by Tim Ayliffe
Dexter had just been unusually helpful with the flow of information. Now he knew the real reason for the call. She wanted him feeding her information from the inside when he got to London so that she had a way of cross-checking the intelligence flow to her team. Everyone was using him. Even his own damn girlfriend.
‘I’m sure you’ll know anything before I do.’ Bailey said, sharply, without giving her the answer she wanted. ‘Let’s hope Tariq wakes up.’
He hung up and held the phone out so that Marcus could see him power down the screen.
‘Thank you.’ The flight attendant patted his vest, looking around at the other passengers, trying to compose himself.
‘Sorry about that,’ Bailey said. ‘It was the missus. She had a whole checklist to run through. Wanted to make sure that I’d put the bins out and fed the dog. You know how it is.’
Marcus gave Bailey a look that told him that he had no idea what he was talking about, and didn’t care. ‘And, sir,’ Marcus turned to Ronnie, ‘we’ll discuss your meal plan shortly.’
They watched the flight attendant walk away, still patting his clothes.
‘If the lactose-free option is terrible,’ Ronnie said to Bailey, ‘I’m eating yours.’
‘You’ll need to take your complaints to Marcus.’
CHAPTER 43
The stinging, burning pain from Bailey’s back was making sleep impossible. Each movement was agony, stretching and splitting his damaged skin.
At least he was managing to steer clear of the drinks trolley. A feat that was made more difficult by the fat guy sitting in the aisle averaging two beers an hour, reminding Bailey how he’d used to travel.
Two hours into the flight, Ronnie popped a pill, leaving Bailey alone with his thoughts.
Inevitably, his thoughts turned to what had happened to Gerald. The car bomb. Father Joe. The fact that his daughter was living in a safehouse.
‘Don’t worry about me, Dad,’ she had told him when she’d rung him that morning from her temporary home. ‘You just make it back in one piece.’
That was Miranda. Warm heart. Practically minded. In many ways, tougher than he’d ever been. Resilient. Maybe she was all those things because of the shithouse father he’d been. Maybe that was just how she was built. He wanted to believe the latter.
Thinking back over the terrorist threat in Sydney, Bailey knew that it wouldn’t be the last time that bastards like Hassan Saleh, Sammy Raymond, Bilal Suleman, Sara Haneef and the Salma brothers would try to attack innocent people. The whole crazy, repetitive cycle was so frustratingly obvious yet no one knew how to stop it. One bad decision after another was alienating more people, creating more outcasts.
Bailey was angry. He was angry at Tariq for not going to the police when he’d learned that his sister was a wannabe jihadi. He was angry at Omar and Noora for missing the signs. At Hassan Saleh for infecting young minds with extremist ideology. And at Mustafa al-Baghdadi, the lunatic pulling the strings from wherever the hell he was hiding.
Bailey was angry at the authorities in New South Wales for failing the Islamic community in western Sydney. For making them the enemy. It was the most basic failure that no one wanted to talk about. Not politicians, not police, not welfare groups, not even the Muslim communities themselves. People were either too afraid to speak up, or too weak to lead.
Was life so bad in Australia that hundreds of young men should want to travel to Syria and Iraq to die on battlefields in the name of fundamentalism? Were Australian authorities so despised that good people felt compelled to cover the tracks of those who went?
Something in Australia had gone rotten, and nobody with any influence or power had the sense, or courage, to ask why.
When police like Sharon Dexter tried to speak to families about a relative, or an associate, who might be fighting in Syria or Iraq, doors slammed in their faces. The lack of trust between police and Islamic communities in Sydney’s west was an even bigger problem today, because foreign fighters were coming home and bringing their bomb-making skills with them. Adding weapons to their cause.
Like the bomb that blew up Bailey’s Corolla.
After being defeated on the battlefields of Iraq and Syria, Mustafa al-Baghdadi was desperate to keep his movement alive, turning people into warriors wherever he could. It was chaos theory, driven by hatred. The forever war.
But there was something else driving the Islamic Nation leader.
