The reason for the silence soon became apparent. The first thing Karim came across was the body of Syed’s dog. It had been shot. A trail of blood in the snow showed its path from Syed’s door to where it lay between the stones beside the path into the village. The door of Karim’s hut had been smashed in and the windows broken. Then, in the pale morning light, he saw a larger patch of red in the snow. Syed Asad Ullah’s body was frozen to the ground, his throat cut. Karim stumbled on through the devastation of the village. Nothing had been spared. Some houses had been torched and their contents thrown out into the roadway. The carcasses of livestock were everywhere and he knew that if he were to look inside the houses he would find more corpses.
Then he heard a low moaning coming from inside Sayyid Amir’s house. He put his bag down and went to the open door. Crouched in the ruins was Sayyid Amir’s wife cradling the body of her thirteen-year-old son, Yahya.
‘This is a dreadful day,’ Karim said softly.
Frightened eyes looked up at him then flashed over to the corner of the room. Her husband’s body was sprawled on the floor. A small fire was still burning in the stove, so Karim nodded and, hunting through the wreckage, found a pot and some tea. He stared into the fire, trying to keep his mind from descending into the black pit of images where his own wife and children’s bodies lay. Behind him the woman continued keening softly.
When the water boiled he made the tea and took it to her. At first she pushed his hand away but then took it from him. Karim poured some for himself and returned to squat beside the fire.
‘I asked for mercy. I showed them the Holy Quran,’ the woman whispered. ‘They threw it in the fire. They killed Sayyid in front of me. Then took Yahya … he was my only son. I have nothing now.’ She lapsed back into keening then continued, ‘They killed my boy on the road and wouldn’t let me collect his body. They were Pakistanis doing the dirty work of the Talibs. Everything they touched they destroyed. Food, clothing … they took all Sayyid’s money. Thirty million in cash. All gone. I would have given them everything if they had left Sayyid and Yahya for me.’ The cup fell from her fingers and broke on the floor. As her wailing grew louder, Karim rose and walked out of the house. There was nothing he could do here.
He walked fast, keeping in front of his own anguish. He stepped over bodies, passed the last house and went down the road out of the village. He walked faster, pushing himself onward with no aim other than to keep moving. There were others on the road now and the numbers were growing. People fleeing, again, carrying what possessions they could. As the day wore on Karim tried to engage some in conversation, to get a clearer picture of what was happening. But nobody knew. The Taliban were behind them. They were retreating. They were advancing. The United Front would counter-attack. The United Front was in tatters.
In another ruined hamlet he stopped with a group of refugees huddled around a fire and ate the last of his bread and cheese. The destruction visited on Bed Mushkin had been repeated across Yakaolang. The stories were frightful.
‘We hid the children under our quilts, but the Talibs just shot them.’
‘They stopped the women taking the dead home. Left them in the snow.’
‘Taliban entered into our houses and set everything on fire.’
‘There was a massacre in Nayak. Hundreds lined up against a wall in the Oxfam Aid agency and shot.’
Karim returned to the road. The weather remained bitterly cold, but fortunately there was no return of the biting winds of the previous day. He trudged on into the mounting gloom. One foot in front of the other with no notion of a destination. Simply away.
It was just at nightfall that they were caught by surprise.
A Taliban column swept along the road, shooting indiscriminately at the refugees. Screaming, the people fled in either direction, into the countryside. Karim, jolted out of his reverie, stumbled, then, realising what was happening, began to run. He glanced over his shoulder but all he could see was the blazing headlights of the pickup and the flashes from rifles and sub-machine guns. His foot tripped on a rock and he lurched sideways, crashing onto the ground — but it was not enough to save him.
He registered an explosion of pain and felt himself tumble into blackness. He reached out his hand — trying to find some way to ward off the darkness — but it was futile.
He heard a cry and realised it was the sound of his own screaming. Then nothing.
‘Walter?’ Fossey looked around, perplexed. There had been no talk of any third party.
Ray laughed and pointed under the table. ‘Walter, meet Mr Dutetre.’
Walter turned out to be a peculiar little dog that appeared to be trying to cool down; stretched out on its back, legs in the air. For a moment it opened one eye and regarded Fossey suspiciously.
‘Hi.’ Fossey was not in the habit of talking to dogs and immediately felt foolish. The damned thing was so mop-like, but at the same time there was something about its jaw and colouring … The thought that came to mind was that some sick person had crossed an Old English sheepdog with a dachshund. Unlikely and difficult though that might be, there seemed no other explanation for the creature’s resemblance to the bigger breed.
‘Your dog?’ Fossey asked, relieved that it had immediately closed its eye again and hadn’t demanded to be patted. Walter, Fossey was to discover, had a talent for sleeping.
‘My mother’s.’ Ray rolled his eyes. ‘She’s had him for ever. The trouble is she’s too frail now to take him for walks, and though Walter is in a similar condition she insists I take him out every day. He resents it enormously.’
