Comfort Zone (7 page)

He didn't have a landline in the flat, and he didn't want to use the payphone down the road. It was usually out of order anyway.

He wrestled with the known facts about the phone's disappearance with an attention to detail that would have impressed Sherlock Holmes. But he still couldn't work out what he'd done with it.

He searched the cab without success. He alerted Ajit when he handed over the cab, and asked him to keep an eye out for it. He did one last search, poking and prodding around under the seats, but to no avail. He asked Ajit to call his number, but there was no sound of a familiar ring-tone. His phone was set to the default ring-tone, because he had never bothered to change it to something more adventurous.

He tried kicking one of the tyres, but that didn't help either. All in all, it was extremely depressing. And as he searched, he noted that the cab was due for a good clean, and remembered that it was his turn.

Jack's phone was almost part of him, like a fifth limb. If given the option of spending a week without it or his pants, he would have let his passengers put up with the sight of his knobbly, hairy knees. His entire existence was embedded in the phone. Losing it was a catastrophe.

He spent a couple of directionless days alternating between romantic dreaming about Farhia and fuming over the lost phone. He tried to rationalise the disaster as some kind of helpful warning, the gods preventing him from blowing his chances with Farhia by calling her again too quickly. That didn't work very well, though. He was still cut off from the rest of the world.

He did get through a couple of solid shifts and regulation changeovers with Ajit, though, so he caught up on the slight loss of fares over the previous days. He decided that if his phone hadn't turned up by the end of the week, he would have to do something about getting a new one. He managed to get by without it, in a manner of speaking, as he didn't have many people to call. Apart from his passengers, his day-to-day contact with other human beings was limited. But without his phone it was almost non-existent, and he had all kinds of numbers stored in it. And he needed it for his pursuit of Farhia. All in all, the loss of his phone was a devastating blow.

4

Entanglement

Late in the afternoon of the next day, Jack had an unusual visitor.

He didn't get many visitors at the flat, not real ones anyway. Jehovah's Witnesses and candidates door-knocking during council elections didn't count. One or two of his pub mates had dropped by, and his taxidriver mate Rocco had even joined him for dinner once — admittedly only Chinese takeaway, though. Rocco had moved out west, chasing mining-boom money, and Jack hadn't heard from him since.

The knock on the front door was subdued but insistent. It didn't sound like a canvasser, and it was far too regular and orderly for it to be one of his mates. Jack was intrigued. Maybe it was a new tenant from downstairs dropping by to borrow a cup of sugar.

He only had to walk about a dozen paces from the armchair to the door, so his mystery visitor didn't have to wait long. He must have been impatient. Just as Jack grasped the door-handle, he knocked again. It was more insistent this time, with an air of ‘I know you're in there' about it. This visit was definitely something out of the ordinary.

As he opened the door, Jack saw a tall, well-groomed man in a smooth suit looking straight at him. It was already gloomy outside, and the light on the landing wasn't working — as usual — so he was only able to get a vague impression of his unexpected visitor.

‘Jack van Duyn?' he asked softly. He pronounced Jack's surname ‘doyne,' much to his annoyance. He'd spent his whole life dealing with multiple mispronunciations of his name — everything from ‘done,' ‘deen,' ‘dine,' ‘dan', and more — and he still hadn't got used to it.

‘I'm Robert Jeffrey from the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation. You may know of us as
ASIO
. Is it alright if we talk?'

‘Ah, yeah, guess so. What about?'

‘Can I come in?'

Jack reluctantly gestured for Jeffrey to follow him over to the lounge area. His visitor walked slowly towards the couch, carefully taking note of his surroundings as he did so.

Seeing that there was little point in being obnoxious, Jack invited him to sit. His curiosity was beginning to overshadow his natural apprehension when anyone associated with law-enforcement was around. Jeffrey was some kind of spook. Jack had a guilty conscience about all kinds of things, most of them minor, but nothing that might interest an intelligence organisation. Not unless
ASIO
had started to take an interest in illegal gambling, theft of prescription drugs, and illicit pornography.

