The Enemy Within

by Tim Ayliffe

  A shadow sat up in bed. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  Bailey stepped back from the door and walked into his kitchen where Campo was doing paces around the table, whimpering at the flashes in the sky, spooked by the storm.

  ‘Come here, mate.’ Bailey got down on one knee, patting his dog on the head, rubbing her ears. ‘It’s all right, you sook.’

  ‘Something wrong with Campo?’

  Annie was standing behind him, pulling back her hair.

  ‘Doesn’t like storms. There’s a big one coming,’ Bailey said, getting to his feet. ‘That’s not why I needed you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Ronnie and I have got a line on a bloke who’s been running with Benny Hunter’s crew. We think they’re planning something today.’ Bailey could see that Annie was about to ask him a question and he held up his hand. ‘I don’t have time to explain. I may need you to call that cop friend of yours. Just not yet. Not until we know what we’re dealing with. I don’t want to risk these guys finding out we’re coming. I’ll let you know.’

  ‘This doesn’t sound like a good plan, Bailey. Not at all.’

  ‘We know what we’re doing.’

  ‘Do you?’ Annie put her hand on Bailey’s arm, squeezing it, making sure she had his attention. ‘These people are dangerous, Bailey. You know that… and you’re not a cop.’

  ‘It’s okay. I’ve got Ronnie.’

  ‘Bailey –’

  He started walking towards the front door. ‘Remember, don’t call him until I say so. And Annie?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Let Campo sleep in the room with you, would you?’

  On any normal day, she would have laughed. ‘It’s just gone six. I’m not going back to bed. I’ll stay up with her.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Ronnie was on the phone when Bailey climbed into the driver’s seat beside him.

  ‘I know it’s early but I’m cleaning up your fucking mess.’

  Whoever was on the other end clearly didn’t appreciate the 6 am phone call. By the way Ronnie was speaking, he didn’t care.

  ‘That’s right. The address in Bronte I just gave you. I want to know who lives there. I don’t care how you get it. I need it in ten.’

  Ronnie hung up, slipping his phone into the inside pocket of his jacket.

  ‘Who was that?’ Bailey said, turning the key and pumping the accelerator.

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Didn’t sound like one.’

  ‘Yeah, well. I was being liberal with the reference. Guy’s an arsehole and he owes me.’

  Bailey steered his wagon into the street. He had glimpsed the address on the slip of paper that Bryce Ratcliffe had handed Ronnie earlier and he knew exactly where they were headed. A house on the hill above Bronte Beach. Less than ten minutes’ drive.

  ‘Why’d you need to go back inside?’

  ‘Wanted to check on the dog. Doesn’t like storms.’

  Ronnie laughed like he didn’t think Bailey was funny. ‘Bullshit.’

  Bailey shrugged, eyes on the road. ‘What can I say? She’s gotten to me.’

  ‘The girl or the dog?’

  Bailey didn’t bother answering, deciding to shift the conversation somewhere else, pointing at the bag that Ronnie had dumped on the back seat. ‘You stored that in a hire car?’

  Ronnie laughed, this time for real. ‘Safer than inside your place with your friends in the feds dropping by.’

  They drove past Paddington Gates in silence and it stayed that way as Bailey sped along the freeway below the Junction, up Bondi Road. A few specks of water landed on the windscreen but it wasn’t enough to call it rain. More like dribble from the sky.

  They were almost on Bronte Road when Ronnie’s pocket started vibrating. He answered. ‘Get it?’ He waited a few seconds before speaking again. ‘Good.’ Another pause. ‘No.’

  Ronnie slipped his phone into his pocket. ‘It’s Harding’s house.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Bailey said, suddenly feeling nervous. ‘What else did he tell you?’

  ‘Wanted to know if his debt had been settled,’ Ronnie said, smirking. ‘I told him it hadn’t.’

  * * *

  Bronte Beach was nestled in a gully two beaches south of Bondi. Tourists didn’t come here often because, other than a headland walk, the surf wasn’t much good and it didn’t have a pub or shopping precinct either.

