Spud finished the call to his Neapolitan comrade, ‘Ciao, ciao, si Signore, Bongiorno, prego amici,’ and hung up, realising what a silly concoction of Italian he had just put together.
‘D’Alfonso has just invited us in on the Australian end of a huge importation,’ began Spud.
‘Naples to Melbourne, Spud?’ queried Sandra.
‘No, pretty much like I mentioned a couple of months ago. The container’s going to start somewhere in Plati. They have no idea where. Then from Calabria to Melbourne.’
‘Container!’ exclaimed Leigh.
‘Yeah, seems our dear Massimo is the key to it all. And the Anti-Mafia unit are following him around Germany right now. He’s organising a shit-load of ecstasy tablets.’
‘When does it leave Calabria?’
‘Next month sometime,’ answered Spud.
‘Fuck. Six weeks on the water, and she’ll be comin’ in after I’m back, champer.’
‘You and your bloody trip again,’ said Sandra. ‘Grab your coat, Spudly, we’re drinking tonight. He’s leaving in three days.’
‘Yo, we’re drinkin’ tonight, champers!’ declared an exuberant Leigh.
A mop of dyed blonde hair fell over the side of a very disorganised bed. It belonged to a very hungover and very tired Sandra. Her naked body protruded in way too many places from beneath the crumpled doona, exposing all but a miniscule section of her backside to the morning light. Her arm was draped forward and the fingers of her hand had found the shag-pile carpet. Her cat, Cecil, had found her fingers and was licking them with its rough little tongue, just enough to rouse her consciousness to a day she would rather not have faced.
‘Bugger off, cat,’ she said sleepily. Her eyes remained closed and her head down. Cecil took the hint and moved to the other side of the bed.
No more than ten seconds had passed when she heard an echo that was not her voice.
‘Bugger off, cat.’
She sprung upright from her slumber and pulled the doona up to her chin.
‘Who’s that?’
Leigh too shouted, ‘Who’s that?’
The confused and startled cat sprang like a pogo stick a metre into the air before landing on its feet and scampering off into the kitchen.
Leigh and Sandra turned to face each other, filled with anything but a romantic afterglow, and yelled in unison, ‘Nooo!’
All of five minutes later and Leigh and Sandra were still coming to terms with the romantic tryst of the night before. Or perhaps it was the morning before, only a few hours earlier; a few drinks had turned into a few too many. Sandra, fuelled by gin and tonic, had apparently decided that the time was right to test Leigh’s armour.
As she fussed around the kitchen gathering cereal and crockery, Sandra stared smugly, almost girlishly at her workmate, now lover, propped on one of her bar stools dressed only in her pink fluffy dressing gown. She placed two empty mugs and the pot of brew on the small counter.
‘You’re the man of the house, at least this morning, darling. Pour the coffee, champer. Milk’s in the fridge, oh and Cecil might like a saucer too.’
She winked and walked with a spring in her step to her front door and the letterbox.
When she returned, two white coffees lay in wait. The now very preoccupied Sandra ignored her guest, head bowed as she read over and again a postcard that she held tightly in her hand. She dropped the assortment of other correspondence on the bench top, and paced around the small kitchen. Leigh slunk across to peer over her shoulder.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked as he sipped the soothing brew.
Sandra, still deep in thought at the card with seemingly no message, fanned herself with it momentarily, before handing it over.
‘Guess who?’ she asked.
Leigh too studied the postcard. ‘What makes you think it’s him?’
‘Come on Leigh, you know his handwriting. You work with him.’
Leigh did know his handwriting.
‘But what’s the 467?’ he asked as Sandra began to speed dial Spud’s home phone number.
‘Spud, yeah, yeah, yeah, sure it was a great night. Enough. Spudly, please. Straight to the office now, something important,’ Sandra said. She hung up, careful not to say too much, just on the off chance that her phone was bugged. She headed towards the shower followed closely by Leigh, as if it was a race to see who could get there first.
