by Robert Sims
It took several minutes as, one after the other, those around the table explained who they were and what they did. The police were well represented, with delegates drawn from the specialist squads in Brisbane as well as the AFP. There were officers from the emergency services - ambulance, fire brigade and hospitals - as well as members of Whitley Council’s Local Disaster Management Committee. Together with Defence, various federal government departments had also sent officials. It seemed like a comprehensive and dynamic gathering. Or was it, Rita wondered. Perhaps, with its ensemble approach, it was destined to be the very opposite.
When it came to her turn she stated briskly, ‘Detective Sergeant Marita Van Hassel, Criminal Profiler, Victoria Police.’
With the introductions complete, folders were distributed, stamped on the front cover with the words Commonwealth of Australia - Confidential. Each folder contained nearly one hundred densely printed pages, which attempted to anticipate any and all exigencies. The rule book, thought Rita.
‘Read it carefully after this meeting,’ instructed Baxter. ‘At tomorrow’s session I will expect to hear a range of suggestions on how we can apply or adapt the measures covered, or reinforce the strategies already in place.’ He waited for the ripples of shuffling and murmuring to subside around the table. ‘Very well, then. Down to business. Those of you who have been invited to participate in the review are here as guests of this establishment.
As such you have been issued with a level-one security clearance, giving you access to the building’s superstructure and as far down as this level. Everywhere else is out of bounds. If you should stray to the underground levels below us you’ll be subject to mandatory arrest. So while you can feel free to go up at Whitley Sands, please don’t attempt to explore downwards. The R&D activities conducted on the lower levels are classified, highly sensitive and potentially dangerous to the uninformed. That warning aside, we felt it appropriate to convene here, in the Situation Room, because of the gravity of the threat confronting us.’
Baxter took a deep breath and drew himself up to his full height.
‘A question on many of your minds will be: why a review?
The process was initiated amid concerns in both Canberra and Washington over the public campaign being mounted against the base. The first flashpoint came with the mass demonstration in March. It marked a significant escalation, going beyond what the motley band of local environmentalists had organised up till then. The March 20 anti-war protest saw concerted action by a coalition of anarchists, anti-capitalists, hard-core eco-warriors and land rights activists who’d all taken up residence in the town. It also saw the first use of bolt-cutters and the first breaches of the perimeter fence. Worst of all, it further publicised the base as a centre for the development of hi-tech weapons for deployment in the war on terror. Because of media coverage that label was promulgated to a global audience and we are having to deal with the consequences.
‘The second flashpoint came earlier this month with an even bigger mass demonstration, more bolt-cutters, more breaches, and another wave of negative publicity. The government decided to act by ordering that the review process be put in motion. We had planned to give you advance notice but the terrorist alert changed that. The review was upgraded to urgent, and that’s why you’ve been summoned here today instead of next week. The anti-war movement now poses a secondary problem, in that it could provide a smokescreen for a terrorist attack. Preventing such an event is, of course, our new priority. And to bring you up to speed on that, I’ll hand over to Peter Luker.’
Baxter sat down, straight-backed, in his chair.
Luker didn’t get to his feet. Instead he leant forward on the table, hands clasped, and spoke in a more relaxed, conversational tone, as if reluctant to generate alarm.
‘Nearly a fortnight ago,’ he began, ‘four men on a terrorist watch-list disappeared from known locations in the western suburbs of Sydney. Subsequent searches unearthed false documents, charts and bomb-making residues. They are now considered to be an active terrorist cell. Last night, the same four men were identified on surveillance footage in Whitley, entering Rafferty’s bar.’
Luker turned as the footage, timed at 21.35, was replayed on flat screens around the room.
‘A raid was conducted within the hour but the men were no longer on the premises. The bar was crowded, with many people coming and going, and we’ve been unable to isolate footage of the men leaving. It has to be assumed they represent an extreme risk.’
Luker unclasped his hands and toyed with a pack of cigarettes as if wishing he could open it and light up.
‘There’s more. Their appearance in the town isn’t a coincidence.
The Defence Signals Directorate has detected a rise in electronic chatter, here and overseas, relating to an imminent attack, with intelligence gathered recently containing a specific reference to Whitley Sands. While a direct assault on the base is deemed possible but unlikely - and the same applies to warships of the US
Navy - the town itself is far more vulnerable. A bombing, with a high civilian death toll, in the vicinity of the base has a much greater probability. Likely targets include hotels, bars, nightclubs and tourist spots. With such a scenario, we need all the support we can get, and that’s why you’re sitting here now.’
Luker leant sideways in his chair and pocketed his cigarettes, as if out of habit, as he rounded off his remarks.
Rita wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. She detected a hint of discomfort in his body language, possibly because he didn’t fit in with the others at the head of the table. Judging by his manner he had no military history, unlike his colleagues, and while his relaxed approach suggested a more sociable background, if anything, he was smarter than them, sharp and articulate in almost a casual way.
