by Tony Jones
Anna recognised the immigration minister, Al Grassby, when he entered the hall with a brace of staff. Indeed, he was impossible to miss—a short man in a blue-and-white seersucker suit, with a black shirt and the widest, most colourful tie she had ever seen. Grassby had ink-black hair and a matching thin moustache and, when he stopped in a bank of sunlight to put on dark wrap-around sunglasses, it completed the picture of a Neapolitan gangster.
Anna watched a young woman of serious intent, with thick framed glasses and a sensible dress, make a beeline for him. The minister gave her a dazzling smile and made to leave with some excuse, but the young woman had somehow managed to position herself between the man and his destination. Up came her notepad like a shield and he was pinned to the spot, still smiling, for a brief, intense cross-examination.
Anna deduced the interlocutor must be the Melbourne Age’s Michelle Grattan, one of the two, now three, women in the press gallery. The other one’s name was Noel Pratt and she wondered if, like George Elliot, Pratt had adopted a male-gendered nom de plume.
When he appeared in the hall Kerry Milte was also unmistakable. Negus had called him a ‘big red-headed bloke’, but his hair was closer to titian, and his tall, burly figure made a striking impression as he bustled past the Rex Imperator, his eyes scanning the room.
Milte stopped momentarily, a few yards away from the odd tableau of Grattan and Grassby, evidently puzzling as to whether or not this was the right combination of woman and notepad. He was about to step in and ask when Anna reached him.
‘Kerry Milte?’
He turned, raised his eyebrows and gave her a pleasant smile.
‘It’s an easy mistake,’ she said as she moved him away. ‘I should have said, “Woman in denim jacket”.’
‘I have to admit, it crossed my mind for a moment there that Frank Rosen’s daughter might well be a serious insect with Coke-bottle glasses.’
‘I love my father, but I didn’t follow his calling,’ said Anna. ‘Shall we go?’
They made their way out through the bustling hall and into the bright summer sun. Anna stopped to put on sunglasses and Milte squinted at her, pushing back his hair when it flopped over his eyes.
‘You must have studied Marx, though,’ he said.
She paused and considered her answer. ‘Not with the passion of a believer.’
‘What else did you study?’
‘History mainly, and politics, English literature, social anthropology …’
‘With a major in public protest?’
Anna felt off balance. Milte had the copper’s knack of making simple questions sound like allegations. She was not at all sure where he was coming from.
‘I thought I was meant to ask the questions,’ she said.
‘I don’t mean to pry,’ he said. ‘But I do like to know who I’m talking to. It’s a matter of trust, don’t you think?’
At the car park she located the Holden ute she had bought in Sydney from a government car auction Pierre had taken her to. It was a blunt-ended machine, but she had found its wide chromium grin appealing.
‘Hop in,’ she said. ‘It’s not locked.’
‘There’s a hint right there,’ said Milte, deadpan. ‘A Marxist disregard for the protection of private property.’
Anna laughed. ‘Actually, my dad told me to make sure I got insurance.’
She started the ute. The engine coughed, then rumbled pleasantly, and she gunned it fast out of the car park.
‘Why the interest in Marxism?’ she asked.
‘I studied arts and law at Melbourne Uni,’ Milte said. ‘They were rather rigorous in requiring us to understand social constructs in the context of their history, philosophical and social theory. How can one consider crime without Marx and Durkheim, or the bureaucratic theory of Max Weber in the organisation of police and security apparatus? You can’t just look at, say, ASIO, without putting it in the context of the social evolution of the construct of “control”, from the Sumerians to the present.’
Anna was quiet, contemplating all this as she navigated her way to their destination. Soon she pulled into the circular driveway of The Wellington Hotel and parked in front of its colonnaded entrance.
As they walked up the front stairs, she turned to Milte.
‘I love the idea of measuring ASIO against the ancient Sumerians,’ she said.
‘ASIO is a priestly class, perhaps better measured against the Aztecs. I was talking about the evolution of social control. The Sumerians were the first to invent a written law, the Code of Hammurabi.’
