by Tim Ayliffe
Bailey stared at the ruins on the bridge, trying to make sense of Mustafa’s forever war.
The mangled car. The dead. The injured, writhing in agony, their screams bouncing off the stone buildings in a torturous echo.
‘What do you want?’ Bailey tried again.
Mustafa was so close that Bailey could feel each word on his skin. ‘Piece by piece, I want to take back our lands from the infidels. From Mosul to Baghdad, to Damascus. The caliphate is coming.’
CHAPTER 5
Sydney
‘Mate, wake up.’
Bailey felt a tap on the shoulder.
‘We just landed. Time to go.’
Bailey didn’t move.
‘Come on.’
Gerald was shaking him now, trying to get him to open his eyes.
‘All right. All right.’
Bailey sat upright, wiping the drool from his bottom lip with the back of his hand.
‘Give me a bloody minute.’
He had only fallen asleep a few hours out from Sydney. He was also unnerved by the fact that Mustafa al-Baghdadi had returned to his dreams. Maybe it was because of his speech. Maybe it was because of what had happened out the front of Chatham House. Or maybe it was because that sadistic prick had told Bailey to call him.
Bailey wasn’t game to tell Gerald. He didn’t want his friend – and boss – to feel compelled to book him an appointment with another bloody shrink. He’d done his time lying on leather couches, staring at ceilings, spilling his guts to clever doctors with soothing voices.
It had been an unusually long journey home to Sydney. After taking off late from Heathrow, their flight had been delayed for eleven hours in Singapore. Gerald hadn’t managed to get much more sleep than Bailey, and the two men were barely talking to each other by the time they were collecting their bags from the carousel in the arrivals hall.
And there was something else bothering Bailey.
‘This is bullshit.’ Bailey lifted his duffel bag into the back of the taxi. ‘What could be so bloody important that we need to go into work?’
‘Penelope says it’s urgent,’ Gerald said. ‘That’s all I know.’
Penelope. Gerald’s personal assistant.
‘If it’s so urgent why couldn’t she tell you more on the phone?’
‘I don’t know, Bailey! We were trying to get through immigration when she called. Why don’t you damn well ask her when you see her in thirty bloody minutes’ time!’
Bailey knew he was behaving like a child, but he was so exhausted that he didn’t care. They’d only been on the ground in London for around four days and his body clock was all over the shop. He just wanted to get home and fall asleep to the sound of a Rolling Stones record.
Penelope was standing out the front of The Journal waiting for them when their taxi pulled up on Sussex Street.
‘Okay, out with it.’ Bailey started before he had even one foot out of the car. ‘As much as I love you, Penelope, it’d better be good.’
The look on Penelope’s face made Bailey regret his bluntness.
‘There’s a man inside asking for you. Says he knew you from Baghdad,’ she said. ‘I told him that you were due back last night. He’s been sitting inside ever since. He won’t leave!’
Bailey had spent so much time in Iraq, the man inside could have been anybody. Military. Politician. Kurdish separatist. Journalist. Intelligence agent. Civilian. Security contractor. The list was endless.
‘Give a name?’
‘Omar someone.’
Bailey knew exactly who was waiting.
‘Where is he?’
‘Same place he’s been all night,’ Penelope said, pointing at the big glass doors behind her. ‘Foyer.’
Bailey was already on the move before Penelope had finished answering.
A dishevelled man, unshaven, dressed in old jeans and a linen shirt, was sitting on the edge of a sofa near the front desk. His eyes were closed and he was resting his head in the palm of his right hand, his elbow keeping him propped upright as he slept.
‘Omar.’ Bailey patted him, gently, on the shoulder. ‘Omar, wake up. It’s Bailey.’
Omar shuddered, briefly, and opened his eyes. He stumbled to his feet, shaking Bailey’s hand and leaning in to kiss him on the cheek.
‘It has been a while, my friend,’ Omar said. ‘Too long.’
They’d barely seen each other in twenty years. Omar had lost most of his hair but his dark olive skin had preserved his handsome face. Unlike Bailey, he’d somehow managed to maintain his slim physique. He looked tired and his forehead was creased with worry.
