Anna saw them coming. She had already spotted the two uniformed Commonwealth Police drivers waiting in the forecourt next to a pair of long-bonneted black and chrome limos. She’d found a willing taxi driver and paid him to wait nearby, ready to move.
Lionel Murphy, in his electric-blue suit, was a swatch of colour in front of the ruck of his entourage. Tom Moriarty, denuded of his briefcase, spotted her and looked away. She caught Milte’s eye; he returned her gaze with a startled look before the attorney stopped abruptly.
‘Christ, that’s discreet,’ said Murphy, drawing his hands back through his hair. ‘We’ll be arriving in police vehicles.’
‘Well, we can hardly hail a cab,’ said Milte, directing him to the first car. The driver ushered the attorney-general into the back seat.
Milte turned to see Anna Rosen climbing into a cab. How the hell did she get here? He looked over at Tom Moriarty, but when the spy shrugged Milte shook his head and climbed into the front seat.
Harper was standing on the footpath, still holding the ASIO briefcase. He thrust the thing into Moriarty’s arms. ‘You better take this back,’ he said.
Relieved of his burden, Harper climbed into the rear of the car with the attorney.
‘Might have been wise to keep hold of that,’ said Murphy.
‘That’s not my judgement,’ said Harper, too tired for politeness. ‘This is your show, but I didn’t feel right lugging an ASIO briefcase around.’
Before Murphy could respond, Milte turned from the front. ‘He’s right,’ he said. ‘Better that Moriarty arrives with it. We all know what’s in it, anyway.’
The rogue spy, clutching the briefcase to his chest, was wedged into the back of the second vehicle between the two sergeants. Doors slammed and the small convoy took off from the kerb.
Anna turned quickly to her driver, but he beat her to it.
‘Follow that car?’ he asked, accelerating in the wake of the fast-departing limos. He shook his head in annoyance as he wove through the slow-moving airport traffic and kept the police vehicles in sight. ‘Bugger it,’ he said. ‘I’ve been waiting for this moment for ten years, and then I go and say it myself.’
‘Want me to say it again?’
‘Nah, it wouldn’t be the same.’
‘Don’t lose them,’ said Anna.
‘Bewdy.’ The driver smiled. ‘That was properly in character.’
‘I mean it.’
‘Yeah, I know. It’s just’—a terminal bus pulled in front of them and he hit the anchors, burning rubber as he jerked the wheel to narrowly avoid a collision—‘it’s normally a pretty boring job.’
*
Harper glanced over at the attorney-general. He was surprised to see the man’s eyes closed and his lips moving, as if rehearsing lines backstage before a live performance.
When they hit the freeway and slowed in the peak-hour traffic, Murphy tapped the driver’s shoulder. ‘Can we put the siren on and go faster?’
Kerry Milte swung around. ‘That’s a really bad—’ he began, before he was drowned out by the sudden high-pitched wail, and then a second as the other driver switched his siren on too. ‘Fuck me dead!’ Milte exclaimed in frustration as the two cars began yawing at high speed through the traffic.
Ahead of them, cars braked and pulled aside to let them pass.
Milte began flicking at switches on the dashboard. ‘If the press gets hold of this …’ he shouted. He reached under the dash and pulled out a bunch of wires. The driver glanced at him nervously as the siren sputtered out.
‘Right, you’re right,’ said Murphy. ‘Maybe we should’ve brought Negus in on this, after all.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Milte. ‘We’ve got enough loose cannons on the deck.’
Harper smiled at this exchange. He’d been wondering where the press flack was. George Negus always looked more like an extra from Zabriskie Point than a spokesman for the attorney-general. Harper imagined him storming the ASIO stairs like the vanguard of the October Revolution.
The thought cheered him up, until Murphy interrupted his reverie. ‘Harry, stay by my side when we get there? I imagine you’ll be the ranking officer.’
Harper was puzzled. ‘Apart from the director-general of ASIO and his top brass?’
Murphy held his gaze. ‘I mean the ranking officer on our side,’ he said evenly.
‘I’m under your authority.’
‘Just so, Harry. Just so.’
Harper watched the attorney-general bouncing around in the back seat as the cars plunged on dangerously towards their destination. Even after the second driver cut his siren neither car had slowed down. Through the window traffic zipped past.
Soon the two cars turned into St Kilda Road, barrelling down the wide thoroughfare.
Sitting up front, Milte was the first to see what appeared to be a blockade ahead of them. ‘What the hell …?’
