by Morris West
And there it was again, Cassidy’s warning: ‘If ever you meet him, show respect. He merits it. And never forget that while he keeps iron faith with his friends, he’s as ruthless as Caligula to his enemies.’
‘A penny for your thoughts,’ said Laura Larsen.
I told her I thought we could both use a drink; what I really thought was that neither of us would be satisfied until we had made trial of each other in bed – and that to make the trial under the shadow of Marius Melville was a recipe for disaster. Laura Larsen raised her glass in a toast.
‘I give you hope, Martin: that we can both lay the ghosts in our lives.’
After she had left I ate a tasteless meal in the restaurant and then sat watching a tasteless comedy on the television in my room. I also drank two glasses of port, which I knew would give me a foul headache in the morning. It was the port, more than sound reason, that made me call Pornsri Rhana. She sounded sleepy and a little testy.
‘Who is this?’
‘Martin Gregory.’
‘It’s very late.’
‘I know. When are you leaving for Bangkok?’
‘The day after tomorrow.’
‘I’ll be there myself in five days’ time. Call me… let me see… call me next Thursday morning at the Oriental Hotel.’
‘Does this mean you’re willing to help me?’
‘It means I’m willing to see what your needs are and then decide whether I can help.’
Now she was wide awake and friendly as a kitten.
‘Martin!… And after I was so rude to you the other evening. I was so ashamed of myself. In Bangkok, I promise I shall make amends –’
‘Please! There’s no need. Mr. Marius Melville will be with me. Between us, we should be able to make some sense of your problems.’
‘I hope so, Martin. I do truly hope so. But you won’t be selling out, will you?’
‘That’s not my intention at this moment.’
‘Good! There is too much at stake. And when I fight I am very strong, Martin – you will find I am a great help to you.’
‘I have no doubt of it… Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, my dear, dear man!’
When I slept I heard the sound of temple gongs and the jingle of golden bells. I dreamed a wild, erotic Technicolor dream in which Pornsri Rhana was a dancer with a jewelled cap and fingers that curved back to touch her slim wrists. I woke at three in the morning with a splitting head and a mouth like the bottom of a bird cage. It was the perfect coda to a very messy day.
13
‘He’s a military man,’ said Arthur Rebus, ‘which doesn’t endear him to the ordinary race of coppers or politicians. He’s got a ramrod for a backbone and you can use his shoes for a mirror and he addresses his staff, men and women, as if they were all, and always, on ceremonial parade. He hates slackers and despises fools and a bent copper goes straight to the guillotine. But he’s bright, make no mistake. He got his intelligence training in London and the US and did his fieldwork in Vietnam and Laos… If he trusts you, he’ll go through fire, water and the rages of God to protect you… If you let him down he’ll hound you to extinction…’
We were bucketing through a summer storm on the forty-minute milk run from Sydney to Canberra, which is the Federal Capital of Australia. Rebus seemed concerned about possible friction between the Commissioner and myself. I couldn’t see why he was making such a mouthful of it.
‘I’ll tell you why,’ said Rebus. ‘This Commissioner has been pressing for legislation enabling the State to distrain all proceeds of criminal activities, especially those arising out of the drug traffic. He’s been dealing with Mafia “families” up and down Australia. He’ll have his own dossier as thick as your arm on Cassidy and his associates in New South Wales. So he’s not going to take you at face value. Even if he did, your face value isn’t so great.’
‘Why not, for Christ’s sake?’
‘First, you’re the executor of a very suspect estate. Your wife and family are big beneficiaries. You yourself are the legal possessor of documents on which there’s a standing offer of five million – and you’ve already discovered they may be the key to half a billion… So, first up, the Commissioner’s going to treat you with very healthy suspicion. You could be rich enough to buy and sell a small empire. You might even be bidding for him.’
‘My God, you’ve got a dirty mind, Mr. Rebus!’