If Ronnie was right about Mustafa’s wife and son being killed in the house in Mosul, then Bailey had given Mustafa one more reason to kill. Revenge.
The anger was building inside him and Bailey felt like he was about to explode.
Sleep-deprived, emotionally spent, his mind was racing so fast that he was struggling to breathe. He was having some kind of panic attack.
The air in his throat was bashing up against a wall in his neck, blocking it from getting into his lungs.
He couldn’t breathe.
Rocking back and forth, Bailey was trying to stay calm. He grabbed Ronnie’s wrist on the armrest in between them, jolting him awake.
‘Bubba?’
The muscles in Bailey’s throat had seized up. He felt like he was choking.
‘Bailey!’ Ronnie slapped Bailey on his cheek, grabbing him by the chin so that Bailey would look at him.
‘Bubba! Look at me!’
Bailey did as he was told, finding comfort in a familiar stare. His lungs opened. He started breathing in short, sharp bursts, until his lungs relaxed enough to take a full hit of air.
‘Are you okay, bubba?’
Bailey leaned forward, resting his elbows on the tray table, dropping his head into his hands.
‘I need to get off this fucking plane.’
CHAPTER 44
London
Hundreds of people were in queues in front of the UK immigration desks. The lines were moving slowly. Everything at Heathrow Airport took time. Everyone needed to wait their turn. With more than two hundred thousand passengers passing through these terminals every day, it was no wonder. Passengers were just numbers. Bailey and Ronnie – together – made two. But this morning they were two passengers that someone was very eager to meet.
‘Ronnie Johnson and John Bailey?’
A guy in a suit approached them just as they were joining the back of the long, snaking queue for non-European passport holders.
‘Yeah, that’s us,’ Ronnie said.
‘Tony Dorset.’
He held out his hand and Ronnie and Bailey took turns in shaking it.
‘MI5, presumably?’ Ronnie said.
Tony nodded, annoyed that he was so obvious.
‘Where’s Ann?’
‘She sent me.’
Bailey guessed that Ann was Ronnie’s MI5 contact.
‘Let’s go somewhere we can talk,’ Tony said. ‘Follow me.’
Dorset led them past the immigration counters and down a corridor with a nylon floor and a series of grey doors. It reminded Bailey of a prison ward.
Ronnie had given Bailey one of his sleeping tablets for the second leg of the flight – Hong Kong to Heathrow – and he’d finally managed to get some sleep. His back was aching but at least his mind was rested. He could think again.
He had called Dexter as soon as they were off the plane. She didn’t answer. A few minutes later a text message landed.
Tariq’s awake
Talking to him
Let me know what you learn from Brits
Bailey felt like her inside man. He didn’t like it.
Let me know what he says
Nothing from this end
Just arrived
‘In here.’ Dorset opened one of the grey doors, ushering Bailey and Ronnie inside. ‘Have a seat.’
Now wasn’t the time to think about the situation with Dexter.
‘Have you found the girl?’ Ronnie said before they’d even sat down.
‘No.’
‘Then make it quick,’ Ronnie said. ‘You kno
w why we’re here. We don’t have time to fuck around.’
Watching Ronnie Johnson get all business-like was like watching a croupier break a deck. Clinical and in complete control.
There was something about Tony Dorset that was bothering Bailey, and he could tell that he was already under Ronnie’s skin. The bloke just didn’t seem right. Sharp suit. Oxbridge accent. Cocky swagger. Or maybe it was because he had ushered them into the type of room that would be used to interrogate drug runners and criminals trying to slip into the UK.
‘You’re quite a seasoned reporter, Mr Bailey.’ Dorset smiled. ‘You’ve probably seen just as much action as your friend here, the legendary Ronnie Johnson.’
‘What are we doing here, Dorset?’ Ronnie said.
‘No small talk?’ Dorset leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. ‘Heard that about you.’
‘Yeah? What else have you heard?’
‘You’ve been around, is all. South America, China, the Middle East, you’ve –’
‘Careful, pal.’ Ronnie rested his chin on his knuckles, elbows on the table. ‘You’re a bit too talkative for someone who’s supposed to know how to keep secrets.’
