by Tim Ayliffe
‘I am the local people, bubba. I’ve been working for the American ambassador on his security detail.’
Bailey laughed out loud at that one. ‘Do you really expect me to believe that?’
A guy like Ronnie Johnson working on the ambassador’s security detail was like the head chef waiting tables.
‘Believe what you like. Us older fellas get planted in the embassies when they take us out of the main game. Iraq was it for me. My obsession. It all turned to shit after you left, bubba. Ruined my life, my marriage.’
Bailey nodded – the curse of Mesopotamia stayed with you. He had an ex-wife too.
‘I spent almost eight years in and out of Baghdad after Bush’s war, even tried a desk job at Langley,’ Ronnie said. ‘Sitting around analysing data wasn’t for me so they sent me here.’
‘I know what that place does to you.’ Bailey didn’t expect to be going down this path. ‘You saw what it did to me. And I’m sorry for you. Believe me, I know.’
‘Yeah, well, shit happens.’
‘But do you seriously expect me to believe you’re on the American ambassador’s security detail?’
‘Didn’t have much choice, bubba. They talked about it as a promotion – like they could do with more experienced ops managing the security detail of our top people overseas. It’s really a stepping stone to retirement. I never had the patience for the Ivy League geniuses at State and in the White House. They never listen.’
Maybe Ronnie was telling the truth. It was the foreign policy wonks that made a mess of the reconstruction in Iraq. They never understood the hate and the history. Bailey knew Ronnie Johnson would never last in a desk job alongside them.
‘Anyway, bubba, they also know what that place did to me. You know better than anyone. We’re all pawns on the ground, positioned to fit the narrative.’
Ronnie suddenly looked much older than the man Bailey had first met in 1989 at the scene of a bomb attack in Beirut. His eyes were missing the laser focus that would strike fear into anyone who found themselves sitting opposite him at a negotiating table. Bailey had seen that side of Ronnie in action.
‘Yeah, I’ll leave that to the historians. You and me – we’re the here and now. If what you suspect is true, it doesn’t sound like you’re retiring just yet.’
‘I didn’t expect to get drawn back this far into the game either, and it’s changed. New tactics, different players.’ Ronnie paused. ‘Anyway, what can you give me? I need to get moving.’
Bailey paused for a moment, distracted by the vibration of his phone. Gerald again. He didn’t answer.
‘Bailey?’
Swapping notes with the CIA carried great risks, ethical and professional. The trick for Bailey was to give with a guarantee that he would get something back. Everyone liked the power of telling a secret. The problem for Bailey was that he didn’t have much to barter.
‘I don’t know what to say, Ronnie. The first time I heard the name Catherine Chamberlain was about eight hours ago when I was staring at her body.’
Ronnie sat back and folded his arms without saying a word.
Pretend you have nothing, then give him something. The game.
‘There’s one lead that I’m looking into but, as yet, no luck,’ Bailey said.
‘Yeah? And what might that be?’ Ronnie’s grey bushy eyebrows were pointing at the ceiling like the blunt tip of an arrow.
‘Michael Anderson.’
‘And?’ Ronnie said.
‘That was your cue to tell me what you know about him.’
‘Nice try, Bailey.’ When it came to the game, Ronnie could still run rings around anyone. ‘I know about Michael Anderson. What have you got?’
Bailey gave up playing and decided to show his hand. ‘Well, it appears that Anderson knew our Catherine Chamberlain, knew her in a way that’d make it okay to drop around at midnight pissed as a parrot.’
‘We’re talking the night in question?’
‘Possibly. That’s all I know.’
‘That fits.’ Ronnie stood up to leave.
‘Fits what?’
Ronnie ignored Bailey’s question and shrugged on his jacket.
‘Fits what?’ Bailey raised his voice.
‘I presume you know our friend Michael Anderson is missing?’
‘Since the night he dropped in for a late-night cuddle at Chamberlain’s house?’
‘You tell me.’
‘That’s the first question. Aren’t we still talking?’