For a moment they sat in silence, neither of them sure where to start. There were few customers in the café; a group of women had joined two tables together and were passing around a photo album. They looked as if they had been there since lunch time. An Asian student was working with a textbook, notepad and a calculator, a half-drunk iced chocolate pushed to one side. Probably completing an assignment, Fossey guessed. A couple of other tables were occupied, but there was nobody who looked remotely interested in the two men and the unlikely dog. Well, they wouldn’t, would they? Not if they were professionals. Anyway, it was a bit late to start being paranoid.
A waiter approached them and Fossey ordered a straight black. Ray Gilbert requested Russian Caravan tea and a slice of lemon. Outside the clouds were gathering again in preparation for a repeat performance of the earlier storm. Fossey turned his attention back to Ray.
‘So, where should we start?’
‘You’re on board then?’
‘Yes.’ He supposed so, not that he had any real idea of where they were heading.
‘Why? Have you asked yourself why?’
Fossey looked at him, suddenly unsure. ‘Why I want to help, is that what you mean?’
Ray nodded. ‘It’s just that there are other things you could do if this seems too much.’
They had already discussed the various possibilities in their email conversations and, though he would have been happy to assist in any capacity, Fossey had quickly decided that he wasn’t cut out for the social-work role. But he did have questions.
‘I don’t understand the structure. I mean, how do decisions get made?’
‘We make them.’
‘You mean there’s no committee?’ Fossey laughed. ‘That’s a bloody relief.’
‘It’s more of a shared philosophy. There are large refugee action networks in most parts of the country. For example, there’s a lot of people involved in campaigning to close the detention centres. They have meetings and make decisions in a collective way. A lot of their work is done on email as well, sharing information and so on…’ Ray paused as the waiter returned with their drinks and waited until he was out of earshot before continuing. ‘Then there’s the meet-and-greet brigade. They look after the refugees who are released on temporary protection visas —’
‘They’re not really called that, are they?’ Fossey asked.
‘What? Meet-and-greet? No
, that’s just my name for them.’
‘But what’s your relationship with them?’
‘None really. I know a few of them but since I started on …’ — he hesitated, looking for the right phrase — ‘this stuff, I keep away from most of the other groups.’
‘For security reasons?’
‘Of course. And, I guess, I don’t have a lot in common with the people involved.’ Ray sipped at his tea and replaced the glass carefully on the table. ‘I’m more like you, Fossey. You and I worked on the inside and know what a huge task it is to change policy. I spent almost a year banging my head against a brick wall trying to get the department to see what was happening in the centres. Then I woke up to myself and knew it would be more productive to do other things. I remember one of the alp pollies, Beazley, I think, saying that changing a policy was like turning a warship around in a small harbour, and I decided I wasn’t prepared to wait.’
‘And do each of the groups know about the others?’
Ray looked startled at the idea. ‘The main ones, yes, but that doesn’t mean they coordinate or even agree on directions. Bit of a mess really and part of the problem. And others, well, some of them aren’t even groups really.’
‘How come?’
Ray leaned across the table and lowered his voice. ‘You know the missing refugees, the ones that escaped from Woomera?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, there was a network of people around the country set up to shelter them. But there was never a list of names kept and no one person knows all the people. Each small support cell is linked through a backup person to the next and so on down the line. It’s worked really well.’
‘And it took the authorities months to recapture them.’ Fossey remembered how angry the immigration minister had been at the slowness of ASIO, the federal police and every state and territory law enforcement agency. At the time Fossey had advised against blowing the issue up any further, but Philson had gone public with dire threats of prison terms for anyone caught assisting the escapees. The result had been widespread public derision and the publication of the so-called Good Samaritan List containing the names of thousands of Australians offering sanctuary. Philson went ballistic, scouring through the names only to find many well-known public figures had lent support to what was, in effect, a campaign of civil disobedience.
‘In our case, you and I work as a team. I have someone who will do the administrative work but you don’t need to meet them or even know their name. You will work with Zulfi.’
‘Zulfi?’
‘Zulfi used to work for the High Commission in Islamabad and became very disillusioned with the fact that it was taking so long to process claims, and he did what you did —’
‘What? Spat the dummy?’
‘Let’s say he left and set out to find a way of circumventing the roadblocks. He moved to peshawar and set up his end of the operation. He’s supplied with the names of the family we want to reunite and prepares them at that end. When he is satisfied he’ll make contact with you and you do the groundwork here. All the housekeeping stuff gets passed on to me.’
‘Such as?’ Fossey realised he had been concentrating so hard he had forgotten his coffee. He picked it up and sipped it gingerly, only to find it was already cool. ‘What housekeeping?’
‘Literally housekeeping. Finding accommodation and preparing it in advance. Setting up bank accounts, passports, that kind of thing.’
‘Passports? How the fuck do we get passports?’
‘A couple of people in Foreign Affairs …’
‘Genuine?’
Ray nodded enthusiastically. ‘Extremely. They don’t come any more genuine. A couple of certifying officers with big hearts have also supplied at least three of the escapees with passports that allowed them to hop the Tasman and get real asylum in New Zealand.’
‘And how do I get them?’
‘Through me. Zulfi sends the photographs and you pass them on to me.’