‘It gets dirtier, Mr. Gregory. Your wife and family are lodged with one Marius Melville. You’re supposed to be paymaster to one Erhardt Möller. You’re certainly holding heroin, diamonds and money. You’ve got a yen for Melville’s daughter and a link with Cassidy’s Thai mistress… The Commissioner’s not your run-of-the-mill copper. He’s an intelligence man. He’s trained to think of connections and consequences beyond his own bailiwick. He’s going to take you apart and put you together again like a watchmaker before he’s prepared to trust you. So listen up like a good fellow… We’ve got to cope with a natural antagonism between the species. We’re lawyers. The Commissioner is a policeman. He’s plagued to death by people like us. He’s the custodian of the law. We make our money by exploiting its defects. He makes a watertight case, we punch a hole in it. He arrests the criminal, we spring him. So let’s have a little loving kindness! Put a bridle on that tongue of yours and think before you speak. Better still, let me speak for you. That’s what you’re paying me for, after all!’
So, it was small wonder that by the time I walked into the Commissioner’s office, I was as nervous as a schoolboy at his first encounter with the headmaster. The man who greeted me was as slim, trim and dapper as regular exercise and a good military tailor could make him. His hands were manicured, his cheeks freshly barbered. His grip was firm and welcoming. His smile was open and his eyes lively with curiosity. He announced cheerfully: ‘You’ve made my week, gentlemen. Until this morning it’s been a series of disasters. We bungled a big bust in Queensland. We lost our extradition case in Eire. One of our star informers was roasted in the trunk of his car in Frenchs Forest last night. And the press has just announced what we’ve been telling the Minister for months – that Australian airports are wide open to terrorist attack, because we have neither the manpower nor the weapons to protect them. Now, would you like to bring a little cheer into my life? Mr. Gregory… ?’
‘My learned friend Mr. Rebus has given me a warning. He tells me I might be a suspect witness and that I’ve got a short fuse which could put you and me at odds. So I’m going to let him lead for me. Then I’ll answer any questions you like to put to me.’
‘Then you have the floor, Mr. Rebus.’
I had to dip my hat to the man. He delivered the whole story in twenty minutes flat – from Cassidy’s last night in London to my upcoming appointment with Marius Melville in Bangkok.
The Commissioner listened in silence, making an occasional cryptic notation on a yellow pad. When Rebus had finished, he said simply, ‘So, in the five days – four really – before you leave for Bangkok, you have to finish your study of the microfiches and decide whether you want to sell them to Marius Melville.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you also have to determine who really controls that half-billion offshore trust fund.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you have to make some decisions about yourself: like every man has his price and what’s yours, or money has no smell and it buys an awful lot of service. That sort of thing.’
‘That sort of thing. Yes, Commissioner. And I’d like your help to reach the right decision.’
‘I’m a policeman, Mr. Gregory, not a Father Confessor.’
‘Then, as a policeman, you’ll understand the importance of the information in my possession. You’ll be able to explain to me the strange behaviour of certain State officials – and how Charles Parnell Cassidy, as Premier of the State, could have built up a worldwide connection with criminal elements. If you can’t, we’re wasting each other’s time.’
&nb
sp; The Commissioner grinned and turned to Arthur Rebus.
‘He does have a short fuse, doesn’t he?’
‘Mark of an honest man, Commissioner,’ said Arthur Rebus cheerfully. ‘What you see is what you get. If you don’t like it you lump it…’ He turned to me. ‘Cool down, Martin. There’s a long march ahead of us all. Why don’t you try to answer Martin’s question, Commissioner?’