Anna led him through the foyer, past the famous bar. ‘Didn’t the Code of Hammurabi include some weird provisions, like throwing alleged criminals into the river?’ she asked.
‘That’s right,’ said Milte. ‘If he drowned in the river, his accuser could take his house. But if he didn’t drown, it was the accuser who was put to death.’
Anna poked his arm. ‘So, if you were a criminal, you’d just learn to swim, wouldn’t you?’
Milte returned her mischievous grin with a smile that softened his tough Irish face. ‘You know, I never studied swimming in ancient Sumer. There’s probably a PhD in that.’
They reached the near-empty restaurant and Anna told the waiter she had a booking. They scanned the menu and both ordered steak and chips and a bottle of house red.
‘I can’t believe you were a policeman,’ said Anna.
‘Why not?’
‘Too erudite.’
‘I was meant to be part of the new breed in the Commonwealth Police. Youngest ever superintendent third class,’ he said proudly. ‘The commissioner has a law degree, too. He took a liking and put me in charge of the Central Bureau of Intelligence.’
‘So what happened? That doesn’t sound like something you’d give up lightly.’
‘Lightly? No, not lightly.’ He gave a sardonic laugh. ‘That’s a story for another day, but I will tell you this: that Grassby fellow that the other notebook girl was talking to, well, he’s from Griffith, one of the great Mafia strongholds in the country. That’s the last thing I was investigating, the links between the Mafia and certain corrupt police, before they shut me down. Keep that in the back of your mind … But you really want to talk about ASIO and the Croats, don’t you?’
‘Is that what Lionel Murphy wants you to advise him on?’
Anna pulled out her notepad and laid it beside her on the table. Milte took a sip of his wine.
‘I’ll give you the background, but you can’t quote me on any of this,’ he said. ‘Some of it you may get from other sources. I’m happy to talk to you because I listened to your radio documentaries, so I know I don’t have to explain everything to you from first principles. You got closer to the truth than anyone.’
‘Do you have anything concrete on the links between ASIO and Croats involved in terrorism?’
‘That’s the key question, isn’t it? That’s what Murphy wants to know. Has ASIO been protecting these bastards while they’ve been blowing things up and sending armed groups into Yugoslavia to bring down the government there?’
‘So, do you have proof that they have?’
‘First of all …’ Milte held up the index finger of his left hand and grasped it with his right. ‘I left the Commonwealth Police in 1970, so that’s more than two years before the latest Bosnian incursion, back in June, and those two big bombs near the Town Hall. But don’t forget there were plenty of bombings before that and at least one other Australian-organised incursion into Yugoslavia, in ’63. There’s a long history to all this stuff. But Billy Wentworth and Senator George Hannan have exerted real influence inside ASIO.’
‘What about the Croats?’
‘I had two run-ins you should know about. The first was in ’69 when we were investigating the Croatian Revolutionary Brotherhood. Have you heard of the Franciscan priest, the Reverend Father Josip Kasic, in Melbourne?’
‘No.’
‘He’s the spiritual leader of the Brotherhood, a ve
ry turbulent priest indeed. Like one of those IRA fellows with the detachable collars. We had a good deal of evidence he was inciting violence, so I went to see him. I was with my deputy commissioner, who’s also a devout Catholic as it happens, and when he realised I was planning to arrest Kasic the blood drained from his face. He said he couldn’t be part of arresting a priest, so I told him to stay in the car. Anyway, I went into the church and told Kasic: “Reverend Father, I’m afraid I’m going to have to arrest you for inciting crimes against the Commonwealth.”
‘Well, he came straight back at me: “Call ASIO,” he said, and I said, “Nup, they won’t help you.” And then he said: “Call Senator Hannan.” And I said: “Nup, he’s not going to help you either. You’re coming with me.” So I got out the handcuffs and he said: “Can we talk? Come, sit down.”
‘He took me out to the presbytery, pulled out a bottle of slivovic and some Dalmatian ham, and we sat there drinking and eating like two old friends. I told him: “Look, the simple thing is no more bombs. Otherwise I’ll come back and take you away.” And he said: “There will not be bombs.”
