That he and Appleby had been fooled by a couple of women was bad enough, but what really hurt was that, as he watched, the owner of the house produced three cans of beer, which they opened and drank.
Appleby could obviously read his mind. He hunkered down on the lawn beside him. ‘I’d kill for a beer,’ he growled.
‘I just might do that,’ Whittaker said. ‘Come on. I think we’d better go look for the bus. If this was a false trail, then Dengler could be wrong and they may try and go into Woomera tonight.’
The night was still and balmy and in the stillness the noise of their feet scrunching on the gravel road seemed unreasonably loud. Something moved nearby and the men paused to listen. Far away there was the call of a bird, but whatever it was wasn’t repeated. From up the hill to their left came the sound of an animal moving through the scrub. It sounded heavy, probably a steer.
‘It’s nothing.’ Whittaker moved quickly up the slight incline.
‘How the hell are we going to find the bus tonight?’ Appleby growled.
Whittaker turned on him angrily. ‘How are we going to explain losing something that size?’
There was no answer to that.
‘We’ll have to drive right past the house. They’ll hear us,’ Appleby said.
‘Bugger them.’ Whittaker opened the driver’s door and slumped down in the seat. ‘And I’ll tell you something for nothing. I’m going to find out everything there is to know about the people who live here. I bet the local police would find some interesting drugs in there.’
‘Nice.’ Appleby grinned. The notion of revenge was a tonic.
‘And the tax department. And do you reckon they have all the building approvals for their renovations?’ He reached for the ignition. ‘Gimme the keys.’
Appleby looked at him and shook his head. Then, just to make sure, he patted his pockets. ‘I haven’t got them.’
‘What do you mean, you haven’t got them?’
‘I left them in the car.’
There was a moment’s stillness. Whittaker remembered the noise of the animal in the night. A steer. Or had it been a horse? Or more specifically, someone on a horse? Far away another bird called. Very quietly, Whittaker said, ‘Fuck.’
‘Today I have been informed that another seven Australians have died from this virulent strain of haemorrhagic fever. The medical and scientific experts agree that this particular disease, whatever it is, has never been recorded in Australia before. I can also confirm our earlier suspicions that this specific strain of fever entered Australia with illegal migrants. Indeed, every single one of the first mortalities were individuals who entered this country without permission. None of us would wish this horrific illness and death on anyone, no matter what their circumstances, and we are all saddened by these deaths. But let me say that it is clearly not acceptable that Australian lives are put at risk by these people. As I have said in the past, we should not tolerate people who engage in un-Australian behaviour such as self-harm and the sewing together of their children’s lips, and who may harbour terrorists or worse. I say “worse” advisedly. For now the very thing we feared would happen has come to fruition.
‘Like you, I am extremely concerned that anyone should have lost their life, no matter what their origins, but it must be remembered that they brought this disease with them. The disease itself is an illegal migrant. It does not belong in this country and we will treat it in the same way we treat all those who try to usurp the sovereignty of our borders. The balances of nature are tampered with at our peril, and when, by accident or design, such a tampering occurs, strong action is called for. Therefore, after discussions with the prime minister and cabinet, I am announcing that we have set up an inter-departmental task force to deal with the issue.
‘To the families of the victims I simply say, your grief is our grief, your loss our loss, your anger — and in such circumstances anger is appropriate — is our anger. I pledge to all of you that we will give the task force wide powers to act in defence of Australians, and that soon I will stand before you and announce, as I am confident I shall, that together we have won this battle.’
Robin Philson paused, looked down at his notes and then back at the camera. ‘The health minister has informed me that he expects to be able to release more detailed information about the disease within the next couple of days. Once we have that information we can move to the next stages of containment and eradication. Finally, let me repeat the assurance I gave at the press conference the other night. There will be no more detainees released from detention until this outbreak is contained.’
‘It played extremely well. A perfect ten.’
Philson took the glass of scotch and waited. He heard the chink of ice and the second glass being filled. ‘It’s a bloody awful situation.’ The idea of the virus scared him. Something so small should be insignificant, and yet it wasn’t. It obeyed no rules any of them could invoke.
‘We can beat this.’
The prime minister spoke so flatly that Philson was unsure if it had been a statement or a question.
‘I’m sure we can. The task force people are all first rate and the Americans have offered every assistance. Anyway, it’s mostly a Health issue.’
The PM shook his head. ‘Don’t underestimate the role you have to play.’
Suddenly uncomfortable, Philson sipped at his drink. Was the leader challenging him? Threatening him? He forced his face into what he hoped was an expression of sincere confidence. ‘Nothing to worry about in my area. The detention centres have all been checked and given a clean bill of health. You won’t be having problems there.’
‘No boats on the horizon, Rob?’
Did the PM know something he didn’t? He felt his guts tighten, then saw that the PM was grinning at him, like a headmaster. Playing with him. The sickening feeling in his stomach settled. ‘No boats on the horizon,’ he said with a forced laugh.
‘Well, I hope you’re right. You know we have another twenty of our people with symptoms.’
‘Yes, I heard. Bloody dreadful …’
‘And two Indians were beaten up in Perth.’
