by Tony Jones
There wasn’t much else on the floor so the Electronics Unit, with its half a dozen members and a few casuals, sprawled out across most of it. The Unit’s premises comprised a locked tape archive; a large equipment room with a workshop for modifying and repairing listening devices; playback machines on desks along one wall, set up with headphones for transcription typists and translators; and two offices for the bosses to maintain the semblance of strict hierarchy. Or rather, as Daltrey theorised, maintain the myth that managers actually worked behind their closed doors.
When Daltrey entered that morning the only person in the big open space was the formidable-looking woman who sat in front of one of the tape machines. Dusanka Andric was silhouetted against the tall windows that had once cast light on lines of hat blockers. In profile, she reminded Daltrey of an emperor’s wife on a Roman coin—until she ruined that illusion by placing a cigarette in her lips.
‘Dobra yoo-tro, Dusanka,’ said Daltrey.
The woman turned to him, revealing the large brown mole beside her nose, a flaw that he found perplexingly attractive. From the earliest days of her employment as a Yugoslav translator on the Croat operation, he remembered her name with the formulation: Doo-shanka is beautiful … And-Rich. He had kept it up even when he found out that she was struggling for a quid just like the rest of them.
‘Good morning, Roger,’ Dusanka replied, using his nickname, in her usual phlegmatic tone.
She was drinking the impossibly sweet, black Turkish mud that she made on the stove every morning in a beaten copper pot.
‘I’ve got the tapes from the Hrvatska,’ he said.
‘Dobra,’ she said. ‘Shall we find out what the fascists are up to now?’
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said, placing the boxes on her desk. ‘Have you seen Bob?’
‘Bob is in with boss. He called him into his office for a chat. He says “chat”, but I think is more than chat. Mr Heffernon was a little … argitated, yes, I think it is argitated.’
Dusanka shucked one of the boxes and fitted the tape on to the right hand of the machine, threading the tape backwards to an empty spool. Daltrey left her rewinding it. He looked at the closed office door, then he went over and knocked.
Inside he found the ursine Bob McCafferty crammed into a chair opposite the Unit’s chief, Detective Sergeant Tim Heffernon.
‘G’day, Roger,’ said Heffernon. ‘I was just telling Bob: Jim Kelly came in early this morning to warn me that the top brass are getting really antsy. The federal government’s sticking its nose into the Croat investigation. Attorney-General Murphy has got a former Commonwealth copper working as an advisor and he’s starting to ask some tricky questions.’
Daltrey ran his hands through his hair and groaned. ‘Oh, fucken hell. What sort of questions?’
‘He wants to assess our product.’
‘What do you mean?’ Daltrey demanded angrily. ‘He wants transcripts?’
‘Murphy obviously doesn’t know about the operation at the restaurant—he’d go off his dial if he did. He’s supposed to authorise all warrants for intercepts and bugs.’
McCafferty cut in. ‘Jim Kelly knows we never had a warrant. He signed off on this himself. You know we had that Commonwealth copper in charge of the op. Al Sharp.’
‘Of course I know that,’ said Heffernon. ‘He hasn’t spilled the beans.’
Daltrey gave a malicious laugh. ‘He’ll be fucked if he does,’ he said. ‘Anyway, we’ve got fuck-all from it in all these months. Except for a few new names. They’re just too cautious.’
‘I was just saying to Bob,’ said Heffernon tentatively, ‘the restaurant’s the last one. Maybe it’s time to quietly pull the bugs out and shut it down.’
McCafferty shrugged. ‘Like I said, I’ll let you break that news to Dusanka.’
Daltrey said nothing.
‘What do you think, Roger?’ Heffernon asked.
For a man who prided himself on being a no-nonsense bloke, Daltrey had a superstitious streak. When a knock came on the door he had a strange sense of predestination.
‘Come in,’ called Heffernon.
In came Dusanka Andric. She had her notepad in her hand and there was an expression on her face that Daltrey hadn’t seen before. Something had penetrated her usual stoicism.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘You must come and listen, all of you,’ she said urgently. ‘We have something. We finally have something.’
20.
