Dead Heat

by Peter Cotton

He stared at me, waiting for me to baulk. I held his gaze, but remained silent. It’d be silly to keep pressing the point.

  ‘Lieutenant Coombs will accompany you at all times during this investigation,’ said Peterson. ‘You’ll treat her as you would a senior officer at the AFP. Are we clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘Completely.’

  I followed Coombs out of Peterson’s office, and we walked back through the building. As we descended the steps to the car park, our phones rang simultaneously. I had McHenry on mine.

  ‘Are you looking for me or my shadow?’ I said, turning my back on Coombs as she turned hers on me.

  ‘Glass,’ said McHenry, his urgent tone straightening me up. ‘Half an hour ago, CCTV at Uluru airport triggered facial recognition for Jade Rawlins. I’m looking at it now. She looks barely functional, and she’s being frogmarched through the concourse by two rough nuts. Bikie types. An exterior camera has them shoving her into the back of an SUV and driving off. I’ve checked with Navy and they agree. You and Coombs are to drop everything else and get up there straight away.’

  BLOOD OATH SUBSCRIPTION NEWS

  WEDNESDAY 30 NOVEMBER, 9.00PM

  Were you ever forced to become a member of a club you didn’t want to join? Well the wags in the youth wing of Indonesia’s ruling Golkar Party claim that Australia and Papua New Guinea are now ‘officially’ part of Indonesia. Yes, folks, we’re all Indonesians now.

  The young Golkar-ites, militant nationalists to the core, have come up with a snappy new name for Australia, too. It’s Irian Selatan, or South Irian. And PNG is Irian Timur, or East Irian. These new monikers are inscribed on a map the cheeky youngsters uploaded overnight. The map deletes the boundaries between the Australian states, renames our cities, and lists our major resources.

  In 1962, Indonesia’s President Sukarno proposed a similar amalgamation. It was dismissed at the time as the colourful rhetoric of an embattled leader. The young Golkar-ites, by contrast, are brimming with optimism and energy, and they wouldn’t be reviving Sukarno’s dream without the backing of some heavyweights in their party.

  So, if you thought relations between Indonesia and Australia were bad — and due to worsen if things go tragic in Jayapura — this redrawing of the map shows how really fraught things could become.

  4

  The pilot’s voice filled the cabin. We’d reached cruising altitude, he said, and he’d have us on the ground within three hours. Coombs and I were the only passengers on the Cessna Citation 850, so the pilot must have been a lazy bugger — otherwise he’d have handed the controls to his copilot, opened the door to the flight deck, and come down and given us this information face-to-face.

  Then I could’ve asked him if catering on his plane extended beyond cheap sauvignon blanc, re-constituted orange juice, and salt-and-vinegar potato chips. I’d limited myself to one juice and two bags of chips — the wine would’ve made me bleary for the busy time I assumed was ahead of us.

  It’d been five and a half hours since Jade Rawlins had been caught on CCTV at Uluru airport. The cabin crew who’d been on her flight up from Sydney had told local police she’d slept for the entire journey. She’d been seated next to a man they’d assumed was her partner. He’d waved them away whenever they tried to offer food or drink.

  Coombs sat opposite me, leafing through a bundle of papers inside a red folder. She’d retrieved the folder from her satchel as soon as we’d taken off. I wondered if and when she might share what she’d gleaned from her reading.

  ‘Anything in there I’d be interested in?’ I asked, nodding at the folder, which she immediately closed.

  ‘I can talk you through some of it,’ she said. ‘But I can’t hand it over.’

  ‘Talking’s good.’

  ‘Okay. Well, we’re not flying into Uluru anymore. We’re going to Mt Lyle, a small Aboriginal community about thirty kilometres east of the rock. We’re due in there about one-thirty. One of my colleagues will be waiting for us. He’s flying up from Adelaide with everything we need.’

  ‘Our job was to find Jade Rawlins, make her safe, and question her. Has that changed?’