‘About Charlie Cassidy…’ The Commissioner took time to compose his thoughts. ‘I had a number of meetings with him during his term as Premier. Most of them were in the presence of his Minister of Police and other members of his Cabinet, but two or three times we were alone. The last one was about a month before he left Australia. He sat where you are now and we talked more frankly than we’d ever done before. The subject – for the record at least – was the creation of a National Crimes Authority which could co-ordinate the efforts both of the Federal Police and the law enforcement agencies in each State… Charlie Cassidy hated the idea, root and branch. I thought I understood the reason: he himself was up to his neck in illegalities; but I have to say his reasoning surprised me. He said, “Listen, Commissioner! Every time we pass a new piece of legislation, we create a new class of criminals. It’s automatic, like a curfew in wartime. Anyone who misses the last bus home is liable to be shot. My father made a fortune out of legislation that closed the pubs at six. He did a back-door trade with anyone who had a thirst after that time. Prostitution? The same thing. Drugs? We’ve criminalised the addiction and let the traders have a field day. Do you know how many respectable lawyers – friends of mine among ’em – are financing, out of their trust funds, syndicates for heroin purchase? It’s the best investment there is, because the security is a courier’s life. The interest rates for the client are the highest, because the increase in product value from source to consumer is exponential. Gambling? The same thing. The Government collects a tax on every gaming transaction, so every bet with a corner bookie is an illegal act. And, talking of taxation, we’ve criminalised that too: notional assessments, retrospective legislation, onus of proof on the taxpayer and not on the Department. It’s a long list, Commissioner; but if you like to think about it, part of your job is to enforce injustice…”’
The Commissioner picked up a paper knife, a miniature Gurkha kukri, and began toying with it. After a while he went on.
‘…I didn’t try to argue the proposition. Charlie had a taste for paradox and he could dazzle you with heady rhetoric. I wanted to hear the point he was trying to make. He took a little time to get to it. “…Symbiosis, Commissioner. Living together from a shared resource. The mistletoe on the tree trunk, the bee that pollinates the flower, the predators who cull the forest animals. Without criminals, you have no reason for existence. Your men can’t function without informants. They have to have allies and friends in the criminal community. They offer protection, they make deals… You agree to shut your eyes to a lot of indictable offences in the hope of making one big bust. It’s normal. It’s the human compromise. Without it, you get the police state: order in the streets and a blackshirt on every corner and presumption of guilt and no habeas corpus. After that, of course, you get bloody revolution; which is the way the terror game develops… Do you see where I’m walking you, Commissioner?”’
The Commissioner slashed the air with the miniature kukri. ‘I could see it all right, like a big black hole in the ground, but I wasn’t going to give Cassidy the satisfaction of admitting it. He sat there with that crooked Irish grin, enjoying my discomfiture. Then he went on: “…The old-fashioned anarchists weren’t too far wrong. They wanted the minimum of law, the freest possible play for the natural forces in society. Our problem is that we’ve inherited the British tradition: great respect for property, small regard for human life or the quality of it. There’s no room for compassion in case-law… So what I’m telling you is that we’re not British any more. We’re a polyglot country; Italians, Greeks, Croats, Turks, Viets, Chinese, Japanese, Taiwanese – you name it! And if we try to put that society into a strait-jacket we’ll have a whole sack of troubles… I know you don’t like me, Commissioner. You think I’m a rogue Irishman who’d sell his sister for a dram of whiskey. Maybe you’re right. But I’m a lot more than that. I’m the fellow who slips through the lines and parleys with both sides. I’m the deal-maker, the man they trust because he holds the purse and pays out fairly on the bets. I take a fat percentage for the house, but that’s known and accepted, because I keep the peace. The problem is, Commissioner, I’m a temporary phenomenon. I’m mortal. I’m not going to be around too long… and so far there’s no successor in sight. So I’m giving you fair notice; though I don’t know what you can do about it either. The country’s too big, the population’s too small, the ethnic mix is too complex… Never forget it was the Irish who civilised the Germanic barbarians – at least we like to think we did! But hell, who was the last great Irishman you could put a name to – except Jack Kennedy and Charlie Cassidy… !”’ He put down the kukri, joined his fingertips as if in prayer and quizzed me over the top of them. ‘Would you say, Mr. Gregory, that was an authentic rendering of your father-in-law?’
‘Right down to the grace-notes, Commissioner. My compliments.’
‘If you were sitting where I am, would you have believed it?’
‘Up to a point, yes. Before I stole his daughter, Charlie used to talk to me about the Kennedy clan, whom he’d known quite well. He used to say that, apart from the dates, he could have written their biographies without a note or a reference, they ran so close to primal pattern. He used to say politics was a power game, no more, no less – but you had to know where the wild pieces were on the board.’
