by Tim Ayliffe
‘No, Bailey. I don’t.’
She told him how they’d searched the van and found a pressure-cooker bomb and a suicide vest. The threat wasn’t over until they’d found Sara Haneef. Tariq’s sister had never returned home after university the day before. Her phone was switched off. Her parents said they hadn’t heard from her, either. She’d vanished.
‘Bailey.’ Dexter’s voice sharpened, like she was about to give him an order. ‘I’m organising a safehouse for Miranda.’
‘How’s that work?’
‘It’ll take about thirty minutes, maybe an hour. Unmarked cars will pick up her and Peter Andrews from Mosman and take them to the house. You’re in the middle of this. She’s not safe.’ Dexter paused to take a breath. ‘And Bailey?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I think you should go there too.’
‘That’s not happening,’ Bailey said. ‘My best mate’s on a fucking operating table, Sharon. I’m not hiding in a safehouse. Or any house. I want to catch these bastards, bring them down, just as much as you do.’
‘Okay. Okay. Settle down, would you?’
Bailey said nothing. He could feel the distance between them, their two worlds pulling apart.
Dexter changed tack. ‘We’ve already called the Haneefs and told them about Tariq. They’re on their way to the hospital.’
‘Thanks.’
Bailey could hear someone calling Dexter in the background.
‘I’ve got to go, Bailey. What will you do?’
The only thing he could do.
‘Tell your people not to contact Nancy. I’m going to get another update on Gerald’s condition and then I’m going to Mosman. I want to be the one to tell her.’
He also wanted to see Miranda before she was taken away by police to a safehouse. Try to explain.
‘We’ll leave Nancy to you. And one more thing . . .’ Her voice changed again. ‘Go to my place tonight. I’ll be there at some point, I don’t know when. You still got your key, right?’
‘Yeah, I’ve still got it.’
Bailey hung up without giving her a proper answer. He wasn’t sure about going to Dexter’s house. She wasn’t asking as his girlfriend. She was asking because she knew that Bailey wasn’t safe. Or maybe it was because of his history of turning to the bottle when bad things happened. Whatever her motivation, he had more pressing concerns.
Putting his cracked phone in his pocket, Bailey noticed the plastic bag with his flannelette shirts sitting on the driveway. The red chequered one that he was wearing was wet with blood and whatever else was seeping from the burn. He unbuttoned the shirt and grabbed a fresh one from the bag, changing in the street.
‘That doesn’t look good.’
Ronnie was holding the bag for Bailey while he got dressed.
‘I’m fine.’ Bailey turned around so that his back was to the wall. ‘Can we just get out of here?’
‘Sure thing, bubba.’
The guy that Bailey had been wrestling with earlier was remonstrating with a couple of police officers as Ronnie and Bailey walked past.
‘Who’s going to pay for my bloody phone?’
‘You are, mate.’ It was that young cop, Jones. ‘Might make you reconsider where you point your camera next time.’
‘That’s just bullshit.’
‘Well, put in a complaint or, better still, take it to the papers.’
Jones winked at Bailey as he noticed him passing by.
Bailey returned a half-smile and gave the other guy the finger. ‘Bye. Fuckwit.’
‘What was all that about?’ Ronnie said.
‘Forget about it.’
CHAPTER 34
If Nancy had been anywhere near a television, the internet or a radio, she would have known that two people had been slashed with a knife on Sussex Street in broad daylight. A female police officer and a man aged around sixty. Only she couldn’t have known that the injured man was her husband, Gerald Summers.
Dexter had made sure that the newspaper editor’s identity was kept under wraps until Nancy and their daughters had been told. Standard practice that wasn’t always followed. In Gerald’s case, the news would stay tight, at least for the first few hours. Gerald was a titan of the trade. Loved by many. Disliked by few. Respected by all. No journalist would dare break this story if they wanted a future in the industry.
By the time Ronnie and Bailey were pulling up out the front of the house, Gerald was already in surgery. Bailey knew that because he’d managed to speak to someone at the hospital. No guarantees, they’d said, but they were expecting Gerald to pull through.
