep an eye on the boys, will you? I’m going to start slowing down.’
‘Sure.’ Chloë craned her head to peer in the side mirror. ‘Let’s hope this works.’
It was several kilometres until they came across a truck stop. Just as they had hoped, the Commodore pulled over well behind them, the driver making a credible display of cleaning the front windscreen.
Quickly the women changed vehicles: Andrea and Mandy in the truck; Wilna, Kate and Chloë in the bus. Now the fun really begins, Chloë thought, as she settled into a passenger seat near Wilna. She had grown to really like this elegant older woman, amazed at her ability to remain totally unflappable, no matter what was happening. Although, up until now things had been pretty easy. Tomorrow was crunch time.
Andrea waited until the bus had pulled out. After giving it several minutes’ start, she signalled and started rolling towards the verge of the road. She let a couple of semi-trailers thunder past then slipped into third gear and rejoined the highway.
‘What do you think?’ she asked Mandy, who was using her side wing mirror to follow the progress of the Commodore.
‘I think they have a very clean windscreen.’ She laughed and glanced at the dashboard. ‘Let’s sit just over eighty and see what happens.’
‘I’ll signal in plenty of time. You keep an eye out for the Stirling North exit.’
The traffic was lighter than they had anticipated, but Andrea, much to the annoyance of a couple of drivers, was keeping her speed well down and pondering the desolation rolling by.
‘I’ll show you fear in a handful of dust, Mandy said with a shiver. The railway on one side, the Whyalla pipeline on the other — this was an industrial landscape, flat, dry and barren, all its energies drained away to feed the distant factories.
As they passed under some high-voltage lines Mandy spotted the sign. ‘Stirling North, five kilometres.’
Andrea nodded. ‘Okay, I’m pulling over.’
She signalled and started changing down through the gears. An exasperated motorist honked at them and sped by, a single finger extended from his window. The Commodore was also slowing. To the left was one of the pipeline pumping stations and an area large enough to park the truck. The exhaust brakes crackled loudly and, with a hiss and a flurry of dust, they came to a stop.
‘You ready for a bit of acting?’ Andrea asked as she switched off the motor.
‘Just watch me.’
Mandy slid from the seat. She grabbed a pair of overalls and walked to the rear of the truck. The Commodore was stopped a hundred metres away, apparently having a problem with its windscreen wipers. Chances of rain were zero, Mandy smiled, but it pays to be careful. Aware that the men in the car were probably watching her through binoculars, she took her time. First she pulled her hair back and fastened it with a band, then flapped the overalls out and pulled them up over her short skirt.
‘Ready?’ Andrea came around the side of the truck carrying a small toolkit.
‘Yes, just doing a reverse strip for the boys.’ She zipped up the overalls and held her hand out for the toolkit. ‘How do I look?’
‘Very professional,’ Andrea laughed.
‘Damn! I was trying to look sexy.’ Mandy grinned, got down on the gravel and crawled in beside the rear axle. ‘Okay, I’ll have a poke around.’
As she disappeared under the truck Andrea watched the passing traffic. ‘How does it look?’
‘Bloody big. God, I wouldn’t know the first thing about these monsters.’
Andrea squatted down and peered under the truck. ‘What would your husband think if he could see you now?’
Mandy snorted derisively. ‘He’d think I was certifiable.’
‘But you said he supported you coming along.’
‘Andrea, firstly he doesn’t care as long as I’m not making demands on his time, and secondly I told him I was helping arrange a cultural exchange.’
Mandy slid the toolkit in front of her, then rolled out from under the truck, the overalls now covered in dust. ‘I got sick of being so nice to some of the dreadful people Paul needed to impress.’ She picked up the toolkit. ‘Right, I’ll drive.’
Two minutes later they were back on the highway and heading north.
‘Keep your fingers crossed that we can find the rendezvous point, and that this mysterious Aunty Pearl has done the groundwork.’
Behind, the Commodore allowed a car to pass and come between them.
Today Russ Dengler had no qualms about working on the weekend. What had started out as a wild and woolly investigation was looking better as every hour went past. Wepner over in JIO had called again from an isolated phone to let him know that they had a credit card match for the de Villiers woman. In Broken Hill she had paid for two lots of fuel. Massive amounts. The first was for 750 litres of diesel, the other for 800. Obviously she had a very high credit limit.
‘You want me to screw her?’
‘What?’
Wepner laughed. ‘I can stop the card, freeze her bank accounts, cancel her mobile phone, divert it … name your poison.’
Dengler thought about it for a moment and decided that the way things were going, it would be good to avoid any further involvement by JIO, unofficial or otherwise. ‘No. Thanks for the offer, but we’ll let her run at the moment. I owe you.’