  ‘No. She’s absolutely why we’re doing this, but we now think she’s being held at one of the outstations east of Uluru, so we’ll focus on them. As a precaution, we’ll also speed-search the entire highway between Erldunda in the NT and Giles in WA. We’ve gamed the scenario, and it works. A pair of teams fly into each of six locations along the highway. At the designated time, one team heads east from each location and the other heads west. The teams react to what they find along the way, and there’s always reinforcements on the road if anyone runs into trouble.’

  ‘What do we know about the people holding Jade?’

  ‘As far as we know, they’re members of an un-badged motorcycle gang with up to a hundred men-at-arms. Half of them old-school bikies — refugees from the outlaw clubs. The rest are Aboriginal.’

  ‘Surely all those old bikies have traded in their Harleys for Zimmer frames by now?’

  ‘A lot of them are past it, yes, but some can still handle a bike and a weapon, so they remain a threat. Especially when paired with riders from the New Land Rights Movement.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ I said, kicking myself for not having picked it. ‘So, you’re trawling the highway because you think the Movement’s involved. They’ve got Rawlins, and given the scale of this operation, no doubt you think they had a hand in Kylie Stevens’s death and in whatever happened to John Sheridan.’

  ‘That’s all reasonable to assume,’ she said.

  ‘So how does John Sheridan fit in?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘What about Kylie and Jade? Were they members of the Movement, or did they have links to it?’

  ‘That’s going a bit far.’

  ‘Right. I’ve got a basic knowledge of the Movement and what it’s about. But I could do with a refresher — so that I’m up to speed when we hit the ground.’

  I knew more about the New Land Rights Movement than I was letting on, but I wanted to keep Coombs talking. The more she talked, the more she might drop — inadvertently or by intention. She studied me for a second. Her eyes narrowed, and her mouth bunched up. She put her file back into its satchel, and I figured she’d decided against any more sharing, but then she launched in.

  ‘The New Land Rights Movement was once a small, secretive group of militant blacks and radical whites operating on the fringe of the land rights lobby,’ she said, in the tone of someone delivering a lecture. ‘In its first thirty years, it destroyed property worth millions of dollars by blowing it up, burying it, or disabling it in some headline-grabbing way. Essentially, the group wanted Aboriginal sovereignty over large tracts of the Australian continent.

  ‘Then, ten years ago, the Western Australian government did what it’d long been threatening to do and withdrew funding from hundreds of remote Aboriginal communities in the state’s north. You’ll remember the shitstorm that followed, and especially the actions of some of the militants. What got lost in all the carry-on was the Movement’s muted reaction to the decision. Instead of mounting some dramatic action, as was its form, it responded by pouring its resources into a series of outstations along the Lasseter Highway, east of the rock. Simple housing. Close to ready water. Powered by the sun.’

  ‘There was plenty of speculation about who funded that effort,’ I said. ‘What’s the thinking now?’

  ‘Same as it was then — we still don’t know. In clandestine organisations like the Movement, the moneymen occupy the deepest shadows. Anyway, when the outstation refugees in WA heard about the freshly minted outstations along the Lasseter, they poured across the border and took up residence. The NT cops tried to move them on. There were some notable confrontations — the cops got badly mauled a few times — and, eventually, the outstations became definite no-go areas for law enforcement
.’

  ‘I remember. So many coppers on stress leave, and all the early retirements — it almost broke the Territory budget.’

  ‘It was a tough time. Anyway, a year or so after the community closures in WA, an unrelated incident set forces in motion that fundamentally changed Australia’s criminal and security landscape. You’ll remember. Two cops were shot and killed in Melbourne during a drug bust involving bikies. Public outrage over the killings sent the media into a frenzy. The Federal Government responded with national laws making it illegal for bikies to commune in any way. No clubhouse gatherings. No club rides. No club colours. Anyone who flouted the laws earnt serious gaol time.’

  ‘The laws were inevitable,’ I said. ‘It’s just a pity two cops had to die to force the government’s hand.’

  ‘Yes, a pity,’ said Coombs. ‘And a pity that the laws had such serious unintended consequences.

