ON THE RUN
COLIN McLAREN
ON THE RUN
Dedicated to the memory of the talented and once powerfully effective National Crime Authority and its many fine investigators, including Geoffrey Bowen. Their impact on ‘nationally significant crime’ left a lasting impression.
Many hope the more recently formed Australian Crime Commission, now the obvious adversary to Italian organised crime, can replicate the former glory of the NCA in tackling law enforcement’s relentless foe, the Mafiosi, before the game is well and truly lost. Forever.
Prologue
A crack of lightning missed the pilot’s cockpit by mere inches. Close enough to bounce the fourteen-seater Navajo Chieftain twin-propeller aircraft off course, tossing it contemptuously through the thick clouds. Ziggy gripped his controls as if he were throttling an assassin; he let go just long enough to tap the fuel gauge, reading zero. He held a long squint of his sleep-deprived eyes and gawked again: empty of fuel and still fifty kilometres to fly. And overloaded.
He flicked his head behind him to where all fourteen seats had been removed, turning a passenger aircraft into a cargo hold. Now crammed with hessian bags stuffed with marijuana Buddha sticks, a tonne of contraband worth millions. And somewhere among it all was buried the jewel in this planeload, a hundred kilos of pure cocaine, ripe for the nostrils of the rich and wannabe famous. Nice work if you can get it.
Riding shotgun were three nasty-looking heavyweights from the Calabrian Mafia, the N’Drangheta, and their weapons of choice, Browning 9mm semi-automatic pistols with enough clips and ammunition to tease a Taliban’s smile.
Except for a fuel stop half-a-dozen hours earlier, the plane had been in the air for the better part of two days. Hopping over the humid Cape York Peninsula, skipping along the northern Queensland mosquito-coast and jumping each border all the way home to Griffith: the capital of the desert, the capital of drugs and HQ of the Australian Mafia.
Ziggy tapped again, sweating on a correction from his gauge. He must have miscalculated. He snapped a look at Cole in the only other seat on the plane, beside him. He too got the drift, looking at his watch, the fuel gauge and Ziggy’s face. Worry and perspiration covered his face. If they landed safely, they’d be legends.
The weather was also slowing them down: a minestrone of unseasonable southerly winds, tropical rains, fat clouds and turbulence. How were they to know that, tough as they thought they were, Cole and Ziggy were new to this caper?
Nor were the goons in the back to know that they had been magnificently duped. The Australian Crime Authority was tracking their every move, until the lightning severed the satellite signal an hour earlier, sending the cops into a freefall of guesswork.
In ten minutes the three snoozing toughs in the back would wake to face the business end of the SOG swat machine guns and the start of half a lifetime in another confined space. Prison.
Ziggy dropped one hand from the controls to indicate downwards just as the aircraft wavered precariously, left and right. Time to descend on to the specially prepared landing strip five kilometres out of Griffith. The Godfather, Antonio, lay in wait with his army of whiskered soldiers, and a quarry of trucks, flashing their headlights, calling them home.
Like a ‘welcome home’ gesture, a fresh shard of lightning grazed the cabin. Followed by another, as Ziggy sliced through the pre-morning. The succession of jolts gave the Italians an early wake-up call; they were getting fidgety, reaching for their Brownings and peeping expectantly through the only gap in the otherwise blackened windows.
‘Where we?’ yelled the boss of the crew.
‘Home!’ yelled Cole, leaning his head into a fuselage full of body odour before raising five fingers. The reply failed to gain an acknowledgement as each of the Italians crawled over the minimal air space left, working their way across the contraband to the side exit door ready for the unload.
Ziggy’s face was the clearest indication of his panic as the aircraft disappeared into a massive fluffy white cloud that seemed to stretch on forever, blinding him and his navigator. Apart from the rotten luck of the fuel level, Cole was developing a slice of guilts for getting Ziggy on board at the last minute. He’d been quick to raise his hand when the Mafia went looking for a dodgy pilot to help with their importation and here they were, seconds from falling out of the sky. Cole was sure he felt a spluttering cough of a starving engine. Certainly, one way or the other, he was honouring his promise to Antonio to get the drugs home.
