The Twentieth Man

by Tony Jones

  He wiped his hand across the glass and turned his tired mind to the implications of a death threat to Lionel Murphy. Of course, it could be a hoax—some crank trying to put the wind up the new attorney—but they couldn’t take that chance, not with everything else that was going on.

  Harper had already pulled out all the stops to deal with a serious assassination threat. In four days’ time the Yugoslavian prime minister, Dzemal Bijedic, would arrive in Australia for his state visit and there was credible intelligence of a plot to kill him. Harper’s teams had been working around the clock to contain the danger and secure the capital. A clock was winding down in Harper’s head. It now had less than a hundred hours on it.

  Yesterday his men had intercepted a driver on the Hume Highway en route to Canberra. The Holden Monaro with NSW plates had been driven by a giant, slab-faced fellow. His travel plans had been picked up on wiretaps that linked him to the Croatian Revolutionary Brotherhood. In the car boot they found a box of sweating gelignite.

  Christ, was that only yesterday? The man was in custody, refusing to talk. Harper’s men were sealing off the city as quickly as they could, but they didn’t know who or what was already inside the security perimeter.

  ‘We got lucky on Bijedic, didn’t we?’ he said to Sharp.

  ‘We did, boss.’

  The deputy director-general of ASIO was used to being woken in the middle of the night. When the phone rang at his Melbourne home, he sat up straight, swung his legs off the bed and checked the clock beside the phone. 2.30 am. He picked up the receiver and said one word.

  ‘Behm.’

  He listened for a while before interrupting. ‘I’ll call you straight back.’

  As he hung up his wife stirred next to him, and he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he said. ‘Go back to sleep. I’ll be back before you wake up.’

  Jack Behm threw on some clothes, took his glasses and eye drops from the bedside table, glanced up at the darkened crucifix on the wall—an automatic reflex—and left the bedroom, closing the door quietly. He sat at his desk in the study, absorbing what he’d just been told.

  Lionel Murphy was on a rampage. The man was a dangerous radical, a bigger loose cannon than Whitlam, but no one had expected this. Behm’s eyes were smarting—keratitis sicca—most likely damaged, said the medicos, from the phosphorous smoke in anti-tank shells. He tipped his head back and administered the drops, wondering how Murphy and his peacenik mates would have gone against the Japs. He dialled the STD number in Canberra and heard, after the pips, the familiar voice of the Organisation’s regional director, Colin Brown.

  ‘Brown.’

  ‘Talk, Colin,’ said Behm. ‘From the beginning.’

  ‘Murphy rang me at home after midnight and demanded I come in to meet him in person at the West Portal.’

  ‘And you agreed to do that?’

  ‘He’s the attorney-general, Jack.’

  ‘What reason did he give?’

  ‘He claimed to have new intelligence on a threat to assassinate Prime Minister Bijedic.’

  Behm snorted angrily. ‘Bite-ya-dick again!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m sick of hearing about this fellow and his cursed visit. If they’re so worried about his safety, they should cancel it. The man’s a hardline communist. He’s one of Tito’s best mates. Brezhnev and Mao like to greet him with hugs, and we’re going to roll out the red carpet for him? No wonder the bloody Croats are up in arms.’

  ‘To be fair, Jack, it was the Liberal government who invited him. Anyway, Murphy said he wanted to go over his security arrangements ahead of a meeting with the president of the Senate tomorrow. So I went to the office, and he arrived with Kerry Milte and brought along his secretary, Maureen Barron, to take notes.’

  ‘You let him do that?’

  ‘For part of the meeting, yes, when we were talking about Bijedic’s security. But it soon became obvious that wasn’t Murphy’s real agenda.’

  ‘Right. So how do we get to the point where this mad bastard is planning a surprise visit to St Kilda Road?’

  ‘This is why I’m calling. As far as I can make out, the real reason he came here was to find a memo that Ron Hunt wrote after an interdepartmental meeting on 2 March dealing with concerns raised by the Yugoslavs.’

  ‘I think I know that memo.’

