Amir looked at him blankly. Escape? To where? No matter how harsh the conditions were in the camps, at least there was food and shelter. How long would they last on the outside? It was hard enough for those on temporary protection visas; the idea of surviving illegally was a nightmare. But before he could voice his concerns, Ray continued.
‘There is a network of people willing to provide sanctuary. They are Australians, good people. People who are angry about the abuses the government is committing against the refugees. They are committed to do what they can to hide these people for however long it takes to change the laws and give them amnesty.’
‘But I don’t understand what I can do.’
‘You have the contacts in the camps. I want you to spread the story that an escape is planned from Port Hedland and Curtin. Your contact will give you a date and details.’
Amir shook his head. It was foolishness. ‘The word will spread and the guards will hear. There is always someone who thinks they can trade their way to a visa.’
‘Exactly. But that is of no concern.’
‘But —’
‘Because the escape will not be from those centres and not on the dates you will tell people.’
Amir looked perplexed. ‘Then where? When?’
‘You will be given instructions. Just email this man.’ He placed a slip of paper on the table. ‘Don’t leave it lying around afterwards.’
‘And for this, you will help me?’
Ray nodded. ‘In return this man will get your wife and daughter into Australia.’ He looked into the man’s eyes, sensing the emotion, the confusion. ‘I promise,’ he said and left.
For a long while Amir sat, his mind conjuring up the image of his wife back in the Jahroom refugee camp in Iran. They had fled Iraq after the Dawa Party had been outlawed and his people, the Ma’dan, targeted by ‘Chemical Ali’ — the nickname given to Saddam Hussein’s cousin after his attack on the Kurds. Amir’s people proudly traced their lineage back to Sumerians, Babylonians, Persians and Bedouin. They lived by growing rice and dates, raising water buffalo, fishing, and weaving domestic products from the reeds. Around them a richly diverse Asmara Marsh was home for fish, migratory birds, pelicans, herons and flamingo. The Ma’dan had thought themselves safe in the marshes, until the draining and poisoning began.
Amir thought of his daughter too, but he could no longer summon her face. The news that refugees on temporary protection visas would never be allowed to reunite with their families had taken him to the brink of suicide, and now, suddenly, there was a glimmer of hope. He picked up the scrap of paper and read it carefully. An email address and a name that made no sense: “The Haha Man’ *[email protected]*
Rashid Khan’s arrival in Australia was entirely without incident. A bored immigration official checked his passport and waved him through. It was, Karim thought, a huge anti-climax. He had expected to be nervous and tense, but the hours of flying had taken their toll and he walked through into the arrivals hall feeling exactly the same as his fellow passengers: jet-lagged and fatigued by the long flight. He took his small suitcase to the cab rank and it was there that he felt the first exhilaration. Breathing in the Australian air, he was breathing the same air as his father.
PGP DECRYPT
Date: 19 January 2002 18:20:36 — 0700 (PDT)
From: “The Haha Man” *[email protected]*
Subject: Urgent
To: “Rabia Balkhi” *[email protected]*
I received your email with much dismay. What you suggest is foolish and dangerous. In my opinion it would achieve nothing except condemnation on all sides. As well, you would not get anywhere near a detention centre without being stopped. Those who see Islamic peoples as fanatics would have their case strengthened. I understand your passion but direct it where it can do some good. Direct it against the Minister for Immigration and his policies.
I urge you to think again.
The Haha Man
PGP DECRYPT
Date: 19 January 2002 18:35:31 GMT
From: “Rabia Balkhi” *[email protected]* [add to address book] [add to spam block list]
Subject: Re: Urgent
To: “The Haha Man” *[email protected]*
I do not care for my own safety in this. Our people have been made martyrs by history and neglect. You probably think that I am only a woman, but there comes a time when a line must be drawn and men and women must act. My Afghan brothers and sisters did not escape the persecution of the Taliban in order to be brutalised in Australian concentration camps. Help me, please. Plym said you would.
