‘When you’ve read and signed the agreement, you talk to this Marie Li or Narelle Wong or whatever her name is. Then you call on Kidd.’
‘Do I tell Harrigan?’
‘That’s all in there,’ Clive said a little sharply. ‘I told you to read it. If you sign the agreement, then I’ll want to speak to your partner about the operation myself. Don’t worry, you’ll be there when I do. If you don’t want me to do that, I’ll take you off the job now.’
She pulled back a little from the abruptness with which he spoke.
‘Are we sharing any of this with the police?’ she asked.
‘I’ve decided we are, at least with Borghini. He’ll know about the role you’re playing but no one else will. I’ll brief his senior command myself on what they need to know. You were a sworn police officer once. You can appear to be seconded back while this operation is going on. But the proviso is this. Both you and Borghini take your directions from me and no one else.’
‘Borghini probably won’t like that.’
‘He can take it or leave it,’ Clive said. ‘The question is, will you?’
‘I’ll let you know this afternoon,’ she replied and walked out.
Give Clive his due, he had set it out in detail. There was nothing in these pieces of paper to trap her; it was the reverse, the details were comprehensive. Despite that, the job was both dangerous and secretive, even by Orion’s standards. The worst aspect of her work had always been its loneliness. This agreement isolated her further. On her desk, she had a photograph of Paul holding Ellie at her naming ceremony. She remembered thinking at the time, how had she got here? How had she managed to achieve so much just by blundering around the way she always did? The photograph held a world, one that mattered to her more than anything. Clive’s agreement cut her off from that world and left her isolated in another one. The two photographs he had given her lay on the desk; they showed her exactly what she was walking into. They were openings into some other kind of darkness, a place that had nothing to do with the life she lived outside her work. Clive might say that he meant them to make her think twice about what she was taking on. But really he knew her well enough to realise they would have the opposite effect.
She looked at the picture of Paul and Ellie again and the anxiety came back. What happens to my daughter if something happens to me? But it was there on paper: backup, safety, an opt-out clause if she couldn’t handle it. Orion was careful with its operatives’ safety. Her own experience had demonstrated that to her. She would have to step away from both Paul and Ellie in her mind. If she didn’t, the focus she needed, the cold-bloodedness, would not be there. If she once wavered in her intent, not only would she be in danger but she could put the operation at risk and other people who were involved as well.
Clive was asking a lot of her and it angered her to think he probably realised just how much this would cost her. And, regardless of the detail in this document, the real aim of the operation was being hidden from her. All she was being offered was a briefing sometime in the future. In other words, she was being asked to fly blind; she was being used. But she wanted this person, these people, whoever they were, as much as he did. This was her agenda and it was just as important as whatever Clive might have planned. No one was safe when people like this were out there, including the people who meant most to her. She picked up her pen and signed the documents.
7
Back home in Birchgrove, Harrigan rang his old mate and former 2IC, Trevor Gabriel. He and Trev had worked together for years.
‘Got your info, boss. I’ve just emailed it to you,’ Trevor said. ‘That car is owned by a Craig Wells, forty-three, who lives in Lakemba. Unit by the looks of it. No criminal record. Not even a parking ticket.’
‘Is there a picture?’
‘Glasses, fair complexion, brown hair and beard, brown eyes. A short arse-170 centimetres.’
‘Why is that name familiar?’
‘Yeah, it rings a bell with me as well. I’ll look into it and get back to you. I’ll send a body over to Kidz Corner for you today. Do you want me to send a couple of people around to watch your house as well? I can find them.’
‘No, mate. I just want to make sure my daughter’s safe. You need everyone for the Oxford Street shootings right now. How are the men who got shot?’
‘One’s still critical, the others are stable.’
‘Any word?’ Harrigan asked.
‘Nothing. Everyone’s singing the same tune-they had nothing to do with it.’
‘Someone will crack.’
‘We’ll be ready when they do. See you, boss. Give us a call if you need any help, okay?’
‘Will do.’
Harrigan hung up with a sense of betrayal of his former 2IC. But he knew that if he mentioned even the faintest possibility that Newell might have been last night’s intruder, he would lose control of the situation. The police would crawl all over any lead that might help them solve the massacre on Oxford Street and his own investigations would be taken out of his hands. Harrigan wanted control. Keeping the details to himself was the best way to get it.
Before he left, he put on his shoulder holster and his gun. Then he was on his way across the packed suburbs of the Sydney basin, through a landscape of red-brick and fibro houses, concreted creeks, home units, scraps of bushland and parks, coming close to the geographical heart of the city in the southwest. Another world, just a drive away. A few more rocks to turn over and see what might be underneath. Something slimy probably. Just a normal day really.
The block of units looked ordinary: a white-rendered building with square, deep-set brown wooden balconies, all a little worse for wear. At the back of the building ran the suburban train line between Wiley Park and Lakemba stations. A row of big bins, various numbers painted on their sides, stood on the footpath. It was garbage collection day. There was no grass, just a cement forecourt. The main door opened to Harrigan’s push. He stepped into a brick hallway with a cement floor. There was no name attached to the unit he was seeking. He walked upstairs and knocked on the door.
At first he heard nothing, then the sound of quiet movement inside. He waited. He was about to knock again when the door was opened by a tall African man, possibly in his sixties.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked in accented English.
‘I was looking for a Craig Wells,’ Harrigan said.
‘Are you with the police?’
‘No, I’m a consultant. This is my card.’
The man took it and studied it for a few moments.
‘Why are you looking for this man here?’ he asked.
‘His car is registered to this address. I’m trying to get in touch with him.’
The man’s expression was troubled, frowning. Another glance at Harrigan, a weighing up of actions.
‘Will you come in?’
‘Thanks.’
Harrigan stepped into a small, plainly furnished living room, where his host offered him a chair. No one else was present. Then the man opened the door to another room and went inside. Harrigan caught a glimpse of a kitchen where an older woman was seated at a table peeling vegetables while another woman, perhaps in her thirties, was standing by the bench. Both were wearing what seemed to be traditional dress. He heard soft voices from behind the door and then the man came out again, shutting the door behind him.
‘Mr Paul Harrigan,’ he said. ‘May I keep this card?’
‘Please do. And you are…?’
‘Mohammed Hasan Ibrahim. This person you’re looking for, he’s used this address to register his car?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why do you want to find him?’
‘There’s no reason for you to be concerned by this, Mr Ibrahim,’ Harrigan said. ‘If this man has used a false address, it’s not going to affect you.’
‘I would like to judge the consequences of the situation for myself,’ Ibrahim replied. ‘Can you tell me why you want to find this person?’