by Tim Ayliffe
‘You hang in there, Gerald.’ Ronnie patted Gerald’s leg and pointed to Bailey. ‘And don’t you worry, I’ve got bubba’s back. You’ve given me an even bigger reason to step out of retirement.’
If Gerald had heard Ronnie, his joke didn’t register on his face. He was still looking at Bailey as he said his goodbyes to Nancy and the girls.
‘Where to, bubba?’ Ronnie said as they walked back down the corridor towards the exit.
Bailey wanted to get straight back to work. Find Sara Haneef. Get more out of Dexter. But his mind wasn’t working right. He still had a pulsating headache from the explosion in Redfern and he was hit by a sudden pang of exhaustion. He needed to shut his eyes for a while, get some rest.
‘Give me a ride to Sharon’s house?’
‘Sure.’
Dexter wasn’t answering her phone. Bailey imagined that she was locked in an interrogation room, ripping into Bilal Suleman or the Salma brothers, trying to find out all she could about Mustafa al-Baghdadi and his global terror network. Information that Bailey was also desperate to learn. Dexter couldn’t avoid him if he was sleeping in her bed.
CHAPTER 36
‘My people are still working on that recording,’ Ronnie said when he pulled up out the front of Dexter’s house in Leichhardt. ‘I’ll come back to you when I’ve got something.’
It suited Bailey just fine. He wanted to be alone.
He still couldn’t remember half of what had happened in Redfern. The burn in his back was aching and the throbbing in his head was getting worse by the second. He couldn’t concentrate. He could barely focus his eyes. He needed something to make the pain go away. He needed sleep.
He pulled out his keys and unlocked the front door, clocking the Corolla key dangling from the ring. Bloody useless now. A metallic memento of a car that nobody but him liked.
His phone started ringing just as he stepped inside and he squinted his eyes so that he could focus on the screen.
Annie Brooks.
He knew why she was calling and he didn’t answer. The attack on Gerald Summers had been all over the news the past few hours.
She tried again. He let it ring out.
He still hadn’t moved from the front door. Contemplating his next step.
A message came through.
You’re an amazing man, John Bailey
Control the things you can control
Where are you? I can come see you
Bailey switched off his phone.
He walked into the kitchen and opened the cupboard under the sink. He remembered stashing a bottle of whisky there once. Caked in dust, it was two-thirds full of brown.
He pulled a glass from the cupboard and started pouring.
One finger. Two fingers. Three.
He threw it back, slamming the glass on the benchtop.
He poured again. Three more fingers that he was determined to get down.
He stood there. Breathing in and out, making sure the whisky stayed down. Waiting until he was ready to go again.
Another inch of brown, the warm burn in his throat, triggering a smile in his brain. A counter to all that sadness. The throbbing pain in his head.
Again.
Crack!
He slammed the crystal tumbler so hard on the stone bench that it shattered into small, rocky fragments.
Fuck the glass.
Grabbing the bottle by the neck, he tilted back his head and poured a few more fingers straight down the hatch.
He paused for a moment, then went again. And again. Falling to his knees, his stomach. Then he passed out on the floor.
It was dark when Bailey opened his eyes again, woken by a key rattling in the door. His head resting in a pool of dribble on the cold stone floor.
The door clicked open. Footsteps. Dexter.
He was leaning on his elbows, trying to get up, when she appeared in the kitchen.
The sight of him, clambering on his knees on the floor. The bottle of whisky beside him. The shattered glass.
‘Oh, Bailey.’
He had made it to his feet, leaning on the bench, pretending nothing was wrong.
‘Hey.’
‘Bailey, are you okay?’
He looked down at his watch. Eight o’clock. He’d been lying on the floor for at least three hours. Maybe more.
His throat was so dry he could barely speak. He turned away from Dexter and reached for a glass in the cupboard, wincing at the pain as the movement stretched the damaged skin on his back. He filled the glass from the tap, skolling the water.
‘Are you okay?’ Dexter tried again ‘How bad’s that burn?’
