by Tony Jones
At 12.30 pm he would join a tour group and enter the structure to gauge for himself its utility as a shooting platform. He left the car and began a reconnaissance of its exterior. The carillon was on Aspen Island, the largest of three artificial islands at the southeast corner of the central basin of the lake and located within a triangular zone known as the Parliament House Vista. It was the vista looking back at Parliament House that interested Marin.
Close to where he left the car in Kings Park was a curved pedestrian bridge to the island. As he walked the arced path on the bridge, he took particular notice of the lighting. He would be especially exposed crossing the bridge at night. But that was the only way on and off the island—unless he came by water, an unlikely option. There was cover on the island from alder and aspen trees planted some distance from the carillon and from the weeping willows close to the lake, but he knew he would have to wait for the floodlights to be killed at 1 am.
At its base, he stared up at the tower, a giant 55-metre-high tripod. Its legs supported the three-level carillon, which contained the Clavier Chamber, the Bell Chamber and a smaller viewing room at the top known as ‘Chimes’. The legs formed a cluster of columns of different heights with sharply angled roofs. Each of the columns was hollow with central shafts, which were used to access all levels of the carillon. The highest shaft housed a passenger lift, the next a steel staircase, while the lowest shaft contained a service lift. Marin wouldn’t trust the lifts. He would have to access the structure by the staircase.
Tourists were now gathering under the carillon, near the stainless-steel doors of the passenger lift. He walked to the second column and examined the door to the stairs. Like both the lifts, it was stainless steel and fitted with a complex security lock, of a type he was unfamiliar with. He would need a set of keys to this door, and likely to other doors throughout the structure.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ announced a loud voice. ‘The tour is about to begin.’
Marin turned to see a tall, willowy woman with a fine-boned face and the abnormally cheerful expression of someone whose faith was rarely challenged.
‘I’m Barbara,’ she said. ‘I’m a volunteer here at the carillon. We’re about to go inside one of the world’s biggest musical instruments.’
Marin joined the group, which consisted of two retired couples and the parents of a young family still trying to wrangle their three small daughters, who’d been racing around the island chasing swans.
‘Right,’ Barbara continued. ‘Gather around. As you may know the carillon was a gift from Britain to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the national capital …’
Marin tuned out as Barbara repeated information he’d already learned.
‘We’re very lucky to have fifty-five bells, which makes it the biggest carillon in Australia. The bells are connected to a clavier, which is a kind of keyboard with wooden batons that we use to play the bells. That’s our first stop, so if you all come into the lift, I’ll take you there.’
Barbara used a key to unlock the lift and pressed the button to the first floor. As the doors closed she looked down at the girls.
‘My father trained soldiers in Brisbane during the war and one day they sent him a group of New Guinea natives who’d never seen a lift before. They thought the lift was a magic box. You step inside the box and wait … and then it opens up to another world.’
As she said this, the lift stopped and the doors opened with a ding to the clavier chamber.
‘You see,’ said Barbara, holding the lift open to allow them all to step into the triangular room with the strange keyboard machine in the middle. ‘Magic!’
‘Can you play it?’ the tallest of the girls asked after they had been led into the clavier.
‘Actually, I usually play a church organ, but I’m training to play this,’ said Barbara. ‘I’m really not supposed to on tours but—do you know what?—I don’t think anyone will mind if I show you how it works.’
When Barbara slid into the chair, Marin moved across to the windows to look at the view over the lake. There it was on the other side: the low white façade of Parliament House. The angle from here was not perfect. Marin knew he’d have to go higher. As Barbara began playing, he drifted around to the door on the other side of the room. It was open and he slipped out into the stairwell shaft and ran up two steep flights.
Behind the door on the next level he heard the clamour of the bells. It was unlocked and he stepped inside. The ringing bells were deafening at such close quarters; just noise with no discernible tune. He quickly stuffed cottonwool balls into his ears and surveyed the room.
