The Haha Man

by Sandy Mccutcheon

  Layla had marked her place with a dried bay leaf, at a recipe for something called Kala Shoorwa — instructions for cooking a goat or sheep’s head. Fossey imagined there were few recipes that required you to bang the head onto a rock so as to clean the fluid from nose holes, or cleaning of teeth before cooking is much advised and after scraping rubbish off tongue boil until it attains a cheery look. But it was the final comment that troubled him more than the esoteric instructions or sentence construction. Kala is traditional for warrior before going into the battle with enemy.

  Fossey sat with the book in his hand. He felt helpless, unable to move and unsure of what he could do. Finally he got to his feet and went through to Layla’s study.

  The computer had been left on, and he sat in front of it. He was disgusted with himself at what he was about to do, but he did it nevertheless. He moved the cursor over My Computer and opened her files. There was nothing surprising and certainly nothing that she would have minded showing him if he could have asked her. Yet it still gave him a bad taste in the mouth, to be snooping through her affairs. The translation texts were labelled precisely, each in a sub-folder of its own. He opened up her browser and waited as it automatically dialled the server. Fossey watched as her homepage loaded. He was not surprised to find it was the website of the Australian Refugee Action Coalition. He clicked on Favourites and looked down the list. It was pretty much what he would have expected. Academic sites, poetry pages, a translators’ chat group and several Afghan reference links. But one of them caught his eye: Afghan Email.com. Fossey hadn’t thought that Layla might have a web-based email account, if indeed that was what it was. He clicked on it. The connection was slow but after about a minute he was given the choice either to register or log in.

  Foolishly, or maybe because she trusted Fossey not to pry, Layla had checked the box that allowed the user to automatically log in and her name and asterisked password were displayed. But it was not the security lapse that stunned him. It was the user-name.

  Rabia Balkhi.

  In some ways the shock was worse than finding the sheep’s skull. It was like being cheated on.

  Fossey scanned through the emails, knowing what he would find. He wasn’t disappointed. There was an entire folder of emails labelled ‘Plym’. He opened the most recent.

  Date: 3 March 2002 09:35:31 GMT

  From: “Plym” *ray@plym.zzn.com* [add to address book] [add to spam block list]

  Subject: Re: Urgent

  To: “Rabia Balkhi” *Rabia@afghanemail.com*

  Thanks for the phone call. And pleased to hear all the women are safe. Amazing trip. I’ll see you tomorrow night. Our friend is confident we can finish Philson.

  Fossey went back to the folder and ran his eye down the list of emails Layla had received from Ray. The earliest was only a month after Fossey had joined Philson’s staff. So Ray had been playing both ends against the middle. A puppet master.

  It would have been easy to simply let the anger explode out of him, but instead Fossey coldly went through his options. Then, just to make certain, he went to the bedroom and checked on top of the wardrobe. The small travelling case Layla always used was gone. He considered going after Ray, but in all likelihood he was also on his way. Back in Layla’s study he phoned his travel agent, then returned to reading through the emails systematically.

  He had time to discover just what sort of relationship Ray and Layla had.

  It had taken David Magnus a few seconds to make the connection. The voice on the phone was unfamiliar, but then he remembered the man who had helped him out in the Peshawar market. He was genuinely pleased to hear from him — and more so when he heard what Rashid was suggesting.

  This was, as they said in the trade, a story to die for. It had more legs than a millipede and was as gold-plated as a Walkley Award. Could he organise to do it without a sound operator? For a story like this he could walk on water. Could he get a cameraman whose discretion could be relied on? He assured Rashid that he had a friend in Sydney who was a freelancer with all the equipment they might need.

  As he got on the plane he noticed the tall, solidly built man walking down the aisle. The face was familiar, but it was only after take-off that he placed him. The guy had been an advisor to the immigration minister, some time back. But David couldn’t recall his name. At any other time he might have been interested in chatting with him; finding out the scuttlebutt about the minister and why this man had quit. But not now.