Rabia
‘It’s insane!’ Fossey knew he was ranting, but couldn’t stop himself. He had been irritable all day, and not just from the oppressive heat. He peered through the darkness to where Ray Gilbert was sitting illuminated by the soft light from the band rotunda. ‘Fucking insane. I just don’t understand why you want to help her. For a start, if there are links to us it puts our work in jeopardy, and as for the idea of talking people into harbouring escapees … Look, even if she did manage to find a way to get some of the poor bastards out, the cops will round them up before they get half a kilometre away. And who the hell are these people she’s conned into agreeing to shelter escapees? Ten years in gaol is the going rate, according to the law. Do they know that? And the refugees — they’re throwing away any chance they ever had of getting asylum. It’s lunacy, Ray. Fucking madness.’
The outburst seemed to have no effect. Ray didn’t move from his seat on the bottom step of the rotunda, just gazed at him with his eyes narrowed shrewdly. A man waiting for the storm to pass; confident that it would. Fossey returned to his angry pacing.
He had set up the meeting as soon as Ray had flown back from Sydney, impatient with this dangerous escalation from what, until now, had been morally defensible actions.
‘Listen, I have no qualms about what we are doing. Helping a few individuals into the country in the face of a repressive and immoral immigration policy is …’ — he hunted for the words — ‘symbolic — no, that’s too passive, but you know what I mean. It doesn’t harm anyone, and it allows me to make up for …’ He trailed off, realising that in the last twenty minutes he had said the same thing in half a dozen different ways. Did anybody really care about his personal moral dilemma? In the houses across the river in Hawthorne, behind them up in the Valley, did it matter a damn? He knew the answer was no, and as he admitted this to himself he felt his anger begin to subside. He stopped pacing and looked past the band rotunda, through the trees to the river. At night it was just a stretch of blackness, moving like some liquid walkway towards Moreton Bay. A few lights twinkled on its surface, reflections from the houses on the opposite shore. Though the time must be well past eleven, the occasional car was still cruising down Brunswick Street. It all seemed so normal. Another languid Brisbane night.
‘I go to all the refugee meetings; I sit at the back and listen.’ Ray spoke quietly, as though to hold something back or conserve energy. ‘Once in a while I hear something that’s useful. At one forum I overheard two women talking about a meeting being organised where an Afghan woman was to speak. So I went along. This woman, Rabia, spoke movingly about the women in Afghanistan. It was nothing I hadn’t heard before, but it was well done, beautifully delivered. Then at the end of the talk she dropped this almost casual line about wanting women who were willing to make a stand. There was something in the way she said it that told me she was recruiting for more than just handing out petitions or painting protest banners. I spoke with her after the meeting and suggested I could assist.’
‘And introduced yourself as Plym?’
There was a low chuckle in the dark. ‘Being careful. Ray Plym, it has a certain ring …’
‘So why did you involve me? Couldn’t you have helped her in some way?’
Ray got to his feet. ‘Come on, we’ll walk back down the river path.’
As they fell into step Ray point
ed up through a gap in the trees. ‘See that?’
‘What, the stars?’
‘The bright one. Sirius. Now come down a bit. There. Those three stars are the belt of Orion. Harder to spot.’
‘Ray, what the hell are you going on about?’ Fossey said wearily. His anger had dissipated, melting away into a night that no longer seemed too hot, but balmy. Somewhere along the way the breeze off the river had picked up hints of jasmine and frangipani. He felt his spirits lift. Above them a great fat fruit-bat landed noisily in a tree, making those already feeding screech their protests.
Ray, unperturbed by Fossey or the fruit-bats, ploughed on. ‘If you follow a line from Sirius through Orion’s belt into Taurus and the Hyades cluster, you come to the Pleiades. The seven daughters of Atlas, hunted by Orion. But if you look, you can only see six.’
‘And your point is?’
‘There are seven, but the last one can’t be seen.’
‘I don’t get it,’ Fossey protested.
‘Rabia will become a target and so will her associates, but those who seek them will only find six. You are the seventh, safely invisible.’
Fossey peered at him blankly. ‘I’m going to be hunted?’ He snorted. ‘And where are you in all of this? Canis Major?’