‘Did he always have criminal associations?’
‘Depending on what you mean by the word, yes. You can’t be in the liquor business, or the law business, or the tax business and expect to consort with virgins twenty-four hours a day.’
‘Interesting you should say that, Mr. Gregory. What do you think Cassidy expected of you?’
There was a barb under the question and I wanted the Commissioner to know I’d seen it. I told him: ‘Cassidy used to call me Martin the Righteous – and he didn’t mean it as a compliment. He knew he’d get an efficient administrator of his daughter’s estate. For the rest, he had put a burr under my tail and died laughing at my discomfort.’
‘As you see, Commissioner,’ said Arthur Rebus drily, ‘there was a real bond of Christian charity between ’em!’
‘Question time, Mr. Gregory.’ The Commissioner was suddenly brusque.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Why did you refuse access to Cassidy’s documents to the Attorney-General of New South Wales?’
‘Because Cassidy had warned me they could be dissipated or conjured into confusion. Besides, I did not refuse access, I deferred it until I, as executor, had examined them.’
‘Will you offer access to my people?’
‘Yes. In situ and under my supervision or Arthur Rebus’.’
‘Who is Marius Melville?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never met him. Clearly a friend and associate of Cassidy. Indications are that he is Mafia-connected.’
‘What do you propose to do about Cassidy’s offshore trusts?’
‘Since I don’t know either the trustees or the beneficiaries, I can’t answer that question yet. I’m making it my first business to find out.’
‘However,’ said Arthur Rebus, ‘the man has problems. He’s been away too long. He doesn’t know how the system works any more.’
‘Example, Mr. Gregory?’
‘When I opened Cassidy’s safe, I found, among other things, a kilo of heroin, several packets of very fancy stones and a mixed bag of high-value currencies. Loomis the Attorney-General obviously knew of, or guessed at, their existence, but he didn’t want to touch them with a ten-foot pole. Then, out of the blue, some goon called Erhardt Möller telephones from Manila and says he’ll be down to collect… Over
to you, Commissioner.’
‘Erhardt Möller. Heavy muscle in the Painters and Dockers Union – which, in case you don’t read the reports of our Royal Commissions, controls every tonne of container traffic passing through Australian ports. The organisation has a history of violence, intimidation and murder. Some of its members left the country and went to the Philippines, where they dug themselves into the girl traffic, gambling, low-class terrorism, high-class piracy, gun-running and go-go bars… You should go up there some time and take a look. You can get a bet on any race in Australia or the US. You can marry a local girl, turn her automatically into an Australian citizen, bring her home to Sydney and put her on the game, which is what some of our likely lads have been doing. You can buy a container-load of small arms, with an end-user certificate, and have the container re-routed to anywhere in the world. That, more or less, is Erhardt Möller.’
‘It doesn’t explain why Charlie Cassidy was his paymaster.’
‘Put it this way, Mr. Gregory. If you want peace and free trade on the waterfront, someone has to pay for it. Otherwise you’ve got a million tons of container shipping anchored off the Continental Shelf. If, on the other hand, you’re buying and selling, someone has to put up the working capital. Charlie was the boss, in politics and in trade. Charlie paid the score. Simple.’
‘Maybe not so simple,’ said Arthur Rebus mildly. ‘The whole question of the contents of Charlie’s safe bothers the hell out of me. Look! He knew before he left Australia he was gravely ill and probably dying. Why would he leave a load of dynamite in his private safe, in his private house? Didn’t that thought occur to you, Martin?’
‘I confess it didn’t. The sheer size of the damn thing distracted me. It was installed, on specially laid girders, when the house was built. You’d have to pull the place down to remove it – and you’d need a thermic lance to get into it… On balance, with Cubeddu and the State police as watchdogs, I’d have said Cassidy could have felt fairly secure. Besides, once he knew that he was dying, what did he care? Still… let’s leave the possibility open. I’ve got another, more urgent question. What do I do when Mr. Erhardt Möller knocks on my door?’
