The Enemy Within Read online

  ‘I need to talk to you about a thing.’

  She laughed. ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘Are you at city headquarters?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Can you do a quick coffee?’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  A person with a job like Walker’s didn’t just drop whatever she was doing for a catch-up without knowing what it was about. Bailey had to give her something.

  ‘I’m having a dig into far right nationalist groups. Thought you might know a few.’

  Bailey could hear Walker tapping away at a keyboard, probably checking her diary. Or doing a quick search on what Bailey was up to. Whether he had already written something that might make meeting him a bad idea. There was always a tension between journalists and cops, even the ones who were friends.

  ‘Martin Place at one o’clock. Lindt Café.’

  ‘Lindt. Really?’

  Bailey knew the café she was talking about. Everyone knew the Lindt Café. The place where an Islamic extremist had taken eighteen people hostage in a siege that lasted for sixteen hours.

  ‘It’s my local now. And I like the chocolates.’

  ‘Done.’

  Bailey checked his watch. It was almost ten o’clock in the morning and he was still dressed in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt from his walk with Campo. He decided to take a shower. By the time he’d shaved and dressed in his trademark jeans and flannelette shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and an extra button undone to combat the heat, there were four missed calls on his phone. All of them from Neena Singh. The editor of Enquirer Magazine.

  He called her back.

  ‘Morning, Neens.’ Bailey made an effort to sound cheery. ‘Four missed calls. What’s happening?’

  ‘What’s happening?’ She sounded angry. ‘What’s happening is that our new boss is sitting in a café at Bondi Junction alone waiting for us because you find it impossible to keep a fucking appointment.’

  Bailey remembered. He had agreed to a ‘meet and greet’ with the guy who was bankrolling Enquirer Magazine, Jock Donaldson. Evidently, Neena was also still pissed at him for being an hour late for lunch with her last week.

  ‘Oops.’

  ‘Oops? What are you, five?’ She really was irate. ‘I’m parked out front. Hurry up.’

  Neena Singh had been a journalist for even longer than Bailey, mostly in places like New York and London, where she had worked on Fleet Street, when it was still a thing. Despite being a good reporter, she had made her mark as a skilled editor who knew how to reverse the fortunes of struggling magazines. She had a sharp wit and an even sharper tongue.

  ‘Good to see you dressed up for the occasion.’ She frowned at Bailey’s attire as he climbed into the car. ‘You look like a fucking hobo.’

  He leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘What are you on about? This is my “number one”.’

  ‘It looks like something you’d find on a rack at a charity shop.’

  For someone who was usually quick with a retort, Bailey couldn’t argue. Because it was true.

  Neena glanced across the car, eyes squinting. ‘You shop at the bloody Salvos?’

  ‘Only when there’s a sale on.’

  Neena was still laughing when she swung her sleek BMW onto Oxford Street, ignoring the speed limit as she raced through the back streets of Woollahra towards Bondi Junction. She found a park opposite the bus depot, tapping the clock on the dash as she clicked open her door. ‘You’re lucky we had a good run in the traffic, we’re only ten minutes late.’

  ‘He’ll get over it.’

  ‘Bailey.’ Neena grabbed his arm, stopping him from climbing out of the car. ‘I know you don’t like Jock. Just remember though, he’s the one paying the bills.’

  Bailey knew all about Jock Donaldson. The hedge fund billionaire who had mastered the art of not paying his taxes. Back in the early 2000s, Bailey had done an investigative piece about a law firm in the Cayman Islands that specialised in helping wealthy individuals funnel their millions through offshore companies to minimise their tax. Donaldson was one of them.

  ‘As long as he doesn’t interfere with editorial, Jock and I will get along just fine.’

  Neena still had a hold of his arm. ‘You seriously think I’d let that happen?’

  ‘No,’ Bailey said.

  ‘Then cut this shit out.’

  ‘Okay,’ Bailey said. ‘I just prefer writing stories about guys like Donaldson, rather than having coffee with them.’

  ‘We won’t stay long.’

