No Man's Land - A Russell Carter Thriller (27 page)

7

Carter drove a rented white Toyota Hiace van away from the center of the city along New South Head Road toward the up-market harbor-side suburb of Vaucluse, where Callaghan lived. He needed to extract any information he could from him about Samudra’s plans.

He parked outside a large house under the shade of a leafy plane tree, just opposite Callaghan’s place, and scoped the deserted street.

The only parked cars were a silver Mercedes convertible and a black BMW four-wheel drive. Considering the upper-middle-class surrounds, neither looked suspicious.

He stepped out of the van and locked the door. In this peaceful neighborhood it barely felt necessary. The sleepy suburb was one of the wealthiest in Sydney and had one of the lowest crime rates. There was a complete absence of litter. All the gardens were neat and the lawns freshly mowed.

He crossed the street and followed a sandstone path through Callaghan’s manicured front garden toward his spacious home. The sweet fragrance of frangipanis drifted through the air, adding to the feeling that nothing bad could ever happen in a suburb like this.

To his surprise a large stone buddha sat beside the door, greeting him with a warm smile. He pressed a buzzer and heard rhythmic chimes.

No answer.

Carter took a step back and looked up and down the front of the house, searching for an open window.

He pulled out his phone and dialed the number Watto had given him.

A musical ringtone sounded inside.

It stopped.

He knocked hard three times on the door and waited.

Shuffling footsteps approached.

There was a long moment of heavy silence, as if whoever stood on the other side of the door was making up their mind.

A gruff voice said, “Who is it?”

“Russell Carter. We need to talk.”

A dog barked in the distance.

The door opened slowly, revealing a large man in his mid-sixties. He had a full head of silver hair and was only a couple of inches shorter than Carter. He would have been an imposing physical presence, except that his spirit appeared crushed.

Earl Callaghan wore a grey T-shirt and loose-fitting black Reebok tracksuit pants. His feet were bare. He had a solid three-day growth, his eyes were bloodshot and his skin an unhealthy grey.

The look of a man who’d come to hate himself.

He nodded at Carter. “You better come in.”

It almost seemed like he was expecting him.

8

Callaghan led Carter down a gloomy tiled hallway and into a large modern kitchen. The blinds were drawn, shutting out the view and the outside world. The mustiness of the air suggested the windows hadn’t been opened for at least a week.

Dirty dishes stacked high filled the sink and an open box of crackers lay scattered across the marble bench next to a block of yellow cheese. Callaghan stared at the chrome fridge like he was being confronted with a major dilemma.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“No thanks,” Carter said.

“I need one.”

“Go ahead.”

—

Carter sat opposite Callaghan at a grubby white dining table. Toast crumbs littered the surface and tiny flies swarmed over a rotting bowl of fruit. A faint smell of cat urine hung over the house.

Callaghan lifted a steaming cup of instant coffee to his lips with both hands and took a tentative sip. He was in a bad way, yet appeared relieved to have Carter there, probably ready and willing to unburden himself to someone.

Anyone.

A man could only hold dark secrets in for so long.

“You look like shit,” Carter said.

“I feel like it.”

Callaghan swallowed a large mouthful of coffee and stared at the table, looking like he wanted to throw up.

“What happened?” Carter asked.

They sat for a few moments in silence, interrupted only by the whine of a leaf blower a few doors down the street.

“Look at me,” Carter said.

Callaghan raised his head with great effort. Any arrogance he might once have possessed had been overtaken by a deep sense of shame and embarrassment.

“Start at the beginning.”

“Okay … the beginning.”

He rubbed his eyes like he was trying to focus his addled mind.

Carter remained silent, giving him space to ready himself. When interviewing someone, he liked to let the subject talk, keeping his questions to a minimum until they’d had their say.

“I got a series of margin calls during the financial crisis,” Callaghan said without looking at Carter directly. “I was going to lose my house and have to pull my daughter, Vivienne, out of boarding school. It started out as a few harmless favors for a lot of money. Samudra just wanted my advice on a number of matters and asked me to give an IT consultant cousin of his some work. I thought I could control the situation. If he got out of line, I thought I could just shut him down.”

The pattern of corruption never worked any differently. The favors usually started out small and insignificant but gradually snowballed. It was the first compromise that did the damage.