‘Don’t worry, bubba, we’ll talk again soon.’ Ronnie winked and started walking towards the door.
‘No doubt,’ Bailey said. ‘And Ronnie?’
Ronnie stopped and turned around. ‘Yeah?’
‘What happened to paying for the drinks? I’m used to you turning up with a duffle bag filled with greenbacks!’
‘Good one, bubba. Time heals, huh?’
‘Sure.’
The awkward smile on Bailey’s face was gone before Ronnie had even reached the door. Time didn’t heal everything.
Bailey decided against going back to the office.
He reached into his bag and pulled out the laptop that Penelope had given him. He would tap out ten pars and send them to Frank on the subs desk.
First, he needed another drink.
‘Oi! Mate!’ Bailey gave up on waiting for the barman to spot his empty glass. ‘Get me another double, would you?’
The barman waited for the race to finish before he turned in Bailey’s direction. ‘Same again?’
Bailey gave him a thumbs up.
‘Any luck on the ponies?’ Bailey asked when the barman finally came over with his whisky.
‘Nah. Got any mail?’
Asking for tips from a stranger, this guy had a problem. By the fraying collar of his stained white shirt and the plastic shine on his trousers, he wasn’t good at hiding it, either.
‘Yeah, I’ve got a tip for you,’ Bailey said. ‘Don’t bet.’
‘So they keep telling me. Presume you’ll want another one of those shortly?’ He pointed at the glass he had just deposited on the table.
‘You guessed right.’
‘Looks like we both have our demons then, hey mate?’
There was a lot about this guy not to like.
‘Looks like it.’ Bailey skolled his drink and handed the man the glass. ‘The same.’
He switched on his laptop. Better start typing while he could still see the keys. That window was closing, fast.
There wasn’t much of a story today. A high-class prostitute named Catherine Chamberlain is found dead in a Rushcutters Bay apartment. Police are investigating.
Time for another drink.
CHAPTER 5
Bailey knew it was a bad idea from the moment he staggered into his car parked out front of The Duke. It must have been Ronnie’s reference to his ex-wife that planted the seed.
With each whisky he drank, the better the idea became. Anyway, it was too late now.
He knocked on the front door of his ex-wife Anthea’s posh house in Hunters Hill, which was actually more like a castle. Surrounded by immaculately kept lawns, a tennis court and lush English gardens, it was the type of estate you’d expect to find in the countryside, not ten kilometres from the city centre.
The mansions were lined side by side around here, with his and hers Mercedes parked in double garages, street after street. Anthea and her husband, Ian, had the pick of them.
Luckily, it was Anthea who opened the door.
‘John?’ She was the only person who never called him Bailey.
He was swaying on his feet and squinting at the bright sensor light on the balcony. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I was just in the neighbourhood and I –’
‘My God. How many drinks have you had?’
She leaned back, probably trying to escape the alcohol on his breath.
‘Enough to be able to read that expression on your face.’ He was also painfully aware that he was slurring his speech.
‘But not enough to have forgotten it by tomorrow.’
His timing was always off with Anthea.
She stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind her. ‘Seriously, you can’t be here. We’ve got people coming over shortly. You know how Ian gets.’
He knew all about Ian, the bloke who had rescued his wife after her divorce from the man who could never grow up. Fifteen years older than Anthea and filthy rich, he may as well have had the word safe tattooed to his forehead. Yeah, Ian was a saint.
‘How is old Ian and the philanthropic world of merchant banking?’ Bailey regretted the words as soon as he heard them slur from his mouth.
‘Don’t be a condescending prick, John. At least he’s here.’
Bailey also had an uncanny ability to get under her skin.
‘I deserved that.’ He was speaking slowly now, trying to sound sober. ‘Sorry.’
‘No, you’re not. Now, why’re you here?’
‘You’re the doctor, you tell me.’ He was teasing her, trying to invoke memories of happier days when he would call her ‘doctor’ in recognition of her PhD in history.
