by Jay Darby
He thought it a fitting end to an evil existence. “No worries, it’s your call…”
She walked towards the cabin. “Did you find what you’re looking for?”
“Nah…” He followed her. “Were there other places he’d go? More cabins?”
“Not that I know of...” She stopped in the doorway and pointed at the floor. “Did you look under there?”
He stepped past her, into the room. “Where?”
“He hid guns in there, beneath the rug.”
He cursed his stupidity, dropped to his knees and pulled the cow skin rug aside. There were loose timber floorboards underneath it, and they ran in opposite directions to the others. He yanked the boards away and revealed a dark space below. He shone his phone’s torch towards the cavity. His heart jumped to his throat when he saw it. A wooden chest.
She leaned towards it. “What’s that?”
He reached down and grabbed the metal handle on top, and one on the left side. “It’ll be heavy…Please grab the other side and help me pull it up...”
She nodded.
He waited till she moved into position. His hands shook, his body trembled. “One, two, three…”
They grunted and groaned, lifted the chest out and placed it on the floor. He noticed metal wheels on the bottom of it and rolled it out the door and into bright sunshine. It was a meter in length and half as deep and wide. Made of dark oak, coated in a matte finish. He fingered the rusted brass corners.
The chest was beautiful and solid, he admired the craftsmanship. It looked and felt antique, but how old was it? He remembered how Ronny Goodwin had described the wooden box inside Bill Thompson’s house, and chuckled. This wooden chest was just like the ones pirates had kept their treasure in. He ran a hand over the smooth lid. Did this pirates’ chest contain the treasure he searched for? Or would he be disappointed again?
Rosie stood beside him. “What’s inside?”
He fumbled with a thick brass padlock on the front of the chest. Should he search for a key? Use the jemmy bar inside the cabin to force it open? Nah, he’d shown enough patience for one day...
“Step back…” He took the Glock from its’ holster and waited for her to retreat to a safe distance. He knelt beside the chest, aimed at the padlock, and fired. The lock flew away. He holstered the pistol.
He examined the chest. Undamaged, and unlocked. He raised its’ heavy lid with both hands, then pushed it back. It squeaked open on metal hinges and stayed there. He gazed into the sky for a few seconds, returned the smiles from Jane and Lionel, then took a deep breath. He stared into the wooden chest, and let the breath out slowly.
The chest contained brown folders, stacked to the top in neat piles. He took one out and studied it. A4 in size, three inches thick and weighty in his hands. A cover made of soft leather. White, bold font on the front read: CUMAL FILES – 2016.
He returned the folder, and a thunderbolt of relief shocked him to his core. From the moment Alec Ferguson had mentioned the Cumal files and said what they would reveal, he’d wanted to believe in their existence. And now, he’d found them. For the first time in a long time, he slapped himself on the back. He’d persevered…
“What are Cumal files?”
Her question jolted him from the daydream. “Information.” He stood. “Evidence...”
“Of what?”
“Of crimes that me and Lionel had been trying to prove. Historical, and present day. Crimes that you helped us uncover…” He closed the lid.
“And will you? Prove them?”
He placed a hand on her shoulder. “For you, and for Lio, and a heap of others…I’m gunna make sure of it.” He realized the need to protect her. “Tell no-one about this. Alright?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I won’t…”
He gripped a handle and pulled the chest over hard mud, towards the dirt path. “Let’s get out of here, and get this pirates’ chest safe and secure.”
-------------------------------
Porter placed the last of fifty-four brown folders into the wooden chest and secured the lid. He yawned, stretched in the chair and glanced at his watch. 9.28pm. He’d returned Rosie to the hospital, had his eye treated, and arrived back at the Carinya residence close to 2.30pm. It’d taken him seven hours to sift through fifty-four years of Cumal files and write a report that summarised their contents.
After studying lists contained in the files, he knew that no KA members or associates remained in Crooked River. He was finally able to place full trust in Lyn Foster. He called her and asked if she would secure the files in the police stations’ evidence safe. She agreed to, and as the acting boss of Crooked River command, she possessed the only set of keys to it. He told her he’d take the wooden chest to the station at 11pm, and that they’d discuss its’ contents then.