There is nothing better for a detective than a puzzle. It is a professional need, to want to solve the most difficult of all puzzles. Two seasoned detectives aided by one fine sharp analyst sat in their ACA office for an urgently convened meeting that Saturday afternoon, to solve one such puzzle. The office was otherwise empty and their hangovers were fading; they’d drunk plenty of coffee since Sandra placed the Stromboli Island postcard on Leigh’s desk. Each of them had in turn picked the card up a few times, read it, stared at it. Spud even smelled it.
Spud would occasionally tap into Google and Bing as an idea spun through his analytical mind.
‘Stromboli Island, in the Tyrrhenian Sea, a massive volcano, a tiny village, hardly anyone lives there … ancient, ferries from Calabria, Naples, Sicily. What can it mean?’ Spud asked, sharing his thoughts as he paraphrased.
‘Could the island mean all hell’s breaking loose?’ asked Leigh.
‘Duh,’ said Sandra. She glared at Leigh, failing to see any significance in the comment.
‘What’s it famous for, apart from the volcano?’ asked Leigh.
‘And what’s Cole doing there, more importantly?’ said Spud as he continued his search through Wikipedia.
Sandra glanced up from an atlas with a worried look on her face.
‘It’s only a bee’s dick away from Calabria. He’s crazy going there.’
‘There’s nothing I can find,’ interrupted Spud. ‘A couple of old movie farts made a film there in 1950. Other than that, it’s got no electricity … ’
Sandra’s hand thumped down hard on the table. She literally jumped across to Cole’s disused desk and began to ferret through the drawers. Impatient, she pulled the top drawer out and completely upended it on the surface of the desk, scattering pens and papers everywhere.
‘It’s here, I know it’s here,’ she said as she ratted through all the paraphernalia, tossing pieces of paper onto the floor as she discarded them in her quest for the movie magazine.
‘Got it, it must be in here.’ She flicked to the dog-eared article. Her eyes darted across the text of the page she had meant to read weeks earlier. The page Cole told her to read. She began half aloud and half in silence.
‘The movie of the island of Stromboli … Staring Ingrid Bergman … Roberto Rossellini … fell in love … and lived on the island happily during the making of the movie … Ingrid got pregnant … a love story.’
She sat down relieved in Cole’s office chair. She dropped the magazine and stared at Spud, a smile from ear to ear.
Sandra had the key. Spud knew that, or at least one of the two keys. He waited for her to explain.
‘Perhaps he was always going there. Perhaps he just kept the idea up his sleeve, once he shot through from Melbourne … Stromboli Island. Guess we won’t know.’
She had their undivided attention. ‘What we do know was that he told me not to forget the name Ingrid Rossellini. That’s his email name. Ingrid Bergman fell in love with Roberto Rossellini.’
‘And now he’s there,’ said Leigh.
‘And now he’s there,’ echoed Spud. ‘And he couldn’t tell any of us?’
‘Nor should he have, Spud. Three times they’ve tried to kill him.’
‘But he has now, darling … sorry, champer. Sorry.’
Spud looked across at Leigh and then at Sandra, who both tried to hide their smiles.
‘My God!’ exclaimed Spud, ‘Don’t tell me youse two … No … I don’t want to know about it.’ His head shook in amused mock disbelief.
‘Change of subject,’ said Sandra. ‘There’s still one more puzzle
to go … “467”, what’s it mean?’
‘What’s it for?’ asked Spud,
‘Who’s it for?’ said Leigh.
‘467,’ said Sandra.
This time it was Leigh’s hand that came thumping down on the table.
‘It’s “for 67”.’
‘What’s for 67?’
‘The card is for 67 … covert operative 67 … Spudly, who’s 67?’
‘Well, Sandra, let’s see … Covert operative 55 is Cole Goodwin, but 67? Hmm. It’s familiar. The undercover infiltration of the Mafia … that was covert operative 67. His partner. Leigh, it’s Jude.’
‘The card’s meant for Jude,’ said Sandra
‘He must want her to go to him, in Stromboli,’ said Spud.
‘Bullseye!’ exclaimed Leigh.
‘I don’t know what this all means but we’ve got some serious work to do—now! Cole’s obviously under enormous pressure. He needs help,’ Sandra said. She picked up her phone and dialled Jude’s home number.