“Then?” Carter asked.

Callaghan pointed at a framed picture on the kitchen wall. A young girl of about sixteen with long black hair wore a somber expression and a grey school uniform. She stared at the camera with an air of defiant rebellion.

“Vivienne’s seventeen now. Her stepmother walked out on us a few years ago, before that photo was taken. I wasn’t a great husband – or father. I see that now.”

Callaghan paused and took another long swallow of coffee, looking like he was digesting what he’d just said for the first time.

Carter remained silent.

“Anyway,” Callaghan continued, “Vivienne is a handful. Blames me for everything that’s happened to the family. But I’d do anything for her.”

“Where is she now?”

“I never should’ve let her go to Bali after she finished her Higher School Certificate a few weeks ago. I can’t say no to her. She’s all I’ve got.”

Carter knew where this was heading. An intelligent and capable man had been sucked into a vortex from which there was no easy way out.

“Samudra grabbed her?” he asked.

Callaghan nodded.

“I’m presuming she’s still alive?”

“Samudra’s smart. Insisted I speak to her every day. Said if I didn’t do exactly as he asked, he’d have her gang-raped and then killed. It tore me apart. Still does.” Tears welled in his eyes. “I can’t take it anymore.”

Carter read the pain and torment in his face, but as much as he empathized, Callaghan needed to see the pain his actions had inflicted on members of Carter’s tribe. He’d given information to Samudra’s clan that had directly resulted in Thomas’s abduction and the deaths of Jacko, Muklas and Wayan.

“You think you and your daughter are the only ones suffering? Thomas and Wayan were kidnapped.”

“I heard,” Callaghan said, wiping his eyes with the back of his fingers. “Are they all right?”

“Wayan’s dead. So’s Jacko MacDonald.”

Callaghan’s head dropped.

“Six members of the order are in a hospital in Ubud.”

“And Thomas?”

“Badly hurt.”

Callaghan threw his head back, ran his hands over his face and muttered, “Good God, what have I done?”

Carter let him sit quietly for a moment. He was surprised to find he felt nothing but empathy for this broken shell of a man, despite the choices he had made.

“Listen to me,” Carter said. “What’s done is done. All that matters is what you do now.”

“I’ll do whatever I humanly can to make this right.”

“Tell me what you did for Samudra.”

Callaghan let out a slow breath. “He said if I gave his consultant access to all our network passwords and email accounts, he’d release Viv on 2 January, unharmed.”

“So that’s how they found us.”

“The consultant has been in there for two months,” Callaghan said. “He has all our codes and has had full access to the Trident servers. God only knows what information they’ve siphoned off by now.”

“Do you know what Samudra is planning?”

“No. He never told me a thing. But my gut says it’s big.”

“Your gut’s right. Something Sydney’s never seen before, and if our intel is correct, and we believe it is, it’s happening tonight.”

“Fucking hell.”

Callaghan looked into Carter’s eyes for the first time. “What do you need from me?”

“Let me handle this without any interference from Trident.”

Callaghan nodded. “You won’t get any meddling from my end unless you ask for it.”

“And I need two official photo IDs from the water police, giving me free movement around the harbor.”

“You got it. Email me the photos and tell me where you want them delivered.”

Carter paused a beat. There was another thing he required and he knew it wouldn’t be easy for Callaghan to deliver.

“There’s one more thing I need you to do,” he said.

“Anything in my power.”

“The bridge is closed to traffic from 11 p.m.”

“Correct.”

“I need it shut by 9 p.m.”

“What?”

“No traffic on the deck of the bridge after nine o’clock.”

“Jesus Christ,” Callaghan said. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

“You have to. Even if you have to put a gun to someone’s head.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“No, get it done. I don’t care how. It’s not just Vivienne’s life at stake. The lives of hundreds or possibly even thousands are at risk and their death will be on you.”

Carter waited long enough to make sure his message had struck home.

“I’ll get it done,” Callaghan said. “I swear to God I will.”

Carter looked into his eyes and knew Callaghan meant what he said. He took a small notepad and pen out of his pocket and wrote down his cell-phone number.

He slid it across the table to Callaghan and said, “Call me as soon as you can confirm.”

Callaghan took the paper and nodded.