‘Indians?’ Philson didn’t understand.
‘Well, Australians. But their parents are Indian. Seems that a bunch of hooligans in Northbridge thought they were Afghans and were spreading the virus. It appears that one of them might not make it.’
‘But that’s absurd,’ Philson objected, then realising the ambiguity of his reply, added, ‘I mean, it’s not as if someone was deliberately —’
‘No, but there is bound to be some panic,’ the prime minister said. He raised his glass and peered at the ice floating in the scotch. ‘Steady hands on the tiller, eh?’
‘Exactly,’ Philson murmured. ‘Rock solid.’
‘Anyway, change of subject. Just seen the latest poll results.’ He paused tantalisingly.
‘And?’
‘And we’re at an all-time high in the approval ratings.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers. You can go home for the weekend knowing we are on a very firm footing.’
Philson smiled warmly. ‘Congratulations, Prime Minister.’
Marzuq had been away for two days. When he returned on Saturday, he reported that he had tested the security pass without a problem.
‘I walked through security and located the ministers’ offices without arousing any interest at all. I waited until they were all in the House then tried the card on the defence minister’s door. I was able to walk through to his bathroom. These people are such fools.’
‘And the dispenser?’ Basim asked.
‘It was the same model.’ Marzuq glanced at his watch and turned the television on. ‘Now, let us see what we have unleashed.’
They watched in silence as the reports of the spreading virus came in from around the country. The death toll was up to eighty-three confirmed cases in three states, with several dozen more people seriously ill. But it was the announcement of the death of the education minister that domina
ted the bulletin. He had died during the two-week parliamentary recess. There was an unconfirmed report that his wife and children were in a critical condition.
It was perfect.
The cases were so widespread and no vector was suspected other than the Afghan asylum seekers. The authorities still could not identify the virus. The health minister had flown to the United States for urgent consultations with his American counterpart. Finally there was a live cross to the prime minister and immigration minister giving another joint press conference in Canberra.
‘There they are,’ Marzuq murmured, his voice soft and sweet as though he was talking of his beloved. ‘Together.’
‘They were together on the television a lot while you were away,’ Basim said.
‘And they shall die together.’
‘They shall die together,’ Basim echoed, his eyes glazed with emotion.
‘Insh’allah,, Marzuq added softly. ‘Insh’allah.‘
Russ Dengler was angry. He had sent messages ahead to say that he expected to be in Woomera by five on Saturday afternoon. By ten that night there was still no sign of Fleischer. In the end Dengler requisitioned a car and sent Nigel Rootham to find him. And find him he did, dragging him out of bed.
‘But it was your office that told me to expect you on Sunday,’ Fleischer grumbled as he climbed into the car.
‘Just acting on orders, sir,’ Nigel answered. They drove in silence out to the centre.
There was, as Rootham later explained to a colleague, a fair bit of biting and gouging in the scrum before things settled down, but it was clear from the outset that Dengler held the advantage. Eventually they opened a bottle of scotch and decided that no damage had been done.
‘After all,’ Dengler conceded gracefully, ‘a man on a hardship posting needs a few home comforts.’
Fleischer was less than comfortable with the oblique reference to his wife back in Canberra, but decided he could live with it.
‘I take it you received the briefing note?’ Dengler asked.
‘Yes, we flew in an extra doctor from Roxbury Downs. No trace of the thing here, thank God.’
‘Good. I’d hate to catch something.’
It was in the relative calm which followed that the bombshell was dropped.
‘So what preparations have you put in place for tomorrow?’ Dengler asked.
‘Advance warning from ten-and five-kilometre check points. The minute the bus and truck drive through them we will be informed.’
‘Good,’ Dengler murmured.
‘I have the water cannon on standby, and the construction company next to the compound has generously allowed us to position three heavy vehicles in preparation for blocking any attempt to escape. On top of that, all leave has been cancelled, extra staff are on duty from midnight tonight and the local police have been briefed.’
‘Excellent.’ Dengler beamed, and reached across the desk to refill Fleischer’s tumbler.
‘I take it you know the whereabouts of the truck and bus?’
‘Last report had them between Augusta and here. We expect they’ve holed up somewhere for the night.’ Dengler turned to Rootham. ‘Nigel, give the boys a call and see if they’re back in range.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Dengler smiled. ‘And when you’ve located them, I suggest you find a glass and pour yourself a drink.’
‘Very kind, sir.’
Fleischer waited until Rootham had left the room. Then he walked to the window and opened it. ‘Mind if I have a smoke?’
Dengler shook his head. ‘Like to be able to join you but the wife made me quit a couple of years back. More than my life’s worth, I’m afraid.’
Fleischer took out a cigarette and perched on the window ledge. ‘So you don’t have an exact fix on the bus?’ Fleischer saw the look on Dengler’s face and immediately regretted the question.
‘Sensitive information,’ Dengler snapped, then checked himself and made a credible recovery. ‘Big country out here, Fleischer. A lot of nasty little black holes in the mobile phone coverage. Usually a team on an assignment like this would have … er, other means of communicating, but this all unfolded too fast for the usual preparations and, well, we have to make do, I’m afraid.’