14 March 1973
Inspector Harry Harper was in his Canberra office reading a memo from the Foreign Affairs officer whose job it was to liaise with the Yugoslavian Embassy. The Yugoslavian prime minister, Dzemal Bijedic, was due to visit the country in ten days’ time, and his advance team had just flown in from Belgrade. No sooner had they hit the ground than they were demanding answers to a long list of questions. The questions were remarkably specific, revealing a detailed knowledge of Croat nationalist organisations in Australia and of individuals who could pose a threat to their prime minister. Harper was impressed. If he didn’t know better, he’d suspect they’d been riffling through his intelligence files.
However, he wasn’t especially surprised. The Yugoslavs ran their own agents in Australia and had succeeded, to Harper’s sure knowledge, in infiltrating some of the extremist groups, which was a damn sight more than ASIO had managed. So, good on them—and full marks for being clever dicks. But now they wanted assurances that all the people on their list of suspects were under strict surveillance. It was a punishingly long list. He’d have to set up a meeting with the annoying buggers and bring Wal Price along to reassure them.
The most disturbing aspect was that the memo had come from out of the blue. The Yugos had been talking to his team about security arrangements for their PM for a long time and, until now, he’d thought they were satisfied. What had suddenly gotten their knickers in a knot?
Harper was pondering this when his senior research officer, Al Sharp, came rushing through the door looking unusually stern. He was carrying a bundle of papers. He closed the door behind him and lowered himself into the chair on the other side of the desk.
‘What’s up?’ asked Harper.
Sharp took a deep breath. ‘I’ve just been given evidence of a plot to assassinate Prime Minister Bijedic.’
‘Sweet Jesus! What are we talking about? Where’s it come from?’
‘I got a call from Sydney this morning—Jim Kelly.’
Harper knew Kelly well. He was still in command of the NSW Special Breaking Squad, which had still not found the Town Hall Bomber. Ordinarily Kelly would not be passing on intelligence directly to an officer at Sharp’s level, but Harper had sent Sharp to Sydney to work with Kelly on the bombings. They had a special connection.
‘All right, I trust Jim,’ said Harper. ‘What’s he got?’
‘Well, I should tell you first that he’s in a bit of a lather about giving this to us; he’s sticking his neck out.’ Sharp sounded anxious. ‘I need to tell you that what he’s got, what he’s given us, comes from an illegal surveillance operation. Jim’s our only source for this product. He wants a guarantee we’ll treat it as confidential.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said Harper bluntly. ‘But Jim’s a good copper. I’ve got no interest in burning him.’
Sharp nodded. ‘Fair enough.’
‘So get to the point, Al.’
‘Right. Well, you know the pressure the Breaking Squad was under to get quick results after the Sydney bombs. Their tactic was to lift up every rock and stamp on whatever crawled out. There are blokes in that squad who’d happily fit up the first Croat who looked at them sideways. Kelly reined them in and put a major surveillance operation in place. They used my stuff. I gave them lists and contacts and meeting places for every key figure in the old Croatian Revolutionary Brotherhood. They didn’t bother with warrants. Laughed at me when I questioned it. Just went straight at it. Wiretaps, bugs, the lot.’
H
arper was not surprised. ‘I warned you they operate on the edge. Those blokes don’t fuck around.’
‘You were spot on there, boss. To be honest, it was quite exhilarating.’
‘I’m sure that’s how the KGB feels when they’re listening to you fart in bed.’
Sharp bit his lip. ‘I know. I feel bad. I should have given you a full debriefing on this. Kelly turned me from virgin to whore in a couple of days. We were desperate to get the bombers. But the product we got was mostly rubbish. The targets aren’t stupid. They know not to say anything on phones.’
Harper was growing impatient with the backstory. ‘So spit it out. What’s Kelly given us?’
‘I’m getting to that, but I reckon you need to know the background. The upshot of it all was that I had solid intel that the core Croat leaders have a secret meeting place in a restaurant in the middle of the city, the Hrvatska, in Elizabeth Street. The informant told me the food’s so bad you’d never eat there. The meeting room’s upstairs, noisy as hell and hard to wire up, but the technical team did a hell of a job. They managed to get a device inside a television set. Since then they’ve been listening in on every suspicious gathering.