The bell chamber was a huge triangular space. The largest of the bells, including the seven-tonne bourbon, were directly in front of him. They hung off a wide steel girder. Graduated by size, the other bells hung in ranks, with the smallest going up into the high ceiling. Each of the three sides of the chamber was open to the air, with the high slit windows covered by steel mesh to stop birds flying in.
Marin went first to the opening over the lake and pressed his hands against the mesh, testing its strength. He would need wire-cutters. He assessed again the angle to Parliament House. Still too low.
Despite the cottonwool, he felt the pressure on his ears from the incessant pealing of the bells. He climbed the steel ladder to the level of the first of the steel girders and walked along the maintenance gantry to the opening over the lake. This was closer but still not perfect, so he climbed to the next level, which was about five metres up from the chamber floor.
He hurried along the gantry to the mesh screen and looked out. Much better.
He took out the binoculars and focused on the front steps of the parliament. The angle was good and the flag fluttering above the entrance would give him windage. He lay down full length on the serrated grating of the gantry floor, and checked again with the binoculars. No doubt now—it was a potential firing position.
The frenzied ringing of the bells continued. He imagined Barbara was showing off. He got to his feet, pulled the small camera from his pocket. It was loaded with high-speed film. He took a series of photos of the position he’d chosen and of the mesh. After that he climbed down and took a second series of shots from the floor of the chamber. Then the bells stopped.
Marin was standing on the lowest level, behind the bourdon bell, looking at the city through the binoculars when the lift dinged.
‘There he is!’ cried the youngest girl, and Marin turned to see the tour group emerge.
Barbara marched over to confront him. ‘Sir! You’re not meant to be up here.’
Marin took the cotton buds from his ears. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘You’re not meant to be up here on your own.’
‘You didn’t mention that,’ he said mildly. ‘I just wanted to see the bells while you were playing.’
‘You’re not allowed to do that—it could damage your hearing.’
‘Like I said, you didn’t mention that. But I had these in.’ He held up the balls. ‘So you needn’t worry.’
He had her snookered and Barbara knew it. Today her faith was being tested.
‘Please don’t tell anyone,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t worry,’ he reassured her. ‘I definitely won’t be doing that.’
24.
It was a surprisingly cool night when the audience spilled out of the last session of Cabaret. Anna Rosen did up the buttons of her coat as she left the cinema. When Bruce McKillop went to take her arm, she neatly pirouetted away from him.
‘We’re not on a date, Bruce.’
‘Oh, sorry, Miss Frosty,’ said McKillop. ‘I forgot myself. I was treating you like a friend. Not a date.’
‘Jury’s still out on the friendship thing.’
‘Come on, you don’t go to the movies with someone you don’t like.’
‘You might if you were trying to make up your mind.’
‘Well, if watching a movie together in the dark didn’t work, we should go have a dr
ink.’
Parliament was still sitting that evening, but there didn’t seem to be much happening. Anna had filed her story early and thought she deserved a break. Despite his insecurities, his occasional vindictiveness and his dalliance with heroin, Bruce McKillop could still be an entertaining companion.
‘I could use a drink,’ she said. ‘The bar at The Lakeside’s probably the closest.’
After they climbed into her car, McKillop pulled out a fat joint and lit up, his elbow out the window.
‘Christ, Bruce,’ Anna said. ‘At least roll up the window. We’ll be pulled over by the first cop with a sense of smell.’
McKillop frowned at her, but reluctantly complied. ‘Don’t be so paranoid. They couldn’t care less. Here, have some of this and relax.’
She took a long toke and handed the joint back. They were high by the time they reached the hotel’s car park.
The Lakeside had a sweeping spiral staircase that flowed into a foyer strewn with nests of primary-coloured modular chairs and, behind it, dark modernist bars with recessed lighting. They found places on tall, leather-topped stools in the crowded Bobby McGee’s and ordered gin martinis.