Bailey had wanted to be the one to tell Nancy. He owed it to Gerald. When his old mate woke up he wanted to be able to tell him that he had looked after his wife, that he’d done things the right way.
Nancy had always treated Bailey like Gerald’s naughty brother, even once banning her husband from drinking with him. Bailey was part of the family, the lovable rogue. It had been that way for decades. Gerald had loved him and, despite all his faults, Nancy had loved him too.
In the end, he didn’t need to say a word.
The sad, lonely figure of John Bailey at Nancy’s front door delivered the message loud and clear.
‘What’s happened, John?’ There was no hiding the look of horror on Nancy’s face. ‘Where’s Gerald?’
‘There’s been an incident.’ Bailey was trying, desperately, to keep himself together. ‘Gerald’s been injured. He’s in hospital. But he’s okay, Nancy.’
‘What?’
Bailey was standing in the open doorway with Ronnie Johnson behind him.
‘He was attacked with a knife, Nancy.’ During the car ride over, Bailey had decided that he wasn’t going to sugarcoat it. There was no point. ‘Terrorists.’
‘My husband was attacked by a terrorist?’
Nancy was a tough woman. Smart, too. A former journalist who, born in a different year, in another age, could have been the one running the newspaper.
‘On Sussex Street, Nancy. Out the front of the paper. He has a wound on his neck and he’s lost a lot of blood. I’ve spoken to the hospital, they say he’s going to be okay.’ Bailey wanted to believe it. ‘A police officer saved his life, Nancy. She disrupted the attack and got stabbed herself –’
‘Is she okay?’
‘She’ll be fine.’
‘Dad? What’s going on?’ Miranda appeared behind Nancy with Doctor Peter Andrews beside her. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Hello, sweetheart.’ Bailey felt a wave of guilt wash over him. It could have been Miranda. Eye for an eye. ‘Gerald was attacked with a knife. He’s in hospital.’
Miranda’s face turned pale. ‘What?’
Nancy plucked a coat from the rack on the wall and grabbed her purse from the table by the door. ‘Which hospital?’
‘Royal North Shore,’ Bailey said.
‘Bubba.’ Ronnie’s big hand rested on his shoulder. ‘I’ll drive Nancy. You need to stay here, wait for the cars for Miranda.’
‘What cars?’ Miranda said.
Nancy kissed Bailey on the cheek, squeezing his arm and whispering into his ear. ‘Thanks, John. I’ll see you at the hospital.’
Classic Nancy. Strong and dignified on the outside while Bailey knew full well that her mind must have been racing through every possible scenario that awaited her at the hospital.
‘Dad? What’s going on?’
Bailey closed the door before breaking the news to Miranda and the doc that they had to pack their things and move to a safehouse.
‘Why aren’t you coming with us?’
She had him there.
‘The police want my help with the investigation.’
It wasn’t a total lie. As a reporter with more than thirty years of experience, Bailey was good at finding things. He was also the one getting the phone calls from the world’s most wanted terrorist. The one who had been approached by the Haneefs. While Dexter and that stumpy cop with the fat neck probably would
n’t say that they ‘wanted’ or ‘needed’ Bailey’s help, they’d sure as hell take it.
‘Dad, what’s this all about?’ She let go of his hand. ‘You’re scaring me.’
Miranda was a grown-up, she deserved answers.
Bailey told her about the bomb in Redfern and the fact that she wouldn’t be seeing the Corolla anytime soon. About the raid in Roselands and the terrorists – one killed, one arrested – out the front of Bunnings on Parramatta Road. ‘This goes back a long way. Gerald and I somehow got caught up in it and became targets.’ He wasn’t about to tell her about Mustafa al-Baghdadi.
‘Miranda.’ The doc had been standing there, watching and listening, without saying anything. ‘I think we just need to do what the police are telling us to.’
‘Okay. Okay.’ She backed off, sensing that her father had had enough.
‘Thanks.’ Bailey winked at Peter.
‘Dad?’ Miranda grabbed hold of his shirt. ‘Is that blood?’
‘I’m okay. Just a little burn from the car bomb in Redfern.’
Bailey felt ridiculous talking about a bomb that had been made just for him.
‘Peter, come here.’