Then the nose of the aircraft broke free of the cloud and exposed the twinkling lights of the town below and a smile from the strained face of the pilot. Ziggy snapped Cole one of his customary winks as he eased the craft down to take a line with two pairs of flashing ground lights ahead, one each side of the mulga track. Another run of coughs from the engine came just as the wheels hit the red dirt. They were home, rolling blissfully to a stop.
Ziggy slumped over the controls, breathed deeply and closed his tired eyes. His work was done. The propellers putted to a miserable stop.
‘Open door,’ came the guttural voice from the angry pack leader. Cole almost fell from the cockpit to comply with the demand but not before whistling up Ziggy’s attention and giving him a well-earned thumbs up.
He then sprung the door of the fuselage to free his Mafia mates. Just as the swat team, under the cover of the last of darkness, crawled out of their fox holes and crab-marched across the scrappy terrain. Antonio and his army stood ready for the fast work of unloading. Once southern Italian peasants doing what they knew best: hard, fast yakka, no questions asked … and away.
Antonio strolled over to a stiff-bodied Cole, who was oozing anti-climax, and embraced him, shaking the hand of his great friend.
Then came the roars from behind: ‘Police—freeze! Police— freeze!’ and the rest was a blur.
The next year
Covert operative Cole Goodwin walked hesitantly into a tidal wave of faces at the Melbourne Supreme Court. Just the sort of thing he didn’t need. A courtroom awash with journalists scratching words onto Spirax notepads, and a sea of detectives who had found a half-pressed suit for the day. Most of the gallery were family and friends of the accused, all of them Calabrese Italians. Most minus a suit, and none taking anything more than a mental note.
Each of the Italians Cole knew well, some of them too well. For two years he had eaten with them, sat in their homes and cuddled their kids. For two years he had negotiated and purchased pure cocaine, and truck-loads of marijuana, as well as conspiring to import tonnes of Buddha sticks from New Guinea. Now the game was up; his Italian friends were his enemies. They were all set for the big holiday to the big house.
The too-familiar discomfort of perspiration returned, trickling slowly down Cole’s neck. His Armani tie felt like a noose. He squeezed his way through the oppressive stench, into the heat of a full house that defied the air-conditioning. Every seat was taken, except one, which Sandra had reserved for him. The chit-chat stopped as he stood at the end of the long aisle. Completely alone.
He looked for Sandra’s mop of dyed blonde hair in a room of brunettes. Once spied, he headed her way, hoping for safety in numbers. He noticed Ziggy, now clean shaven and in his suit, standing against the back wall. He gave his customary wink and chewed his gum as if there were no tomorrow. They nodded a mate’s gesture to each other.
Cole felt utterly naked as he shuffled in front of a dozen pairs of knees to get to his pew, watched intently by a dozen pairs of eyes from the duped, now sitting in the dock. The hatred in the air was palpable.
His boss from the Anti-Mafia unit of the Australian Crime Authority, Inspector Mack, leant into Sandra and asked, ‘What’s that cunt doing here?’ He paid no attention to Cole’s uneasy smile and kept lo
oking straight ahead. They never did like each other.
Sandra ignored Mack’s question, and did her best to make sure that her mate was comfortably seated. Cole raised his head tentatively towards the Italian contingent in the public gallery and received three nodded hellos. He smiled momentarily, until a look of such bitterness and betrayal from Antonio had him reduced as low as a Sydney cockroach. Cole turned away to study the wall panelling.
Cole was relieved when the judge’s gavel came thundering down, shifting the feast of eyes away from him, and onto business. He tried desperately to ease back into his hard chair.
After the usual legal niceties, the dockside Italians stood; the upper echelon of the Mafia in Australia, and not a smile among them. Cole swore he could hear a melodic drum roll rippling through the painful silence as he awaited their sentencing.
‘Guilty, your Honour’, ‘Guilty, your Honour,’ over and over, to a cacophony of angry murmurs in the gallery. A tear welled up on his bottom eyelid, whether from relief or regret, he wasn’t sure. From the seat next to him, Sandra reached across and squeezed his knee. He slowly breathed out, a long and deep sigh. They were done, they were dusted. It was over.