  ‘After they were passed, the southern states enforced the bikie laws with such fervour that lots of bikies fled north to rural New South Wales, and far north Queensland, and on into the Northern Territory. And at some point, for some reason, the Movement’s outstations along the Lasseter took some of them in — just a few at first, and when that worked out, the welcome was extended. As one of our analysts described it, it was a case of one group of exiles assisting another group of exiles, in defiance of a common enemy. Put more bluntly, the government’s anti-bikie legislation drove the worst elements of the southern bikie gangs into the arms of the New Land Rights Movement.

  ‘And now the outstations continue to be a haven for bikies. A place beyond the reach of the law, where they can manufacture their powders and give sanctuary to some of their shadowy associates. For their trouble, the Movement gets a cut of the bikies’ profits, so it flourishes and multiplies.’

  ‘Was the Movement involved in the murder of Kylie Stevens?’ I asked. ‘Or in whatever’s happened to your bloke Sheridan?’

  Coombs shook her head and eyed me blankly. I held her gaze for a few seconds. She remained impassive, so I changed the subject — to keep her talking.

  ‘This colleague of yours,’ I said, ‘the one who’ll be waiting for us. I take it he’s your supply guy?’

  ‘Bain’s much more than that,’ said Coombs. ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘In the same way you’re much more than a military investigator?’

  ‘I’m a navy investigator on secondment to military intelligence,’ she said, leaning in close, as though we might be overheard in the empty cabin. ‘You regard this matter as a police investigation. To me, it’s an intelligence operation. Nevertheless, our approaches are similar. As problem-solvers, we both fossick for facts to produce lines of action. The big difference between us is, I’m sometimes forced to adjust my discoveries to suit a preferred conclusion. And I have extra-judicial options available to me, whereas you not only have to observe the rule of law, you have to be seen to observe it.’

  ‘I can’t argue with any of that,’ I said. ‘And as we’re both into fossicking for facts, why not help me here. Starting with the connection between Jade Rawlins’s abduction and Kylie Stevens’s death. I’m sure you’ve got intelligence on it. Why not share?’

  She smiled, which I took as a show of appreciation for my doggedness.

  ‘There’s obvious links,’ she said. ‘They lived under the same roof. Both young. Both black. Beyond that, it’s not clear. What we do know is, the bikies who marched Jade through the airport passed her on to some associates. And those guys would’ve passed her on as well. And she’ll have been moved along like that, from one gang to another, to make her fluid and almost impossible to find.’

  ‘I thought you had a fair idea where she was.’

  ‘We do. Earlier this evening, Territory police noted an unusually high volume of motorcycle traffic on the highway east of Uluru. That’s where the Movement has most of its outstations. We’ve since heard that some heavyweight is in the area, geeing up the troops. And the bikie group most recently known to have had Jade is based somewhere in that same area. So that’s where we’re heading. To where the scent is strongest. With a combat team in front of us to pave the way.’

  ‘And our orders for the road?’

  ‘The three of us’ll head east from Mt Lyle. An hour and a half after we set out, we’ll rendezvous with a team coming from the Erldunda roadhouse. We’ll stick with them and stay on the periphery of things, by design. We’re not sweepers and we’re certainly not responders. And no matter what happens, we’ll have numbers on hand to keep us safe. That’s the nature of this operation. Groups meet and expand.’

  ‘What about communications?’

  ‘Apart from any bandits, that’s our main challenge. The microwave along the highway is down, whether by strategic intent or simple vandalism. We’ll have a satellite phone with us, but it can be jammed, and they often are jammed up here. And when they’re operational, they can reveal your location, so we talk only when necessary, and we keep it short.’

  ‘And why did these bikies take Rawlins? What’s she to them?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t know or won’t say?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘And given the size of this operation, she clearly has more, ahh, value to you than merely being someone who might have information about her friend’s death?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘What does that mean? We’ll see.’

  ‘It means I’m not prepared to discuss these matters any further. All I’ll say is, do not undervalue the importance of this mission.’