‘When I eventually staggered back to the car, the deputy commissioner asked: “What took you so long?” and I told him: “Oh, I was taking confession.” And he says: “Well, one thing’s for sure, you’re not driving.”’
Anna laughed, imagining Milte telling this story to a receptive audience in Murphy’s office. Little wonder the attorney had hired him. When the food arrived, she spoke to give Milte the chance to start his meal.
‘Call ASIO,’ she said, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of overdone steak. ‘I suppose the whole thing could be in his imagination. You can easily imagine Kasic being close to an old conservative hardliner like Senator Hannan, but ASIO? What use could he possibly be to them?’
‘It’ll be buried in the files at St Kilda Road,’ said Milte. ‘I’m sure they regarded him as a protected species, most likely an informant.’
‘Did the bombs stop?’
‘For a period. We had a window of peace and Kasic even became a useful source of information. But soon enough Ivo Katich and the Brotherhood were making trouble again. We got serious intelligence that they were amassing a stockpile of weapons. Then a large quantity of cyanide was stolen from the Ford plant at Broadmeadows; certain information pointed to the same Croats.
‘So in early 1970 I hauled Katich in for a formal interview. He just sat there, arms folded, gave me the mad eyes and refused to say anything. Then, just like the priest, he says: “You should phone ASIO first before you talk to me.”’
‘Did you ask him who to call?’
‘Of course.’ Milte drained his wine glass and nodded when she offered to refill it. ‘He kept shtum on that and, understand, I’m no pussycat in the interview room. But it was like playing five hundred against someone who’s holding the bird, the left and right bowers, and all the aces.’
‘So do you think that ASIO gave protection and clearance to war criminals like Ivo Katich to migrate here because they were anti-communists with networks behind the Iron Curtain?’
Milte toyed with his food. ‘I’d love to know the answer to that,’ he said. ‘There’s a logic to it and it would certainly help explain ASIO’s inaction, but we never had the resources to do that kind of historical research. I think it’s your job to get to the bottom of that.’
‘It seems that way,’ said Anna. ‘I’m planning a research trip next year.’
‘Well, you’ll have to go to Yugoslavia. They’ll probably want to help you, but you’ll have to be careful to keep them at arm’s length. Their secret police—the infamous UDBA—are very dangerous.’
‘I know UDBA’s been after the old Ustasha leadership for decades. They got to Ante Pavelic in Buenos Aires in ’58. Ten years later they assassinated Maks Luburic at his villa in Spain. In March this year, the Australian Josip Senic was murdered in Germany and all signs point to a UDBA hit.’
‘That’s right,’ said Milte. ‘They play for keeps, those blokes. But their killings have left a vacuum at the top of the Ustasha and it seems that Ivo Katich is in with a chance to become their global leader.’
Anna looked up from her notes. ‘Really? Katich has that kind of ambition?’
‘I’ve got an intelligence report that was done after I left the police,’ said Milte. ‘In November 1970 he did a big overseas trip, a kind of global tour of the Ustasha in exile: South America, Canada, the US, Spain and Germany. The conclusion was that he’s gathering support to take over as the international president of the Croatian National Resistance movement. The current leadership is regarded as too old and inactive. Katich is seen as intelligent, energetic and a powerful personality. If that happened, then Australia would effectively be the headquarters of the global Ustasha movement. Now, there’s a headline for you.’
‘It’s not a headline without that intelligence report, Kerry,’ said Anna carefully. ‘Could you get it for me?’
‘Not without running it past the attorney,’ he said. ‘He may think it’s a good idea to put it out there. He’s going to be tabling it in the Senate at some point. It’s part of the brief I’m putting together for him.’
‘Do you know if this was raised in Murphy’s big ASIO meeting last week?’
‘You know he met with Peter Barbour?’
‘I do,’ said Anna. ‘And much of what they discussed.’
‘Are you planning to put that in the paper?’
‘Not yet. I told George I’d hold off, in return for this meeting.’