Carter got to his feet. There was nothing more to be accomplished here.

He followed Callaghan to the front door. They stood outside on the porch. Some color had returned to Callaghan’s face. His eyes shone brighter.

“Thank you, Carter.”

“I haven’t done anything yet.”

“You have.”

They shook hands.

“I’ll bring your daughter back,” Carter said. “That’s a promise.”

“I believe you will.”

Carter turned and walked down the garden path and across the road to his van without looking back. To his left he noticed a black mini-van fifty yards behind where he was parked.

He climbed into the Toyota, fired up the ignition and then slowly pulled out and drove west toward the city skyline. He glanced in the rear-view mirror.

The mini-van pulled out from the curb.

Carter accelerated down the wide street.

So did the dark van.

9

Djoran had spent the last twenty-four hours on board a run-down thirty-two-foot motor-launch, provided to the clan by a large cell from the outer Sydney suburb of Lakemba, which he’d discovered had a large Muslim community.

It lay at anchor two hundred yards from a wealthy-looking harbor-side suburb. He could see the magnificent bridge and Opera House in the distance. Apart from that, he remained ignorant of where he was. He’d never been to Sydney before.

Samudra had called their third meeting of the day for 3.30 p.m., on the deck, and had just revealed the exact location of the planned attack on the Sydney Harbour Bridge. He’d sent Djoran below to make some tea, leaving himself, Jamal and Akeem, the two recruits from Aceh, sitting in the stern.

Djoran walked down the narrow stairs into the cramped galley, which reeked of diesel, spicy food and body odor. He put the blackened kettle on the stove and stared at a set of silver keys sitting on top of a rusty fridge.

One would open the rear cabin, where he knew Samudra had locked their cell phones. He only needed one minute to send a message to Carter with the precise details of tonight’s attack. About the time it’d take the kettle to boil.

Outside a loud toot caught his attention.

He glanced through the cabin window. A two-masted yacht packed with passengers cruised down the harbor, which was already filling with pleasure craft taking up their vantage points for the evening’s spectacle.

His heart went out to the innocent souls on board, many of whom might die that night should he fail to contact Carter.

The launch listed and rolled in the yacht’s wake. He put his hand against the cabin wall to steady himself.

He looked back at the keys sliding back and forth across the fridge, under no illusion as to what would happen to him should Samudra discover his betrayal.

Deep in his heart he knew that, in the grand scheme of God’s universe, his physical existence meant very little.

Of supreme importance, though, was his ability to follow the dictates of his conscience. That meant doing everything in his power to stop Samudra from killing innocent people in the name of Allah.

He placed his hand on his thumping heart.

The time to cling to safety had passed. There was a time to let things happen and a time to make them happen. He might not get a better opportunity to contact Carter.

A man had the power to act, but only God knew the outcome of a man’s actions.

He picked up the keys.

The third key he tried slid into the lock easily.

A tremor of fear ran down his spine.

He ignored it.

Fear represented a man’s distance from God.

He turned the handle, opened the door and went inside.

10

The afternoon sun had begun its descent toward the top of the bridge and Sydney’s western skyline.

Carter and Erina walked up George Street toward the Rosemount Apartments at a brisk pace, blending in with the constant stream of pedestrian traffic.

“Did you manage to get everything on the list?” Carter asked.

“Of course. How did you go?”

He recapped his encounter with Callaghan and then outlined what’d happened after leaving Vaucluse.

The black van had tailed him into the city. He’d turned off Liverpool Street into Chinatown, jumped a red light, gone the wrong way up a one-way street, turned left into a dark lane beside the Happy Chef Restaurant and hidden there for ten minutes.

When confident he’d evaded the pursuing vehicle, he drove to a nearby parking lot and left the Hiace there, then headed toward Kent Street on foot to Paddy Pallin Adventure Equipment. When he’d returned to the parking lot, there was no sign of the dark van.

“How would they have known you’d be at Callaghan’s?” she asked.

“Alex probably had someone keeping an eye on him.”

“So the clan know we’re in Sydney and onto them.”

It was a statement rather than a question and something he’d already taken into account.

Before he had a chance to say anything more, his phone beeped in his thigh pocket – another text.