‘I’ll survive.’ He filled up the glass again, drinking only half of it this time. ‘Is Tariq conscious? Is he talking? What about the other guy . . . Bilal Suleman? Have you found Sara Haneef? Is this thing over yet?’
‘How’s Gerald?’
‘He’s good. Operation went well, he’s out of the woods.’
He turned around and she was standing right in front of him.
‘You can talk to me, you know?’
She touched the bruise on his cheek, running her fingers down his face.
‘I know.’ He stepped back, sipping the glass of water even though he wasn’t thirsty anymore. ‘What’d you find out?’
‘Bailey, let’s talk. Let’s talk about what happened today.’
‘No. I want to talk about Tariq. I want to talk about the bastards who did this.’
‘Bailey –’
He put down the glass, shaking his head. ‘No, Sharon.’
‘Do you really want to talk about this now?’
‘Yeah, I do.’
Dexter let out a long breath, staring into the bloodshot eyes of the man in her kitchen. Stubborn as a bull.
She gave in.
‘They’re still operating on Tariq. Even if he pulls through, we won’t be able to speak to him for a while.’
‘The others?’
‘No sign of Sara yet, but we’re still looking. Suleman’s not talking but we’ve already confirmed that it was Sammy Raymond who attacked Gerald.’
Bailey looked away at the mention of Gerald’s name. He wasn’t done blaming himself. Dexter could see it.
‘Bailey?’
‘Why are you here?’ Bailey was frustrated that it wasn’t over. ‘Seriously, why are you?’
‘What are you talking about? I came here to –’
‘Why aren’t you back out there, looking for Sara?’
‘What the fuck, Bailey? Don’t you think we’re doing that? I haven’t slept in two days.’
He could see the hurt in her eyes and hear it in her voice. Anger too.
‘I wanted to see you,’ she said.
‘Fuck.’ Bailey sighed, knowing he was being an arsehole. ‘I’m sorry, Sharon.’
‘It’s okay. I know Gerald means a lot to you. You can’t blame yourself for all this, Bailey. Gerald’s safe and Miranda’s safe too.’
A lone tear had slipped from his eye down his cheek. Dexter caught it with the tip of her finger on the stubble on his chin. She leaned forward and kissed the wet trail it left behind.
‘I’m sorry, I really am,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘Remember the people who love you.’
Bailey cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. He knew that he needed to let someone in, even if it was only for a while.
CHAPTER 37
This time it was loud banging on the front door that woke him.
Bailey sat up, rubbing his eyes. The clock beside the bed told him it was 3.08 am.
Dexter’s side of the bed was empty. He switched on the lamp.
‘Sharon?’
Someone banged on the door again, even louder this time.
Bailey rolled out of bed, slipping on his jeans, and walked into the hallway. There was no sign of Dexter. She’d probably gone back to work.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
‘Okay, okay!’ Bailey called out. ‘I’m coming!’
B
ailey opened the door and Ronnie was standing under the sensor light, smoke billowing from his cigar, a wide grin on his face.
‘Mustafa’s in London.’
‘What?’
‘The sounds on the recording. The faint beeps. The bell. The rattling noises. A crossing. A train station. A rail overpass.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I don’t know, bubba.’ He blew a puff of smoke at his shoulder. ‘Other people analyse this stuff. I’m just telling you what we found.’
London.
‘Can I come in?’ Ronnie stubbed his cigar into the square plant by the door, leaving it in the dirt. ‘There’s something else, bubba. Let me explain inside.’
Bailey nodded, turning around. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, exposing the plastic wrapped around his middle and the bandages on his back. It wasn’t bleeding anymore, but it was as painful as hell.
‘How’s the burn?’
‘Shit.’
They walked into the kitchen. Bailey poured himself a glass of water, trying to ignore the bottle of whisky on the counter. The shame.
Ronnie was either too distracted to notice the bottle, or too cool to acknowledge it. ‘Where’s Dexter?’
‘Must have gone back to work.’ Bailey drained half the glass of water then placed it on the counter.
