by Tony Jones
Anna turned quickly to her driver, but he beat her to it.
‘Follow that car?’ he asked, accelerating in the wake of the fast-departing limos. He shook his head in annoyance as he wove through the slow-moving airport traffic and kept the police vehicles in sight. ‘Bugger it,’ he said. ‘I’ve been waiting for this moment for ten years, and then I go and say it myself.’
‘Want me to say it again?’
‘Nah, it wouldn’t be the same.’
‘Don’t lose them,’ said Anna.
‘Bewdy.’ The driver smiled. ‘That was properly in character.’
‘I mean it.’
‘Yeah, I know. It’s just’—a terminal bus pulled in front of them and he hit the anchors, burning rubber as he jerked the wheel to narrowly avoid a collision—‘it’s normally a pretty boring job.’
*
Harper glanced over at the attorney-general. He was surprised to see the man’s eyes closed and his lips moving, as if rehearsing lines backstage before a live performance.
When they hit the freeway and slowed in the peak-hour traffic, Murphy tapped the driver’s shoulder. ‘Can we put the siren on and go faster?’
Kerry Milte swung around. ‘That’s a really bad—’ he began, before he was drowned out by the sudden high-pitched wail, and then a second as the other driver switched his siren on too. ‘Fuck me dead!’ Milte exclaimed in frustration as the two cars began yawing at high speed through the traffic.
Ahead of them, cars braked and pulled aside to let them pass.
Milte began flicking at switches on the dashboard. ‘If the press gets hold of this …’ he shouted. He reached under the dash and pulled out a bunch of wires. The driver glanced at him nervously as the siren sputtered out.
‘Right, you’re right,’ said Murphy. ‘Maybe we should’ve brought Negus in on this, after all.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Milte. ‘We’ve got enough loose cannons on the deck.’
Harper smiled at this exchange. He’d been wondering where the press flack was. George Negus always looked more like an extra from Zabriskie Point than a spokesman for the attorney-general. Harper imagined him storming the ASIO stairs like the vanguard of the October Revolution.
The thought cheered him up, until Murphy interrupted his reverie. ‘Harry, stay by my side when we get there? I imagine you’ll be the ranking officer.’
Harper was puzzled. ‘Apart from the director-general of ASIO and his top brass?’
Murphy held his gaze. ‘I mean the ranking officer on our side,’ he said evenly.
‘I’m under your authority.’
‘Just so, Harry. Just so.’
Harper watched the attorney-general bouncing around in the back seat as the cars plunged on dangerously towards their destination. Even after the second driver cut his siren neither car had slowed down. Through the window traffic zipped past.
Soon the two cars turned into St Kilda Road, barrelling down the wide thoroughfare.
Sitting up front, Milte was the first to see what appeared to be a blockade ahead of them. ‘What the hell …?’
As they got closer, he saw a bank of cameras sprawled across the road, filming their approach. Soon little sunbursts came, flashes of light blossoming from the pack. Milte’s face reddened with anger at this latest betrayal.
‘Oh, fuck. Someone tipped them off.’
‘No time to worry about that,’ said Murphy. ‘Just ignore them.’
Harper saw the attorney compose his face into a mask of resolution, his political instincts kicking in. On their right was the white-colonnaded façade of ASIO Headquarters. The modern concrete structure was featureless at ground level. The cars of its lower-level workers were lined up with their fronts to the kerb. There was a grass nature strip, a functional hedge and, above that, hundreds of dark windows. He saw no faces at them.
‘Mind what you do now, Harry,’ said Murphy. ‘Your mug’ll be all over the news tonight.’
‘I wasn’t planning to smile and wave,’ said Harper. But, as they neared the bank of cameras, he felt like slumping down below the window ledge. Politics and police work, he reminded himself—a bad mix.
Then it all seemed to slip into slow motion. He saw blue-uniformed Commonwealth Police holding back the horde of journalists. There were multiple sunbursts now, bouncing off the long, shiny bonnet. A policeman directed the car to turn right. As it did so, Harper found himself staring into the black hole of a TV camera. He imagined Wal Price, in the car behind, giving them the finger, but he resisted the urge to turn around.