‘That’s where this comes from. After all this time they’ve finally come up trumps. Three baddies were in the room, key people. Kelly says there’s a lot of background noise, but the TV was off at least. They’ve got these blokes on tape plotting to assassinate Prime Minister Bijedic when he comes here. And even worse, there’s threatening talk about Whitlam.’
‘Holy shit!’ said Harper. ‘Where’s the transcript?’
Sharp held up a curling sheet of paper he had ripped off the telex and passed it over.
‘Kelly has just sent us the key section. It’s not long.’
Harper flattened it out on his desk and read it.
Top Secret/ To Compol Intel.
Eyes Only: Sharp, A. Harper, H.
‘Hrvatska Restoran’ meeting. Targets ‘T’, ‘B’ and ‘A’
Recording Date: 23.2.73.
Time: 21.35
Translated transcript segment follows:
T: What about Bijedic?
B: We’re putting people in place now. We can’t let this opportunity pass.
A: Agreed.
B: The Bosniak cunt … (inaudible) … with Tito from the beginning. He’s a fucking traitor to his people and to his religion.
A: Bijedic is an atheist. He has no religion.
B: He was born a Muslim. He’s from Mostar … (inaudible) … recruited him at Belgrade University.
A: That nest of red vipers.
B: They should all be exterminated, every fucking graduate.
T: Bijedic is doing us a favour by coming here … (inaudible).
B: That’s right. That’s right … his big mistake. Our friends in Europe got Rolovic. They’re looking to us now.
T: This will be our moment in history … (inaudible).
A: Don’t measure a wolf’s tail until he is dead. First, we must agree on the method … (inaudible) … Whitlam will be next to him.
T: There’s another socialist cunt. I know people who would give us a medal.
A: Don’t be a fool.
T: Who are you calling a fool? Whitlam deserves what he (inaudible) …
A: (inaudible) … it has to be clean.
B: We need to look … (inaudible) … one man at distance … (inaudible).
A: God willing, we will show the world how it’s done.
B: No details here, understood.
T: You’ll need our help, the network …
B: I told you. No details! Even here.
T: (inaudible section).
NB: One word was identified here. The translator believes it to be cvrčak, which would translate as ‘cicada’ or ‘the cicada’.
B: No fucking names! We can’t talk about this. Anyway, we are not … (inaudible) down only one track.
A: You’ll keep us informed.
B: I will.
Harper felt a nervous griping in his belly as he read, already calculating the series of moves he would have to make. ‘Is that all there is?’ he asked, both hands holding the telex down, as if it might fly off his desk.
‘That’s the key part. Kelly has sent a copy of the full transcript to Compol in Sydney. They’re sending it in a secure bag this afternoon.’
Harper stared at the top of the page, ran a hand through his hair in agitation. ‘Look at the date! This was recorded on 23 February. That’s more than two fucking weeks ago.’
‘I don’t know exactly what happened, but it seems that the boss of the Electronics Unit sat on it,’ said Sharp. ‘He was terrified about being prosecuted by Murphy. I told you they were doing illegal operations all over the city. This only reached Kelly’s desk late yesterday. I think the translator got wind of what was happening and sent it directly to him.’
‘Fuck, I just can’t believe it!’ Harper exclaimed. ‘They’ve had a three-week head start on us. Who knows how far they’ve got with this.’
Sharp stayed silent. He understood Harper’s exasperation.
‘First thing’s first,’ said Harper, returning to his usual methodical style. ‘Who are these bastards? Who’s talking?’
Sharp consulted his notes. ‘Okay. B, the one who seems to be the main organiser, is Vlado Bilobrk. He was another wartime Ustasha. Came here in ’51 and became 2IC to Ivo Katich in the Croatian Revolutionary Brotherhood. We had him under surveillance last year.’
Sharp passed Harper a photograph of a large man coming out of a car-repair shop, late middle age but built hard, like an old rugby league player, his scarred face set in a scowl.