As they got closer, he saw a bank of cameras sprawled across the road, filming their approach. Soon little sunbursts came, flashes of light blossoming from the pack. Milte’s face reddened with anger at this latest betrayal.
‘Oh, fuck. Someone tipped them off.’
‘No time to worry about that,’ said Murphy. ‘Just ignore them.’
Harper saw the attorney compose his face into a mask of resolution, his political instincts kicking in. On their right was the white-colonnaded façade of ASIO Headquarters. The modern concrete structure was featureless at ground level. The cars of its lower-level workers were lined up with their fronts to the kerb. There was a grass nature strip, a functional hedge and, above that, hundreds of dark windows. He saw no faces at them.
‘Mind what you do now, Harry,’ said Murphy. ‘Your mug’ll be all over the news tonight.’
‘I wasn’t planning to smile and wave,’ said Harper. But, as they neared the bank of cameras, he felt like slumping down below the window ledge. Politics and police work, he reminded himself—a bad mix.
Then it all seemed to slip into slow motion. He saw blue-uniformed Commonwealth Police holding back the horde of journalists. There were multiple sunbursts now, bouncing off the long, shiny bonnet. A policeman directed the car to turn right. As it did so, Harper found himself staring into the black hole of a TV camera. He imagined Wal Price, in the car behind, giving them the finger, but he resisted the urge to turn around.
Microphones were waved at them and he heard muffled questions. Their car headed for a dark entrance, which opened in the wall as a large steel door rolled up. Harper watched a photographer slip the cordon and run in front of their car, targeting Lionel Murphy, who was now on the other side, hidden from the press pack.
Murphy lifted his chin. Flash, flash, flash. A policeman grabbed the man and the two of them whirled off together, like dance partners.
Murphy’s vehicles entered a high-ceilinged garage and a policeman appeared from the gloom to direct them over to the pool of light spilling from an open doorway. As the cars pulled up, three men emerged from the doorway, their faces pale under the fluorescent lights.
At the head of the welcoming party was a man in the uniform of a chief inspector. Harper felt instant relief: this must be Charlie Jones, the boss of Melbourne’s Commonwealth Police. Happily, he was now outranked. And besides, Chief Inspector Jones, in his immaculately pressed blues, gave the incursion a sense of authority.
Lionel Murphy obviously thought so, too. He bounded out of the car and headed straight for the commanding heights, hand outstretched, his red-headed advisor at his heels.
As Jones briefed the attorney-general, Harper took note of the big man standing just behind the chief inspector, an ominous presence drawing furiously on a cigarette.
The third member of the greeting party, a man in a plain dark suit, was standing well apart from this awkward tableau. Harper suddenly recalled who he was and walked over.
‘Inspector Whitton, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, Harry, Lawrie Whitton.’
They shook hands. Whitton was a compact, well-made fellow with the weathered face of a sailor. ‘We met in Canberra, a couple of years ago,’ he reminded Harper. ‘Seminar on terrorism.’
‘That’s right.’
Whitton looked over at the attorney-general and the chief inspector.
‘Best let the top brass deal with this, mate,’ he said. ‘It’s a bad business.’
‘What’s up?’ asked Harper.
Whitton tipped his head in the direction of the furious smoker. ‘You know that bloke?’
‘No, I don’t.’
Harper looked again at the man. The big fellow was staring hard at Murphy with barely concealed contempt.
‘It’s Jack Behm, ASIO’s deputy director-general,’ whispered Whitton. ‘He’s in a fucking rage. Incandescent. Ready to pop his cork at any moment.’
Harper saw the intensity in Behm’s eyes.
‘Thanks for the tip, Lawrie. I better go.’
‘Wait,’ said Whitton. ‘One more thing. Before Murphy does anything else, he needs to speak to the ASIO staff. We couldn’t let them go to their offices, so we had to herd them into a lecture theatre. It’s getting ugly in there. Women crying. Men angry. Some of them think this is a coup. They’re talking about being taken out and shot against a wall—and they’re only half-joking.’
Harper was shocked. ‘That’s madness.’
‘This mob is a bit mad; it goes with the territory. Murphy needs to go in and reassure them before something bad happens.’
‘I’ll let him know.’
As Harper moved to gather up his own team, he glanced over at Tom Moriarty, whose cool demeanour seemed to have finally abandoned him.
‘You blokes come with me,’ said Harper to Sharp and his sergeants. He took them to flank the attorney-general and made the introductions. ‘Inspector Harper, sir,’ he said, addressing the chief inspector. ‘Bureau of Criminal Intelligence. With me are Sergeants Price and Sullivan, and my intelligence officer, Al Sharp.’