‘It’s good to see you, old buddy. Is everything okay?’
‘No, Bailey.’ Omar’s voice was trembling. ‘Everything’s not okay.’
‘What is it?’
Omar looked over Bailey’s shoulder. There was only Mick, the security guard, sitting at the front desk, out of earshot, and Gerald, who was walking towards them.
‘Omar, is that you?’
‘Hello, Mr Summers.’
They shook hands.
‘Please, it’s Gerald.’
Bailey ignored Gerald and studied Omar’s face, his dark-ringed eyes and the foot that was tapping on the tiles in a nervous staccato. Something was wrong, all right. They needed to move somewhere they could talk. ‘Let’s go upstairs to Gerald’s office.’
Gerald’s assistant was waiting for them at the elevator.
‘Pen,’ Gerald said, ‘can you please organise some tea and breakfast. We’re going to need some privacy with our old friend. And hold my calls.’
Back in Baghdad, Omar Haneef was the guy who knew how to keep western reporters safe. His official occupation was that of a driver. For John Bailey he was a ‘fixer’, which meant that he did a lot of things. The kind of tasks that didn’t appear in job advertisements. Omar had a good contact book and he knew how to get around Iraq without crossing Saddam’s security forces, or the gangsters who made money out of robbing and kidnapping westerners.
After the first Gulf War, Iraq became a no-go zone for reporters like Bailey. It was too dangerous. Saddam Hussein had lost the war in Kuwait and he was tightening his grip on his country, brutally quashing any sign of dissent. Omar’s connection to western journalists, like Bailey, made him a target for the Republican Guard. Bailey knew they had to get him out. Luckily, the Australian Government agreed. Omar was granted a refugee visa and, after making it to Turkey, he boarded a plane bound for Sydney.
Like most refugees, he was buoyed by the chance at a new life. He got a job as a taxi driver and bought a house in Sydney’s western suburbs, where he met his wife and started a family.
Bailey had caught up with Omar a couple of times during his visits back to Australia. But he couldn’t remember the last time they’d seen each other.
‘Have a seat, Omar.’ Gerald pointed to the sofa in the corner of his office, which overlooked the growing cluster of buildings on the foreshore at Cockle Bay.
‘Are you okay, mate?’ Bailey said, noticing the beads of sweat on Omar’s brow.
‘No.’ Omar slumped forward with his head in his hands. ‘I’m far from okay.’ He was talking into his open hands, shaking his head.
Finally, he sat up. ‘You said to me, many years ago, that if I ever got into trouble, then you would be there for me.’
‘I did. And I meant it.’
They were interrupted by a gentle knock at the door.
Penelope appeared holding a tray with a teapot, jug of milk, three mugs and a plate of croissants. She placed the tray on the coffee table and left.
Omar stared at the door, waiting for it to close again.
‘It’s my son, Tariq.’ Omar took a deep breath. ‘He’s missing.’
Gerald looked across at Bailey, waiting for him to respond.
‘Are you sure?’ Bailey said.
‘Yes. He’s only fifteen years old.’ Omar handed Bailey a postcard-sized picture of a young, handsome boy in a blue school
uniform. ‘When he doesn’t come home, I know.’
‘How long’s he been gone?’
‘One week. His friends don’t even know where he is. At least, that’s what they tell me.’
‘Have you gone to the police?’
Omar shook his head. He went to say something, then paused and took a sip of his tea. His hand was shaking and the cup bounced around on the saucer when he put it down.
‘Omar?’ Bailey said. ‘Why haven’t you gone to the police?’
‘Has he done something?’ Gerald joined the conversation, looking for a straight answer. ‘Something that might get him into trouble?’
Omar leaned forward and put his head in his hands again, sobbing, quietly.
‘Take your time, Omar. We’re in no hurry here.’
Gerald placed a box of tissues on the table in front of him.
Bailey didn’t know what to say, what to do. They just sat there, waiting for Omar to calm down and start talking again. Bailey’s eyes drifted from Omar to a crane that was hovering above a building covered in scaffolding at Barangaroo. The high-roller casino complex with the untouchable views. Like Sydney needed another bloody place for people to do their dough.