‘Settle down,’ Dorset said. ‘I’m just trying to get acquainted.’
‘I don’t need a new friend,’ Ronnie said.
‘Look, mate,’ Bailey said, ‘I’m sure you don’t need any new friends, either. You’ve got plenty already, and doubtless they all rave about you. But we’ve been travelling for over thirty hours, so can you just cut to the chase? What do you need from us?’
‘I’ll rephrase that for you,’ Ronnie said. ‘You have exactly five minutes with us and then we’re gone.’
‘You may not have noticed, Ronnie . . . you’re not in the United States.’
‘You really want to dance with me, Tony?’
Ronnie eyeballed Dorset like he wanted to follow through with a headbutt.
The seconds ticked over in silence.
‘Four and a half minutes,’ Ronnie said.
‘Okay, then.’ Dorset turned to Bailey and smiled, then tapped the desk. ‘Mustafa al-Baghdadi.’
‘What about him?’
‘We want to know why he’s been calling you.’
‘Call it a crush,’ Bailey said. ‘I have that effect on people. It’s a gift.’
‘You guys really need to do your research,’ Ronnie said. ‘Get Ann on the phone. This is a waste of time.’
‘We know about Baghdad. The kidnapping. The year in captivity. And –’
‘Ten months.’ Bailey corrected him. Every minute mattered.
‘Ten months, then. And we know about Mosul.’ Dorset tapped the table again, ignoring Ronnie’s glare. ‘But there’s no written record, no transcript, about that first phone call you made in Sydney. Why didn’t you tell anybody you were making that call to begin with?’
Bailey didn’t like what Dorset was insinuating. ‘I’m not a cop, remember. I’m a journalist.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m worried about.’ Dorset continued his annoying habit of tapping the table. ‘We need to be able to trust you.’
‘I want to find this prick more than anyone.’ Bailey didn’t bother to hide his annoyance. ‘What is this bullshit?’ He turned to Ronnie, hoping he’d intervene.
‘What’s the play here, Dorset?’ Ronnie said. ‘Time isn’t exactly on our side. And you still haven’t found Ayesha Haneef.’
‘We’re getting close on that front,’ Dorset said.
‘Close, how?’ Bailey said.
‘We’ve been speaking to her friends. We know where she lives. We know what mosque she visits –’
‘Which is?’
‘Are you asking me as a journalist or someone who is willing to cooperate to find Ayesha and Mustafa al-Baghdadi?’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ Bailey said. ‘If I have a question about a story, then I’ll tell you. But it’s pretty fucking clear that I came here to help. So why don’t you cut the patronising bullshit.’
‘Or we walk out of here,’ Ronnie added.
‘It doesn’t work that way.’
‘Yes. It does.’ Ronnie’s chair squeaked on the floor as he stood up. ‘Sounds like we’re done. I’ve got my people here too. They know what you know. So if this is how you’re wanting to play it then this conversation’s over.’
Dorset kept his eyes on Bailey, purposely avoiding Ronnie’s stare. ‘Ripple Road mosque in Barking, East London. Ayesha Haneef has been part of a prayer group that we’ve been monitoring. The guy who killed Patricia Jones out the front of Chatham House was part of the same group. We’ve already made some arrests.’
Patricia Jones.
It was the first time that Bailey had heard anyone say her name. The woman that he’d watched get butchered on the street at St James’s Square.
‘But you’ve lost Ayesha?’ Ronnie sat back down.
‘Let me finish.’ Dorset was like a different person. ‘The key suspect we’ve arrested is a guy called Umar Masood. He’s been running a prayer group in the evenings. Kids as young as eleven, twelve years old. Watching Islamic Nation videos. Even role-playing attacks. One of the children we’ve spoken to has confirmed seeing Ayesha there several times. And we’ve made another link, one that ties this thing together.’
‘Which is?’ Bailey said.
‘Umar Masood has been talking to someone in Sydney.’ Dorset was tapping the table again. ‘Someone who has also been running a prayer group for young Muslims. His name is –’
‘Hassan Saleh.’ Bailey finished the sentence for him.