‘She knows about London. Her people found out before we did.’
‘What? When?’ Bailey said.
‘Yesterday, last night. Does it matter?’
Yesterday. If she knew, why didn’t she tell him? It mattered.
‘Sharon was here,’ Bailey said. ‘She stayed the night, at least part of it. I’m going to give her the benefit of the doubt. If she knew, she would have told me.’
‘Would she? Her team’s been working with MI5 and counter-terrorism police in London ever since your last phone call from Mustafa.’
Bailey’s heart started thumping. ‘You really think –’
‘It’s not important, bubba. She probably had her reasons. She’s a cop, remember? Anyway, there’s something else.’
Maybe Dexter had got the call about London in the middle of the night and had decided not to wake Bailey? After all, he’d been in a bad way when she’d found him in the kitchen. Maybe she’d decided to let him sleep it off? If that was the reason then Bailey would understand, although he wouldn’t like it.
‘Are you with me, bubba?’ Ronnie said, clicking his fingers. ‘You want to hear this.’
‘What?’
‘We discovered something; something connected to you.’
Bailey had forgotten what a full-blown hangover was like. His head was pounding, he couldn’t think straight, and he was full of regret.
‘Get it out, Ronnie.’
‘That house in Mosul – the one you described when we debriefed you in Baghdad after your release.’
‘Go on.’
‘The things you’d told us helped us locate the house. We’ve been monitoring it for years. It’s an Islamic Nation safehouse. At least, it was. We hit it a few months back, believing Mustafa and his family were inside. Missile strike.’
‘Clearly, Mustafa wasn’t there.’
‘No. But his wife and young son were both killed. He noticed the look on Bailey’s face. ‘I’ve been out of the loop. Only got confirmation a few hours ago. I don’t know how long we’ve known.’
‘Mustafa’s wife, and son? Bloody hell. He fucking blames me.’ Bailey leaned over the counter, talking to the stone. ‘This is about revenge?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I can’t believe this. This is bullshit. Me? Me?’ Bailey was shaking. ‘Omar. Tariq. Gerald. The murder out the front of Chatham House. The bomb in Redfern. It all leads back to me.’
Redfern.
Redfern, before the bomb. Jake. The memory card. It was coming back. Maybe the whisky had unlocked something in his brain. Maybe the side-effects of his concussion were wearing off.
‘What’s wrong?’
Bailey fumbled a hand in the pocket of his jeans. The same old jeans he always wore. The square of paper. It was there.
‘This!’ Bailey said. ‘Tariq gave it to a kid in Redfern . . . the bomb . . . I hit my head, couldn’t remember. I don’t know what’s on it.’
Bailey had barely finished talking before Ronnie was kneeling in front of Dexter’s television, running his fingers around the edges, front and back.
‘Give it to me.’ Ronnie held out his hand. ‘We can play it on here.’
Ronnie switched on the television and slipped the card into an inch-long slit at the base of the screen. He grabbed the remote, finding the correct source, and jacked up the volume.
They were staring at a frozen image of Tariq Haneef, sitting in a chair beneath the black flag commonly used by the Islamic Nation group. He was wearing a suicide vest.
‘Ronnie, hit play.’
‘All right, Tariq.’ Someone was talking to the kid from the other side of the camera. ‘I just had to wipe the fucking card. This is the last time. Otherwise that bomb might just go bang a little earlier than we’d planned. And you’ll be wearing it. Got it?’
Tariq was nodding, a terrified look on his face.
‘My name is Tariq Haneef and I’m fifteen years old. If you’re watching this video then it means that we’re all dead. Sara. Ayesha. And me. We’ve done our duty and followed the path of the prophet. Jihad is only the beginning. This holy war has no ending. I call on the Governments of Australia and the United Kingdom to stop supporting the American wars in Iraq and Syria. Withdraw your forces today. If you don’t, the bloodshed will go on. There are . . . there are many more people . . . people like us. Ready to do Allah’s work.’