Microphones were waved at them and he heard muffled questions. Their car headed for a dark entrance, which opened in the wall as a large steel door rolled up. Harper watched a photographer slip the cordon and run in front of their car, targeting Lionel Murphy, who was now on the other side, hidden from the press pack.
Murphy lifted his chin. Flash, flash, flash. A policeman grabbed the man and the two of them whirled off together, like dance partners.
Murphy’s vehicles entered a high-ceilinged garage and a policeman appeared from the gloom to direct them over to the pool of light spilling from an open doorway. As the cars pulled up, three men emerged from the doorway, their faces pale under the fluorescent lights.
At the head of the welcoming party was a man in the uniform of a chief inspector. Harper felt instant relief: this must be Charlie Jones, the boss of Melbourne’s Commonwealth Police. Happily, he was now outranked. And besides, Chief Inspector Jones, in his immaculately pressed blues, gave the incursion a sense of authority.
Lionel Murphy obviously thought so, too. He bounded out of the car and headed straight for the commanding heights, hand outstretched, his red-headed advisor at his heels.
As Jones briefed the attorney-general, Harper took note of the big man standing just behind the chief inspector, an ominous presence drawing furiously on a cigarette.
The third member of the greeting party, a man in a plain dark suit, was standing well apart from this awkward tableau. Harper suddenly recalled who he was and walked over.
‘Inspector Whitton, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, Harry, Lawrie Whitton.’
They shook hands. Whitton was a compact, well-made fellow with the weathered face of a sailor. ‘We met in Canberra, a couple of years ago,’ he reminded Harper. ‘Seminar on terrorism.’
‘That’s right.’
Whitton looked over at the attorney-general and the chief inspector.
‘Best let the top brass deal with this, mate,’ he said. ‘It’s a bad business.’
‘What’s up?’ asked Harper.
Whitton tipped his head in the direction of the furious smoker. ‘You know that bloke?’
‘No, I don’t.’
Harper looked again at the man. The big fellow was staring hard at Murphy with barely concealed contempt.
‘It’s Jack Behm, ASIO’s deputy director-general,’ whispered Whitton. ‘He’s in a fucking rage. Incandescent. Ready to pop his cork at any moment.’
Harper saw the intensity in Behm’s eyes.
‘Thanks for the tip, Lawrie. I better go.’
‘Wait,’ said Whitton. ‘One more thing. Before Murphy does anything else, he needs to speak to the ASIO staff. We couldn’t let them go to their offices, so we had to herd them into a lecture theatre. It’s getting ugly in there. Women crying. Men angry. Some of them think this is a coup. They’re talking about being taken out and shot against a wall—and they’re only half-joking.’
Harper was shocked. ‘That’s madness.’
‘This mob is a bit mad; it goes with the territory. Murphy needs to go in and reassure them before something bad happens.’
‘I’ll let him know.’
As Harper moved to gather up his own team, he glanced over at Tom Moriarty, whose cool demeanour seemed to have finally abandoned him.
‘You blokes come with me,’ said Harper to Sharp and his sergeants. He took them to flank the attorney-general and made
the introductions. ‘Inspector Harper, sir,’ he said, addressing the chief inspector. ‘Bureau of Criminal Intelligence. With me are Sergeants Price and Sullivan, and my intelligence officer, Al Sharp.’
‘Ah. Good morning, Inspector,’ said Jones. ‘I was just explaining to the attorney that all the offices, safes and containers are now sealed. We have twenty-seven officers here and I’ve stationed men on every floor. As they’ve come in, we’ve directed the ASIO staff to gather in the auditorium on the third floor.’
An audible groan now came from the Organisation’s deputy director-general. Hearing the facts recited for a second time, the man couldn’t contain himself.
‘This is an absolute outrage!’ said Jack Behm. ‘What’s happening here is tantamount to treason. You’re holding hostage most of the security apparatus of this country, under who-knows-what authority!’