He selected ‘Print,’ strolled into the office, and his mind wandered as the report spilled out. How could he best use the evidence contained in it? What would achieve the best results for victims like Rosie Davis, and families of recently abducted girls? What actions would secure a better future for Kooris, and guarantee the changes to legislation that Lionel had fought and died for? The Cumal files implicated numerous influential men and women, from all parts of the globe. Who could he trust with his demands? And who had the power to see that they were met?
By the time the last page printed, he’d committed to a course of action. He took his phone from the table, skimmed through the contact list, and called a number.
“Hello?” A female answered, her tone annoyed. “Karen Flintoff speaking...”
“Karen…Dan Porter with the Carinya investigation. Got a minute?”
Flintoff huffed. “It’s late…And how’d you get my private number?”
“Lionel Roberts...He told me to call you if ever in need. I am…”
“Fucking Roberts…Still a pain in my arse from the grave…” She sighed. “What do you want?”
“A meeting with the AG. Canberra. 4pm tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Impossible…Won’t happen.”
“Karen, listen to who else I want to be there, and make it happen…It’s in everyone’s best interest, including yours, that it does.”
FIFTY SIX
At 8am Saturday, Porter boarded a flight from Crooked River to Broken Hill. Not long after landing he took another flight to Sydney, waited two hours and took a connecting flight to Canberra. He rented a car from the airport, drove to a nearby hotel for a nap and to freshen up. In the afternoon, he made his way to an obscure government building in Barton, ACT.
At 3.59pm he strode into the foyer of the Attorney-General’s office. He took a deep breath, same as Maximus Meridius always did, and prepared himself for battle. He’d entered a political Colosseum, and for his plan to succeed, he’d have to claim the most rousing victory of his gladiatorial police career.
A brunette receptionist welcomed him with a brilliant smile.
“G’day. Dan Porter.” He placed his briefcase on the reception counter, straightened his tie, and brushed lint from the sleeves of a black suit. “Rothwell’s expecting me.”
“Certainly, Mr Porter,” she said. “Ooh, that’s a nasty bruise. Bet you can hardly see through that eye you poor thing…An accident?”
He fingered the swollen side of his face. “Yeah, I'm a bit clumsy sometimes…”
She waved a hand toward the door behind her. “Mr Rothwell said to go straight in.”
He took his briefcase from the counter, knocked, and accepted the invitation to enter.
Attorney-General Rothwell sat behind a mahogany desk in the center of the room. Drab curtains covered windows along one wall, drab artwork lined the other. Bright downlights reflected off his bald head and thick glasses. He wore a long-sleeved shirt that hung from his middle-aged body, and a loose knotted tie. Shelves behind him housed books, framed certificates, and photos.
Porter recognized the second man in the room and resisted a smile. To Rothwell’s left sat Jeremy
Tate, the Prime Minister of Australia. He’d seen him on television, with youthful chiseled features made for the camera. But in the flesh, Tate looked all of his fifty-five years. His hair seemed greyer, his frown lines more pronounced, and his ears pointier.
Rothwell stood and shook Porter’s hand, commented on his bruised face, then introduced him to Tate.
Tate rose to shake hands, then sat. “Have delayed an important meeting, this had better be worth it…”
Rothwell scowled, then gestured for Porter to sit opposite. “Let me be clear, I’ve only agreed to this on such short notice because I’m told Carinya’s uncovered pertinent information. Concerning matters of national integrity...”
In Porter’s mind he heard an angry Karen Flintoff curse his blackmail. He smirked.
“There’s nothing amusing about this, Porter, we’re extremely busy…You’ve got ten minutes to tell us what you know.”
Porter rubbed his jaw. “You’ll wanna give me more than that…”
Tate leaned forward. “Listen, I’m the big dog here, so let’s not waste time sniffing each other’s arses...Now, what’s this about?”