The Anti-Mafia unit watched Antonio being dragged from the court, surrounded by a mass of high security. He’d be gone for half a lifetime, twenty years. As he disappeared from life as he had always known it, he flicked back to look at Cole, his face full of malevolence. Clearly, they were no longer great friends.
In no time Inspector Mack was striding commandingly towards the courtroom steps, straightening his tie, and attending his cowlick, as he prepared to face the media. Of course he was, there were brownie points ahead. As the remaining audience battled to clear the courtroom doors, Cole remained frozen to his seat until the anger faded, and the theatre eventually emptied. The tipstaff roused to reclaim his now empty workplace, and headed to the door with a bunch of keys. He stopped for a moment in front of the detective, who was now examining the pattern on the Axminster. He, too, was done.
‘End of a long ride, son?’ the tipstaff asked amiably. His voice held the soothing tone of a man well acquainted with the gamut of emotions to be found in his domain.
Cole looked up at the aged, yet perfectly attired gentleman in front of him, in his ivy green uniform with its gold buttons.
‘You could say that,’ he replied.
‘But was it a great ride, son?’
‘It was a ride, that’s all. There was nothing great about it.’
At that moment, Leigh, one of Cole’s trusted ACA team members, strode back into the courtroom. Suited up, carrying a shotgun and exuding loads of discipline.
‘All clear, mate. Let’s get you out of here,’ he said, directing a weary Cole towards the non-public lift.
Saying his goodbye, the tipstaff found the right key to perform his last task of the day, locking the door behind them with a thunderous bang.
Downstairs in the basement, Leigh and Cole arrived at the court security muster room, tucked neatly away at the back of the judge’s carpark. Leigh checked in his weapon with the uniformed cop, who looked all of twelve years of age. The eager young police officer unracked the shotgun and signed it back into the inventory.
‘You can sneak out the laneway exit if you like. There’s no media there,’ offered the pimply-faced constable.
‘Good on you, champer,’ replied Leigh. He dropped his signature casually on to the inventory as the boy-cop stared long and hard at Cole.
‘You’re that undercover guy, aren’t you?’
The question was ignored.
‘Don’t worry about that, champer,’ said Leigh, who turned sharply and ushered a pensive Cole through the heavy security door, where they both disappeared onto a busy city footpath.
Cole’s team in the Anti-Mafia unit had started life a few years earlier as a mere handful of detectives with two things each in common. First, they loved being detectives on the hunt, chasing the bad guys, the badder the better. Second, and probably more importantly, they were all mates. Cole might have been the team boss, but only because he was a detective sergeant. In his opinion, and in that of the other four crew members, they were always equal. That was the key to their success.
He had hand-picked each one of them when he was first assigned to the Anti-Mafia unit. The luxury of selecting his crew personally was a trade-off for working in such a pressure cooker environment. His first choice was Sandra, for her brilliance in gathering evidence. Then his old Homicide Squad mate Leigh, because of his unflinching loyalty and strong arm. Attributes he’d called on often. And, of course, there was Spud, mostly due to Cole’s belief that he was the best analyst in the ACA. Last on the team was in fact Cole’s real first choice, if the truth be known; Jude, due to her honours in the good-looks department. Cole was the first to admit he was a flawed individual.
If asked separately, each of the crew would give the same answer as to why they were so tight a team. They shared a table. At least once a fortnight they would sit in one of Melbourne’s many restaurants, usually Japanese, often at the back table of the Osaka in Russell Street, over sushi and sashimi and a magnum of warm sake. But one day raw fish and rice wine was put on hold for a couple of years. Cole and Jude went undercover, posing as an art dealer and his pretty girlfriend, and infiltrated the Mafia.
Tonight’s celebration, therefore, was not only about the gaoling of the worst Italians in the country, it was also a reunion. The team hadn’t shared a hangover for a hell of a long time.
‘So, what’s the bottom line, team?’ asked Cole, who sat as contentedly as that boy who pulled the plum out of the pie.
‘Twenty gloriously long fuckin’ years!’ Sandra declared loudly, as the table erupted into laughter.