‘Mr Behm,’ Lionel Murphy cut him off, ‘that is totally unwarranted. Please control yourself and lower your voice.’
‘Senator Murphy,’ said Behm, managing to make the title sound like an insult. ‘This has already done untold damage. Can you imagine what our American friends will make of this? A wet-behind-the-ears, socialist government rummaging through our safes … How do you suppose that’ll go down at the intelligence-sharing briefings?’
‘Stop right there, Mr Behm,’ said Murphy, turning up the dial a few notches. ‘Do you have any idea who you’re talking to? I am the elected civilian official to whom you are answerable. I say elected! Do you hear me, Mr Behm? Do you take my meaning? I need to confirm that you understand there has been a legitimate change of power in this country. You are aware of that, aren’t you?’
Behm said nothing. His jaw was clamped shut. His lips quivered with rage.
‘I asked you a question!’ Murphy roared. Even Harper was impressed by the effect.
‘Yes,’ said Behm, spitting the word out like rancid phlegm.
‘Ivor Greenwood is no longer here to do your bidding. I am the attorney-general. And everything that has happened here, and will happen here today, is under my direct authority. Do you understand that simple fact?’
Behm nodded.
‘I didn’t hear you, Mr Behm. Do you understand that this is being done under the lawful authority of an elected attorney-general?’
‘Yes,’ said Behm.
Harper saw some of the steam come out of the man and wondered how long it had been since anyone had spoken to Jack Behm in this manner. Murphy was momentarily on top, but he was sure it wouldn’t end there.
‘Please listen carefully, Mr Behm,’ Murphy continued. ‘There is a matter of national security at stake here. The life of a foreign leader, soon to visit this country, is under threat. I have asked ASIO for information about the nature of that threat, and I have been bamboozled and I have been misled. To make matters worse, I was lied to by senior ASIO officers. The proof of that is here with us.’
Murphy turned and pointed to Tom Moriarty, who was still standing next to the big black car he’d come in, clutching the briefcase containing the proof of infamy. It seemed to Harper that Moriarty was fighting an urge to leap into the driver’s seat and make a high-speed getaway.
‘The evidence,’ Murphy paused for effect, ‘is in that very briefcase.’
Jack Behm stared at Moriarty. There was no hiding the naked hatred in his eyes.
‘As to your employees in the theatre,’ Murphy continued. ‘They are not being held hostage. That is absurd. They will be free to go back to their offices as soon as I have had some answers. And I will be demanding them from the director-general himself. Is that all clear to you?’
‘Yes, perfectly clear,’ said Behm.
‘Then our conversation is over. I would like to see Mr Barbour immediately.’
The man was mad! There was no question about it in Jack Behm’s mind. Murphy was both mad and dangerous. Behm walked away from their confrontation convinced that he was dealing with an existential threat.
He barrelled up the stairs and burst into the headquarters foyer like a rugby player who’s suddenly found himself in the clear. He ignored the startled looks of the uniformed police milling around. Just let them try and stop him! He’d knock them over like nine pins. More police were standing guard on the closed doors to the theatre, behind which his colleagues were being held hostage. Outside of tin-pot dictatorships, there wasn’t a security agency in the world that had been subjected to this kind of intrusion, not to mention the sheer indignity of it.
The Five Eyes partners would be incredulous. In one fell swoop Murphy and his keystone cops had destabilised the most important intelligence relationships the country had ever had. Behm dreaded the telephone call coming across the Pacific from James Jesus Angleton. How could he ever explain this inexplicable outrage to the CIA? It would be a miracle if the US trusted them with a single paltry secret during the life of the Whitlam government.
The director-general’s office was on the seventh floor. Behm jabbed repeatedly at the Up button on the lift panel. A young Commonwealth policeman made a move towards him, as if to challenge his right to move freely around the building, but Behm held him back with a glare so withering it stripped the fellow of all willpower. That was what was required today: the sheer will to confront this madness. Behm had no confidence that Peter Barbour had it in him to do so.