Ray reached out and held Fossey’s arm. ‘Trust me, we’ll be hunted, but what I’m doing is splitting the pack. Too many scents and the pack divides. Individual hunters we can deal with. Sure Rabia may fail, but hell, she deserves a fair crack at it. She’s got a tight network of dedicated people and a list of volunteers willing to provide sanctuary that would embarrass the government big time.’
‘How come?’
‘It’s the social and cultural “A” list. People of influence. If they started arresting them, all hell would break out.’
‘Elegant.’
‘Exactly.’
They walked in silence down to where New Farm Park was bounded by the walkway along the Brisbane River.
‘What does she look like, this Rabia? What do you know about her?’ Fossey asked.
‘No idea. I was hoping you could drop her name into some of the newsgroups and see if anyone knows her background. As to her looks …’ He laughed quietly. ‘Clever woman. She wears a burqa.’
‘Seriously? A burqa?’
‘The full catastrophe. It sure as hell helps focus the mind.’
‘Why?’
‘Who knows? I asked her and she didn’t answer,’ Ray said. He had asked a lot of questions, but Rabia had deflected them all, turning them back at him, probing. ‘She’s very security conscious, which is why I’m inclined to trust her.’
‘I’ll ask around. There’s sure to be some talk about her in the refugee action forums.’
They turned into Oxlade Drive, where Ray had parked his car. Fossey glanced around. ‘Are we already being hunted?’
‘I doubt it.’ Ray fished the keys from his pocket, his face obscured by the shadows. ‘It’s my guess that the Federal Police and ASIO are flat out keeping tags on the inmates in the camps and the Islamic community, and looking for the handful who’ve escaped. They’ll have us flagged, still be watching our movements, but actually hunting? Nah; at least not yet.’
‘But if Rabia …’
‘Yes, if Rabia succeeds in busting a considerable number out, then Orion will be on the warpath.’
‘Great,’ Fossey mumbled.
‘But he’ll be hunting the daughters — hardly a description that fits you or me.’ He was about to get in the car when he stopped. ‘Oh, and one other thing …’
‘Yes?’
‘You’ll be getting an email from a man named Amir. He has a wife and child to bring in. When he contacts you we’ll get to work on it.’
‘Where are his family?’
‘Jahroom refugee camp.’
‘Which is where exactly?’
‘The province of Fars in Iran.’
‘And of course you’ve thought up a way of getting them out?’
Ray laughed. ‘No, but I’m working on it.’
‘He’s on a TPV?’
‘Yes. So we’re filling in for the family reunion scheme. Okay?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The important thing is that he’s got links into the camps and so when he contacts you, tell him that he’s to provide us with the names of fifty detainees who are prepared to escape. We need names. When you have them, pass them on to Rabia. She’ll do the rest.’
Fossey gave a low whistle. ‘Fifty? Jesus!’
‘Tell him any others are encouraged to bust out as well to add to the confusion. From what I understand there will be a couple of diversions going on at the same time, but Rabia’s team will need to be able to identify her fifty immediately.’
Fifty escapees in one hit? It seemed impossible. ‘Where are we talking about? Villawood?’
Ray looked across the roof of the car and grinned. ‘No. She’s going to bust them out of Woomera.’
Fossey watched Ray’s car drive off into the night but, instead of turning into Moray Street where he was parked, he kept walking. He made his way down to the end of Oxlade Drive, and for almost an hour sat on the grass at Kinellian Point and stared out across the river, his mind racing. This stretch of water was called the Humbug Reach. It seemed appropriate.
Villawood Detention Centre in Sydney would have made sense, even Maribyrnong in Melbourne, but not Woomera. In the city you could lose yourself quickly, but not out in the desert. And no matter how many diversions you staged, moving fifty people out of the area before the roadblocks went up would be impossible. The idea just didn’t make sense. As for busting down the perimeter fences with semi-trailers … ! He hadn’t believed it when Ray had told him; had made him repeat it. Madness. The guards had water cannon and teargas … He tried to picture it, but all he could see was a recipe for disaster.