  Two kinds of rich people lived in Bronte. The new money folks who had done it all themselves and the inheritance babies whose ocean views got served on platters made of silver. Bailey figured that Commander Dominic Harding had been handed his start in life because there was no way a police officer could afford a house around here. Either that or he’d been on the take for years.

  ‘Kill the lights, bubba.’

  Bailey had turned off Bronte Road and he was driving slowly down a steep hill on the southern side of the beach, searching for Harding’s house.

  ‘That’s it.’ Ronnie pointed at a driveway hidden beneath a canopy of trees. ‘Keep driving. Park down the hill. We’ll walk up.’

  Bailey did what he was told and the two men climbed out, huddling beside the open rear passenger door where Ronnie was rummaging through his bag.

  ‘You’re going to need to follow my lead,’ Ronnie whispered.

  ‘Sure.’

  It was a public holiday and the residents of Bronte appeared to be enjoying a sleep-in because the windows of the houses around them were black and Bailey hadn’t glimpsed a single soul on the street. That would change very soon. It was well after 6 am and the early bird exercise groups would be rising with the sun, whatever happened with the weather. It was also Australia Day, which meant citizenship ceremonies, cultural festivals and community barbecues.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ Bailey said.

  ‘Put this on.’ Ronnie handed Bailey a bulletproof vest that looked more like a heavy singlet. ‘Take off your shirt. Goes underneath. Close to the skin. Concealable.’

  Bailey didn’t argue because Ronnie was already slipping off his shirt, putting on a vest of his own. When he was done he turned his attention back to Bailey. ‘Give me a look.’ He undid the velcro corners of the Kevlar, pulling them tight against Bailey’s skin. ‘Better.’

  The vest felt cool. It was so thin and tight that it was barely noticeable and Bailey wondered whether it was actually capable of stopping a bullet. Hopefully, he wouldn’t need to find out.

  Ronnie punched a code into a metal box inside the bag, clicking it open. He withdrew a Glock from inside, loading a cartridge, flicking the safety on and off.

  ‘Remember how to shoot one of these?’

  Bailey’s mind flashed back to London. Kensal Town. The magazine he’d unloaded on the street. The terrorist who’d tried to kill him.

  ‘Bailey?’

  ‘I’m not carrying a gun.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. It’s for your own protection.’

  ‘This is Sydney, mate. Not the wild west.’

  Ronnie held Bailey’s gaze for a moment longer. ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’ Bailey returned to his original question.

  ‘I’m going to head up there and take a look around. House’s at the bottom of a long driveway which means one way in, one way out.’ Ronnie stuffed the Glock into the back of his pants, closing the car door. ‘You stay here. Wait for me. I’ll be back in a few minutes once I know what we’re up against. At some point, we’re going to need to call the police, we just can’t risk Harding being tipped off by a bent cop. We don’t know how far his reach goes. Who else might be involved.’

  Bailey was relieved to hear Ronnie mention the cops. Whatever they were trying to achieve here, he couldn’t help thinking they would be outnumbered. Alerting the police – or Annie’s detective, at least – was a good idea. But he’d wait.

  ‘Okay.’

  Bailey watched Ronnie walk up the hill and slip down a driveway
that wasn’t Dominic Harding’s, reassured by the small comfort of knowing that the CIA veteran had done this before. That one of them knew what they were doing.

  He leaned his back against the car, checking his watch: 6.25 am. He stared at the digital screen until the number ticked over again. Ronnie said he’d only be gone for a few minutes. A few meant three but nobody ever used the term like that.

  Despite his lack of sleep, Bailey’s senses were charging. He could hear cars in the distance. Waves crashing into sand. Morning birds squawking at the day. The smell of smoke that had poisoned Sydney’s air for months was gone and Bailey wondered whether the great southern blaze was finally out. One threat extinguished as another one began.

  Taking a deep breath, Bailey held the air for a moment, before letting it join the southerly that was gusting up the road, twisting and turning between houses. He shivered. The wind suddenly cooler than before. A flash of lightning over the water. A rumbling sky. The change had arrived. The rain would be here soon.

  He pulled out his phone, deciding to type Harding’s address in a message to Annie so that it was ready when they decided it was time to call in the cavalry. Cops they could trust.