‘Omar?’ Gerald said.
Omar sat up again, using the tissues to wipe his eyes, blow his nose. His chest was flexing, in and out, with each stuttering breath.
‘Tariq has been talking to people. People we don’t know, people we couldn’t know.’
‘What people?’ Bailey said.
‘After he went missing, my wife found conversations on our family computer, conversations he was having with people on the internet.’
‘What conversations, Omar? For us to help, you need to tell us everything.’
‘People, I don’t know, bad people.’ Omar was stuttering, struggling to get it out. ‘Tariq could be about to do something very stupid.’
Gerald looked across at Bailey, alarmed.
‘Omar,’ Bailey said, ‘do you think Tariq has been talking to Islamic extremists over the internet?’
Omar leaned back on the sofa, covering his eyes with the palms of his hands. He was sobbing loudly now, his body jolting with his tears.
‘Omar?’ Gerald leaned forward, patting him on the knee.
‘We need you to answer the question,’ Bailey said. ‘Has Tariq been communicating with extremists over the internet?’
‘Yes.’
‘You said that he was planning something stupid, something bad. What is it, Omar? We need you to tell us exactly what you know.’
‘I think he’s preparing for something.’ Omar was stuttering again. ‘Helping them to do something, something bad.’
Gerald went to say something, but Bailey cut him off. ‘This next bit’s important, Omar.’ Bailey reached across the table, placing his hand on Omar’s shoulder. ‘I need you to sit up. Sit up and look at me.’
Omar did as he was told, letting out a long, sighing breath, wiping his bloodshot eyes.
‘Who’s he been talking to, Omar? I need a name.’
Bailey already knew the name. He just needed to hear Omar say it.
‘The man’s name . . . his name . . . is Mustafa.’
Bailey felt the bile rising from his stomach, burning the back of his throat. What the hell had he just walked into?
CHAPTER 6
So much for going home.
It was just after seven-thirty in the morning when Bailey climbed out of a taxi in Leichhardt. He opened the white picket gate, pausing to rummage through his bag for his keys, and walked up the steps onto Dexter’s front porch.
The sensor light came on even though the sun had been up for more than an hour. It must have been timed for the winter. A small detail that Bailey found interesting.
The light went off by the time Bailey had gathered his thoughts, contemplating what he’d say to the woman inside. He knew that Dexter was home because he’d spoken to her on the phone a quarter of an hour ago. The conversation had not gone well.
‘Where are you? London?’
‘Got back this morning. I need to see you, we’ve got a bit of a problem here.’
‘We?’
Bailey knew that she was being facetious.
‘Let’s not talk on the phone. Are you at work, or at home?’
‘Home. Better be quick, just got out of the shower.’
‘Sounds like I –’
‘Don’t even go there, Bailey.’ She sounded tired. ‘And I’m busy. If you’re not here in fifteen, I’m gone.’
Dexter hung up without giving Bailey a chance to respond. She was usually off to work before the sun came up. The late start probably meant a late finish the night before, if she’d even been to bed at all. All-nighters had become a feature of Sharon Dexter’s job. The crazy hours were the price of being promoted from her old job in Homicide to be the new head of the Joint Counter Terrorism Team, a sprawling taskforce of state and federal cops that had been thrown together to stop extremists from killing people.
Standing on Dexter’s front porch, Bailey decided against using the key that she’d cut for him. Judging by the tone of their conversation, she might ask for him to give it back.
He knocked instead.
Bailey heard footsteps inside before Dexter opened the door, ruffling her hair with a towel. She barely even looked at him as she turned around and walked back down the hall.
‘Why didn’t you use your key?’ she said with her back to him.
He couldn’t win.
They hadn’t seen each other for a week and Dexter was pissed at him for not telling her about his trip to London until he was boarding the plane at Sydney International. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have cared. They both had jobs that required unconventional hours and days. The only problem was that when Bailey’s plane was refuelling in Singapore, he was supposed to have been sitting beside Dexter at their favourite restaurant, which happened to be an old gastro pub in Balmain that had once belonged to her parents. A night out together to stop and smell the roses.