‘Yeah, yeah. If I’d been a shrink, I would’ve given up trying to psychoanalyse you years ago. Trying to understand what goes on in that impenetrable fortress you call a brain is like trying to explain the origins of the universe to a Catholic.’
Bailey started laughing. He loved how she could make him laugh, even when she was angry.
Anthea’s lips widened with her smile. She had never managed to stay mad at him for long.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I’m going back inside. We really do have people coming around, so, unless there’s something important you want to discuss, I think you should go.’ She turned and reached for the door.
‘Anthea!’ Bailey suddenly remembered why he’d come. ‘I went back to work today.’ He sounded like a child telling his mother he had been a good boy at school.
She let go of the door. ‘Really?’
‘Don’t look so surprised!’
‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘I’m just happy for you.’
Anthea had seen him at his lowest, heard his screams in the night, then watched him try to silence his demons with the bottle. He knew that she had wanted to help him, even after the divorce. But the thing about John Bailey is that he didn’t want, or need, anyone’s help.
‘Step one.’ He shrugged. ‘Haven’t quite mastered the other steps yet.’
‘Anthea darling!’ Ian’s voice echoed from inside the house. ‘Who’s there?’
Anthea turned around and poked her head through the crack in the door. She was dressed in a singlet and a pair of skin-tight pants that highlighted her sporty physique.
‘Wow, Anthea,’ Bailey said, ‘that yoga routine’s paying off.’
‘Oh, shut up.’ She turned around with a smirk on her face. ‘Don’t give Ian another excuse to punch you.’
‘It’s just Cheryl from across the road,’ she called back to her husband. ‘I’m giving her my hummus recipe!’
‘Okay, darling. Please hurry and get ready – they’ll be here any minute!’
Bailey raised his eyebrows. ‘Hummus?’
‘Oh piss off, will you. It’s all I could think of. It’s great about your work. Really, I mean it. But it’s time to go.’
Anthea stepped over to Bailey and hugged him. There was still love there, not just because of Miranda, but because they genuinely liked each other. They’d married when they were both twenty-two and their daughter had arrived the next year. Anthea knew him in a way that no one else could. It was why he had wanted to tell her he was working again.
She took a step back and stared at him.
‘I’m not angry with you,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘You know that, right?’
‘Yeah.’ This was a hard truth for Bailey, because she should be. He had left her alone to raise Miranda. No job was that important. It hadn’t felt that way at the time though. Clinton had managed to get Yasser Arafat and Yitzhak Rabin to shake hands at the White House. Peace was finally coming to the Holy Land. Bailey had to be in Jerusalem to cover the story.
‘And I’m not judging you – really, I’m not. But you need to get off the booze.’
‘Yeah – work one day, booze another. Baby steps.’
Anthea touched his shoulder gently and went back inside.
Standing on the steps in the dark, Bailey felt lonely. He stood there for at least a minute after the click of the front door, listening to the sounds of domesticity inside, before heading off down the street. He looked at his watch – it was only eight o’clock, too early to go home, especially for someone who didn’t sleep. There was only one place left to go – the place where no one ever judged him, not to his face, anyway. He was going to his local.
CHAPTER 6
Iraq, unknown location, 2004
Click.
Bailey’s eyes had been glued closed by a mixture of sweat and dust. He was too disorientated to force them open, not ready to confront the reality of being a prisoner in this sea of sand and hate.
Click. Click.
He was tied to a hard wood chair inside a dark humid room. The air was so stale he could taste each anxious breath that rushed into his lungs like a punch to the chest.
Click. Click.
‘Mr Bailey . . . Mr Bailey . . . Mr Bailey.’
The man clicking his fingers was speaking calmly in Bailey’s face. He could smell the stench of forgotten gums in the warmth of his breath.
‘Welcome, Mr Bailey. You are our special guest.’
His accent was like that of the Oxbridge elite – posh and refined, but frightening. What was it doing here?