It was obvious that Luker held a senior position in the nation’s intelligence and security structure, yet his appearance, too, was a shade less than polished. His navy blue suit was slightly creased, with the tie a little askew, and there were nicotine stains on his fingers. Somewhere in his middle age, he had a friendly, lived-in face, which exhibited the results of bad habits in the bags under his eyes and a flush of redness in his cheeks. For all that, Rita found him attractive - not for his looks, because he wasn’t exactly handsome, but because of an undercurrent of dangerous charm, the sign of a man with a bohemian streak, combined with a touch of gentleness. Of course, her observations could be way off-beam.
Given his job, he could be capable of lethal deception.
Luker added as an afterthought, ‘I’m happy to provide more background information in response to any questions you may have. But please understand I can’t disclose classified material or breach restrictions relating to national security.’
Baxter again asserted his control over proceedings.
‘I think we can move on to the next step,’ he said. ‘This is a good point at which to throw open discussion on issues that might concern you. Try to keep your questions short, and for those answering, try to be brief. Above all, stay focused on the primary objective: the uncompromising defence of our way of life, and the comprehensive defeat of our enemies.’
As the question-and-answer session drifted into predictable and repetitive territory, Rita tuned out, thinking over what Freddy had told her. His information had reinforced her theory about what
- if not who - lay behind the murders, setting a clear priority of tracking down the elusive Stonefish. He seemed to hold the key to the investigation and, if he had acted as Steinberg’s go-between, it was little wonder he had dropped out of sight. That made her task all the more difficult. Stonefish obviously had no intention of being found, especially as he was being pursued by powerful figures associated with the research base, possibly including some sitting in the Situation Room right now.
An unexpected question snapped Rita’s attention back to the discussion.
‘I may be missing something, but why do we have a criminal profiler from Victoria attendi
ng this review?’
The question, which came with a barb of suspicion from a defence ministry official, took both Rita and Bryce by surprise.
Bryce shot her a warning glance and was clearing his throat to respond when Luker intervened.
‘I can answer that,’ he said. ‘Detective Sergeant Van Hassel is here for her expertise in crime-scene analysis, behavioural science and the psychology of violence. With no local profiler available, she’s been seconded to examine the decapitation killings in the town. Because of the second victim’s provocative role in fomenting protests against the base, there’s a clear overlap with security issues.’ Luker laid a look on the ministry official. ‘DS Van Hassel also comes to us with the highest recommendations from senior police officers regarding her ability and integrity. We thought it not only a pragmatic step to include her, but one that can only be advantageous. She has, after all, a unique insight into the criminal mind. And, let’s face it, that’s what we’re threatened with in its most fanatical expression.’
As a rebuttal, it was more than effective. It was unexpected praise.
Bryce exchanged another glance with Rita before sitting back.
He looked partly relieved, partly bemused, as if he didn’t know what was going on. There was obviously more to her presence than anyone was telling him. As for Rita, Luker’s words were doing wonders for her ego. She sensed a great ulterior motive, along the lines that had come from Maddox, but she felt a measure of reassurance. When Luker leant back, throwing her a friendly smile, she had an urge to applaud him.
The discussion then turned to civic emergency responses. It wasn’t long before they were bogged down in details of town infrastructure, until Baxter announced a forty-minute adjournment, reminding everyone that everything below level one was out of bounds.
‘You can go up but not down,’ said Baxter. ‘Coffee and sandwiches are available at the cafeteria in the basement atrium.
That’s one floor up. Toilets are also there. For those of you addicted to nicotine, the ground-floor smoking area is at your disposal.
That’s three floors up. Needless to say, everything discussed in this room is confidential.’
While Bryce and Jarrett made an immediate move to join the squad officers from Brisbane, Rita hung back, feeling like the odd one out. She was in no mood for police politics. Instead, she made her way out of the room and along the corridor among other delegates, her thoughts turning to something that had more to do with emotions than terrorism or murder. She found herself thinking about the proximity of her lover’s ex-lover. Audrey Zillman was close by, presumably working on one of the levels below her. Rita wanted to meet her for personal as well as professional reasons, though how she would swing it under the circumstances was a real problem.
As she waited for the lift, her thoughts were interrupted by a voice beside her.
‘Mind if I join you?’
It was Luker.
‘Join me where?’ she asked.
‘I thought maybe we could grab a coffee then head up to the smoking area.’ He brandished his pack of cigarettes. ‘I’m one of the nicotine addicts Baxter disapproves of.’
‘Okay,’ said Rita. ‘After your words of welcome back there I can hardly decline.’
Rita could feel the eyes of the guards on her as, plastic coffee cup in hand, she followed Luker to the smoking area. It wasn’t her imagination, she was sure. Each time she passed a member of Maddox’s security force she was on the receiving end of a persistent stare. It was as if they were watching and waiting for her to put a foot wrong. Dr Steinberg’s notion of a modern Stasi was ringing true yet again, not to mention the Panopticon theme of inmates in a glass prison - a twenty-first-century version with its electronic ‘mode of obtaining power of mind over mind’, as Jeremy Bentham had expressed it. The parallels were chilling. At least there would be no move against her while she was in Luker’s company.