Peter did as he was told. ‘John, would you like me to take a look?’
‘Yes, Peter, he would.’ Bailey’s daughter answered for him.
Miranda led them to the bathroom so that Peter could examine the dressing on Bailey’s burn.
‘This doesn’t look good, John.’
‘Doesn’t feel too good, either, if I’m being straight with you.’
Miranda rummaged through the bathroom cabinets, handing her boyfriend fresh gauze, bandages, and a bottle of antiseptic. Nancy had everything.
‘I’ll go pack our things while you fix Dad.’
Peter stopped the blood and pus from leaking down Bailey’s back and gave him a fresh, stingy spray of antiseptic. Knowing that Bailey had a burn, Peter had grabbed the cling wrap from the kitchen on the way in. He wound the plastic around Bailey’s middle, reinforcing it with a bandage and tape.
‘You’ll need to get that replaced within twelve hours,’ Peter said.
‘Thanks, mate.’ Bailey slipped his shirt back on. ‘And doc?’
‘Yes?’
‘You’re a good man.’ Bailey placed his hand on Peter’s shoulder, looking him in the eye. ‘Get her a nice ring, would you? She’d like that.’
‘Of course. I . . . I . . .’ Bailey had caught him by surprise. ‘I’ll do my best there. And . . . thank you.’
Miranda walked back in just as the two men were shaking hands.
‘What’s going on?’
The doorbell rang.
‘Coast’s clear, sweetheart.’ Bailey kissed his daughter on the forehead. ‘Reckon that might be the cops at the door. I’d better let them in.’
At least something good had happened today.
CHAPTER 35
Royal North Shore Hospital was only a short drive from Gerald’s house in Mosman and Bailey was halfway there before he realised that he had no idea when he would see his daughter again.
Miranda and the doc had been picked up in an unmarked police car with windows so dark that they couldn’t wave to Bailey as they were driven away to a house somewhere on the Central Coast. Away from the city. Away from Bailey. Out of harm’s way.
The police had confiscated both of their phones and Bailey had been assured that he’d be able to talk to his daughter on a secure line once they were settled at the safehouse. Nobody could tell him when that might be.
The humiliation of knowing that he was the reason why Miranda had to go into hiding was grating on him and so was the pungent smell of body odour that had blanketed the inside of the taxi like an odious fog. Either the last passengers in the car had just stepped off a rugby field, or the driver was an A-grade shower dodger.
‘Mate, unlock my window, would you?’ Bailey said to the driver.
The guy in the front seat grunted an unintelligible response and Bailey got what he wanted. The rush of air was like manna from heaven.
With his head halfway out the window as the taxi shot up Falcon Street, Bailey took in sights that transported him back to his old life as a beat reporter in Sydney. Lees Fortuna Court was still there, the same white and green neon sign out front. He’d once spent five hours sitting on the tiled steps of the old Chinese restaurant waiting for a billionaire television boss to emerge from a long lunch so that he could question him about his tax affairs.
About one hundred metres up the road they passed The Crows Nest Hotel, where Bailey and Dexter used to meet back in the mid-1980s to exchange information about the corrupt cops running drugs and prostitutes up at the Cross. These meetings were always done in secret. No one could ever know that Dexter was Bailey’s source. There were too many rotten coppers out there who knew how to make troublesome people disappear.
Bailey and Dexter would load-up the jukebox with Rolling Stones tracks and pick a quiet corner where they would talk for hours, drinking schooners of draught beer together. The rookie cop and the cub reporter, both out to make their mark, long before they were lovers.
The taxi swung off the Pacific Highway and up the long driveway to the Royal North Shore Hospital. Ronnie Johnson was standing outside the emergency department, puffing on a cigar, when Bailey climbed out of the car.
‘How’s he doing?’ Bailey said.
‘Still in the operating theatre, bubba.’ Ronnie was speaking with the cigar between his teeth. ‘Doctors say it’s going well.’
‘Where’s Nancy?’ Bailey was anxious and wanted to get inside.
‘She’s inside in the waiting area.’ Ronnie knelt and stubbed his cigar into the pavement. ‘Let’s go. I’ll take you up.’
