Black Ice (27 page)

Saturday 13 April, 8.20 pm

Jill felt like screaming. From the shadows at the side of the house, she watched Agassi and Urgill carrying out what had to be drug paraphernalia. She pictured her phone, wedged somewhere under the seat in the car at the top of the street. Please, Gabriel, get here soon, she thought.

She was sidling closer to the dark underbelly of the house when another man emerged onto the relative brightness of the porch. Kasem Nader. He too carried a box. So, would Damien be next? Or was he in there somewhere, hurt, or worse?

She began to breathe deeply, pumping herself up for action. No way could she just sit here and watch. These men were packing this thing up. They were going to get away with it. Back-up or not, she had to do something. She couldn't just squat here in the dark while they removed all the hard evidence and moved on, leaving her, Gabriel and Lawrence Last to take the crap.

She wrinkled her nose. That smell. What . . . ? The odour suddenly registered and she sprang from the ground, launching herself onto the fence using it as a hurdle.

And the world went white.

It jarred back into technicolour with a roar of sound. Jill found herself sprawled eight metres from the fence on the lawn next door to the clan lab, unable to breathe.

Am I dying? she wondered.

She made an O with her lips, as though sucking through a straw, sipping for any tiny breath of air she could get. Nothing. Her vision darkened, bruised purple, cleared, then faded again.

'You all right there, Krystal?'

Nader. He reached a hand down. Jill heard the Maroubra surf in her ears.

'You're just winded, I think. Here, sit up a bit,' he said. She could barely hear him.

He carefully hooked an arm around her waist and helped her sit up. Air streamed into her lungs and she sat quietly with her head between her knees, drinking it in. The sweetness quickly gave way to the acridity of smoke.

She coughed and turned her head to the left. The wall of the clan lab she'd huddled against was gone. A mouth-like opening now yawned, revealing blackened furniture and a sputtering fire within the house. She lifted her eyes to Nader. They seemed to be the only part of her body she could move without pain.

'Little Krystal,' he said, smoothing her hair from her eyes. 'Such a talented little soldier. I would have made you an officer.'

Jill wasn't certain she was hearing any of this right. The ocean still rushed inside her head. She blinked up at him.

'But that's not going to happen now,' he said. 'I'd say your cover is blown, ah, Jackson.'

Their eyes met and they both looked back at the house. Nader winked and walked away.

Jill lay down in the cool grass and waited for Gabriel.

Sunday 14 April, 12.30 pm

Seren leaned back on her elbows on the picnic rug and watched Marco kick a soccer ball with some kid he'd just met. The midday sun had been almost too hot today, which was surprising for April, especially this close to the harbour, which usually cooled things down a lot. She tilted her head back further and studied the intricate underbelly of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, almost directly above her. She sighed, and just as they had all night, her thoughts flip-flopped backwards and forwards. Should she let go of the plan and try to make the most of what she had, or should she just go ahead with the final step – confront Christian with the evidence and demand a million dollars?

Seren knew Christian had that much money and more. On several occasions before going out for the night, he'd traded shares online; she'd seen his portfolio. Before she'd been imprisoned, he'd even offered to give her some tips for online trading, and she'd almost slapped him, even then, when she'd loved him madly. Like
she
needed to know how to do that. What was she going to buy shares with? And she knew his Darling Harbour apartment was worth more than a million alone. Late one Saturday morning, two Asian men had knocked on Christian's door and offered him $1.8 million to buy it. He'd later explained that they owned the apartment next door and, like him, had bought their unit off the plan when it was worth half as much. He told Seren that his neighbours knew he owned the apartment outright, and they'd been trying to buy the property for their relatives ever since they'd moved in. She knew Christian had the money, and she believed he'd pay it rather than risk exposure and gaol, but she was no longer certain that she could bear the strain of the risks she was taking.

By eight this morning she'd had to get out of her flat. She didn't think she'd slept even one moment last night. She couldn't believe she'd got out of that office alive, let alone with the camera, and that evidence. With hands that still shook, when she had arrived home she'd carefully downloaded the footage onto the laptop, transferring it to the folder she'd hidden in her system files. She had re-set the password and shoved the computer back under her bed. She thought about the girl – whoever Cassie Jackson was, she'd saved Seren's life. She had a feeling that Tracksuit Man wouldn't have let her just walk out of there if he'd seen the camera. But now, what did she owe Cassie? No one gives you something for nothing – her stepfather had taught her that one useful thing at least.