  ‘Indeed, Hunt got the committee to agree that the new government shouldn’t reverse Ivor Greenwood’s longstanding advice that there’s no Croat terrorist organisation that poses a serious threat. Murphy thinks this is proof positive the Organisation is secretly working against the elected government.’

  ‘Did you give it to him?’

  ‘No, I told him it’s in Melbourne.’

  ‘Hence his rush to get down here?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Having issued Colin Brown with a series of instructions, Behm grabbed his keys, threw two empty cricket bags into the boot of his car, backed out of the garage and headed for the city. It took him less than thirty minutes to get to ASIO Headquarters in St Kilda Road.

  Once there, he was buzzed through by security into the underground parking area and he carried the bags up into the foyer. Security didn’t question him. He was Jack Behm, after all. He took the lift to his floor, went straight to his office, opened his safe and quickly unloaded its contents into the two bags.

  Behm knew he was breaking every rule under the sun. The material in the safe was all highest-classification Top Secret, not the sort of stuff you’re allowed to haul around in cricket bags.

  As deputy director-general, Jack Behm was in charge of operations. The way he saw it, his boss, D-G Peter Barbour, was nothing more than an administrator who didn’t have a clue what it was like to get his hands dirty. Nearly three years after Barbour’s elevation, Behm was still buggered if he knew what had possessed Charlie Spry to anoint this mild-mannered academic type as his successor. Barbour’s war experience had been behind the lines as a Japanese interpreter; he had an arts degree from Melbourne Uni; he was a Trinity College toff. There was bloody persistent gossip that he’d done his thesis on The Satyricon, so in all likelihood he was a secret sexual deviant to boot.

  At the time Behm had appeared to take the blow on the chin; but he told his acolytes that what it actually meant was that he, Jack Behm, would effectively be in the pilot’s seat, flying the Organisation, while Barbour sat back with the passengers—first class, of course.

  When the safe was empty Behm hoisted up the two bags and balanced the weight of them on either side of his large frame. There was plenty in these bags you wouldn’t ever want a socialist radical like Lionel Murphy getting his hands on.

  Just on the Croats, if Murphy knew the fellows they had on their books, he would go ballistic. There was Operation Amber. There was the Melbourne bomb-maker—they reckoned they’d managed to turn him, but the bomb was still out there somewhere. There were the Andric brothers, Adolf and Ambroz, both dead now. And then there were the many others whose identities had to be protected for their own safety. Whatever else you thought about them, they were, one and all, committed enemies of communism.

  Behm took the lift back down to the basement car park, threw his bags full of secrets into the boot and headed for home.

  He thought about Lionel Murphy as he drove through the empty city streets. This fellow showed every sign of being as mad as that other historical lunatic Labor attorney-general, Doc Evatt—but Murphy might prove to be even more dangerous.

  There were many reasons why Behm regarded Murphy as a serious worry. First, he’d chosen two wives from behind the Iron Curtain—or had they chosen him? Then he had close confederates who were, undoubtedly, secret communists. And, finally, Behm had developed an enormous interest in Murphy’s origins. Surely, by the look of him, the man had Jewish antecedents.

  27.

  Inspector Harper was feeling groggy. The interior of the Falcon was overheated. Warm air was pumping out of the vents, mingling with the sickly
chemical smell of new carpet.

  ‘Can you turn off that blasted heater?’

  Sharp did so, turning left on to State Circle, the outermost of the concentric ring roads around Capital Hill, then swung down fast on the long curve and turned left again into the sleeping suburb of Forrest.

  Harper regretted snapping at Sharp. He was edgy and he knew his colleague was uneasy too. The news of the threat to Lionel Murphy simply added to the sense that events were spinning out of control. Some of that was down to the chaotic transition to a new government bent on radical change.

  Harper’s police colleagues assumed he was politically conservative. In truth, he’d been as happy as Larry when Labor swept into power three months ago. Most of his mates in the force disagreed passionately, but Harper thought it was time to chuck a rock into the stagnant pond the country had become.