  Click.

  Bailey felt the cool metal barrel against his head.

  ‘Phone. Now.’

  A man’s voice. Familiar. Behind him.

  Bailey had only managed to type the word ‘Bronte’ but he hit send anyway.

  ‘Fucking smartarse.’ Benny Hunter snatched the phone before Bailey had a chance to lock the screen. ‘Who’s AB?’

  Bailey had a habit of only using initials in his contact list for personal friends. A habit that had just paid dividends in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

  ‘No one.’

  Whack!

  Bailey’s ear started ringing as it recovered from the open palm that had just slapped the side of his head.

  ‘Next time it’ll be the butt of the gun. Got it?’

  Bailey grunted an acknowledgement, hoping that Ronnie was watching from the shadows nearby. Ready to take back control.

  ‘You alone?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Yeah, well. If you want me to get started on all the things I don’t believe, we’ll be here all day.’

  Whack!

  Luckily, Bailey had only copped the open palm of Hunter’s hand again. But now he had two ringing ears.

  ‘I’ll try again. Who else’s with you?’

  ‘Just you, Benny.’

  Hunter went quiet and Bailey was preparing himself for another whack to the head.

  ‘You’re a fucking smartarse, you know that?’

  ‘It’s been pointed out.’

  ‘Move.’ Hunter shoved Bailey in the back with his gun.

  They walked in silence towards Harding’s place, down the sloping driveway.

  ‘Keep going.’

  Bailey was staring into the bushes on either side of the steep drive without moving his head, hoping that Ronnie was out there. Watching. No sign of him yet.

  A dim light was shining at the end of the driveway by the front door, a van parked outside, making Bailey wonder how many people were here.

  ‘That way. The steps.’

  Hunter diverted them off the driveway and onto a stone staircase that dropped into the bushland by the house.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Keep walking.’

  The steps were uneven and Bailey was taking it slow in the darkness. About thirty metres below he could see a small house that looked more like a granny flat, or a shed, shadows moving through the windows.

  Trying to get a look at Hunter’s face, Bailey twisted his head. ‘What are you planning?’

  ‘Turn around.’

  ‘Why’d you kill Strong, Benny? I thought he was one of you people.’

  ‘I said shut up.’

  Bailey knew that Hunter was his best chance of finding out what these lunatics were planning because guys like Harding were good at keeping secrets. Hunter, on the other hand, had made a career out of boasting in front of cameras.

  ‘So, Harding’s the money man? Must be family dough, eh?’ Bailey went again, rolling the dice that Hunter wouldn’t use the butt of his pistol on a steep stone pathway. ‘I know all about Sunshine Inc.’

  ‘You have no idea what you’ve walked into. No fucking idea.’

  Talking was good. The sound would carry through the trees, up the path. Let Ronnie know that Bailey had been captured, that he needed help. That it might be time to call in the police. The real ones. The cops who protected and served.

  ‘I’ve read all that shit you guys post. Your conspiracy theories about some kind of cultural invasion and how white people are the master race.’ He interrupted himself with a laugh. ‘That’s the amazing thing about white supremacists. Not much supreme about them.’

  ‘Shut your mouth.’

  ‘Your good old-fashioned racism. Fear of the unknown. I don’t like it, but I get it. I can see where it comes from.’

  ‘I’m warning you.’

  ‘But the white supremacy stuff about a master race. It doesn’t add up.’ Bailey kept talking. Making noise. ‘I’ll give you some examples. Paper. Gunpowder. Printing. Guess who invented these vital tools of society? A hint, it wasn’t the white fella. It was the Chinese. And what about the flying machine? Music? Hospitals?’ Bailey paused, waiting for a response. Nothing. ‘And coffee? You must know who invented coffee? No? All right, then. Muslims. All those things I mentioned. Magic from the Middle Ea–’

  Crack!

  This time Hunter used the butt of his gun, the blow sending Bailey scuttling down the last few steps, landing heavily on the paving outside the door to the little house. He took a moment to lie still, waiting for the pain and the dizziness to subside, feeling the back of his head, knowing the pistol had pierced the skin, hoping it wasn’t too deep. There was a warm, wet slick in his hair. Not much. He couldn’t pinpoint a gash. It must have been a tiny cut. But he was bleeding.