  Donaldson was seated at a round table by the window, a copy of The Australian stretched open beside a half empty cup of coffee. Dressed in a pink polo shirt and a pair of beige chinos, he looked like he’d just finished playing eighteen holes at Royal Sydney.

  ‘Sorry we’re late.’

  Jock rocked forward on his chair, using the table to help himself to stand, legs stiff with age. ‘Not a worry.’ He gave Neena a peck on the cheek. ‘I didn’t even realise you were late.’

  ‘Jock, this is John Bailey.’

  Donaldson locked eyes with Bailey, unloading a charming smile.

  ‘Call me Bailey, everyone else does.’

  ‘Well, Bailey. It’s great to have a journalist of your calibre on the team at Enquirer Magazine.’ He held out his hand and Bailey shook it. ‘It’s all very exciting, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks for throwing your dosh at it. Tough market, these days. Good to see people investing in journalism.’

  ‘Please, take a seat,’ Donaldson said, arms outstretched. ‘And let’s get you some drinks. The coffee blend is remarkably good, we bring it in from Costa Rica.’

  We. Jock owned the café too. Of course he did.

  ‘This your place, Jock?’ Bailey asked.

  ‘My daughter’s in the hospitality game. It’s her place.’ Jock waved at a young woman behind the counter and waited for her to come over. ‘Katie, this is that reporter I was telling you about. John Bailey. He’s part of Neena’s team for the magazine.’

  Katie couldn’t have seemed less interested in meeting Bailey as she wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Good to meet you all. New magazine sounds exciting.’

  Jock grabbed hold of his daughter’s arm, obviously keen for her to stay. ‘Katie’s just returned from South America where she’s been meeting with our suppliers.’

  ‘For the café?’ Bailey said.

  Katie smiled a rich girl smile. ‘We supply over two hundred cafés and restaurants with our imported blends. I try to get over there at least once a year.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘What can I get you all to drink?’

  They ordered their Costa Rican blends from Katie and then listened as Jock continued his proud father routine, sharing how impressed he was with the business acumen of his daughter, before the conversation moved onto the weather, the bushfires, and the dire predicament that Australian politics had found itself in over the past fifteen years.

  ‘No leadership. None,’ Donaldson mused.

  ‘Is that why you’re throwing your money at a new magazine? To push for better leadership?’ Bailey was testing him.

  ‘That’s not my role. I won’t be pushing anything.’ Donaldson’s answer was sharp and clear, like he’d been prepped by Neena. ‘I’ve just marked my seventieth birthday and I felt it was time to give a little back. Do something to make our country better. A well-resourced, independent media can be a powerful tool of democracy.’ Donaldson paused, staring directly at Bailey. ‘We’ve had enough meddling by media barons. That’s not who I am.’

  Bailey leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. ‘Good to hear, Jock. You picked a good editor in Neena. We’re keen to get stuck in.’

  ‘Six weeks until our first issue, I hear you’re working on a feature about that American polemicist, Augustus Strong?’

  Bailey looked across at Neena, taking a sip of his coffee. ‘That’s right. Trying to pin him down for an interview at the moment.’r />
  ‘Chrystal Armstrong’s looking after him, isn’t she?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Chrystal’s a friend of mine,’ Donaldson said, casually. ‘I’m happy to give her a call, if you think that might help?’

  ‘Come on, Jock.’ Neena laughed, uncomfortably. ‘Cards on the table, please. She’s more than a friend.’

  A seventy-year-old billionaire dating a woman almost half his age. What a cliché.

  ‘Okay. Okay.’ Donaldson smiled, palms up. ‘We were an item for a while. Not any more. I couldn’t keep up!’

  ‘I can arrange my own interviews, thanks.’

  ‘Bailey –’

  ‘It’s all good, Neena.’ Bailey smiled at Donaldson. ‘I do appreciate the offer. I just like doing my own thing, that’s all. Stay in my corner.’

  Bailey noticed Donaldson’s face harden – just for a moment – before he clapped his hands. ‘Good, then. Good. Just an offer.’

  ‘Appreciated, Jock,’ Neena said.

  Donaldson raised his coffee cup like it was a glass of champagne. ‘Principled journalists like you two will be the key to making Enquirer Magazine a success. Here’s to good journalism.’