‘But you don’t think they’ll try anything tonight?’
Dengler shrugged. ‘Gut feeling? No. These women are pretty smart in some ways and absolute amateurs in others, but my feeling is that they’ll come in during daylight hours, thinking that’s when we would least expect it.’
‘They must be mad to think they can get away with this,’ Fleischer said, gazing out the window. Below him the centre was quiet. A couple of guards with torches were making their rounds. He glanced up, but the glare of the lights had bleached the stars from the sky.
‘The detainees will know something is happening,’ Dengler commented, nursing his drink. ‘You expect any trouble from them?’
‘Trouble? No.’ Fleischer laughed. ‘Not since we sent the ringleaders away. I put it about that it was just the first of a series of releases into the community, and by all accounts they believed me.’
Dengler put his drink down. ‘You sent who away?’
Fleischer turned, grinning broadly. ‘Your midnight run on Friday night. Perfect timing, if I may say so.’
Dengler felt a familiar disquiet move to his stomach. Maybe he had missed something. He spoke softly and deliberately, ‘What midnight run?’
The grin seeped from Fleischer’s mouth, leaving it down-turned. Open. His eyes suddenly glazed. He dropped the rest of his cigarette out the window. ‘The bus you sent on Friday. A commander from the federal police rang and said you had okayed sending a group of troublemakers to Plym. He had a list of the names …’
Fleischer saw the non-comprehension on Dengler’s face and suddenly wished he was on the other side of the continent. With rising panic he moved behind his desk, opened a file and produced a sheet of paper. ‘It’s all here. Ransome, my 21C handled it. Everything’s in order —’
‘Let me see it.’ Dengler took the list and ran his eye down the names. Fifty-one. The form was a genuine DIMA detainee transport order. He couldn’t read the authorising officer’s signature, but it had been countersigned by Ransome. He looked down the list again. Yes, as he had suspected: Karim Mazari was there. Damn it! He had been right about the man.
There was a polite cough behind him and he turned to find that Rootham had returned with a clean whisky tumbler.
‘Still no message from the team, sir, and no message left …’ He sensed the atmosphere and stopped. ‘Something wrong, sir?’
‘Get me Tackberry on the phone, now, Rootham.’
‘I’m sure it’s all in order —’
Dengler spun on Fleischer viciously. ‘Shut up. Get Ransome in here. Get anyone who loaded these people aboard the bus and anyone who came within fifty feet of it.’
He turned back to Rootham. ‘I gave you an order.’
For a second Rootham thought about mentioning that it was late on Saturday night, but the icy coldness in Dengler’s voice was a clear signal. To hesitate would be a terminal career move. He backed out of the room as fast as he could.
‘Fleischer, according to this document, the bus was loaded and left here at three minutes to midnight on Friday night. That is just under twenty-four hours ago. By my reckoning they could be a hell of a long way from Woomera by now. But if you have any hope of retiring with a pension, you had better pray that we find the bastards, because let me tell you something — whatever happens, I am not going to go down for this. There’s one head on the chopping block as far as I’m concerned and it’s yours. Is that clear?’
Fleischer stared at him. The full import of what had happened began to dawn on him. The thought flashed through his head that the best thing he could do was to jump out of the window. But he knew it wasn’t high enough. The room felt suddenly hot, the air-conditioning ineffective.
‘I’ll get everyone in and we’ll get a des
cription of the bus and the people involved.’ Somehow his voice was firm. A long way from how he felt.
It was one o’clock in the morning by the time Dengler had a clear picture of what had occurred. In the previous two hours he had managed to upset almost everyone he came in contact with. In Canberra, Angela Tackberry had been called away from her sister’s fortieth birthday party; an irate Philson, at home in Sydney for a rare weekend with his family, was heading back to the national capital by car and demanding hourly updates; and Fleischer’s staff were wondering about the security of their employment. Fleischer, to his credit, had pulled himself together and set up a crisis management team, and had had the foresight to call in the catering staff. Nigel Rootham was handling communications.
Dengler turned to the others at the table. ‘The word from the minister is: no media.’
‘Doesn’t that limit our chances of spotting the bus?’ This was Dave Hickey, the federal police liaison officer, who’d already been on site in response to the now discredited break-in theory. He had always thought it a crock. The notion that a bunch of women would drive a truck through the wire was a little too Bruce Willis.
‘You think anyone who planned something as meticulously as this would still be using the bus?’ Fleischer asked. He emphasised meticulously as a subtle reminder that he had been duped by professionals. It had to be a mitigating factor, he told himself.
‘Shouldn’t think so,’ Dengler grunted and reached for a sandwich. It was hours since he had eaten and it would be an equally long time before he’d get a real meal. ‘Anyway, a media ban is in place. The minister is concerned about the virus outbreak and the possibility of public panic.’
‘Fair enough,’ Hickey nodded.
Fleischer leaned forward. ‘But the detainees were all checked by the medicos and have a —’
‘I don’t think the minister needs to know that,’ Dengler cut across him. He glared at Rootham. ‘How are we going with the bus?’
The Haha Man Page 26