‘Ugly bastard,’ observed Harper.
‘We know he’s still close to Katich. Very close, but they never meet in public anymore. Haven’t been seen together since the Brotherhood was broken up.’
‘So, you reckon Katich is behind this?’
‘I don’t have any doubt about that. In Mafia terms, Bilobrk would be his consigliore. Something as big as this can only have been authorised by Katich. That reference to “our friends in Europe”—that’s the global Ustasha leadership. Katich is the one who talks to them.’
‘Who’re the others?’
‘T is Tomic, Darko Tomic, that is. He’s younger but a fanatic, an organiser of HM—which is the Croatian Youth movement. No pictures of him yet. Kelly will send some. The third man, A, is Viktor Artukovic; he’s HM too, but he’s no “youth”, that’s for sure. Like Bilobrk, he’s an older bloke.’
Sharp handed Harper another photo. It was of a lean, white-haired man, whose heavily lined face had a querulous expression that made him look like someone’s favourite uncle.
‘Artukovic was absorbed into HM when we broke up the Brotherhood. These connections confirm our intelligence. The Brotherhood is still running the show, using different organisations as fronts and recruiting a new generation. We suspected all along that they’d maintained some form of central control.’
Harper shook his head. ‘The way they speak, it’s so matter-of-fact. What do you make of this mention of Rolovic?’ He looked back down at the transcript and pointed it out to Sharp. ‘Here, look: “Our friends in Europe got Rolovic.”’
‘Well, that’s the name of the Yugoslav ambassador to Sweden who was assassinated in his own embassy, isn’t it?’
‘I know that much.’
Harper was well aware of the details. In 1971, a two-man Ustasha team smuggled weapons into the Yugoslavian Embassy in Stockholm. Ambassador Vladimir Rolovic was their target; as a former head of UDBA, he’d been responsible for actions against Croat nationalists. After putting a gun in his mouth and shooting him at the end of a long siege at the embassy, the Ustasha team surrendered to police.
‘There was also a hijacking of a Scandinavian Airlines jet in September,’ continued Harper. ‘Ultimately the Swedes caved in to the terrorists’ demands and released Rolovic’s killers.’
‘That happened just before the Sydn
ey bombings, didn’t it?’ asked Sharp.
Harper nodded. ‘That’s right. At the time we thought the attacks were probably coordinated. A bloke from Swedish intelligence contacted me back then to see if we could help them. That was when you were in Sydney with the Breaking Squad. Sven Schustrum was his name, the head of their national intelligence service. Looks like there’s some kind of link between our little group of plotters and the people who killed Rolovic. This Bilobrk fellow might just be a big-noter, but we have to assume the worst.’
Sharp jotted down Schustrum’s name, then turned back to the transcript.
‘What do you make of this reference to “the cicada”?’ he asked. ‘Ring any bells?’
Harper shook his head. ‘None at all. Obviously in that context it looks like a codename.’
‘The assassin? Could we have our own Jackal here?’
‘It’s not conclusive, but look at the way Bilobrk shuts him down. It’s sensitive. He really doesn’t want anyone talking about it, even in their safe meeting place. It’s extremely worrying. We need to get hold of the original recording and get our technical people on to it. See if they can get more out of it.’
‘That’s going to be difficult, Harry. You should speak to Jim Kelly yourself. He might respond to rank.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Harper said, making another note on a list that was quickly getting longer.
Sharp watched the inspector gather his thoughts. He respected this about Harper. There was no bluster. He took his time to sum up the complex problems, and then responded decisively.
‘Instinctively, I want to haul these three bastards in and sweat them,’ said Harper. ‘We may have to do that at some point, but we’ve got two problems. Without warrants, the fucking tape is inadmissible and, even if it was, they’ve been careful enough to make sure that their comments are ambiguous. That’s the legal position. But as a piece of pure intelligence, it’s clear to me that this is not just a group of lunatics frothing at the mouth. These men are sitting in a quiet room talking cold-bloodedly about assassinating a visiting prime minister. They seem to have concrete plans. The mention of Whitlam suggests the threat could extend to him.’