Bailey followed Ronnie through the glass doors and watched him pat a security guy on the shoulder and whisper something before they were let through a set of doors that looked like a staff entry.
‘What was all that about?’ Bailey said as they were walking along the nylon floor past little rooms with patients lying in beds with beeping equipment beside them.
‘Told him I was waiting for you. Plenty of cops upstairs, Gerald’s getting the VIP treatment.’
‘He’s an important fellow,’ Bailey said, remembering he had a sense of humour.
Nancy was sitting in a plastic chair with two police officers nearby. She stood up the moment she saw Ronnie and Bailey.
‘Have you heard, John?’ Nancy said. ‘The doctors say that he’s going to be fine.’
‘Ronnie told me,’ Bailey said. ‘It’s great news, Nancy.’
‘We might be able to see him later this afternoon. He’s lost a lot of blood but the nurse told me that he’s out of danger.’
‘That’s good, Nancy. Really.’
Bailey’s relief was tempered by the fact that his daughter was on her way to a safehouse and Mustafa al-Baghdadi was still out there, like a chess king, directing his psychopathic pawns, plotting his next move. One that might involve Sara Haneef.
For the next few hours they sat on the hospital’s stiff, uncomfortable plastic chairs, being drip-fed information about Gerald’s condition. His two daughters, Kate and Merryn, had turned up and were sitting either side of their mother, each holding a hand.
Around five hours after Gerald had been attacked, Doctor Sandra Wong appeared to tell them that they’d finished operating.
‘The knife narrowly missed the carotid artery in his neck,’ she said. ‘But the cut was deep and we had to repair the muscle damage inside before we could stitch his neck. It’ll be a little bit longer before you can see him. But he’s okay.’
A ‘little while’ turned into an hour, and then two, before Doctor Wong was back. ‘Your husband is awake.’ She was speaking directly to Nancy, now. ‘I’m going to recommend that you and your daughters go in first. He’s obviously very tired and fragile after the operation.’
Nancy’s eyes wandered from Bailey to Ronnie, then back to Doctor Wong. ‘No. I want a
ll of us to go in together. These two gentlemen are like brothers to my husband.’
Doctor Wong went to say something, then stopped herself. She’d only known Nancy for a matter of hours and she could tell that she was the type of woman who was used to getting her way.
‘Okay. Let’s keep it brief though.’
Bailey was the last person to walk into Gerald’s room and he watched as his old friend’s pale, exhausted face managed a half-smile for the three most important women in his life. He lifted his right hand up off the bed, reaching for his wife, his hand shaking, until Nancy took it in hers, and held it to her cheek as she sat on the edge of the bed beside him.
‘Oh, Gerald,’ she said. ‘You gave us all a nasty shock.’
Forty-odd years of marriage was flexing its muscles for the room. The love between Gerald and his wife clear for everyone to see.
Bailey and Ronnie stayed back as Gerald’s daughters, both of them crying, gently hugged their father and told him they loved him.
‘Mr Summers will struggle with his speech for a little while,’ Doctor Wong said. ‘Maybe a day or two. Until the swelling goes down.’
‘Thank god for that.’ Bailey tapped Gerald’s foot at the end of the bed. ‘Means you won’t be able to boss me around, hey old boy?’
Gerald forced a smile and beckoned for Bailey to come closer, gesturing with his other hand until Bailey was right beside him. He was trying to say something.
Bailey leaned in. ‘Take it easy, mate,’ he whispered. ‘You heard the doc.’
Gerald had a worried, irritated look on his face and he reached for Bailey to get even closer so that his ear was inches from Gerald’s mouth.
‘It’s not . . .’ Gerald paused, his lips smacking together. He was speaking so softly that Bailey could barely hear. ‘It’s . . . not your fault.’
Bailey sat up. He was the only one who had heard him. The words did nothing to assuage his guilt. His best friend had bandages wrapped around his neck and dried blood and dark bruising on his skin. It was his fault. And with no leads other than a recorded phone call with Mustafa al-Baghdadi, he had no idea how he was going to make things right.
‘I’ve got to go,’ Bailey said, stepping back off the bed. ‘I’ll be back, Gerald. You rest up, old boy.’
