by Peter Temple
‘The money, what’s involved?’
Shrug of the big shoulders. ‘Impossible to say. Many, many millions, they’re moving a fair bit. Not as much as they’d like but this is just part of washing the street cash, other cash.’
Adrift in fatigue, mind wandering. ‘Gary,’ I said. ‘How does this involve Gary?’
‘Gary’s a frequent flier, he came to the drug people’s attention long ago. But he declared a lot of income, paid his taxes, didn’t spend more than he declared, didn’t appear to have any offshore money stashes. Not a target, not an interesting person. Then one day, this is late in the life of Black Tide, the glue on Jellicoe reports him talking to Gary. Now Jellicoe was a matter of serious interest to Black Tide. His agency, WorldWind Travel, it wasn’t owned by the cousins. But people, young, they turn up at a cousins’ agency, other places, then they turn up at WorldWind. And the reverse. Sometimes five, six a day. Some sort of cut-out going on. We knew, don’t touch any of the kids. Touch a customer, everything goes on hold. In Sydney, we had a good thing going until this prick of ours, he has a little word with a customer in the belief that an elegant short-circuit is available.’
I wasn’t following well.
‘Lost that, two million manhours, personfuckinghours. Anyway, that’s one side of Jellicoe. The other, lots of tourists pop in. He’s a half-ticket man. We checked his car in a parking garage one night, two hundred and ten grand in the boot, tens, twenties, fifties. There’s two more like Jellicoe we know of in Melbourne. One in St Kilda, one in Fitzroy.’
‘What about Gary?’
‘Like I said, Gary came up late in the day. What do you know about Gary?’
I was taken off-guard. ‘He’s TransQuik. He’s Levesque.’
Pause. ‘That’s right. We didn’t know whose money the cousins were washing until we made Gary with Jellicoe. Then we knew. Then all Gary’s flying around, Hong Kong, Manila, Bangkok, Europe, the States, all his talking to people in places you can’t get any kind of audio, suddenly that all made sense.’
‘Not to me,’ I said.
‘We could have taken the cousins out. Easy. We had more than enough. But where does that get us? Basically, the cousins are like a bank. They move money around for a fee. Whose money are they moving? That’s the question.’
‘What’s the answer?’
‘We were getting there. Gary’s the key. He’s the link. The current passes through him. So it had to be Gary. And that’s where we touched the TransQuik nerve.’
‘What happened?’
‘They shut Black Tide down. Orders from above. Over. Finished. All the files taken, computers swept, cleaned. Nothing left. It was like someone died. Like your mother shot your dog. Eleven months of nothing but Black Tide. It wrecked three bloody marriages because people never went home. The boss looked at the wall for the whole day, drinking coffee. Then he went up in the lift, into the big man’s office, there’s two other people in there. The big man says to our boss, just pull your head in, this is Cabinet-level stuff and you’re a fucking Detective Inspector. The boss grabs him by the tie, pulls him out of the chair, punches his lights out. Jaw broken, teeth on the one side, they’re sticking out his cheek. Hadn’t been pulled off, he’d have killed the bastard.’
‘That was a way of saying goodbye, was it?’ I said in spite of myself.
He made a sound, not a laugh, not a cough. ‘Bought a lawn-mowing round up in Queensland. Mackay. Taking the mower off the trailer one day, a bloke in a Falcon stops, blows his head off with a shotgun. Unsolved.’
He looked at his watch. ‘Got to make some arrangements,’ he said. He loosened his safety belt and went up the aisle to the cockpit, blocked the whole entrance with his frame.
I put my head back, closed my eyes, not thinking of sleep, not considering sleep possible, fell asleep.
I woke up in the last seconds of the descent. Touchdown was two small bumps, a minor whining noise, a consciousness of the safety belt. Out the door, stairs folding out, stiff-legged into an icy Tasmanian night, polar wind blowing, feeling old.
A man was waiting for us, standing next to a Toyota four-wheel-drive on the tarmac. A fortyish man in a suit, thin, tired-looking in the grey artificial glare of the floodlights, wind rearranging his sparse hair. Dave talked to him, hands in pockets, half-a-dozen sentences exchanged, both expressionless, pat on the arm. The man walked away, towards the terminal building, wind lifting the flap of his jacket, toying with his hair.