Surely last night was a sign of how dangerous this whole thing was. She looked back at her son, saw him laughing, his too-long black hair flopping into his eyes, then streaming back from his forehead as he ran. How could she be so selfish as to put him at risk again? She knew there were three ways their life could now pan out. One: Marco having her there to protect him as best she could in that unit block – well, at least for the foreseeable future. Two: she and Marco, rich and safe, away from there forever. Option three was Marco, all alone in the world again, with her in gaol or dead. What right did she have to take the gamble?

She turned to Angel, sitting on the rug next to her, carefully peeling a mandarin. Should I ask her advice? she wondered again.

'Whatcha thinking, hun?' said Angel, startling her.

'Ah, just how I wish I could hang out with Marco more and that I didn't have to go to work tomorrow,' she said.

'I hear that!' said Angel, who worked a probation-and-parole-ordered job in a mail-sorting depot, with an hour's commute each way.

'Angel . . .' began Seren, at the same moment that Angel said, 'Speaking of which . . .' They both laughed, and Seren said, 'You go first. What were you going to say?'

'Nothing exciting,' said Angel. 'I was just going to say that maybe we should pack up and start heading back. I've got to get a few things sorted before work tomorrow.'

'Yep, okay, we should,' said Seren. 'As long as you come over for dinner tonight. I've decided I'm going to make chicken lasagne. I'll shout a good red.'

'Hey, good red or shit red, you don't have to ask me twice. I'm there.'

They packed up the remnants of their lunch and Seren called Marco over. Angel bent to pick up a bag and winced.

'Angel! What are you doing?' she said. 'Marco, take that bag from Aunty Angel.' She watched with concern as Marco hurried to take the bag from Angel's bandaged right hand. A prickling of blood welled through the large cloth bandage. 'That hand isn't getting better very quickly, is it?' Seren said. 'You never did tell me how you hurt it.'

'Oh, just cooking, like I said before,' said Angel. 'There's no big bloody story.' She grabbed the rug from the grass with her left hand and shook it out, favouring the right. 'Let's get going. I've got nothing washed at home, and I'm not gonna get anything dry if we don't hurry up.'

Monday 15 April, 12.40 pm

Jill could glimpse sunshine in Belmore Park to the right of the Central Square building, but none of its warmth reached her. She stepped out of Gabriel's car into Castlereagh Street, a strong wind from the railway tunnel behind her blasting straight up her shirt. She wrapped her arms around her body, and hurried after Gabriel towards the multistorey building. The street noise muted instantly when the glass doors shooshed closed behind them, and they crossed the lobby to the bank of elevators that would take them up to the Sydney offices of the Australian Federal Police.

Two jump-suited federal cops, necks like front-row forwards, stood beside a desk and studied their approach when they got out of the lift.

'Help you?' one of them said. He looked to Jill like some monstrous teenager; she wondered how the hell his parents had kept him fed.

'It's all right, Moose. I've got 'em.' Jill watched Cameron Genovese make his way across the room – it took him maybe two strides. He and the other two footy players dwarfed her and Gabriel, and looking up at them she suddenly felt her throat constrict. She automatically scanned the room for every exit point and for something to use as a weapon. Her eyes closed involuntarily but she could still picture where everyone stood, heard every movement in the room. She forced herself to open her eyes, furious with her body for assuming this ridiculous defensive reaction every time she perceived male threat. Having trained herself for years to fight blindfolded, her first instinct was to close off the visuals when she perceived danger.

You're in the copshop, stupid, she told herself, following Gabriel and Genovese from the lobby. Whatever greeting they'd exchanged when shaking hands had not registered. But she was certain she wouldn't have missed much of a love-fest between these two.

Genovese led them down a narrow corridor and into a clinically-outfitted office. A desk, a few high-backed office chairs, and that was it. But there was no need for decoration in the room; the entire wall facing the door was made of glass. She walked across and stood looking over the park to Central Station, the ornate sandstone clock tower registering eleven forty am. A train to the left of the tower snaked silently towards the city; she watched it until it disappeared at the corner of the window, then turned when she heard footsteps approaching the room.