  Unfortunately, Murphy wasn’t prepared to ease his way in. From his first days in office the new attorney-general had put the wind up the police and security services. He was like one of those American do-gooders pushing a civil rights agenda, which most coppers interpreted as protecting the rights of criminals. Trying to get a handle on the new man, Harper had watched one of Murphy’s first interviews on This Day Tonight. The reporter had asked for his reaction to news that police were still bugging phones.

  ‘Well, it’s the reaction of anyone,’ said Murphy in the nasal voice of a man whose large nose had been broken and badly set. ‘That means they are breaking the law, and it will not be permitted. It doesn’t matter who does it—whether it’s a policeman or anyone else—it’s contrary to law.’

  Within days the attorney had been threatening to open police and ASIO surveillance files to the public as part of his freedom of information push. Harper remembered the panic in his own organisation. He was tasked with going down into ‘The Indices’ to expunge all the Compol files on Labor politicians. He took a team in and they pulled out the alphabetical green index cards: M for Murphy; C for Cairns; W for Whitlam, and so on. They took all the documentation—including the surveillance files, photos and transcripts—and made a bonfire of them.

  Sharp interrupted his boss’s reverie. ‘Wakey, wakey. Nearly there.’

  ‘Not asleep,’ said Harper. ‘Just thinking.’ He groaned loudly.

  Sharp glanced at him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Who’s gonna save us from the true-believers, son?’

  ‘Just the Labor ones—or all of them?’ asked Sharp.

  ‘Every blinking one,’ said Harper emphatically.

  Sharp let out a sardonic laugh. ‘That’ll be down to us, then.’

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about.’

  They eventually found the attorney-general’s house hidden behind an exotic hedge burdened with green fruit that resembled avocados. Beyond tall iron gates was an expansive garden, with shadowy trees and darkened shrubs that all looked to Harper like crouching assassins. As the Falcon crunched over the gravel driveway, its headlights swept the façade of the house and the beam picked up a dark-suited man, his face bleached white in the headlights.

  ‘Stockwell’s here already,’ said Sharp, pulling up next to the man. Harper climbed out of the car.

  ‘Evening, Inspector,’ said the young senior constable, and Harper shook his proffered hand briskly.

  ‘G’day, Bob, have you let them know you’re here?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I heard you were on your way so I told them I’d wait out here.’

  At this, the front door of the attorney’s house was flung open. A tall, heavy-set man with flaming red hair was backlit in the frame.

  ‘Mr Milte!’ Harper called, walking towards him. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Harper.’ Kerry Milte looked surprised. ‘They said reinforcements were coming. I didn’t know it’d be you.’

  ‘We were still up. Got your news from headquarters. You know Al Sharp, I think. And Senior Constable Bob Stockwell, you’ve met.’

  Milte nodded curtly to the two men.

  ‘We’re up to our necks in the Bijedic operation,’ Harper told him. ‘Now we hear there’s a threat to the attorney-general. I decided to come straight over.’

  Milte gazed at them. ‘Righto,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘So the Murphy threat,’ said Harper. ‘Where’s it come from?’

  ‘The attorney will want to brief you himself. He’s on the phone right now.’ Milte’s tone was conspiratorial. ‘But he wants his house secured first. He’s particularly concerned for his wife. She’s a bit shaken. You probably know she’s close to having their first child. She can’t sleep for worry.’

  So Ingrid’s up at this hour, thought Harper. He understood why Murphy was fretting. A lovely young creature, that one.

  He remembered when she was doing that game show on TV. He’d often wondered how she ended up with Murphy. He’d heard that the beloved Labor hero could charm ladies out of the trees and, if you believed the rumours, he was always searching through the foliage for new conquests.

  Kerry Milte took Harper’s arm and moved him away from his subordinates. ‘Harry, can you see to it the grounds are checked thoroughly?’ He made it sound annoyingly like an order. ‘There are too many ways in around the perimeter and plenty of cover with all these trees. What do you think about putting in floodlights? Lionel thought that might be best.’