  David had been getting the run-around from the network. If he brought this one home, they might start to treat him with the respect he knew he deserved.

  Ray looked at the expression on Karim’s face and then down again at his food. ‘I know it’s not halal,’ he growled, ‘but it’s bloody delicious. You ought to try it sometime, Karim. Nothing beats bacon and eggs for breakfast.’

  It hadn’t taken much to convince Karim that a short walk from his place to the high street would fuel their tanks for what might prove to be a long day. They stopped at the first café they came to.

  ‘What about the minister?’ Ray asked while they waited for the second cup of coffee.

  ‘We know where he’s going to be every evening this week.’

  ‘And you reckon you can lift him?’

  ‘With your help,’ Karim said. ‘I’ve checked things out and I think we can pull it off.’

  ‘You didn’t mention that last night.’ Ray pushed his plate to one side to make way for the latte.

  ‘I was saving it up.’

  They were walking back to the house when Karim stopped abruptly and fished in his pocket. ‘The damn thing vibrates,’ he said to Ray before answering the phone. He spoke for a couple of minutes, his face animated, eyes shining. As he talked, he nodded to Ray and gave him a thumbs-up signal. It was the surveillance team from the local mosque.

  ‘We have them,’ he said as he slipped the phone back in his pocket.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Two men drove up to the Robert Street warehouse, went inside and after about ten minutes came out and drove away.’ Karim beamed at Ray, his face flushed with excitement. ‘It couldn’t have been easier.’

  ‘They drove away?’

  Karim, sensing Ray’s impatience, paused, teasing him by dragging it out. ‘Yes, they drove away … and our men followed them. They say the two have gone into a house in Arthur Street, in Surry Hills.’

  ‘So when do we pay them a visit?’

  ‘We don’t.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I will take Amir and some of the men tonight and have a look. I don’t want to make a move before I am certain everything else is in place.’ They turned into Walsh Avenue. ‘I’ll just get a jacket and we’ll go into town.’

  ‘Town?’ Then Ray remembered. ‘Oh, yes, the journalist.’

  ‘Yes, he’s slumming at the Park Grand Hotel.’

  ‘Do you want me to keep in the background?’

  Karim looked at Ray. ‘No need for that. I’ll run this stage and then you can look after the minister. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’ Ray nodded, hoping that, when the time came, he could deliver.

  He was just about to turn into the path leading up to the front door, when Karim hissed at him to stop, then pushed him back along the road.

  ‘The door is open.’

  Karim moved quickly down the side of the house and out of sight. Ray looked up and down the street. It was deserted. Nobody appeared to be watching the place. He decided he didn’t like being cast in a supporting role, so he made his way cautiously up to the front door. It was only slightly open, with no sign that it had been forced. Then he heard a thump and a groan from inside, followed by a crash and the sound of something metallic hitting the floor. Ray pushed the door open and rushed down the hall, intent on giving Karim a hand. But Karim was fine, standing in the hallway, rubbing his knuckles.

  A kitchen chair was over on its side, the kettle had been knocked from the stove and lay in a pool of water on the floor. A
part from that, all the damage appeared to have been done to the intruder. He was out cold on the floor.

  Ray made a mental note not to get on the wrong side of an Afghan. He knelt and rolled the man over. ‘Karim …’

  Karim looked over his shoulder. ‘What the hell are we going to do with him? We can hardly ring the police.’

  ‘Karim, this is him.’ He looked down at the face. There was blood coming from the side of the mouth. ‘This is the Haha Man.’

  Karim squatted down beside him, his fingers seeking the pulse in the unconscious man’s temple. ‘He’ll be all right in a little while.’ He withdrew his hand and gave it a shake. ‘He has a very hard head.’

  Ray set the chair upright and got to his feet. ‘Silly bastard. I didn’t think he would turn up.’

  ‘You told him what was happening?’

  ‘More than that, I invited him to assist us. But he claimed he’d had enough and wanted nothing more to do with it.’

  ‘Then why did he come here?’ Karim hunted under the sink, took out a floor cloth and started to mop up the spilled water.