They moved to the side of the busy sidewalk and stood in front of the display window of a jewelry store. He read the text and then held the phone out for her.

2 men, maybe more + AA. SW pylon. Strike at midnight. Will detonate if threatened. B careful. D

Erina frowned. “There’s a good chance Djoran’s been found out and they’re using his phone to lure us into a trap.”

“It doesn’t change a thing,” he said. “Everything’s a calculated gamble at this point.”

—

Carter stood next to Erina in the elevator leading up to their serviced apartment. It came to a stop on the sixth floor. Carter’s cell phone started vibrating in his pocket.

They both stepped out into a deserted hallway. Erina entered the apartment, leaving the door ajar. Carter stayed where he was and answered on the fourth ring.

“Carter, it’s Callaghan.”

“I’m listening.”

“It cost me, but I got it done.”

“Good job.”

“God bless you, Carter.”

Carter didn’t know how to respond to that. He just said goodbye, hung up and stepped into the apartment, satisfied the last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place.

He closed the front door and stood just inside it.

“Was that Callaghan?” Erina asked.

“Yep, he came through.”

“Thank God for that. At least the bridge will be clear if things go pear-shaped.”

Carter turned and studied the living room. It resembled an army surplus store. Erina had arranged everything in neat rows on the carpeted floor.

She stretched out her hand as if presenting Carter with a feast and said, “The banquet is laid.”

There were two Glock 18s, a SIG SG550, four throwing knives, three black cylinders containing C4 plastic explosives, a black pouch with acid in a small bottle, a roll of duct tape, detonators, two lightweight wetsuits, two pairs of Vibram five-finger shoes, climbing hooks attached to thirty feet of nylon rope, one waterproof flashlight and a pair of wire-cutters.

Carter admired the four
hira shuriken
or five-point star knives, a favorite weapon of the Japanese ninja, lined up on a hotel pillow.
Shuriken
literally meant “sword hidden in the hand.”

He picked one up and ran his fingers over the smooth surface. Thanks to hundreds of hours of training, he could fling three star knives in under a second and strike a target the size of a tennis ball at twenty paces.

His attention shifted to two items leaning against the side wall: two body harnesses and an Armaguard Magnogun-TX 7, an apparatus that looked like a high-powered spear gun with a flat head connected to a compact vacuum cleaner.

The Magnogun was designed to propel a magnetized metal head up to three hundred feet through the air. Once it struck metal, a powerful electromagnet was triggered, locking it fast. The section that looked like the dust-collection unit of a vacuum cleaner housed three hundred feet of cord and an electric motor.

“So fill me in on the plan,” she said. “I need details.”

He had already told her how, after leaving the city parking lot, he’d driven to Dawes Point Park on the edge of the harbor near the Rocks to study the bridge and the two southern pylons. Now that they had a precise target, he was able to form a clear picture in his mind of the route they needed to take.

“The Hiace is parked downstairs with a double-seated kayak strapped to its roof,” he said. “At 8.30 p.m. we’ll set off from Rushcutters Bay and paddle for Fort Denison.”

Fort Denison had been built in the nineteenth century to protect the harbor from invaders. It was approximately half a mile from the bridge and would shelter them from the full brunt of the building southerly.

“I’ve got hold of a couple of water police IDs courtesy of Callaghan, which will allow us to move freely around the harbor. Once the 9 p.m. fireworks finish, we paddle under the bridge and make for what looks like a maintenance walkway that runs from east to west below the bridge’s deck. It’s a separate structure that hangs several foot underneath.”

“So the walkway crosses the width of the bridge – it doesn’t run along the length?”

“That’s right.”

“Where exactly is it in relation to the pylon?”

“About forty yards north of it, I’d say, out over the water.”

“So that’s where the Magnogun comes into play?”

“Yeah, it’ll get us to the bottom of the walkway.”

“And I’m presuming the walkway is enclosed in some sort of security fence?”

“Yeah, it looks about five foot high, but it’s quite open – lots of foot and handholds from what I could see. We just have to climb up over it and jump down onto the walkway. From there, it should be easy enough to climb onto the bridge.”

“Yeah, if you’re a monkey.”

“We’ll do our best imitation.”

“I’d forgotten how much you like to do things the hard way.”

“Whatever it takes.”