Milte looked relieved. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s a shit fight we don’t need yet. Anyway, if you’re looking for an ASIO story right now, you should be talking to the prime minister’s office.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Whitlam’s got his own battle with ASIO. Straight after the election he had a meeting with the public service heads and introduced them to his staff—Hall, Spigelman, Walsh, White and Freudenberg—and then he says: “These appointments are not subject to the security check. These men are not to be harassed by ASIO.” I mean, you’ve got to admire his loyalty; but since I’ve been back in Canberra I’ve been running into security types all over town who are up in arms over this. They’re not going to stand for it.’
‘Thanks for the tip-off.’
‘That’s just something I picked up from the gossip mill. You’ll have to find your own sources.’
He looked at his watch and she realised they were nearly out of time.
‘Kerry, one final thing before we go.’
She pulled from her jacket the card she had been given at Eden’s Hotel Australasia and handed it to him.
‘Ever heard of this man?’
Milte scrutinised it for a moment and handed it back with a laugh. ‘T-Tom M-Moriarty,’ he said. ‘Security Consultant? That’s a new one. He usually tells the ladies he sells Victa lawnmowers.’
‘I presume he’s ASIO?’
‘That’s a reasonable assumption.’
‘Do you know him well?’
‘I was in crime intelligence, he’s a spy—our interests coincided from time to time. Moriarty likes to keep close contacts in law enforcement. You might find this odd, but a few of us used to get together on Thursday nights to watch Callan.’
‘Really?’
‘I think Tom identified with the character.’
‘That’s disturbing.’
‘I’m not saying he went around assassinating people,’ said Milte, as if to clarify that he would not have condoned a trail of bodies across the capital.
Anna sighed. ‘As you can imagine, thanks to my father’s rank in the Party, I’ve met quite a few ASIO agents over the years. They don’t kill people outright. Their go is to assassinate people’s reputations.’
‘Look, Moriarty’s no angel, but he’s not entirely what he appears to be, either. Definitely not an ASIO hardliner. Do you want to know the strangest thing about him?’
‘Don’t tease me, Kerry, of course I do
.’
‘His real name is Timur Moroshev. He was born in Shanghai; his parents were White Russians.’
Anna stared at Milte in disbelief. ‘ASIO employs Russians? You must be joking.’
‘White Russian, I said—refugees from communism. All of them on Stalin’s death lists. Moriarty’s father worked for the British police in Shanghai. My bet is that he was a Sherlock Holmes fan.’
‘Moriarty?’
‘Yeah, weird choice of name, don’t you think? Anyway, they were caught there by the Japanese invasion. The whole family was interned by the Japs during the war.’
‘He approached me and I brushed him off. Was that a mistake?’
‘If Tom Moriarty wants to bring you into his orbit, you’ll find it very interesting as a journalist. Of course, he may have ulterior motives.’
‘You mean he’s a pants man?’
‘Your words, not mine.’
‘In the brief conversation we had, I already found that much out.’
‘He does work fast.’
‘He’s subtle as a ton of bricks.’
‘He was pissed then?’
‘He could barely stay upright.’
‘That’s his fatal flaw, the booze.’
‘I imagine he has others.’
‘Well, he’s a spy after all.’
‘You mean a born liar?’
Milte grinned. ‘You wouldn’t want to trust his word on anything. He’s spent too long in the wilderness of mirrors. But he’s good company, I can vouch for that.’
Anna returned to Parliament House and was puzzled to find the Herald’s offices empty until she recalled that the bureau chief, Paul Barton, had invited her to join the team for Christmas drinks at the Non-Members’ Bar. It was early afternoon when she got there and, despite the hour, a tumultuous clamour greeted her.
The overcrowded bar was three-deep in thwarted drinkers. As she neared it, a man in a Santa hat suddenly pushed past her. His shabby red jacket had stained white trim like dirty snow, but somehow the intrinsic magic of the costume caused people to step away without rancour. When the rogue Santa reached the bar, he swept aside empty glasses and scrambled on to the beer-slick counter. A coterie of elves arrived in his wake and drew together as their Santa began to sing: ‘Deck King’s Hall with boughs of holly.’