It was nearly one in the morning when he got home. To his surprise, Layla was still up.
‘You’re late,’ she said as she kissed him. ‘Want tea? I’ve just made a pot, there should be enough.’
‘Love it. No, can I change my mind? What I really need is a beer.’ He slumped onto the sofa and kicked off his shoes. ‘I’m digging for a story, but I’m going around in circles, chasing my tail.’
At least the last part was true, and one day he probably would write about the events he was tangled up in. Most likely from prison, he thought dryly.
‘Want to talk about it?’ Layla handed him a beer and sat down beside him.
‘No. Better to leave it to brew in my subconscious.’ Fossey yawned. ‘What’s kept you up?’
Layla snuggled up against his arm. ‘Couldn’t sleep. I swear I’m going to get air-conditioning for the bedroom.’
Fossey put his arm around her. ‘Have you seen how much they want for even a small system? You might have to wait until I sell another couple of stories.’
‘Nonsense. We can afford it.’ Layla reached for her tea and took a sip. ‘I actually went to bed really early, around nine-thirty, and when I couldn’t sleep I got up and did some work on my translation. Funny,’ she mused, ‘I haven’t touched it in weeks and yet within five minutes I’d cracked a line that’s had me stumped for ages.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I mean about brewing in the subconscious. It works for me.’
Layla punched his arm playfully. ‘Anything brewed seems to work for you.’
‘What? The beer? Oh, come on, I’ve cut back on my drinking, heaps.’ It was true. Since leaving the minister’s office he hadn’t felt the need to reach for the scotch bottle nearly as much.
‘I was teasing, darling.’ She grasped his arm and snuggled closer. ‘I really don’t mind what you do as long as we are okay.’
‘And are we?’
‘We could be better.’
‘What?’ Fossey felt his heart lurch.
‘We could be in bed,’ she whispered.
Later, he heard her voice in the dark, reciting softly.
; ‘The birds that herald dreams
were exiled from their song,
each voice torn from its throat.
They dropped into the dust
even before the hunter strung his bow.’
‘That’s beautiful,’ he whispered.
‘It’s my Faiz,’ she replied.
There was a pause and then, feeling unworthy of her and ashamed at not having told her the truth about what he had been doing, he asked, ‘Why do you love me?’
There was a soft chuckle. ‘My darling, as the incomparable Mullah Nasruddin would say: Never look for cause and effect in the same story.’
By the beginning of their second month in Australia, Marzuq Yazeed and Basim Sharifi had completed the first stage of their preparations. The shipping container with all their equipment had made it safely ashore at the Conaust container terminal in White Bay. Having cleared customs, it was now in the warehouse they had rented in Robert Street.
The next task was to recruit the team of installers. They needed a minimum of ten workers. In order not to leave a trail, it had been decided to hire the men on a casual basis, offering them cash in return for not appearing on the books.
Marzuq’s instincts warned him against the established Islamic community. He had visited the mosques and disliked what he had seen and heard. Here there was no talk of the Islamic brotherhood or jihads, and instead of mullahs preaching revenge and revolt against Australian involvement with America’s war in Afghanistan, the talk was of unity and of calming passions, of good citizenship and multiculturalism. It was not what Marzuq needed to hear. And on the streets and in the coffee shops, instead of experiencing an atmosphere of welcome and inclusion, the two men found themselves viewed with suspicion by a community under siege. In Brisbane a mosque had been fire-bombed, and around the country, in response to vilification and intimidation, the community had closed ranks. With the war in Afghanistan dragging on, people were concentrating on getting back to their everyday lives.
So Marzuq and Basim turned to those who had only recently been released from the detention camps. Young men, traumatised and adrift in an alien environment. But the task of locating the men was not as easy as they had expected. Those who had come to Sydney were scattered across the city, housed in temporary accommodation far from the centre. To this was added the problem that they didn’t actually need the men until the order was given; not knowing when that might be, they were reluctant to make direct contact.
The Haha Man Page 17