  ‘I said I was staying here. It seems he changed his mind.’

  There was a groan from the floor.

  ‘We’d better move him onto the couch,’ Karim said. He squeezed the cloth out and dropped it in the sink. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Fossey.’

  ‘Where the hell does that come from?’

  Ray grinned. ‘A cruel mother. I think he should sue for child abuse.’ He looked down at Fossey. ‘Maybe that’s why he’s such a contrary bastard.’

  Even working together, it was a struggle to lift Fossey, but in the end they managed to drag him into the lounge and, with some difficulty, lifted him onto the couch. As they pushed a pillow under his head, he emitted another groan then half opened his eyes. ‘You should lock your back door,’ he muttered.

  ‘It doesn’t lock.’

  ‘I even opened the front door for you … ‘ Fossey struggled to sit up but Karim held him back.

  ‘Take it easy. You’ve had a nasty knock on the head.’

  ‘What the hell did you hit me with?’

  ‘My fist. I’m sorry but I didn’t know who you were.’

  Fossey peered at him. ‘You’re Rashid?’

  ‘Yes. Karim.’

  Ray stepped forward. ‘And I’m Ray.’

  ‘I know who the hell you are,’ Fossey said through clenched teeth. ‘If I wasn’t feeling like this I would kill you.’

  ‘It’ll keep.’ Ray laughed. ‘In the meantime, I’ll make some of the rubbish Karim calls coffee. That is, if you haven’t killed the kettle.’

  Fossey, if not completely recovered, was feeling well enough to sit up and demand answers. His head was thumping and he washed down a couple of Panadol with a second cup of coffee.

  He listened as they outlined what had taken place and the course of action they intended. Throughout the explanation he sat nursing his coffee. His anger at Ray didn’t diminish.

  ‘And Layla? You had her targeted right from the beginning, didn’t you?’

  Ray shrugged. ‘I targeted everyone who had any link to the minister. No matter how remote. When I found out that Layla was born in Kabul, I knew she was someone I could work with.’

  ‘You’re a bastard, Ray.’ The thought of Ray manipulating Layla’s need to regain her Afghan identity disgusted him. ‘You use people. You get dumped by the department and set out on a personal vendetta and don’t give a stuff who ends up as roadkill along the way.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s fair —’ Karim interjected.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Fossey!’ Ray cut him off. ‘This wasn’t a personal vendetta. I got shafted because I was a whistleblower. Have you any idea what it feels like to be a whistleblower in this country?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. Unable to contain his energy, he got to his feet and paced angrily. ‘A lot of people know that what we’re doing to the refugees is wrong, but they look the other way while those in control play their game of seeing just how far they can push things. And we all sit on our hands. First it was mandatory detention, then camps in the desert and razor wire and dogs and spot checks. Then it was temporary visas and changes to the immigration zones and Pacific solutions. And we still did nothing.

  ‘We did nothing, even though the withdrawal of family reunion for these people is forcing women and children into the hands of people smugglers, and onto leaky boats. And have you heard the outcries about people smugglers? Well, I tell you I am on the side of the smugglers, because compared to the government position they at least are rational and are doing more than the bloody department to uphold human rights. But what do we do? Instead of calling the government to account, we nod our heads and agree that they’re criminals.

  ‘Oh yes, from time to time some bleeding heart will make a noise about it in the press and we get the usual bland legalistic reassurances from our beige government about border security, and we all go back to sleep. You don’t need a Berlin Wall to keep a population trapped as long as you have apathy, and this government are masters at cultivating it. The few thousand people who are awake enough and brave enough to protest are treated to teargas and water cannons. The government labels them as un-Australian and then it’s back to normal. But water cannons and teargas are a damned sight more un-Australian than those young people who put themselves in the firing line.’