  Bailey followed Neena’s lead, picking up his coffee cup to meet Donaldson’s, hovering over the table.

  Clink.

  The most awkward toast he’d ever made.

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, Bailey was getting dropped back at his house, relieved that the meeting was out of the way.

  ‘Thanks for the lift,’ he said. ‘And Neena?’

  ‘Yes, Bailey?’

  ‘I’ll be politely declining the opportunity to catch up with Jock again.’

  Neena nodded. She got it. ‘Good luck with the story. I’ll check in with you in a couple of weeks. We hit the printers very early. I still think you’ll get the cover, but let’s see how you go.’

  Bailey knew Neena well enough to interpret that as her way of telling him that he’d better deliver a strong story.

  ‘I’ll get it there. If I get stuck for contacts, I can always call Jock.’

  Neena laughed as he closed the door and she sped off down the street.

  The conversation about Chrystal Armstrong had reminded Bailey that he should follow up on the numerous emails he had sent her. Augustus Strong wouldn’t be staying in Sydney for long. Bailey’s window to interview him was closing. He checked his messages. Nothing. Time to call.

  ‘Chrystal Talent Management, Candy speaking.’

  ‘Candy, John Bailey here from Enquirer Magazine. I saw Chrystal last night and she said she’d come back to me about a possible interview with Augustus Strong. Are you able to put me through to her?’

  ‘One moment please.’

  Pop music started playing through the phone as Bailey was put on hold.

  Seconds later the song cut out and Candy was back.

  ‘I’m sorry, but Chrystal is flat out this morning. She says she’ll get back to you later.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘She just said, “Later”.’

  Bailey doubted that Candy had spoken to Chrystal, or that she would be calling him back. ‘Should I leave my number with you again?’

  ‘I think she’s got it.’

  ‘Hey, Candy,’ Bailey said, ‘how about I just give you all of my details again, just in case.’

  The phone went quiet, but Bailey could still hear breathing on the other end.

  ‘Sure. What’s your name again?’

  Bailey gave Candy his details and politely suggested that a returned phone call today would be preferable.

  ‘She’ll do her best.’

  CHAPTER 4

  He still remembers the hostages running down the stairs. Flashes of white light. Heavily armed police rushing in. Windows smashing. Bursts of gunfire. Every second of the chilling finale of the Lindt Café siege captured by a camera at the commercial television studio across the plaza.

  Two people died that day, not including the terrorist. Bailey never included murderers in the body count. Not in the countless suicide bombings he’d covered for The Journal in Baghdad. The car bombings in Beirut. And certainly not in the attacks on London’s transport system back in 2005. Terrorists were cowards. They never got counted.

  The attack at Martin Place was the first time civilians had died in a terrorist attack on Australian soil after September 11. As Bailey opened the glass doors of the Lindt Café, he wanted to believe that the siege hadn’t changed the city, but he knew that it had. Concrete bollards outside buildings. Tighter security screenings at airports and sports stadiums. Greater powers for police to stick their noses into people’s lives, lock up suspects for longer periods without charge. Terrorism had become the drumbeat of life. It affected everyone. Everything.

  Bailey looked at the old G-Shock watch on his wrist. The gift from his father that still meant something. It was 12.55 pm.

  Their meeting had been scheduled for one o’clock but Harriet Walker was already inside, seated by the window, picking at a plate of chocolates.

  ‘G’day, Hat.’

  ‘Kenny Baker.’ She stood up, pulling him in for a hug. ‘That was a good one, Bailey.’

  Bailey sat down, admiring the woman opposite. Tough eyes. Toothy smile. Latin skin that dodged wrinkles and sunburn. The years had been kind to her, made her more interesting.

  ‘I was impressed that you remembered.’

  Walker had been Bailey’s source for a story back in 2011 about how the ADF had tried to cover up the deaths of eight innocent Afghan civilians during a raid by Australian soldiers on a farmhouse in Uruzgan. The ADF had mistakenly identified the farm as a Taliban safehouse. Among the dead were a woman and her five children, ages ranging from eight to fifteen years old. Girls. Boys. Cut down by soldiers with bad information, following orders.