He couldn't suppress the tingle of adrenalin that the presence of cops always induced in him. Even though it was unlikely that the national spy agency suspected him of wrongdoing, he was still on edge. Maybe they just wanted to question him about a dodgy passenger, but it was unsettling.

Exerting subtle control over the conversation, Jeffrey declined to sit on the couch offered by Jack, and slowly lowered himself onto the threadbare armchair opposite it.

Jack noticed that he had an unusual left eye, which pointed outward relative to the angle of his right eye. It was very disconcerting: he wasn't sure whether Jeffrey was looking at him or not. Maybe he was looking at two different things at once.
Handy attribute for a spook
, Jack thought.
Probably had surgery to expand his peripheral vision and see around corners.

This moment of speculation was brought to an abrupt halt by Jeffrey.

‘We are looking into some matters in the Somali community. We understand you have recently had some contact with a young woman named Farhia Mohammed.'

This was a question wrapped in an assertion. It didn't seek an answer: it demanded one.

Shit
, Jack thought,
what's going on?

‘Er, yeah … couple of times. We looked after her kids — they got beaten up by some big kids.'

‘We?'

‘Me and this young banker guy, Matt something. Gave me his card … Hang on a sec.'

Jack stood up and walked over to the kitchen bench, grateful for the chance to escape his guest's unusual gaze for a moment. He rummaged around in a small pile of junk mail, letters, and other bits and pieces.

‘Here it is. Richards — that's it, Matt Richards.'

He sat back down, and as he stepped past Jeffrey, he noticed the distinctive smell of his deodorant. It was strangely bland, like the smell of a recently cleaned hotel room. Jack was something of an expert on deodorants, male and female, and well versed on the effects of their absence. He didn't recognise this one: perhaps
ASIO
had their own special brand that was designed to ensure they wouldn't be noticed by bad guys.

‘I understand you managed to get hold of a book owned by Mrs Mohammed.'

Jack was on high alert now.

‘Yeah, full of Somali stuff. Gave it back to her.'

‘So you weren't able to read it.'

‘No. Just took pictures of it on my phone in case I lost it.'

Jeffrey sat forward in the armchair.

‘And you returned the book to her.'

Jack was getting tired of this interrogation by statement. Why wouldn't he ask proper questions?

‘Yeah. Like I said.'

‘Do you still have the pictures on your mobile phone?'

At last, a proper question.

‘No, lost it a few days ago. Driving me nuts …'

‘How inconvenient.' Jeffrey's sarcastic tone betrayed his scepticism.

‘Yeah, you said it. New one'll cost a bit.'

‘The Carlton police advise that Mrs Mohammed was very evasive when asked about the contents of this book.'

‘Just family stuff or something.' Jack wriggled awkwardly in his seat. He didn't like where this was heading. He was beginning to realise that the casual reference to his photos of the book was a mistake.

‘Perhaps.'

Jeffrey allowed a moment of silence to ensue, to maximise the pressure on his witness. Jack couldn't help staring at his peculiar eye. It reminded him of insects that could see behind their own heads. It was very disconcerting.

‘We'd like to look at those photos when you find your phone.'
When, not if
, Jack noted.

‘Yeah, no worries. How come? Her ex not paying her child support or something?'

‘As you are no doubt aware, there are significant problems within the Somali community. Islamic extremism is taking hold. It's our job to keep an eye on things, make sure we know what's going on. We aim to stop them before anyone gets blown up.'

‘Shit! Farhia's a terrorist? You must be kidding!' The incredulity in Jack's voice masked a touch of excitement. Things were getting interesting.

‘We have no reason to believe so, but we keep every eventuality under consideration. Her behaviour is sufficiently suspicious to warrant some investigation.'