  Ray stopped pacing and turned on Fossey. ‘You think this was just me whinging about losing a job? I hated that job. I hated the culture, the racism and most of all the apathy of the general public. No, Fossey, this is about making a stand. I’m one of the little people, but I’m not going to be cowed into silence and inaction while our government abuses people in the name of border security. This isn’t about me. This is about a country that allows children to be kept behind razor wire in a desert …’ He stopped, suddenly out of steam and breathing heavily. He sank into a chair and put his head in his hands.

  After a moment he looked up, his eyes wide, shocked at his own outburst. ‘Fossey, believe me. I never pushed Layla anywhere she wasn’t already going.’

  Fossey stared at Ray.

  ‘I think you misjudged him,’ Karim said quietly.

  ‘But I don’t understand why you had her do this Rabia thing,’ Fossey said.

  Ray took a deep breath. ‘It was her idea. Ask her, she’ll tell you.’

  ‘Where is she? I thought she was with you.’

  ‘She’s in town, at the same hotel as our journalist.’ Karim touched Ray’s shoulder gently. ‘I think we should go.’

  ‘What about you, Fossey?’

  ‘I came down here to tear strips off you, Ray,’ Fossey muttered.

  Ray struggled out of his chair and stood in front of the couch. ‘You can come with us, Fossey. Or you can go and alert the police. It’s your call. Just tell me this. If you and Layla have kids and one day in twenty years’ time they turn around and ask what you did about the detention camps, what will you tell them?’

  Fossey looked past Ray to Karim then out the window. His head was still aching and he was feeling disconnected. Outside the day had deteriorated, not to rain or a storm — that would have been appropriate — instead it was merely drizzling.

  ‘I didn’t bring a coat,’ he said to no one in particular. For some reason the image of the man who had sewn his lips together came to mind, and he wondered what had become of him. He pulled his attention back to the present and looked up at Ray.

  ‘I’ll tell my kids I was with you,’ he said. Then added with a weak grin, ‘If I can get off this bloody couch.’

  Hassan al-Mahdi had not intended to return to Australia. For days he had awaited news of success, but, despite the reports of the virus and the deaths it had caused, there was nothing more. So he made the arrangements.

  He flew into Sydney mid-morning on Saturday. For an hour he listened to Marzuq and Basim describe what they had done, and the more he listened the more Hassan al-Mahdi became concer
ned. When he had heard their excuses — and they deserved no other label — he reprimanded the men in no uncertain terms.

  ‘You had a duty to know when the parliament was sitting and when it was not. Was it not clear that the first attacks were to be followed by the major attack within the incubation period? It is not just yourselves you are letting down. There are others like you waiting for the signal you send. Others in Italy, Germany, Turkey, Britain, France and America, who will launch their actions as soon as you succeed.’ He fixed Marzuq with his eyes. ‘And your families, who have prayed so hard for your success — will you reward their prayers with failure? And our leader?’

  Hassan had vowed that his team in Australia would achieve their aim. Yet so far all they could claim was a few hundred deaths. Those had been intended as a distraction; something to confuse the authorities while the men hit the main target.

  Hassan didn’t condone failure, his leader less so. If it had been simply a matter of punishing Australia, it wouldn’t have mattered. But the action was intended as a signal, and with attacks around the globe the enemy would know that there was nowhere to hide. The message would be clear for all the world to see. Now the plan was teetering on the brink. Not only had the Australian authorities identified the virus, with the assistance of the Americans, but soon the death rate would peak and go into the inevitable decline. The other attacks could still go ahead, but he was determined his team would not fail.

  Hassan turned his attention to the younger man. ‘Basim, I had such high hopes for you. How old are you?’

  Basim didn’t raise his eyes from the carpet. ‘Twenty-two.’

  Hassan clicked his tongue disapprovingly. ‘Twenty-two. Do you know that the latest martyr in Palestine was a sixteen-year-old girl?’

  There was nothing the boy could say. His shame was written all over his face.

  Hassan waited, then let his tone soften. ‘I have spoken with the leader and he has been kind enough to give you a second chance. But this carries more risk.’ He paused to let the thought sink in. ‘You will not target the individual ministers. You will find a way to introduce the virus into the air-conditioning system of the entire building.’