Porter took two documents from his briefcase, handed one to each of them. “Read it.”
Tate thumbed through the five-pages. “I don’t have time.” He stood and dropped it on the desk. “My legal people will examine it and get back to you.”
“Nah, sit down and read it. Now.”
Tate eyed Rothwell and sat. “You’re going to tolerate this?”
Rothwell shrugged.
“Dismiss what’s in the report,” Porter said, “and you won’t be PM by next week…”
Tate scoffed. “A bold prediction…What am I reading?”
“A report that summarises historical documents and financial records uncovered by Carinya. Evidence of major criminal activity. Here, and internationally. Past, and present.”
Rothwell tilted his head. “Criminal activity by who?”
Porter pointed to the report. “Read it.”
They read the reports, and he watched their expressions change as they did. From mild amusement to concern, to shock, and finally, when they’d finished, to one of horror. They dropped the reports on the desk, as though they were alight and would burn their hands.
After a half-minute silence, Rothwell spoke first. “Cumal files? Porter, where on earth does the ‘Cumal’ come from?”
“The Knights of Alba organization practices the rituals of ancient Celts. A Cumal’s what they called female slaves. They eventually became a measure of value, and it’s why they applied the term to financial records. Another of their beliefs is to never destroy such records. In this case, they should have…”
“Ludicrous…” Rothwell said. “To accuse Charles McKinlay, one of our hardest working human rights advocates, as being the leader of this…KA? I knew Charles well, and to suggest he led a white supremacist group and was a founding member of the National Socialist party…” He glared at Porter. “Absolutely ludicrous.”
Porter grinned. “You sure you knew the real man at all? If he was such a wonderful human rights advocate, why’d he resist Carinya?”
Rothwell scoffed, said nothing.
Tate cleared his throat. “Rothwell’s right, this report’s an insult. I don’t for one minute believe, that this, KA as you call them, actually exist. There’s no ‘secret’ organization masterminding the international sex slave market. Not in these times, and not in Australia. It’s pure fantasy…”
“Evidence in my possession says otherwise,” Porter said. “Are you blokes that stupid? You reckon racial supremacists, and human traffickers don’t exist?” He glanced at Rothwell, then back to Tate. “From what I’ve seen, and the files confirm, they’re more prevalent than ever.”
“Seen?” Rothwell said.
He told them of KA brandings on abducted girls, Amber’s rescue during the ceremony at Cobb mine, about the death of Charles McKinlay and others in the explosion.
Tate chuckled.
Rothwell peered at Porter over the top of his glasses. “I’d heard you’re a loose cannon, a bit of an Elliot Ness wannabe. But you’re more than that, with these, fairy tales…You’re fucking insane.”
“Charles McKinlay died in a helicopter crash...” Tate said.
Porter cocked his head. “You sure about that? There was no autopsy…”
“The Coroner said he’d been incinerated on impact.”
“Believe what you want, the Knights of Alba exist. I’ve got evidence to prove it...”
Rothwell leaned forward. “Where is this, evidence?”
“The original files are in a secure location, copies are with a colleague…Anything happens to me, or the originals, those copies get sent to the media.”
Tate winced. “Okay, let’s say KA does exist…Go on.”
Porter allowed himself an indulgent smirk, he had their full attention. “KA’s run by a high council. Of the original nine members named in my report; McKinlay, Bill Thompson, Josef Klose, George Barrett, and the Fed’s Commissioner, Watkins, are dead. Three others, all retired judges, are missing. I reckon they died in the mine explosion…That leaves one of their high council, Alexander, alive and wanted.”
“That's another ridiculous accusation...” Rothwell pointed to the document. “To suggest Commissioner Watkins was a member of this, high council. And a retired Supreme court Judge, Ian Alexander, now leads this imaginary, army? As I said, you’re a madman.”
“Again, the proof’s in the files…They’re all named, members and associates. Payments made, all other financial records. Ledgers, if you wanna call them that…”
Tate frowned. “Associates, in what way? And how many?”