  He looked up, squinting at the bloke who had just hit him for a third time. ‘What is it with you and pushing me down steps?’

  ‘I warned you, didn’t I?’

  Hunter was standing over him, his gun only inches from Bailey’s face.

  ‘Benny! What the hell are you doing?’

  Bailey turned to see Harding standing at the door, arms raised, wondering why Bailey was lying on the ground with a gun to his head.

  ‘Stop messing about. Get him inside!’

  Hunter grabbed Bailey under the armpit, pulling him to his feet, pushing him towards the open door where Harding was waiting for them.

  ‘John Bailey.’ Harding made a tutting noise with his tongue. ‘You just couldn’t keep your nose out of this, could you?’

  ‘What’d you expect? Turn my house upside down off the back of a flimsy warrant. Murder my friend.’ Bailey felt like taking a swing at him but he knew how that might end. ‘Deleting the video was sloppy though, Harding. You should’ve picked on somebody else.’

  ‘Get him inside,’ Harding growled.

  ‘Go.’ The muzzle of Hunter’s gun was pressed into Bailey’s shoulder blades with even pressure to keep him moving.

  As soon as Bailey stepped through the door he could see that there wasn’t much to the place. Bathroom. Kitchenette. A lounge room just big enough for a table, sofa and the television that was mounted on the wall. It was the kind of cottage where the help might live.

  ‘Over there.’ Hunter directed Bailey towards a wooden chair beside the sofa. ‘Sit.’

  Bailey did what he was told and watched as Hunter got down on one knee, using plastic zip ties to secure his arms to the chair, pulling them tight.

  ‘Back in a moment.’ Hunter stood up, slapping Bailey on the cheek. ‘Don’t go anywhere.’

  ‘I’m tied to a chair, Benny.’

  Hunter glared at Bailey for a few seconds, probably wondering how he’d allowed him to get un
der his skin and whether he should pistol-whip him again. He went to say something but thought better of it, turning around and walking out of the room.

  The sound of male voices flowed from the kitchen. Harding. Hunter. At least one other voice, maybe two. He couldn’t be sure. They were speaking so quietly it was impossible to make out the words.

  Harding appeared in the open doorway, looking back towards the kitchen while he finished his conversation. ‘It’s uploaded? Good. Good. He needs to get moving.’

  Something had been uploaded. What was it? A message? A video? And who else was there? The questions running through Bailey’s brain.

  ‘All right, then.’ Harding walked into the room, rubbing his hands together, smiling at Bailey. ‘The waiting game.’ He pointed at the television. ‘Soon we can watch it here, together.’

  Bailey went to say something but a figure in the doorway had hijacked his attention.

  Russell.

  The son of Bryce and Jenny Ratcliffe. The kid who lived in Bailey’s street.

  Not a kid any more.

  Wearing black combat gear, Russell was dressed for war. Ballistic vest. Helmet. An assault rifle slung over his shoulders. Pistols strapped to his side, his ankle. Cartridges clipped to his torso.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  Bailey mouthed the words but hardly any noise came out.

  Harding and Russell locked hands, grabbing each other’s shoulders. The muscle hug.

  ‘Good luck, brother.’ Harding patted his cheek, fiddling with a small camera fixed to his helmet. ‘Wait for the last minute before you turn this on. The live stream begins automatically. Okay?’

  Russell nodded.

  ‘And remember, stay out of sight in the van until you get there. Benny will get you right up close. You know what to do. The park. Beach.’

  Bailey felt a warm sick rise in his throat. ‘Russell, you don’t have to do this.’

  ‘Yeah, I do.’ Russell’s dead eyes confirming how far gone he was. ‘For all of us.’

  Russell left the room followed by Hunter. The door to the house opening and closing. Footsteps on the path. Wheels in motion.

  Bailey kept watching the hall as though Russell was still there, hoping he was coming back to tell him that he was just playing some kind of sick party trick. That it was all fake. The military fatigues. The guns. That he wasn’t about to go and kill a bunch of innocent people. Live stream it on social media.