After the second round, Anna announced that she needed to go for a pee. She pushed her way through to the restrooms, trying to maintain her equilibrium. On her way back a hand grabbed her elbow.
‘Who’s the b-boyfriend?’
She turned to the handsome, mocking face of Tom Moriarty.
‘You’ve got to stop appearing out of thin air,’ she said, sobering fast. ‘And he’s not my boyfriend. He’s just a work colleague.’
‘Smoke joints in the c-car park with all your w-work colleagues, do you?’
‘What? Are you following me now? This is getting creepy.’
‘No, Anna, something’s happened. We need to t-talk.’
Moriarty led her to a table at the back with a window overlooking the dark lake. As soon as they sat down Anna turned to him angrily. ‘How the hell did you find me?’
‘I found out you’d gone to the m-movies. I just waited for you to c-come out.’
‘What’s so important that you’ve got to tailgate me around Canberra?’
‘You need to speak to M-Milte as soon as you can. The C-Commonwealth Police have p-passed on solid intelligence to him about a plot to assassinate P-Prime Minister Bijedic when he’s here in Australia.’
‘Bloody hell! Do you know where it’s come from?’
‘They’re not t-telling me anything. Lionel M-Murphy’s convinced the Organisation is holding back what they know about the C-Croats. Seems to think we’re behind the whole sh-show.’
‘Maybe you are. It’s a reasonable assumption, isn’t it? I don’t see why anyone would trust ASIO on this.’
‘I told you before, it’s c-complex, but I’ll t-tell you another thing: n-no one in the Organisation has a c-clue about any assassination plot.’
Anna looked at her watch. It was less than two hours before the final deadline for the late edition. This was a significant tip-off. Moriarty had done her a huge favour. But why? She had to go. ‘You say Milte knows about this? Anyone else?’
‘He’s still at w-work. You might reach other c-contacts, but he’s your b-best shot.’
‘What’s in this for you? Why do you want it in the papers?’
‘We have to hope M-Marin reads it and tries to c-contact you.’
‘That just sounds crazy.’
‘I know you think that, but t-trust me …’
‘Trust you? Yeah, right …’
‘I know what he’s c-c-capable of, Anna.’
*
Anna went straight to the bank of phones in the foyer and shut herself in a cabinet. Tennant had told her she should always carry a bunch of coins for phone calls. She was grateful for that advice now as she tipped a bunch out of her pocket, pulled out a notepad and dialled Milte’s number. He answered straight away.
She made two more calls and within fifteen minutes she had her story. She hung up and rang Paul Barton at home, telling him what she had.
‘That’s front page,’ he said without a second thought. ‘I’m not sure who’s putting the paper to bed tonight, but I’ll ring Boyce directly and let him know what’s coming. You need to get this to the copytakers as soon as possible.’
‘I can dictate it from here.’
‘Well done, Anna. Good job.’
By the time she’d gotten the story away and returned to the bar, Bruce McKillop had gone. She imagined he’d left a trail, like the spoor of a wounded animal, but she decided not to follow it.
She went back to her room at The Wellington, still processing what she’d found out as she brushed her teeth. An assassin with the codename Cicada … in Canberra, for fuck’s sake! She shook her head, spat and rinsed her mouth out. She fell asleep thinking of Marin Katich, while the thrumming song of multitudinous insects rang in her head.
25.
Lionel Murphy threw the newspaper on to his desk. The Herald’s headline was bad enough:
Thursday March 15, 1973
Nationwide Manhunt for Croat Assassin
Codename: ‘Cicada’
He felt like shouting, but in the end he spoke quietly. ‘Fuck me dead, Kerry.’
‘It’s tempting when you put it that way,’ said Milte.
Murphy let the moment settle, stroking sleep’s residue from the corner of his eye with his little finger.
‘Everyone’s a comedian,’ he said. ‘You and Negus should be on stage together.’
Milte doubted there’d be any chemistry in that duo. He got up from the couch and picked up the paper. Anna Rosen had sourced the whole story anonymously, but where on earth had she got the detail about the codename?