Olsen Lanvin knocked once at the open door and walked in. Jill could see the clock tower reflected in his wire-rimmed glasses, with no eyes visible behind the reflection. She crossed the room to shake hands. Gabriel and Genovese had already claimed their seats. She took the one closest to the window and swivelled her back to the view.

'Would anyone like some coffee or water, before we begin?' asked Lanvin. When everyone responded in the negative, he too sat.

Jill steeled herself for the lecture. She knew that the ACC would badly have wanted the clan lab bust, and she was certain that Lanvin and Genovese would've copped heat from their superiors for not taking the Merrylands operation down as soon as they knew about it. She rubbed at her neck, which was still stiff and sore from the blast. Sore she could understand, but she could not believe that she still felt tired – she'd spent the whole day yesterday asleep in her bed, in her
real
bed, in Maroubra. After being checked out by ambos at the explosion site in Merrylands, and making her formal report to Superintendent Last, he'd instructed her to go home, informing her that her undercover operation would be shut down.

'So, Jill,' said Lanvin. 'We got your report from Last. You doing okay?'

'Fine, thanks.' Let's just get this done, she thought.

He glanced down at a typed document in his hand. 'So, just to clarify, Jill, after the explosion, you believe that Kasem Nader, Francis Agassi and Ralph Urgill forced Damien Rose and Peter White into a black Holden Statesman?'

'Yeah, well Agassi and Urgill did, anyway,' she said.

'While Nader was speaking to you,' said Genovese.

'That's right,' she said, her voice hard. 'After I came to.' And I was on my arse trying to breathe, you prick. She already felt like shit that she hadn't been able to do anything. Genovese was trying to make sure she felt that way a while longer.

'And then Nader drove the vehicle away from the site?' said Lanvin.

Jill nodded.

'I don't really understand why you think White and Damien were forced into the car,' said Lanvin. 'Could it not have just been that these men knew you were on to them, blew up the lab and moved on together?'

Jill paused at his words –
knew
you
were on to them
. They were already trying to extricate themselves from this mess. If the Feds had closed the operation, she knew she wouldn't have even got a mention, but now things had gone south, her name would be inserted at every opportunity. She let it ride. It was more important at the moment that these guys understood that Damien and Whitey had been abducted. If she didn't make that point clear right now, there'd be no mercy in the takedown when they caught Nader and co. She knew that in most cops' eyes Whitey and Damien were nothing but drug dealers, and if they got caught in the crossfire, then so be it. She didn't think it was as simple as that.

'No,' she said. 'As I indicated in my report, it was obvious that there was something wrong with White. Damien was supporting him, helping him to walk. I didn't see them leave the house, but they'd almost made it across the road when I came to. Damien was looking around and he called something out to a neighbour. There were plenty of spectators by then. It looked like Damien wanted someone to help him: he waved his arm. Agassi opened the back door and Urgill pretty much threw Whitey into the back seat. Damien tried to run; Agassi pursued, caught hold of his jacket. Damien twisted out of the jacket and ran again. By that time, Urgill was there, and he brought Damien down in a tackle, then a knee to the back. He hauled him up again and into a wrist hold, hand up behind his back; frogmarched him back to the car. Delahunt and I have seen him use the same hold on this kid in the past.' Jill paused, remembering the frustration of being unable to move or find her gun, knocked from her hands in the explosion. 'By that time Nader was back at the vehicle. He got in the driver's seat and took off.'

'And waved to you first, I think it says in here.' Lanvin flourished the report in his hand.

'Well, you read that part all right,' said Jill. 'Why'd you make me go over it again?'

'Just clarifying, Jackson,' he said. 'You know the deal.'

'Well, it's pretty clear now, isn't it?' said Gabriel. 'We've got two people taken by force, one of whom was a cooperative police informant, and neither of whom has a criminal record. Yet.' He stood and walked over to the window. 'So we got the site cleaned up out there as much as possible, and we now need to get these guys back again. You got the techies to do an interception on the whole grid, didn't you?'