Porter paused to study him. He saw a face etched with worry that hadn’t been there a minute earlier and nervous fingers that tapped the desk. “The list of KA associates is in there, hundreds are named.” He nodded to the briefcase in front of him. “Most of KA’s members, their soldiers, and assassins for hire, we’ll never identify. And without leadership, and funds, they should fold. But with Alexander still out there, who knows?”
Tate’s forehead crinkled. “Without funds? Your report says they hold capital of 1.2 billion..."
“You see, Porter…” Rothwell waggled a finger at Tate, as though he’d proven a point for him. “That’s exactly why I think your theory, your story, is a concoction. Personal bank accounts of these men you accuse, judges and the like, come under intense scrutiny. Money laundering prevention and anti-terrorism strategies demand it. They’re not keeping money here in Australia, and we can’t freeze assets that we can’t find.”
“You're spot on,” Porter said. “Their money isn’t here in Oz, and isn’t in personal accounts...”
“Then where? In whose?”
“Scotland. Kennard Atkins Mining Corporation…Glasgow, London, Cape Town, Singapore, and Sydney. Global exporters of specialist mining equipment since 1966.”
Rothwell gave a condescending smirk. “Let me guess, it’s in the files?”
“Did you even read the report? It’s some serious shit we’re talking about here, but are you grasping it?”
Rothwell’s face flushed red, he shouted obscenities.
Tate stopped him with a raised hand, then turned to Porter. “Kennard Atkins is a shell company? Explain...”
“Their financial records for the past ten years show container movements and invoices, shipping manifests, and names of company directors at Glasgow headquarters.” Porter turned to Rothwell. “Land titles from hundreds of property purchases, like the Cobb mine they managed to buy from the National Lands Trust, aided by the AG’s department...”
Rothwell huffed, sat back and folded his arms.
“Containers? Shipping manifest?” Tate said.
“KA transported the abducted girls in shipping containers. Fake manifests listed the cargo as drills and other mining equipment. The girls went from Sydney to Newcastle, then to Singapore, and onto Middle Eastern,
European, American and African clients. For Asian customers, they went via Hong Kong.”
“I remember seeing a memo regarding missing girls in Sydney. Have the abductions ceased?”
“They’d dwindled, and have now stopped completely after McKinlay’s death…”
Rothwell whacked the desk. “How’d our Customs people miss this? How many girls are we talking about?”
“From Australia, well over a hundred. Worldwide, thousands. KA have bribed customs officers, shipping inspectors, local cops, the lot. And corrupt Interpol bosses, all the way to the top, hampered all efforts towards international co-operation. My boss, Steve Williams, had his guys check out Kennard Atkins in Sydney. They found nothing, ‘cos KA shipped the girls out of Newcastle, and covered their tracks each time.”
“And their bosses in Glasgow? Why haven’t they been investigated?”
“They have, with nothing adverse found at that time…Big money buys big protection. But them, and all the other Kennard Atkins executives based in Europe, are on the list of KA’s international associates. They’ll be picked up in our sweep…”
Tate picked at his chin. “Again, you mention these, associates. Precise detail, and names, lends credence to stories...”
Porter studied his beady eyes. “It’s no story, mate, it’s all fact…” He turned to Rothwell, unimpressed by his smug face and arrogant snarl. He didn’t like him, let alone trust him. He turned back to Tate. “Rothwell should leave. You’ll wanna be alone when you hear this…”
Rothwell threw his hands up. “What? Fuck you, Porter.” He glared at Tate, as though daring him to throw him out.
“He stays,” Tate said.
Porter rubbed his neck. “Is he loyal to the Liberal party? ‘Cos he’ll need to be…”
Tate’s eyes darted to the report, to Rothwell, to Porter, then back to the report. “Rothwell, leave us.”
Rothwell snarled at Porter. “You’ll pay for what you’ve done, and you know damn well what I’m talking about...Fuck you, you’ll pay.” He thumped the desk with a flat hand, stormed from the office and slammed the door behind him.