The image froze just as Tariq slumped forward on his chair, crying into his hands.
‘Mustafa’s planning more attacks,’ Ronnie said, pointing at the screen. ‘Sydney. London, somewhere in the UK. This confirms it.’
‘Who the hell’s Ayesha?’
‘I don’t know, bubba. It’s the first time I’ve heard that name. Tariq was speaking like he knew her,’ Ronnie said. ‘His sister’s still out there too. This thing isn’t over. Not by a long shot.’
Bailey’s mind was racing through the scenarios. Tariq didn’t look like a killer. He didn’t sound like one, either. He looked like a frightened kid. Did Tariq discover some kind of plan that involved his sister? Is that why he went on the run? Why he was kidnapped? Thinking back over his conversations with Dexter, Bailey counted five pressure-cooker bombs and one suicide vest. One of the pressure-cooker bombs had been used to blow up Bailey’s car and police had recovered the rest. But what were they supposed to have been used for? Is there another bomb out there? Where’s Sara Haneef!
‘Do you know how to upload that thing from there?’ Bailey said.
‘Not without my computer,’ Ronnie said.
‘Then I’m going to need to play it over the phone, for Sharon.’
Dexter may have forgotten how to share information but Bailey couldn’t keep this from her. Nobody had mentioned the name ‘Ayesha’ before. She needed to know.
CHAPTER 38
Dexter
A policeman was standing outside the operating theatre where doctors were working on Tariq Haneef, trying to keep him alive.
The bullet that had ricocheted off the van had embedded in Tariq’s skull, piercing the fleshy tissue on the outside of his brain.
Doctors were faced with two major challenges. Getting the swelling down to remove the pressure on Tariq’s brain, and removing the bullet without causing any further damage.
Medical staff were optimistic, although operating tables were unpredictable places.
Dexter had secured special permission for the family to wait in a secured area up the hall from the operating theatre where doctors were working on Tariq. Just in case someone wanted Tariq, or his parents, dead because they knew too much.
‘Is there any more news?’ Noora said, hopefully, to a woman in blue s
crubs.
‘Not yet. Sorry.’
Noora had been asking anyone who walked past for updates.
Dexter was sitting four seats away, careful to keep her distance because Noora was blaming the police for the bullet that was currently lodged inside her son’s head.
‘Noora, they’ll tell us when they have information.’ Dexter could tell Noora’s constant questioning was beginning to irritate the staff. ‘I know this is difficult. The nurses and doctors are doing their best.’
Noora glared back at her. ‘What do you know?’
There was no point engaging. Dexter had said her piece.
Hassan Saleh, the family friend from the Haneefs’ local mosque, was pacing up and down, flipping prayer beads in his fingers. He stopped beside Dexter. ‘Detective, this is a very difficult time. I hope you understand.’
To point out the bloody obvious.
Hassan Saleh’s wise counsel was half the reason why Noora was so upset. He was in Noora’s ear telling her that he couldn’t understand why police had to fire their weapons. Maybe he’d have a different view if he’d seen Sammy Raymond holding a gun to Tariq’s head.
Dexter looked down at her hands and noticed a speck of dried blood under her thumbnail. She picked and scratched it away, not wanting a physical reminder about what had happened on Parramatta Road.
Sammy Raymond might be dead, but the city and its people were being choked by fear. The Police Commissioner had called her demanding a personal briefing about the investigation. Police had been called in on their days off to get more uniforms on the streets. Reassure a rattled public. The pressure was piling on Dexter’s shoulders like sandbags. She was so tired that her eyes were trembling. But she had to keep going. She wouldn’t rest until this was done.
‘Detective?’ Hassan Saleh was still standing beside her, wondering where she’d gone.
She was about to say something when her pocket started vibrating. It was Bailey. She looked at her watch: 3.25 am.
She walked up the hall, away from the others.
‘Bailey, are you okay?’
‘Where are you?’ he said.
‘At the hospital,’ she whispered. ‘They’re operating on Tariq. It’s touch and go.’