I thought, planes at your disposal, vehicles. Dave had influence in the right places.
41
Parked at the top of the hill, last-quarter moon and high scudding cloud, we could see the chook farm Gary loved. Painter’s little chook farm, place of memory, girl of memory.
Not so little. Not a farm either. A battery operation: huge barn that would house the living egg machines, another barn about a third the size, a small building, probably the office. About two hundred metres from the chicken barn, up a track, a small house sat on a level patch of hillside.
We had driven past it, gone a long way, beyond earshot, waited, come back, driven beyond hearing again, turned, crept back, barely twenty kilometres an hour.
‘A SWAT team is the way you’d do this,’ said Dave, ducking his head to light a cigarette, left and down below the dashboard.
He came up, cigarette shielded in his palms like a sixties schoolboy. ‘Intelligent SWAT team. But since that’s a contradiction in terms, you’d end up with a dead Gary. You always do. They might as well write you a guarantee the bloke’d be dead.’
He was matter-of-fact. We could have been studying the pictures on the illuminated menu in a McDonald’s drive-through for all the excitement he was showing.
I returned to the point where I’d fallen asleep. ‘What was the reason given for shutting Black Tide down?’
Dave looked at me, blinked, as if he’d forgotten all about the subject. ‘Oh. Jeopardising success of a major national operation in progress. Endangering lives of undercover operatives. Bullshit. Major national operation no-one knows anything about. The ghost ship of criminal operations. The phantom. All bullshit.’
‘That’s some nerve you touched.’
‘Very powerful reflex action.’ He sighed. ‘Right from the top. Cabinet-level reflex.’
‘Levesque?’
‘Gary’ll tell us that. That’s why we went after Gary.’
Another sigh. ‘Anyhow, the shut-down, that’s why we knew it was Gary, our interest in him. And we really knew bugger all about him.’
‘But you didn’t give up. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘That’s right,’ Dave said. ‘We just waited. When the chance came, we fired up Black Tide again, a different kind of Black Tide this time, not official, but not without friends. And we went for Gary. The first time, we were playing it by the book, we’d probably never have got to him. This time, dog and goanna rules. Rolled the prick, rolled and boned him. In Thailand, loaded him with half a kilo of smack, he’s looking down the barrel at twenty years, thirty bodies in a four-man cell, rats crawling up his arse. Canetti did the job, did a great job. He’s got the lingo, spent time in Thailand, knows the locals. Then he had two illuminating hours with Gary, a scared Gary, videoing his memoirs. Couldn’t take more time. Gary was just there on a stopover. But Canetti got plenty to start with. The rest, that’s a few days’ work, going over the details. But first we wanted Gary back in the country, everything as usual, no suspicions aroused that we’d rolled him.’
‘What did Gary tell Canetti in Bangkok?’
Dave ducked his head below the dashboard, took a deep drag, came up, expelled smoke. ‘That’s the fucking problem. We don’t know. Canetti rang from Bangkok, he’s highly excited, he says, wait till you see this, you’ll cream your jeans, it’ll hang Mr S. That’s all he said.’
‘Mr S?’
‘Levesque. Mr Smartarse.’
‘How did Gary get back here?’
‘Everything had to b
e normal. Gary flew on to Melbourne, direct. He was coming from Europe. Because Canetti’s got his testimony on video, Gary’s with us now. Doesn’t behave, he’s on “Australia’s Funniest Home Videos”. And he can’t go to his bosses, say: “Sorry, I told people about you cause I didn’t want to go to jail in Bangkok for twenty years.’’ They’d kill him on the spot.’
I was starting to understand.
‘There was a risk,’ said Dave. ‘What if he gets straight off the plane, onto another one, he’s gone, out of the country, vanished? But we knew he didn’t have a cash stash anywhere, not enough put away to hide out in Ethiopia, Bangladesh. Anyway, nothing like that happens. He gets the Audi, drives home. We pulled our bloke off him then, too risky otherwise. A third party spots her, it’s over, Gary’s dead, we’ve got a video of a dead man telling stories. Maybe we shouldn’t even have tailed him home, who the fuck knows. Looking back, why the hell did we? Either Canetti had him by the balls or he didn’t.’