‘And you have no idea where Ayesha is right now?’ Ronnie said.
‘No.’
‘So what’s the play?’ Ronnie said.
Dorset reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a phone, sliding it across the table towards Bailey. ‘We want you to use this instead of yours. It’s your number, all your details and contacts are on the SIM inside. In case Mustafa calls again.’
Bailey looked at Ronnie for advice. He nodded.
‘What do I do with this one?’ Bailey was holding up his phone with the cracked screen, the one that the New South Wales Police had been listening in on. He wondered whether they’d now lost that privilege.
‘You turn it off and you leave it off. Looks like you could do with an upgrade, anyway.’
‘Wasn’t what I had in mind.’
Bailey switched off his phone and then powered up the new one. The screen lit up and he took a moment to check all his contacts and messages to see that Dorset hadn’t been bending the truth.
‘It’s all there. Impressive, and bloody disturbing.’ Bailey put the phone in his pocket.
Dorset stood up, looking at his watch. ‘It’s still early, just gone half five. We’ve booked you guys hotel rooms at the DoubleTree at Millbank. I’ll take you there. Take a couple of hours to sort yourselves out, then I’ll send a car to bring you to Thames House to meet the team.’
‘Yeah, I’ll play that one by ear,’ Ronnie said. ‘I’ve got some things to do, people to see.’
‘Of course you do,’ Dorset said. ‘But I want Bailey with us.’
‘I’m okay with that.’ Ronnie turned to Bailey. ‘I won’t be far away. Bubba?’
‘Yeah, fine,’ Bailey said.
They were all on their feet now, following Dorset out of the room.
‘Every call that comes in on that phone, we’ll be listening in,’ Dorset said.
‘Great,’ Bailey said. ‘Guess I’d better stay off the hotlines.’
CHAPTER 45
Just like Sydney Airport, there were guns everywhere. Men and women in blue uniforms armed with high-powered weapons slowly pacing the airport terminals. There were even more police walking the terminals than when Bailey and Gerald had been here the week before, when the terror alert level was raised after Patricia Jones was murdered. The automatic weapons reminded Bailey of the days after September 11, when British authorities sent soldiers and tanks to Heathrow Air
port as a show of force.
Tony Dorset had a car waiting for them in a no-stopping zone outside the airport, where cabs were beeping their horns and jostling for space.
‘Shouldn’t take too long to get to the hotel at Millbank. This time of the morning, forty minutes tops,’ Dorset said. ‘Get showered. Get some breakfast. Ben will come back for you at eight-thirty. Could be a long day.’
Ben was the driver. ‘One of my best agents,’ Dorset said. Ben was an athletic-looking black guy with a thick neck and a shaved head. He didn’t talk much.
Bailey looked at his watch. If Dorset was right, they’d be arriving at their hotel around 6.25 am. The shower and breakfast was a no-brainer. After a long flight, what Bailey really needed was a walk to stretch his legs. His body clock was still out of kilter and he was keen to get ahead of the usual wall of jet lag. Exercise helped.
Ronnie and Bailey threw their bags in the back and it wasn’t long before they were speeding along the A4, with Ben steering the car in and out of the traffic, taking advantage of his licence to speed.
Bailey rested his head against the window, watching row after row of white single-storey houses flash by as they raced through Hounslow. The Brits had built houses like these ones close and tight after the war. No quarter-acre blocks with four bedrooms and three-car garages like the suburbs in Sydney. Londoners lived on top of each other. Townhouses, apartments and sprawling council estates. The high density living meant people mostly travelled together in packed buses and trains. The wealthy, the poor, and the people in the middle. All targets for crazed people with axes to grind.
‘Go.’
A call had come through on Dorset’s phone and he had his head balanced up against the passenger-side window, listening intently to what was being said.
‘Wait a minute.’
Dorset pulled out his notepad, scribbling something that neither Bailey nor Ronnie, seated in the back seat, could see.
‘Say that again?’ Dorset waited another ten seconds before he spoke again. ‘Got it.’