  Walker had made copies of the ADF’s internal report about the incident, and subsequent communications that confirmed the cover-up, getting the documents to Bailey so that he could tell the world the truth about what had happened. The war in Afghanistan was messy enough, it didn’t need more lies. Walker had risked everything – career, friendships, reputation – to get those leaked documents into Bailey’s hands. To this day, nobody knew that she had been his source on the inside. Nobody would. Bailey never gave up his sources.

  Whenever Bailey had needed to contact Walker in Kabul, he’d leave a message with a fake number and a fake name. The name was always some unrecognisable actor who had played a minor role in the first Star Wars film. Bailey had taken a gamble that Walker would remember their system.

  ‘Bit eerie in here after what happened,’ Bailey said, tapping the table. ‘Come in much?’

  ‘All the time. Made an effort to make this my coffee spot. Normalise the place. Reclaim it.’ She pointed at the plate of chocolates. ‘And to satisfy my sweet tooth.’

  In those short seconds they’d been talking, Bailey was reminded why he’d admired her. She had principles. Her own personal code. ‘You’re a good egg, Hat.’

  ‘So, why the sudden contact?’ She smiled, popping another chocolate into her mouth. ‘It’s nice to hear from you. I didn’t even know you were back in the country.’

  ‘Yeah… been laying low.’

  Walker waved at the barista behind the counter, before turning back to Bailey. ‘You still drink black coffee, right?’

  ‘Good memory.’

  ‘Now, who or what are you looking into?’

  Bailey knew better than to bullshit her, so he got straight to it. ‘A who and a what, actually. Benny Hunter and the far right nationalist group he leads called the Freedom Front.’

  ‘I know Benny,’ Walker said. ‘Shit human.’

  ‘What do you know?’

  ‘A bit.’ There was hardly anyone else seated at the wooden tables in the café but Walker lowered her voice, briefly scanning for stickybeaks. ‘Plenty of people around like him. Angry, young, mostly white men who blame others for their bad lot in lif
e. The Freedom Front’s no different from those Blue Boys and Patriots… whatever they’re called. A bunch of loud, headline-chasing troublemakers.’

  ‘You’re saying they’re harmless?’

  ‘No. I’m not saying that at all. Far right nationalists. Neo-Nazis. White supremacists. Whatever you want to call them, they’re on the rise. We’ve seen what individuals can do. Look at Christchurch. El Paso. But it’s quite a leap from doing a Nazi salute at a protest to opening up with an AR-15 semi-automatic assault rifle in a mosque.’

  Walker had been working as part of an international team fighting people trafficking when Bailey had first met her in Kabul. She was a stickler for details. Facts. And she wasn’t someone who’d talk up a threat if it didn’t exist.

  ‘You’re investigating them now?’ Bailey took a stab.

  ‘You know we don’t talk about active investigations.’

  ‘You just seem to know more than a casual observer.’

  ‘Who are you working for, by the way?’ Walker said, ignoring Bailey’s attempts to steer the conversation. ‘I saw your name on the list of redundancies at The Journal. Awful what happened at that paper. So much fake news around, we need strong mastheads. Any decent reporters left?’

  ‘Plenty,’ Bailey said, feeling strangely loyal to the paper that had sacked more than a dozen senior reporters like him in a cost-cutting drive. ‘The paper will go on. I’m working for Enquirer Magazine.’

  She squinted. ‘Should I have heard of it?’

  ‘Not yet. New outfit. Investigative magazine.’ Their coffees had arrived and Bailey took a sip. ‘You can give it a go when the first issue comes out in March. I’m writing the cover.’

  ‘A cover story on Benny Hunter?’ she said, sarcastically. ‘You doing his PR for him now?’

  Just like with Islamic terrorism, news stories about far right nationalism and white supremacists were often used as propaganda to attract more people to the cause.

  ‘Come off it, Hat. Give me a break.’ Bailey knew Walker well enough to not get upset by the dig. ‘The story’s actually about Augustus Strong and his Australian supporters. How the far right movement’s growing here, like everywhere else.’