‘I think I’ll order another magnum,’ said Spud, as he drained the last of the sake. The mood on the table was blissfully happy.
‘Why, Spudly-duddly?’ queried Sandra. She sneakily popped the last morsel of wasabi-infused tuna into her mouth, and squinted noticeably as the wasabi hit her brain.
‘Coz I believe we’re empty, Detective,’ he retorted as the last drops fell from the bottle neck.
‘God, you’re accurate, for an analyst,’ Leigh said as he inspected the now empty bottle.
‘I got it right most of the time for the last few years, didn’t I?’ Spud replied solemnly.
‘You did, buddy, every time, and I thank you. I’d never doubt your word. Cheers to Spudy,’ said Cole.
The four tiny ceramic cups with their fragrant contents were lifted into the air and emptied simultaneously down four merry and well-fed gullets. Spud caught the eye of the ridiculously humble Japanese waitress and ordered another bottle as a tray of unagi-smoked eel was laid delicately onto the table.
‘Mack wasn’t too pleased to see you today, was he?’ probed Sandra.
‘Is he ever?’ Cole asked in a matter-of-fact monotone.
‘What is it with youse two, champer?’
‘Come on, give. It’s okay now, it’s all over,’ said Spud.
‘Bloody nosy detectives. Alright, alright, anything to shut you up. I had an Asian informer once, a good solid contact—he reckoned Mack was bent. Claimed he found Mack’s name and home phone number on a piece of paper clipped to an address book inside a house he burgled.’
‘Home phone number? Whose house, champer?’
‘His boss’s.’
‘No big deal. What sort of business was his boss in?’ asked Spud as he chowed into some marinated kaiso seaweed.
‘He imported truck-loads of uncut heroin from China,’ replied Cole.
‘Jesus! What happened to his boss?’
‘Found dead in a dumpster as a two-bit drug overdose.’
‘And the informer?’
‘He decided to run back home to Cambodia. Figured it was safer there than here in Australia.’
‘So, who’s got the piece of paper?’
Silence spread across the table and pairs of chopsticks froze
in mid-air.
‘I can answer that,’ helped Sandra. ‘Cole walked into Mack’s office the day he started this taskforce and plonked it down on his desk. So it’s ever since that day … that the boss has hated your guts? Why did I never put that together before? Some detective, eh?’ Sandra smiled sheepishly at her colleagues.
‘And you never worried about that over the last few years, champer?’ said Leigh.
‘Funnily enough, I didn’t. It was all to do with Asians. Not Italians,’ said Cole.
The restaurant was now almost empty. The ever-so-polite waitress, dressed in a brilliant red floral kimono, white socks and dainty satin embroidered slippers, shuffled elegantly to the front door. She fumbled through her enormous bunch of keys and locked the front door. Shuffling just as gracefully back to her reception counter, she smiled at her remaining, now quiet guests and busied herself at her till.
‘What do you make of Antonio’s look today, Cole?’ said Leigh, negotiating the last of his sushi.
‘Yeah I saw that too, that was fuckin’ heavy,’ chipped in Sandra.
‘A look to kill,’ said Spud.
‘Hey, pull up, aren’t you the accurate one?’ said Leigh.
Cole fumbled for a piece of eel, dropping it unceremoniously in his lap. He abandoned his chopsticks altogether.
Spud’s comments hung ominously over the table. Their night had ended.
While camaraderie, hard work and great achievements were the attributes of this team of detectives, each of the crew, if they were to be honest about their success, would say that it all hinged on thorough investigation. There was no room for second guessing or presumptions. Just like there was no room for chasing rabbits down burrows. The Anti-Mafia unit went out of their way to confirm facts over and over along their investigative path. Spud was the driving force with his analytical brain, feeding information to a thirsty team. Despite their thoroughness, Cole knew that just sometimes a coincidence or hunch was worth listening to. As he sipped his warm sake and fuzzed up his tired brain, such a hunch was gnawing away at him. A hunch he couldn’t share with anyone, at least not just yet. He needed a few more sleepless nights and sweaty sheets to work this one through.
On the Run Page 1