Bailey feared he had been blinded until finally his eyelids won the battle against the blood and dirt and peeled open. All he could see was darkness. He tried to speak but his throat was so dry that it hurt to swallow.
‘Here.’ The man passed him a cup of water. ‘Drink. It must have been many hours since you last had any water or sustenance.’
Bailey tried to take the cup but his hands were tied to the arms of the chair.
‘I’ll help you.’ The man held the cup to Bailey’s lips and poured.
The water felt like sandpaper, scraping down Bailey’s throat, but he kept swallowing, desperate to get the precious liquid inside. Water was the only thing that mattered.
The sting of dehydration began to wane and was replaced by a rising panic. Then anger. His wrists and ankles were aching. The rope, or whatever had been used to restrain him, was cutting into his skin. A wave of pain shuddered through his body. The bruising in his torso, his right shoulder, the pulsating headache and the constant ringing in his ears. The explosion in Fallujah. The man with the piercing eyes. It was all coming back to him.
Fuck!
‘Where am I?’
‘That is not important right now.’
‘Who the fuck are you and what the fuck am I doing here?’ Stockholm syndrome was never going to be an issue for Bailey. He’d stopped caring long ago.
‘Now, now. Is that wise, Mr Bailey?’ The man’s voice was disturbingly calm.
A lamp in the corner of the room was the only source of light and the man was hovering over Bailey like a shadow, close without touching. The darkness made it difficult to distinguish the features of his face, other than his eyes – large, soft and almost comforting, were it not for the circumstances.
Bailey’s sight was adjusting. He peered over his shoulder to survey the room. It was more like a cave. In the corner, next to the lamp, a camera was fixed to a tripod.
‘No fucking way!’ he said to his captor. ‘No way!’
‘This is an entirely natural reaction, Mr Bailey.’ The man knelt down in front of where Bailey was sitting, strapped to the chair. ‘Perhaps not so wise. You see, I’m your new best friend. And we can be friends, can’t we?’
Bailey was bouncing up and down on his chair, trying to break free.
‘Just kill me, arsehole.’
‘No, no, no. That’s not why you’re here, Mr Bailey.’
Bailey had never felt so helpless. His captor had absolute control.
‘We don’t see you like them – the Americans, that is. You’re a respected journalist. You may not believe this, but we have many mutual friends.’
Bailey could see the off-white of the man’s teeth through his smile. ‘I doubt it.’ He could count his friends on one hand. ‘I’m not into your games. And that video recorder, no way, no fucking way.’
Bailey was in shock. He was so dehydrated that his tear ducts couldn’t spill the water that would ordinarily have come with terror. Ignoring the pain, he jolted the chair up and down again, trying to free his wrists and ankles from his restraints. It was no use.
‘Calm down, Mr Bailey.’
‘Stop talking!’ The man’s calm voice and smooth accent was distressing Bailey more than the room, the heat, even the camera in the corner. The educated fundamentalist was the worst kind, someone who has studied and arrived at an irrational end where violent intolerance, and killing, was found to be God’s work – the sacred path.
There was no reasoning with this man. He had a plan for Bailey and there was nothing he could do to change it.
‘Bring him in!’ The man shifted his focus towards the darkened corner of the room.
An overweight man, dressed in black with a dark bushy beard, came through the door. He was holding the arm of a skeletal figure – head down, feet dragging – leading him across the room. Bailey could see that the figure’s wrists and ankles were shackled. He could hear the metal restraints clanking together.
‘Over there.’ The man in front of Bailey climbed off his knees, pointing to the camera in the corner.
The captive was directed to sit and the man in black switched on the camera. The prisoner’s head and face were cleanly shaven. He looked gaunt, like he hadn’t eaten a proper meal in months. He turned his head to the side, squinting and troubled by the light.
‘This day has regrettably arrived, Douglas.’ The man was standing behind Bailey.
Douglas McKenzie.
The US soldier who had been kidnapped in Mosul six months ago, presumed dead.
‘Today, you must give the message you have been practising, now that you see the injustice of what your country is doing.’