Murphy’s dawn invasion had knocked the stuffing out of Barbour. For that reason, Behm had not informed his boss about his own pre-dawn raid to rescue the operational files in his safe. Behm knew now that this had been the right move. No one had expected this police takeover, but his own deepest instincts had been engaged when he read the short memo from John Elliott, the assistant director-general ‘B’ Branch, setting out the confrontation he and Barbour had had with Murphy two days ago in the attorney-general’s office. Murphy had demanded to see ‘all documents’ regarding ASIO’s association with Croat extremists. He clearly wanted to know which Croats were paid informants, the names of those used in operations, those who operated effectively as agents, the nature and length of those relationships, and so on. Such disclosure would put lives at risk. It could not be allowed. Yet Murphy had warned Elliott to think long and hard about giving him a ‘nil return’.
It seemed to Behm that there was much between the lines in Elliott’s memo. When he extracted the man from his cloistered enclave and chivvied him, Elliott had confided his belief that Murphy was drunk during the encounter. A high-functioning drunk, but drunk nonetheless. How could one trust such a man with the lives of others? Behm knew that some secrets had to remain sacrosanct from politicians. That was the nature of their business. So he had taken the sensible precaution of emptying his safe.
Before returning to St Kilda Road that morning, Jack Behm had stopped off at the City and Overseas Club. He had booked a room there and in it secured the two cricket bags full of secrets, locking them in a cupboard. He had privately confided this to his closest confederates, men who agreed with him that Barbour’s insipid weakness was a threat to the Organisation. He told them that he was prepared to effectively run the Organisation from the club for the duration of the crisis.
Behm knew that by doing this he had established a shadow leadership. Barbour, if he found out, would consider it mutiny. But it was, Behm was convinced, a necessary measure to protect the integrity of their calling. He would also confide in Father William and Father John at the Institute of Social Order, men whose wisdom and discretion he could trust. He might even have to confess his actions to James Jesus himself, although that course would not be free of risk.
The lift disgorged Jack Behm on the seventh floor and he bustled past the uniformed policeman stationed there, aware that his movements would be monitored on security cameras by the police controlling the front desk. He went straight into the director-general’s office without knocking and found Peter Barbour gazing out the window as if contemplating the drop and the ‘honourable’ option of seppuku.
Barbour’s reverence for the
ways of the Japs was yet another thing Behm held against him. That was what happened when your job was to speak to the bastards behind the lines, conducting soft interrogations, where you try to create a bond. It was a different kettle of fish when you actually had to fight them.
‘Director,’ he said.
Barbour turned, blinking with surprise. ‘Jack?’
‘Murphy’s here with his party. He wants to see you now.’
‘All right,’ said Barbour, straightening his hexagonal, black-framed glasses, touching his hair.
Behm saw that the filing cabinets and safe in Barbour’s office were sealed with yellow tape.
‘I see they don’t even trust you,’ he said.
‘No,’ said Barbour. ‘Trust is something we’re going to have to work at with this government.’
‘There’s something you should know before you go down,’ said Behm.
‘What’s that?’
‘We’ve got a turncoat, a traitor in our midst.’ Behm paused for effect. ‘It’s Tom Moriarty. He’s with them. The memo that Colin Brown requested Moriarty to hand-deliver down here—he’s given it to Murphy.’
Barbour’s reaction was not what Behm expected. ‘I ordered Moriarty to get close to Murphy,’ he said. ‘We need someone on the inside. In the attorney’s inner circle.’
‘You told him to give the memo to Lionel Murphy?’
‘No.’
‘Well, Murphy knows what’s in that briefcase,’ said Behm. ‘He says it’s proof that our people have lied to him and misled him. Moriarty clearly gave him that—the proof he was looking for—or gave him access to it. He’s betrayed the Organisation.’
Barbour shook his head. ‘Tom Moriarty is one of our best operators. I prefer to think that he acted on his own initiative. What better way to establish trust with Murphy?’
‘That’s what he’s told you he was doing?’
‘He’s acting on my orders.’
‘With all due respect, that’s a crock of shit. What better cover for a traitor than to have the blessing of the director-general?’