This guy sounds like a cop in the witness box
, Jack thought.
What a pompous dick
.

‘Maybe she was just embarrassed about private family stuff.'

‘We can't afford to take risks.'

‘Yeah.' Jack wondered if he knew anything about the bloke with the knife. He could easily be a terrorist — but Jack wasn't about to complicate things further by mentioning him.

Silence settled upon the gloom again. Jeffrey stood up, and Jack eyed him up and down in the murky light. He was quite tall, reasonably good-looking apart from the funny eye, with short dark hair and longish limbs. He was rather unremarkable overall — other than the eye — which Jack assumed was helpful in the spy business. He could blend into the background. He wondered whether the dodgy eye was real: maybe it could be switched back to normal somehow.

Jack felt some embarrassment about his humble dwelling. What must this guy be thinking? Dead-beat in a suicide flat, place smells of unwashed single man, can't be bothered cleaning, carpet's dirty and worn, windows are brown, furniture looks like it's falling apart. He felt ashamed for a moment, and then retreated into his crusty shell. Who cared what this spook thought anyway? Probably had a similar place himself, but a bit cleaner and nicer. South Yarra maybe, or even in the city.

Jeffrey broke this train of thought, signalling that the conversation was over by beginning to move towards the door.

‘We will be back in touch. Here's my card. When you find your phone, contact me straight away. We'd appreciate it if you stay in touch with Mrs Mohammed, find out what she's up to and so on.'

Jack was struck mute by this final request. He shook Jeffrey's out-stretched hand mechanically, and he was gone.

Jack stood lost in thought, absent-mindedly fingering the business card Jeffrey had given him.

Fuck me
, he said to the door,
looks like I've landed in the middle of a terrorist plot
. He snickered cynically and walked back into the lounge area.

Robert Jeffrey's business card was suitably understated. Its only text was ‘Australian Government', ‘Attorney-General's Department', and Jeffrey's name and contact details.

Jack had to sit down to collect his thoughts. He got up again to make a cup of coffee. In difficult situations, coffee was always a good idea, even if it was only Nescafé Gold with two sugars.

As he walked into the kitchen, he sneezed violently. His eyes reddened and he sniffed a couple of times.
Hayfever's back
, he informed the fridge as he opened its door and extracted a milk carton.

Jack had long held the view that stress triggered hayfever. He had yet to find a doctor who agreed with him, but that didn't alter his opinion.

While he went about organising his cup of coffee, his thoughts wandered back to his visitor. Questions swirled around in his head. What was really in Farhia's book? Why was she so touchy about it? Was she an Islamic extremist? A terrorist? A spy? Was she being manipulated by an extremist organisation like Al Qaida? Where did the bloke with the knife fit in?

Eventually these speculations got so ridiculous that Jack had to give up. It was all too confusing. He resolved not to think about it again until tomorrow, and turned on the TV for some distraction. Then he remembered his missing mobile, and started cursing himself for blurting out that he had photos of Farhia's book on it.

After an uneventful day's driving the next day, Jack went to his favourite pub, the Dan O'Connell in Carlton. He was hoping he would bump into his mate Rowan there.

Rowan was a typical Carlton identity: a person of significance at one point, but now well past his use-by date. He was probably in his early fifties, and had a full head of greyish hair, a straggly goatee, and a ruddy, weather-beaten face. Rowan wasn't that tall, but he moved with an exaggerated swagger when he walked. As far as Jack could determine, Rowan did stuff in the theatre scene. He wasn't sure what that stuff was, but Rowan was forever dropping names like Williamson, Hibberd, and Hopgood that meant absolutely nothing to Jack. He'd met Rowan about ten years before, and had helped him move some furniture for a production. They had been pub buddies ever since, which meant that they caught up for a drink at the Dan every now and then. Jack had never been to Rowan's home, and he didn't even know where he lived. He assumed Rowan liked him because he was a refreshing contrast to the theatre wankers he spent his days with.