  So, first name terms with the boss, was it? Harper looked around. Large trees loomed over the house, and there were numerous shrubs throughout the gardens and considerable growth in the garden beds immediately beside the house. The highest branches of the shrubbery partially obscured some of the windows.

  ‘We’d have to put floodlights front and back and at the sides of the building. That’s a big job,’ said Harper. ‘It’s not something we could attempt at this time of night. The best I can do now is to put a protection detail in place. Post men front and back.’

  ‘Well, he says he wants floodlights.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen tonight, Kerry. We’ll have a look around now, and I’ve called the rest of my team in. We’re taking this seriously—these are the blokes on the Bijedic detail. You can reassure Senator Murphy on that score.’

  Milte let the issue drop. ‘I’ll tell the attorney what you’ve said. I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you as soon as possible. It’s all getting a bit urgent.’

  ‘What’s urgent, exactly?’

  ‘Best you hear from him.’

  ‘Kerry.’ Harper lowered his voice. ‘A word before you go.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Is it true Murphy wanted us to get him a handgun?’

  ‘What!’ cried Milte. ‘No, that’s complete bullshit. I did ask what the procedure would be for me to get one. I am still licensed.’

  ‘Can’t see that happening, mate.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see. You’re here now, in any event.’

  The rest of the team began to arrive. Wally Price got there first. The detective sergeant was in charge of close security for Prime Minister Bijedic. A good man, but he always managed to look like he’d been dragged backwards through a hedge. Up close, he smelled like a damp beer mat.

  Price stared at Harper through bloodshot eyes as he rolled a ragged smoke in his trembling fingers. Scraggly bits of tobacco stuck out the end and half of it burnt away when he lit up. He had a laconic drawl that drifted between charm and derision.

  ‘What do you reckon, Harry? Have you ever wondered if this is hell and we’re all dead?’

  ‘You look like death warmed up, Wal, so maybe it is.’

  ‘It’s a bullshit time for an all-nighter. I’m full tilt on Bijedic.’

  ‘And half-pissed, by the look of you.’

  ‘The other half is working twice as hard.’

  As more of Harper’s men arrived, the Murphy house began to resemble a crime scene. All the entrances were secured and guarded. The dog team he’d called for now spilled out of their van, the beasts straining at their leashes.

  Milte stuck
his head out the front door and called Harper: ‘The attorney’s ready to see you, Harry. Could you bring Mr Sharp as well? We’re in the living room.’

  Once inside, Harper saw the two former barristers, Milte and Murphy, sitting face-to-face across a low table. Lionel Murphy was on the phone, listening intently as he conducted a fast-paced interrogation. There were pouches under his eyes and his large nose was drooping with fatigue. Strands of grey hair spilled over his face.

  Harper checked his watch. 3.15 am. Who the hell was he talking to at this hour?

  Milte looked up at the two detectives and gestured for them to come and sit down. Murphy terminated the call and dashed the receiver back into its cradle.

  ‘Bastards!’ he roared at the phone. ‘Treacherous fucking bastards!’

  Harper and Sharp glanced at each other. Milte said nothing.

  Murphy gathered himself and sat up straight, immediately magisterial. He pulled down on the lapels of his rumpled suit and ran fingers back through both sides of his long, thinning hair, smoothing it down. Then he looked up at the two policemen as if suddenly aware of their presence.

  ‘Sorry about the expletives, gentlemen. Take a seat.’

  It was the attorney-general voice, the one he used for TV interviews. It was calm enough, but Harper noticed that there was cold rage in the man’s hooded eyes, which were usually twinkling with mirth. It occurred to him that you wouldn’t want Murphy coming after you.

  ‘Go on then, Lionel.’ Kerry Milte leaned in and urged Murphy to continue. ‘What’d he say?’

  Murphy stared at his advisor, gathering his thoughts. ‘Turns out they’ve got the damn memo here in Canberra,’ he declared. ‘They lied to us. Had it all along. The fellow you mentioned has been ordered to take it down to Melbourne on the first flight. Straight to St Kilda Road. Don’t pass go. Don’t collect $200.’