Upon answer, all she said was, ‘Can you come around tonight, babe? We’ve got secret women’s business to discuss, hon.’ Jude didn’t need to be persuaded; she could tell by the tone in Sandra’s voice that something important had finally happened, important enough to need her input. She confirmed the time and spent the remainder of the afternoon pacing nervously around her apartment.
The doorbell chime sounded at exactly 7 p.m. Jude waited on Sandra’s bluestone porch with a chilled bottle of chardonnay, her anxiety evident as she shifted her weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. Sandra opened the door and greeted her with a huge grin. Words weren’t necessary. They hugged and Jude followed her through to the kitchen where Sandra popped the cork on the bottle and placed two glasses down on the counter. As she was pouring the wine, she handed the Stromboli postcard to Jude. Through Jude’s silent musing, she explained the events of the day, and how the three investigators had deciphered the message. Jude sat on the little bar stool without speaking, holding the card and reading its simple message over and over.
‘I’ll take leave. I know I can take leave. I’ll see Katherine tomorrow.’
‘Just make sure you have a good excuse ready, sweetie. Katherine’s an easy touch. But Mack may get nosy.’
‘I could be there in a couple of days.’
‘And not a word …’
The conversation was interrupted by the sound of slow heavy footsteps, obviously of a man, and Sandra’s back screen-door opening. Jude reached instinctively for her handbag and rummaged for her .32 pistol. Sandra moved quietly to one side, out of sight from the approaching intruder. The handle of Sandra’s back door turned slowly and the door creaked open; the shadow of a man with something in his right hand fell across the tiles. Jude raised her weapon and crouched slightly, steadying herself against the kitchen bench, and holding her breath as she watched the large figure step softly into the room.
Leigh stepped from the dark, holding a vintage bottle of shiraz. Seeing the pistol pointed at his chest, his bottle fell straight to the floor and his hands raised in stunned surrender.
‘Whoa, whoa, champer.’
A relieved Jude lowered her weapon and stared at Leigh with a perplexed look.
‘Leigh, what are you doing coming in the back? You scared us half to death!’
Sandra eased from her posie behind the fridge and collected the bottle of wine from the floor.
‘Better get another glass then,’ she said as she grinned at Leigh. ‘That’s something else we have to talk about, Jude,’ she added as she poured a third drink.
‘More secret women’s business?’ asked Jude, her gaze flashing from the embarrassed Leigh, to Sandra, who looked quite at home in her new role as femme fatale. The cat nudged familiarly between Leigh’s legs, curling its tail around his calf and purring softly.
The small town of Leverkusen was not dissimilar to many of the postwar towns of Germany, blanketed with factories and foundries, most initiating from the war efforts. In its heyday, at the crossover between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the little town had been alive and thriving with commercial activity. It was the industrial hub of many large companies, including the world’s largest pharmaceutical company, Bayer. It was Bayer who, in the industrial age, invented aspirin. And even heroin: a drug that was outlawed in 1913, due to its addictive qualities. Now, almost a century later, under the extended glow of the 1712 light bulb ‘Bayer’ sign, an abandoned factory was tinkering with today’s most illicit drug: ecstacy. The local population had witnessed a rapid decline in industry and the younger generations had begun to drift in greater numbers to the big cities of Düsseldorf and Cologne in search of university degrees rather than the simple blue-collar occupations of their home town. It became easy to find empty factory space in Leverkusen, particularly in the outer regions, and just as comfortable were the rents on offer. Commercial agents were more than willing to turn a blind eye here and there, anything to sign the deal and fill the floor space.
The same abandoned factory had begun its life spitting out tractor parts and producing the metal casings used to house Bayer’s mustard gas. It was now the home to another ‘Bayer’ relic; a massive lone pill-press controlled by the Plati Godfather and under the watchful stewardship of Massimo and his gang. The 50-year-old contraption was extraordinary, capable of stamping 880 pills per minute. A grand old machine, back geographically in its rightful place, albeit to manufacture the wrong type of drug. In an ironic twist, the technology that Bayer had developed to produce its revolutionary medicines—such as aspirin and its equally remarkable cough medicine: heroin—had now been adopted for the production of some of the world’s most harmful illicit substances.