  ‘I’m not undervaluing anything. But why bring me along? Someone whose job it is to poke around in things. Things you want kept secret. Wouldn’t it’ve been easier to send me back to Canberra and do this on your own?’

  ‘And raise the hackles of people with a direct interest in the case?’ said Coombs, almost scoffing. ‘I don’t think so. They’d get the media involved, the headlines would prompt outrage in Parliament, and everyone would have the same question. What’s so important about this case that military intelligence has to hijack it? Then, as well as the grind of an investigation, we’d have a controversy to deal with, and like a snowball rolling downhill, who knows how big it’d get or where it’d end up. The first thing you learn in intelligence, Detective, is to avoid all forms of public ugliness. So, to answer your question, having you on board is so much easier than being seen to go it alone.’

  ‘So I’m here to stave off awkward questions? An inconvenience who’s more convenient to have around than discard. Does that about cover it?’

  ‘Pretty much. But, of course, if you become truly inconvenient, your shoes will be easy to fill. Serious advancement follows this sort of work, as you know.’

  She was right. Any number of my colleagues would jump at the chance to be involved in this case, so a more compliant model would be easy to find. And while I was still warm on the idea of going home, that’d definitely make me persona non grata with McHenry and the top floor, so it was best I stay, at least for the moment, even if that meant being a token cop.

  Coombs went back to her file, and I closed my eyes, hoping to get some sleep. We were about to enter hostile territory, and, given the vast holes in my knowledge of this case, I’d have to be at the top of my game and prepared for anything when we landed.

  In a dream, a wave as tall as a three-storey building broke over the desert. It swept up all the birds and animals in its path and sent them tumbling end-on-end, in a roil of suds and froth. The wave suddenly lost its energy and spread out to become a giant lake surrounded by white sand. A hole opened in the middle of the lake, as if a plug had been pulled. Snakes, small mammals, and bush debris went round and round in what quickly became a whirlpool.

  A blonde woman in blue jeans and a black T-shirt swam into view. When she reached the edge of the rushing circle of water, she stopped swimm
ing and looked around, confused. It was Jean. Another woman swam into the picture, heading towards Jean and the whirlpool. She was wearing a red bikini, and her face had been destroyed. Kylie Stevens. Stevens wrapped her arms around Jean. Jean started struggling, trying to escape, but Stevens held on tight, as they were dragged into the whirlpool. They circled — faster and faster, getting closer and closer to the centre. Just before they were sucked into the watery hole, Jean turned, reached out to me, and screamed for help.

  I woke with a jolt, shaken and momentarily confused. A string of lights whizzed past the window. I focused on the lights as I worked to bring my breathing under control. I looked at my watch. Just after one in the morning. The reverse thrust of the aircraft pressed me to my seat. I touched my face. It was moist with sweat, as were my armpits and my chest.

  ‘Good sleep?’ asked Coombs, looking at me doubtfully.

  ‘Mmm,’ I said, gathering my wits. ‘Had better.’

  I looked out the window again. The dream-image of Jean, doomed and distressed, lingered at the edge of my consciousness. I pushed back deeper into the seat and rubbed my face vigorously with both hands. I remembered talking to Jean just before she’d flown out for Indonesia. I’d been telling her to make sure she kept her head down while she was over there. ‘Look, Glass,’ I heard her voice in my head, exasperated, ‘I’m going to Jayapura to observe, ask questions, and deliver fair and accurate news reports. And I can’t do that,’ she’d flashed me a wry grin, ‘by keeping my head down. Okay?’

  The plane slowed and stopped about thirty metres from the open doors of a floodlit hangar. Out the window, I could see a dozen big trail bikes, with riders astride them, filling the night air with clouds of exhaust. One of the bikes moved off, followed by another and another, till there were six left. A couple of minutes later, the lead bike of the remaining six moved off, and the others followed in single file. Two search teams, heading for the highway, where they’d presumably go in opposite directions, just as Coombs had described.