He glanced at me, ducked his head, drew on the Camel. ‘Anyway, that’s the last we saw of him.’
‘And Canetti?’
‘We didn’t want him to fly with Gary. Too risky also. He came back on the next flight. We know he was on the plane, know he got off. That’s all we know. That’s when the looking for them both started.’
‘He wasn’t met?’
Dave looked at me, scratched the dense moustache with the index finger of his left hand. ‘Meet him? Canetti was the only cleanskin we had. You didn’t go near Canetti. Nobody knew Canetti except three of us. We waited for Canetti to finish the Gary interrogation and call us.’
He picked up his cigarettes, weighed the packet, looked at me again.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘that was Black Tide. Started with twelve. And tonight Black Tide’s more or less me and you, Jack.’
‘I don’t recall being asked to join,’ I said.
He smiled. ‘No. Me neither.’
We sat in silence for a while.
‘What we’ll do,’ said Dave, ‘we’ll just freewheel down there, lights out, pray some pointy in a truck doesn’t come along. Stop around the corner, walk back, up round the side to the house.’
‘Dogs,’ I said. ‘Looks like a place with dogs.’ In an instant, the adrenaline was running again, I wasn’t feeling tired and old, wasn’t feeling scared. It occurred to me that this was probably a bad thing.
‘Dogs we can handle. A few dogs.’ He opened the glovebox and took out a flat foil-wrapped package, the size of a large bar of chocolate.
‘What I’m going to do here,’ Dave said, ‘is try to bluff the boy out. Had a bit of success with this. Which means fuckall. Still, avoids some prick shooting him, shooting other people, possibly innocent people. Doesn’t work, we’ve got a problem. But. Same problem if there’s two of you or fifty-two testosterone-crazed arseheads with guns. Important thing is Gary alive.’
I said, ‘What do I do?’
He touched my arm, the big fingers. ‘Jack, only thing is Gary alive. Gary dead is everything gone. Black Tide one and two finished, total waste of time, bent bastards win. Again.’
‘I do what?’
‘Put the light on him, get the cuffs on. You’re the cuffman. Apart from that, nothing. You know his old man. It might help. The bluff fails, we creep away, try something else. What, I can’t think at the moment. Might come to me.’
He coughed. ‘Also might not.’
‘The bluff?’
‘Just a bluff. Pray the phone’s on. Pray the fucking mobile network’s got this part of pointyland covered. They say it has.’
He was looking into the valley, at the dark buildings. ‘Dean Canetti,’ he said. ‘Ordinary bloke, not big, more guts than John Wayne. If John Wayne was real.’
I didn’t owe anything to this man, didn’t even know his surname. Far from it. It was courtesy of him that I had gone so far up the sewage creek in an unsuitable vessel. He had managed to get me into the canoe and then to convince me that disembarkation was not an option.
He deserved nothing. But he was a man doing the right thing, a brave man. I felt a warmth towards him.
Dave raised his elbows, flexed his shoulders. ‘Well, let’s see how it goes.’
‘Shouldn’t I be armed? He’s killed three people if I read this thing right.’
He released the handbrake. We began to move. ‘One man with a gun’s plenty,’ he said. ‘You might get excited.’
42
We rolled to a stop off the road. Dave found the handcuffs, flat high-tech things, not metal, light.
‘Just get it on the wrist, press closed. A spring locks it.’
He opened the boot, took out two bulky bulletproof vests, dull black nylon windcheaters, a long matt-black flashlight. We took off our coats, put on the gear. The vest was surprisingly light. There was something in my right windcheater pocket. A handkerchief, a folded handkerchief. From the last operation, presumably. Ironed and folded by someone. A loving spouse?
We walked back half a kilometre, climbed a fence at the strainer post. Not easily, in my case, carrying the flashlight.
On Painter’s soil, Painter’s buildings to the right. Damp soil, spongy. We walked to the left of the big buildings, Dave in front, uphill, going becoming heavy.