Genovese and Lanvin locked eyes, then looked at their shoes.

'To do what?' said Jill.

'Monitor their mobile calls,' said Gabriel.

'We planned to talk to you first and get on it,' said Lanvin.

'Well, let's move then.' Gabriel walked as he talked, then stood at the door waiting. 'Coming?' he said.

Jill grabbed her leather jacket from the car, and hurried back to Gabriel, who was waiting for her at the front of the building. As she jogged into Hay Street, she spotted him, surrounded by pigeons. He was breaking small pieces of bread off a roll and scattering them to the cooing birds, oblivious to the irritated stares of the office workers having to negotiate around them.

'Where'd you get the bread?' she asked him.

He held the roll out to her.

'No, I don't want to eat it,' she said. She shook her head, and took the roll from his hands, shredded it quickly and threw the pieces to the birds. 'I just wondered . . . oh, don't worry. Come on, let's go.' She began the walk down towards Chinatown.

'I always bring bread over here,' he said, catching up. 'The pigeons here are always hungry.'

Aren't pigeons hungry everywhere? she wondered. Whatever. 'So, what was all that in there?' she asked. She had stayed quiet for the past hour, feeling out of place as Gabriel, Genovese and Lanvin had hit the computers and given orders to a series of personnel.

'We put keyword telecommunications intercepts on the whole Sydney grid. We're blanketing the metro to find him.'

At the next intersection, she let another pedestrian hit the button at the lights to get the walk signal. Those things were filthy. She didn't touch them unless she had to. 'So how does that work?' she asked. She had a pretty good idea about telecommunication surveillance, but she wanted to understand exactly what they were doing to try to find Damien. And Nader.

'Easy,' Gabriel said. 'We assign key words to a watch list and then red flag them when they come up.'

'So you listen to everyone's conversations to try to catch them saying Nader's name, or a word associated with him?'

'Sort of. And not just his name. Nicknames and aliases of known associates, street names, discussion about the explosion in Merrylands, slang terms for drug deals, especially amphetamines.'

Jill noticed the woman next to them staring openly at Gabriel. She felt relieved when the traffic stopped and they could cross the road. Nothing he'd said was really confidential, but she hated the thought of anyone listening in on this conversation. She considered her discomfort and smiled at the irony.

'So a name comes up, and then what happens?' she said. They'd outstripped the office workers and had a clear run down to Dixon Street.

'Well, a program prioritises the mentions and someone brings it to our attention when it reaches our set level of importance,' he said.

'Computers monitor the calls?'

'Yeah, it's a word recognition program. It recognises the word, records the whole conversation, our techies review it to see if it's got a connection to what's going on, and if it does, they pass it to us. We'll be the first to know.'

'What are we meant to do while we're waiting?' she said.

'Eat.'

'After that.' Sheesh.

'If we're lucky, we'll go pick 'em up. They'll come to us. We just need to wait.'

She stared at Gabriel's back as they descended a couple of stairs into a Dixon Street food hall. It was single file from there – the place was packed.

'You sure you wanna eat here?' she yelled, close behind him, eyes on her shuffling feet. The sight of so many people around her jump-started palpitations in her chest.

'Yeah. I'll order. You get us a seat,' he called over his shoulder, and peeled away into the crowd.

Ah, shit, she thought, all appetite evaporating.

Rows of long, rectangle tables stretched through the centre of the hall. Dozens of steaming food stalls lined the walls in a riot of colour and noise. Throngs of people pushed along the narrow corridors between them. Jill stood still.

'Get out of the way, would you?' A sweating man pushed past her, balancing a tray. Having spotted a seat at a table ahead, the man was missile-focused on the spare chair. She watched him, forcing herself to concentrate on one thing at a time. He plonked down and unloaded an impossible amount of food. It appeared all of the bowls were for him: none of the surrounding diners acknowledged him, or even glanced up.

Pushed and jostled at every turn, Jill stepped in between two rows of tables, and stood awkwardly as all around people ate and talked. Then, miraculously, two diners right in front of her finished their meals and she dropped gratefully into a seat. A dreadlocked youth carrying shopping bags aimed for the chair next to her, saw her face, and turned around again.

'Taken,' she said, unneccessarily.