‘I don’t see this story as a problem,’ he said. ‘If anything, it will ramp up the pressure on ASIO to start telling the truth.’
‘Perhaps that’s right,’ said Murphy. ‘Speaking of Negus, I wonder if I should call him back from Sydney to deal with this?’
Milte put the paper down, shaking his head. ‘No need to do that, you shouldn’t get involved at all. Don’t give it oxygen. Let the Commonwealth Police respond. They’ll refuse to confirm any of the details and make some bland statement about the task force they’ve put together to ensure the safety of Prime Minister Bijedic.’
‘What if it comes up in Question Time?’
‘Shut it down,’ said Milte. ‘You don’t comment on operational matters.’
Murphy tapped his fingers on the newspaper. ‘Anna Rosen again. Have we let her get too close?’
‘I don’t think so. This is her special subject. She has plenty of sources outside the government. As I said, this story is useful for us. It’s a kick in the pants for ASIO.’
‘Well, they have been next to useless,’ said Murphy. ‘We’ve heard nothing from them about threats to Bijedic. It’s all come from the police.’
‘Senator, I don’t want to state this too highly, but I believe I know why that is. I’m chasing down a document right now that will prove, beyond doubt, that ASIO has been acting, covertly, behind the scenes, to prevent action being taken against the Croats.’
Murphy was tired. He hadn’t been sleeping well. His wife, Ingrid, was in the final stage of her first pregnancy and waking at all hours. He was worried that his own crises were affecting his young wife, but Milte’s last statement hit him like a shot of adrenalin. His head jerked up.
‘What are you talking about, Kerry? What document?’
‘I don’t want to speculate any more on this until I have it in my hands,’ said Milte. ‘I’ve been told that the document exists and I hope to have it late today. If what I’ve been told is true, it’s a game changer.’
‘Whatever it is, I want that document the moment you have it.’
‘You’ll be the first to know, Senator.’
In the late afternoon Milte took a taxi to the Belconnen Bowling Club. The place was full of superannuated public servants in the creamy u
niforms of lawn bowlers. Balls clinked as the last ends of the day were played, but most of the old codgers had retired to the bar. That was where he found Tom Moriarty: at the quiet end with an empty whisky glass and a half-finished beer chaser.
‘Your shout,’ said Moriarty.
Milte shelled out for another whisky and a beer for Moriarty, plus a beer for himself. After the barman had set up the drinks, Milte asked in a quiet voice: ‘So, did you manage to get it?’
‘Sorry, they keep these d-documents locked away in the archive and I couldn’t get in to w-winkle it out.’
‘Which archive is that?’
‘The West P-Portal. Colin Brown runs a t-tight ship.’
‘Shit.’
The West Portal was ASIO’s Canberra HQ in the Russell Complex, which also housed the Defence Department. Milte had puzzled over Moriarty’s willingness to stir up trouble for his ASIO bosses. Was it a subtle power play against the Old Guard of the Organisation who were so on the nose with the new government? Moriarty was hard to read, but it had to be something like that.
‘It’s not a d-document I can go in and r-r-request. Not if you’re g-going to make a scandal out of it.’
‘No, I wouldn’t want to turn you into a spy.’
‘F-Funny man,’ said Moriarty, nipping at the whisky. ‘You do know that, as attorney-general, M-Murphy would be within his rights to go there and demand a c-copy.’
Milte knew for sure now that Moriarty was playing for keeps. He watched him chase the liquor down with half a glass of beer. ‘That would be a dramatic move,’ he said.
‘It would.’
‘I’d have to know exactly what we’re looking for.’
‘What do you know n-now?’
‘All I know is that without the knowledge of the attorney, or myself, an interdepartmental meeting was called on the second of March, chaired by your colleague Ron Hunt with at least one other ASIO man in attendance.’
‘You mean P-Penny?’