Fossey took a deep breath as the magnitude of what they were doing began to sink home. He knew there was nothing he could do to give back the lives of those who had drowned on the Sura Star and God only knew what other boats, but if he managed to save even one person from having to make such a desperate bid for freedom — well, he would take whatever risks that came along.
‘And this is funded … from where?’
‘You estimate the costs and Zulfi passes the charges on to the customer.’
‘User pays.’
‘That’s economic rationalism for you.’
Fossey thought for a moment and then asked the question that had been sitting at the back of his mind for days. ‘This Zulfi, is he what you might call a people smuggler?’
A look of amusement spread over Ray’s face, but he shook his head. ‘No, Fossey, he’s a travel agent.’
An hour later Fossey reached across the table and shook Ray’s hand. ‘You’ve convinced me.’
Ray looked genuinely pleased. ‘I wondered if I would. There are plenty of people willing to express outrage over the government’s position, but sadly few who will actually put themselves on the line and do something.’
On the line seemed a bit of an understatement. The line was being well and truly crossed.
‘So when do we start?’
‘Now.’ Ray reached into his pocket and produced a floppy disk. ‘This has two things on it. A document with details of an email account set up in the name of “The Haha Man”, and the public and private keys for encryption and decryption of Zulfi’s emails. You must only use that email account. Once you have copied the keys and got the account details, wipe the disk.’ He frowned at Fossey. ‘You know how to wipe a disk?’
‘You mean erase?’
‘No. Erase leaves traces. On the end of the encryption box is a wipe command. It cleans all empty space several times.’
‘I’ll figure it out.’
‘Memorise the URL for the email log-in and do all the normal precautionary stuff.’
‘Turn off cookies and use “clear history” after each session. Sure.’
‘Empty your waste bin and do a free space wipe on your hard drive each night,’ Ray added. ‘I also disconnect my modem when I’m not actually working online. I don’t know if people can get into my system with it, but I don’t like to take the chance.’
It sounded like overkill, Fossey thought, but then again it was better to err on the safe side. The idea of ending up in the hands of the authorities was not exactly appealing.
Ray bent down and scooped up the sleeping dog. Walter looked most displeased to be woken and positively disgruntled when Ray clipped on his leash. Walking, it appeared, was not Walter’s favourite occupation. Ray signalled for the bill and then turned back to Fossey.
‘You should be aware you might get a visit.’
‘From?’
Ray’s eyes darted across the coffee bar in a display of mock nervousness. ‘The spooks. They’ve been hounding me ever since I quit.’
Fossey pondered that for a moment then smiled. ‘I think I can handle myself in most situations.’
‘As long as you’re sure.’ He looked questioningly at Fossey. ‘Okay, anything else?’
‘Yes. Why the log-on name?’
‘The Haha Man?’
‘Yes.’
Ray’s face broke into a broad grin. ‘It’s not haha as in funny haha.’
‘No …’
‘It’s a landscaping term.’
‘Never heard of it.’
Ray shrugged. ‘Nobody has. When you have to have fence lines, but you don’t want them to spoil the view, you build a haha. It’s a deep ditch with one side sloping gently down so that cattle or sheep can graze along the bottom, but with the other wall too steep for them to climb. It is a very effective method of containing animals without the need for unsightly fences.’
‘Sorry, I don’t get the relevance.’
‘In our national anthem are the lines, For those who’ve come acro
ss the seas, we’ve boundless plains to share. Except you and I both know that we have become very selective about who we share them with. We have built all kinds of hidden fences to stop people coming in. In our context the Haha Man is the person who shows people how to avoid those fences so we can get on with the sharing.’
The Haha Man. Fossey liked it. He watched as Ray, followed by the reluctantly waddling Walter, disappeared down the road, then, with a glance up at the now black sky, he set out to retrace his route — a cab into town and then the bus followed by a walk. He didn’t give much for his chances of making it home before it rained.
I have just become a people smuggler, he said to himself, but it didn’t sound quite right. I’m in the family reunion business. That had a better ring.
Mind you, it didn’t really matter what he called it, there was nobody to tell. For a second he wondered what Layla would think. She would probably approve, but Fossey knew there was no way he could tell her about his new career yet.
It had been two weeks now since Layla had set out on holiday with Wilna. Wilna the surprise. Fossey had never heard of Wilna until Layla said that a friend was visiting Brisbane, and then she’d announced they were off on a holiday together.
‘She’s going to show me Australia.’
‘You sure you know where to find it?’ he had replied, but for some reason she failed to get the joke. Two days later the women set out in Wilna’s hired campervan with a vague promise of ‘home in three weeks or so’. The ‘or so’ had been worrying. But she had promised to ring. In fact, Fossey hadn’t minded at all. He hoped the ‘old’ Layla was returning. Certainly her life had picked up once they returned to Brisbane, and she was in and out, meeting people.
When he got home, Fossey went straight to his computer and slipped the disk into the floppy drive. All the information he needed was there, just as Ray Gilbert had said. This is the moment to stop, he warned himself, but he continued.
The Haha Man Page 7