‘Sorry, Sharon. Been a rough few days.’
‘So I hear,’ she said, tying her damp brown hair into a ponytail.
Already dressed in a pair of jeans and a jacket, Dexter looked like she was ready to leave.
‘Sharon, I’m sorry.’ Bailey walked over to where she was standing in the kitchen, reaching out for her arm. ‘Gerald sprung the trip on me. I couldn’t say no.’
‘Communication, Bailey. I know you’re in this, I am too. But we need to talk to each other.’
‘I’m sorry. I know I’m not perfect.’
Dexter laughed. ‘No one’s suggesting you’re perfect.’
Remembering that he’d bought her something, Bailey reached into his pocket. ‘A little piece of England.’ He held out a miniature English bobby’s helmet. ‘It’s a pencil sharpener for your desk.’
‘Who uses pencils?’ She took it anyway, trying not to smile. ‘You’re bloody hopeless, you know that?’
Bailey took a chance and wrapped his arms around her. ‘So, you missed me, then?’
‘Maybe, a little bit.’ She pulled back, interrogating the red in his eyes, her hands cupping his cheeks. ‘You don’t look great, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘Just tired,’ he said. ‘Barely got a wink on the plane.’
‘Are you okay?’
He knew what she was really asking him. She wanted to know if the attack out the front of Chatham House was weighing on him, bringing him down. It was.
‘I’m good,’ he lied.
Talking about that dead woman lying on the road would just make him think about her more. How she died. The knife. The blood. Bailey just wanted to forget. Standing in the kitchen in front of one of the good things he had going in his life was the best fix he knew.
His hand wandered, cheekily, up the side of her back and under her jacket, catching the curve of her breast.
‘Get out of it.’ She pushed his hand away, playfully. ‘No time for that.’
Bailey tried again. ‘I’ll be quick.’
‘That’s not selling it to me.’ She stepped back, picking up a steaming mug of instant coffee from the island bench, taking a sip. ‘I need to get to work.’
Work. Dexter could blame Bailey all she liked for the small problems in their relationship – and she’d mostly be right – but she was also so desperate to prove herself in counter-terrorism that she barely had time for anything else. Including Bailey.
‘Yeah, about work . . .’
Dexter took another long drag of her coffee. ‘What about it?’
Bailey didn’t know how to begin telling her about the fifteen-year-old kid who might be planning a terrorist attack. ‘I need to tell you something.’
She looked at her watch. ‘You’ve got exactly one minute.’
‘I’ll give you the abridged version,’ Bailey said. ‘A kid from Wiley Park’s gone missing. His dad just told me he’s been talking to jihadists over the net. He’s worried his son’s planning some kind of attack.’
She put down her mug on the kitchen table. ‘You’re shitting me.’
‘No,’ Bailey said, ‘I’m not.’
‘Where’d this come from?’
‘The kid’s father is my old fixer from Baghdad. He’s been here for more than twenty-five years. Good man. Good family. Scared shitless for his boy. He’s just a kid.’
‘I’ve seen some kids do some bad shit, Bailey.’
Dexter was right. Terrorist recruiters were targeting kids because they asked fewer questions and were more inclined to believe all that crap about the afterlife. The softest targets for recruiters were the kids from migrant communities because they often felt like outcasts. They needed friends, someone to tell them that they belonged. Most of them didn’t understand what they were getting into until it was too late.
‘What else do you know? And I want to know everything,’ Dexter said, sharply. ‘I mean it, Bailey. Everything.’
‘Not sure I can do that.’
‘Don’t.’ Dexter’s neck lined with tension. ‘You know you can trust me, and this isn’t a game, or a bloody newspaper story. These things can go sideways very fast.’
Bailey didn’t want to betray Omar’s trust, but he knew that he couldn’t find the kid on his own. Tariq had already been missing for a week and, if Dexter was right, he didn’t want to be on the wrong side of this if it went bad.