‘Fuck this,’ Dave said quietly. ‘Go down, take the road.’
We went downhill, walked between the big tin sheds. Chicken factory no more. Some rust, things lying around, general air of disuse. We turned left, walking just off the track, uphill, protected by a row of young evergreen trees.
The dark house. Low brick dwelling, old. On the site long before the egg factory. Fence, straggly hedge, vehicle gate off to the right. At the front gate, an old truck was parked, Dodge or Ford.
Ten metres from the truck, Dave stopped, knelt. I knelt close to him, feeling my heartbeat now.
‘I’m making the call.’ Soft, steady voice. ‘If I get him, I’m heading straight for the front door. You get behind the truck, watch my left arm. Goes up, put the light on the front door. When I’ve got the gun on him, get up there, don’t hurry, don’t spook him. Cuff him. Okay?’
I nodded, heart thumping now.
Dave took out his tiny mobile, pressed a button. The numbers glowed. He punched in a combination, put the phone to his ear.
I could hear the telephone ringing in the house.
Ringing.
Ringing.
Our eyes were locked. Dave looked faintly amused. With his right hand, he unholstered an automatic pistol from under his left armpit.
Ringing.
‘Hello.’ A tentative woman’s voice. Fear in it.
Dave smiled, a rueful smile.
‘Gary Connors, please,’ he said.
Silence.
Dave held up the phone for me to hear.
The receiver being put down on a hard surface.
Silence.
Noises.
I looked at the dark house. What was happening in there?
A voice said, ‘Gary Connors.’
A tired voice but not sleepy.
‘Gary. Detective Inspector David Gwynne of the Australian Federal Police. Hello. I’m outside. Your house is surrounded by police officers. What I’d like you to do is come to the front door, open it, come out with your hands in the air. That’s the easy way. The trained killers around the house have other ideas. Destroy the whole place, everyone in it. With me?’
Dave stood up and started walking towards the house, phone at his left ear, pistol in his right hand, down. When he got to the truck, I scuttled after him, got to the left front wheel of the truck, peered around the bumper.
‘No-one will harm you, Gary,’ Dave’s quiet voice was saying. ‘Give you my word. I want you alive, very much alive. And you’ll stay alive. Cover you with my own body at the door, these trigger-happy bastards aren’t going to risk shooting me.’
He went straight up the path, onto the verandah, stood to the left of the front door, facing the wall, back to me.
He was still talking but I couldn’t hear what he was saying.
He stopped talking. Closed the phone. Put it in his windcheater pocket.
His left arm went up.
I stood up, arms on the truck bonnet, aimed the flashlight.
Brilliant, intense beam of white light on the front door, old six-panel door, paint peeling. Above it, a fanlight, dusty etched glass.
Waiting. No light in the house.
Dave facing the wall, up against it, close enough to touch the doorknob, right arm bent, pistol barrel at his nose.
Waiting.
Light on somewhere in the house, glow behind the fanlight.
Waiting.
He wasn’t coming out. He’d spotted the bluff.
Waiting. Sweating in the cold, under the bulletproof vest. Heartbeat felt in the throat now.
Waiting. Dave would have to do something soon.
Do what? There was no fallback position.
Waiting.
Doorknob turning.
The door was being opened, swinging inward. Slowly.
I was holding my breath.
Someone. A man.
Hesitating.
Then he stepped forward, came out. Arms in the air, blinking against the flashlight beam.
Long hair, balding. Beard. Jeans and a sweater, barefoot. My size, roughly.
Dave was pulling the door closed behind him. He said, ‘Keep going. Stop. Now I want you to kneel down slowly, Gary. Keep your arms up.’
I came around the front of the truck, holding the light on the man, walking as normally as I could, getting the handcuffs out.
Gary knelt down, looking down.
I got to the verandah, behind him.
‘Bring your arms down slowly,’ Dave said. ‘Out wide, behind your back.’
It took a second to get the handcuffs on. Dave looked at me, not a look of interest.
‘Lie down, Gary.’
Gary lay down, on his stomach, head turned to one side.