‘If any of this backfires, just remember I don’t even know you,’ Wepner replied bleakly and hung up.
There was now no doubt that the women’s destination was Woomera. The last call from Appleby had them driving through Port Augusta and onto the Sturt Highway. Well, they were going to have quite a reception. Dengler had called Nigel Rootham in, and within the hour they would be on their way to watch the
fun and games. This was going to be a real coup. He thought it was a particularly generous gesture to take Nigel along to witness the event.
He rang Appleby’s mobile. The call went through, but he and Whittaker were on the limits of mobile range. The line was fuzzy and cut out. He tried again and this time Whittaker answered.
‘Keep your distance,’ Dengler ordered, ‘and be aware that they will probably camp somewhere for the night again.’
‘You don’t think they’re going to …’ The reception cut out and in again.
‘You’re breaking up, Frank. Listen. All the indications are that tomorrow is the day. Rootham and I are flying there in a short while, so I’ll ring you again from Woomera.’ He paused then added, ‘By the way, you’ve done a great job. We’re going to nail these bitches and …’ The line had gone dead.
‘Nigel,’ he called through the open office door.
‘Coming …’ Rootham stuck his head around the door. ‘Yes?’
‘All set?’
‘Everyone is on standby and I’ve left a message for Fleischer to let him know we’ll be in Woomera by about five.’
‘You didn’t speak to him directly?’ Dengler frowned.
‘Uh-uh. Word is he was out on a hot date last night with one of the locals and still hasn’t surfaced.’
‘Poor woman,’ Dengler sneered. He didn’t like Fleischer and resented the fact that he had to have the man around for what he saw as his show. Still, he wasn’t about to let that spoil his day tomorrow. He had already decided that he would direct operations. After all, this was a national emergency … or damn close to one.
Much as he disliked television, Marzuq Yazeed had decided that it was necessary for them to watch the news. He had purchased a small portable TV and each night he and Basim watched for some indication that their efforts were being rewarded. There were only a couple of weeks before they would move in on their main target, so it was important that the first stage was getting results.
For several days there was nothing, and then came the report of the first two deaths and the ambulance officer’s illness. It was the latter that gave him the most comfort.
‘Hassan al-Mahdi said there might well be secondary infections. This is a blessing.’ Marzuq looked at Basim, who was staring at the television screen. His face reflected not only the glow of the screen but also his rapture that the two Hazara had died.
‘We are truly holy warriors now …’
‘And this is only the beginning. Soon there will be hundreds.’ Marzuq moved in front of him and switched off the set. ‘Our vengeance will spread out until it is a cloak covering the land.’
Basim remained staring at the blank screen. ‘When do we move?’
‘Soon. You will stay here and pray.’
‘And you?’
‘I have all the arrangements in place. The uniforms and the canisters are waiting for us. I will go to Canberra tomorrow and confirm that we have the proper security passes. As a final precaution I will test mine out.’
A look of concern flitted across Basim’s face. ‘And if it fails? If you are arrested?’
Marzuq smiled. ‘Then you will have your moment of triumph. You will wait until parliament resumes and go ahead as planned. But I don’t expect to be arrested. And when I return we will prepare for our special day.’
Basim’s eyes blazed. ‘It will happen?’
Marzuq squatted down beside him and took his hand. ‘It is what we have trained for, it is what we have been entrusted with and it is the will of Allah. Yes, it will happen.’
‘Here we go.’ Appleby slowed and pulled onto the verge. Ahead of them the truck was signalling a left turn.
‘Where the hell…?’ Whittaker ran his finger up the map. ‘How far are we from Augusta?’
Appleby, meticulous as ever, didn’t hesitate. ‘Eighteen klicks. I reset the odometer when we crossed the railway line past the cemetery.’
They watched as the truck trundled slowly along the dirt road. Ahead of it a plume of dust lingered in the air, presumably from the bus.
‘Well?’
‘God knows what’s down there.’ He looked to his right. Across the road was a railway station. ‘That has to be Tent Hill, which would make that road … ‘ He paused and squinted at the map. ‘From what I can make out it goes to somewhere called Corraberra.’
‘Give us a squiz,’ Appleby said and took the map. He studied it while he finished his cigarette. ‘Pity it’s not a dead-end track.’
‘Why?’ Whittaker opened his window to let some of the smoke escape.
‘We could camp here and just wait for them to emerge in the morning.’
‘Seems reasonable …’
‘No. Too many other ways out. We have to assume they know we’re here, so we’d better stick with them.’ He flicked the fag end of his cigarette out the window and started the motor. ‘Dig out the laptop from the back seat and bring up the detailed map.’ He waited for a break in the traffic and pulled back onto the highway.