Once inside the smoking room, he dumped his plastic cup on the nearest table, spilling coffee in his haste to get out a cigarette.
He offered her one but she shook her head. As Rita sat down opposite him, he lit up, sucked the smoke into his lungs, then breathed it out slowly with a sigh of relief.
‘Thank God for that,’ he said.
While he inhaled again, Rita sipped her coffee and gazed out over the car park. Beyond the asphalt a landscape of coastal dunes and saltbush stretched away under a grey sky. Like other institutions, the research base had decided to prove its concern for the health of employees by treating smokers as social lepers. As a result, they were forced into each other’s company in a mood of mutual sympathy and resentment. Rita had observed the effect before - one of the miscalculations of corporate psychology. No doubt it meant that here, as in so many other workplaces, the ‘Designated Smoking Area’ had become a hub of gossip.
The room was charmless - scuffed plastic chairs scattered around low formica tables bearing overflowing ashtrays. A row of windows overlooked the lines of staff cars outside. A bearded man in denim smoked despondently, his gaze floating somewhere along the horizon. Others around him chatted in subdued tones about the shortcomings of the base. A young technician in a white lab coat paced back and forth, smoking nervously. A woman flicked through the pages of a magazine. A group of fellow delegates, from the town’s emergency services, entered the room, reaching for their lighters. They eyed Luker and moved away, keeping their distance.
He puffed again and loosened his tie.
‘I’ve been dying for one of these for the past two hours,’ he explained to Rita.
‘Maybe you should kick the habit,’ she told him.
‘Have you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I should have added “strong-willed” to your qualities.’ He sat back and relaxed with another draw on his cigarette. ‘We have something in common, you and I. We’re both outsiders here.’
‘That surprises me. You all look as thick as thieves.’
Luker chuckled at her irreverence. ‘If there’s one place where looks are deceiving, it’s the Situation Room.’
‘Surely you have a lot in common with your CIA pal.’
‘No, Molloy is very much an insider.’
‘And the Canberra bureaucrats?’
‘They’re at home too. They had a hand in setting up the Whitley Sands facility. I’m a newcomer, only recently drafted in. I’m still getting a feel for the place - the base, the town, the mind-set of the tropical north. Much like you, I suspect.’
‘So what’s your impression of Whitley Sands?’
Luker gave a grunt. ‘Equivocal. But let’s set that topic aside for the time being. The walls have ears.’
‘I’ve got a feeling you mean that in a technical way,’ commented Rita.
He just said, ‘I’d like to think you and I could come to a consensus on how you proceed with your investigation.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Regarding the overlap I mentioned. There are any number of methods for safeguarding national security. I’m suggesting you and I could agree on an alternative strategy.’
‘Alternative to what?’
‘To those already in place. You’ll appreciate I can’t go into details.’
Rita sighed. ‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at but I’m already in a difficult position - under orders to toe the line or else.’
‘The line is often blurred.’
‘Not if you’ve been threatened, handcuffed, strip-searched and interrogated like a criminal.’
Luker frowned. ‘Maddox?’
‘And his paramilitary thugs.’
‘I see.’ Luker contemplated the smoke he was exhaling. ‘Needless to say, he overreacted. But somehow you’ve hit a raw nerve. I find that interesting.’
‘If you’re hinting you’re not fully informed that’s a bit hard to swallow.’
‘There’s a difference between information and knowledge,’
he replied.
‘When you’re talking a
bout intelligence data, yes. But your job is to have knowledge of state secrets.’
‘Quite true. But no institution discloses all its secrets willingly.
Especially if it’s got something to hide from official scrutiny.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Rita shook her head sceptically. ‘It’s hard for me to take anything here at face value. If you’re playing a game of cat and mouse, what’s the point? Maddox and his connections have already sprung the trap.’
‘I’m not trying to trick you.’
‘Well, if you’re talking out of school, I don’t know why. You’ll have to explain.’
‘Fair enough.’ Luker moved closer. ‘Put frankly, there’s more going on here than I can get a handle on. You, however, have obviously made connections I haven’t. This comes as no surprise given the recommendations about you.’
‘Yes, I’ve been meaning to ask. What recommendations?’
‘I did some positive vetting - comes with the territory. You’ll be pleased to hear your senior officers rate you very highly.’
‘Does that include Superintendent Nash?’
‘Nash was the one discordant note. But, oddly enough, that goes in your favour. His perspective is bureaucratic. Mine is not. Besides, your fan base goes all the way up to the chief commissioner herself.’
‘And you spoke to Jack Loftus?’
‘Of course. But your best reference comes from a man I know personally, Detective Inspector Jim Proctor.’
‘Let me guess. You belong to the same club.’
‘Correct. He told me you’d spot it.’
‘What else did he tell you?’
‘That you’re too good to be a squad detective,’ answered Luker.
‘He thinks you’re a natural for intelligence work, given your profiling skills and personality.’