The only problem Massimo saw with the press was the noise it produced along with the pills.
Although the pre-production of the glutinous chemical paste used to form the ecstacy pill would not stir a mouse, the final step in the clandestine manufacture was not a process that could be carried out in a library. Clanking and clunking, over and over, the press would hiss as the damp sticky mess was skimmed onto the mould. The cap plate would make even more racket as it clamped down and fashioned the pills. The process stopped only to be repeated, as each batch was made and gently tipped onto a drying belt to allow the next damp batch its turn.
A shipping container full of ecstasy pills, bagged, sealed and hidden inside large cans of artichokes, allowed for approximately 15 million tablets. A $300 million haul: enough to keep every dance party, nightclub and rave spinning in the southern hemisphere for months. Although the tractor factory was a good half-kilometre away from the nearest public housing, to produce the racket it did twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, would certainly give rise to complaints from the apartment building on the outskirts of the estate. So it had long been established that a five-day working week, with eight-hour days and weekends off, was a necessary precaution. The operating noise of the press was intermittently muffled by the sounds of a few tractors scattered around the front of the factory under repair, engines sometimes running, sometimes not. Allowing for imperfections with the pills, breakages and other reject runs, the black market press could achieve 2 million tablets a week. It had been operating on this schedule for almost eight weeks now, and thus far, not a murmur from the neighbours. Such was the efficiency of the Mafia.
Five metres above the heavily reinforced concrete floor of the factory was an original mezzanine level, once used to store the generators and alternators used during the production of the tractors. Now it housed, tucked out of sight, under a tarpaulin, many thousands of sealed one-kilogram bags of ecstasy pills, awaiting the final run to complete the order. Also behind the tarpaulin sat two armed guards, engrossed in a game of cards.
A black 7 series BMW drove along the weed-infested but otherwise empty laneway that led to the factory door and loading dock. It was just before 5 p.m. as Giuseppe pulled the car to a stop and allowed an eager Massimo to step from the passenger door
. Carrying a black twelve-shot Glock pistol in his right hand, he looked around cautiously and then moved swiftly up the half-dozen steps to the dock, meeting one of the two guards at the heavy metal sliding door to the loading bay. Both men were dressed appropriately in greasy blue overalls, although better armed than the average mechanic, each with an Uzi sub-machine gun.
Their only communication was a wink and a nod as the door was slid open to allow entry to Massimo, closely followed by Giuseppe. They both squinted and frowned at the almost-deafening noise of the press. Massimo approached a tractor with its bonnet up and engine running. He turned the ignition key to off, which reduced the noise by half. To his left, a team of half-a-dozen white-coated chemists were busy tending their clanking diva’s every need. Each of them wore a breathing mask and goggles; it was the end of another long day. The leader of the crew, a failed fourth-year chemist from Frankfurt University, nodded a welcome to Massimo. Another ten stamps from the machine and he hit the red safety button, killing the remaining racket. He approached his two Calabrian partners, removing his mask and breathing apparatus, and then his coat. He began to fidget incessantly, rubbing both hands through his hair, across his forehead and behind his neck. He was suffering the effects of prolonged exposure to amphetamine dust, which had seeped through the protective gear and into the pores of his skin.
‘Massimo, Giuseppe, ciao, we’re finished for another day.’
Massimo nervously tapped his watch.
‘Yeah, yeah, sure, tomorrow. Tomorrow we will be finished for sure,’ the chemist said.
‘Fantastico, Otto,’ Massimo beamed in reply. ‘Giuseppe will have the truck here at this time tomorrow.’
‘OK. Alles in Ordnung—we will have our people ready to help carry the bags down from the mezzanine.’
‘Nessun problema,’ said Massimo.
‘Nessun problema? There’s four tonnes—it will take you all day, Massimo! Of course, there are problems. Mein Gott!’ Otto shifted on the balls of his feet and jittered as he spoke.
On the Run Page 20