The small wooden sign said Corraberra, but by the time Whittaker had located the correct topographical map on the computer they had passed through Corraberra and were following well back from the plume of dust that marked the truck’s path.
‘Jesus, this goes fucking nowhere,’ Appleby growled. ‘What the hell are they doing?’
‘Christ knows.’
It was hard to imagine that such a road had a destination. On either side the land was arid, scrubby and seemingly empty of life with the exception of a few emaciated sheep. The road itself was deeply corrugated, and soon they were reduced to crawling along at ten kilometres an hour.
‘This doesn’t feel good.’ Appleby reached for another cigarette. ‘What have you got?’
‘Like I can see anything with the fucking way you’re driving.’
‘It’s the bloody road, Frank.’
‘Well, stop for a minute. It’s not as if they’re going to get away from us.’
Appleby snorted. ‘Well, they sure as hell aren’t going to do a U-turn and come back this way.’ He braked and they slid a few feet on the loose gravel. ‘So where are we?’
‘How does lost sound?’ Whittaker’s laughter, thin and brittle, stopped when he realised Appleby was in no mood for jokes. He turned his attention to the laptop. ‘From what I can make out we’re on the second dry-creek crossing —’
‘Third,’ Appleby interjected. ‘This is the third creek.’
‘Okay, the third then.’ He did a quick calculation. ‘So we’ve come about ten kilometres off the highway.’
Appleby rounded on him. ‘I can read that on the bloody odometer. Just tell me where the fuck we are.’
Whittaker looked up, a hurt expression on his young face, then returned his attention to the map. ‘The road heads south. We come to a set of dams in a couple of kilometres then up a gully to South Tent Hill … ‘ He checked out the window. ‘Yeah, that one over there,’ indicating the eroded cliffs to their left. ‘And the small hill straight ahead would be Horseshoe, and further on Sugarloaf. We come over the rise and down to a place called Carriewerloo Woolshed.’ He looked at the country surrounding them. It wasn’t pretty, not even in the glow of the late-afternoon light. ‘What the hell are they doing out here?’
‘Terrorist training camp? Or a health resort? Which one would you put the money on?’ Appleby gave a lopsided grin and started the car again. ‘You’d better check in with Dengler.’
Whittaker picked up the phone but it had no signal.
From there on, the road got progressively worse. To call it a road was to take liberties with the word, Whittaker thought. He tried the phone several more times in the next half-hour, but always with the same result. Zilch. To make matters worse it was getting dark, and the last thing they wanted to do was switch on their headlights.
Two kilometres further they rounded a bend and saw some lights twinkling through trees about three hundred metres down a slight incline in front of them.
�
�That has to be Carriewerloo Woolshed,’ Whittaker said.
‘You want to go have a look?’ Appleby shut off the engine and let the car run on a few metres before coming to a stop.
‘I could do with a walk before dinner.’ Whittaker opened his door. He had taken only a few steps before he realised what he had said. He turned back to Appleby. ‘Have you any idea where we’re going to eat tonight?’
Through the gloom he saw Appleby shake his head. ‘Frank, I think the more important question is what.’ He laughed dryly. ‘And the last time I checked in the car, the answer would seem to be nothing’.
They walked quietly down the road towards the lights. As they got closer they saw that the road did a turn to the left. Off to the right, set amidst some trees that were obviously the beneficiaries of more water than the surrounding countryside, was a large building. Whittaker stepped off the road, moving towards the house. But Appleby stopped him with a hand on his arm.
‘The truck.’ It was parked off the road at the entrance to a stockyard, beyond which lay the waters of a large waterhole or dam, the moon’s reflection captured in its ink-black surface.
‘And the bus?’ Whittaker whispered. ‘Where the fuck is the bus?’
Appleby moved further down the road, parallel to the house in the trees. ‘There’s a Landrover …’ He pointed to a vehicle tucked into a narrow driveway. ‘You think that the dust we saw …’ He left the question unfinished.
He reached the vehicle and slid silently around it. There was no need to touch the bonnet — he could feel the radiant heat from where he stood. ‘Those bastards.’
Whittaker didn’t say a word. He pushed past Appleby and walked quietly towards the house. As he got nearer he saw that it wasn’t an original homestead, but the woolshed converted into a home; indeed he thought he could detect a faint trace of lanolin in the night air. A wide verandah had been added on three sides and at the back a large window looked into a kitchen.
He made his way up a small grass-covered rise to the side of the building and, keeping low, found he had a view into the rear of the house. Beyond the kitchen, separated by a generous bench, was an open lounge area leading out to the verandah at the front. Three women were standing around the bench. One, he assumed, was the owner of the house. The other two were the women from the truck.
The Haha Man Page 25