‘Ah. Good morning, Inspector,’ said Jones. ‘I was just explaining to the attorney that all the offices, safes and containers are now sealed. We have twenty-seven officers here and I’ve stationed men on every floor. As they’ve come in, we’ve directed the ASIO staff to gather in the auditorium on the third floor.’
An audible groan now came from the Organisation’s deputy director-general. Hearing the facts recited for a second time, the man couldn’t contain himself.
‘This is an absolute outrage!’ said Jack Behm. ‘What’s happening here is tantamount to treason. You’re holding hostage most of the security apparatus of this country, under who-knows-what authority!’
‘Mr Behm,’ Lionel Murphy cut him off, ‘that is totally unwarranted. Please control yourself and lower your voice.’
‘Senator Murphy,’ said Behm, managing to make the title sound like an insult. ‘This has already done untold damage. Can you imagine what our American friends will make of this? A wet-behind-the-ears, socialist government rummaging through our safes … How do you suppose that’ll go down at the intelligence-sharing briefings?’
‘Stop right there, Mr Behm,’ said Murphy, turning up the dial a few notches. ‘Do you have any idea who you’re talking to? I am the elected civilian official to whom you are answerable. I say elected! Do you hear me, Mr Behm? Do you take my meaning? I need to confirm that you understand there has been a legitimate change of power in this country. You are aware of that, aren’t you?’
Behm said nothing. His jaw was clamped shut. His lips quivered with rage.
‘I asked you a question!’ Murphy roared. Even Harper was impressed by the effect.
‘Yes,’ said Behm, spitting the word out like rancid phlegm.
‘Ivor Greenwood is no longer here to do your bidding. I am the attorney-general. And everything that has happened here, and will happen here today, is under my direct authority. Do you understand that simple fact?’
Behm nodded.
‘I didn’t hear you, Mr Behm. Do you understand that this is being done under the lawful authority of an elected attorney-general?’
‘Yes,’ said Behm.
Harper saw some of the steam come out of the man and wondered how long it had been since anyone had spoken to Jack Behm in this manner. Murphy was momentarily on top, but he was sure it wouldn’t end there.
‘Please listen carefully, Mr Behm,’ Murphy continued. ‘There is a matter of national security at stake here. The life of a foreign leader, soon to visit this country, is under threat. I have asked ASIO for information about the nature of that threat, and I have been bamboozled and I have been misled. To make matters worse, I was lied to by senior ASIO officers. The proof of that is here with us.’
Murphy turned and pointed to Tom Moriarty, who was still standing next to the big black car he’d come in, clutching the briefcase containing the proof of infamy. It seemed to Harper that Moriarty was fighting an urge to leap into the driver’s seat and make a high-speed getaway.
‘The evidence,’ Murphy paused for effect, ‘is in that very briefcase.’
Jack Behm stared at Moriarty. There was no hiding the naked hatred in his eyes.
‘As to your employees in the theatre,’ Murphy continued. ‘They are not being held hostage. That is absurd. They will be free to go back to their offices as soon as I have had some answers. And I will be demanding them from the director-general himself. Is that all clear to you?’
‘Yes, perfectly clear,’ said Behm.
‘Then our conversation is over. I would like to see Mr Barbour immediately.’
The man was mad! There was no question about it in Jack Behm’s mind. Murphy was both mad and dangerous. Behm walked away from their confrontation convinced that he was dealing with an existential threat.
He barrelled up the stairs and burst into the headquarters foyer like a rugby player who’s suddenly found himself in the clear. He ignored the startled looks of the uniformed police milling around. Just let them try and stop him! He’d knock them over like nine pins. More police were standing guard on the closed doors to the theatre, behind which his colleagues were being held hostage. Outside of tin-pot dictatorships, there wasn’t a security agency in the world that had been subjected to this kind of intrusion, not to mention the sheer indignity of it.
The Five Eyes partners would be incredulous. In one fell swoop Murphy and his keystone cops had destabilised the most important intelligence relationships the country had ever had. Behm dreaded the telephone call coming across the Pacific from James Jesus Angleton. How could he ever explain this inexplicable outrage to the CIA? It would be a miracle if the US trusted them with a single paltry secret during the life of the Whitlam government.
The director-general’s office was on the seventh floor. Behm jabbed repeatedly at the Up button on the lift panel. A young Commonwealth policeman made a move towards him, as if to challenge his right to move freely around the building, but Behm held him back with a glare so withering it stripped the fellow of all willpower. That was what was required today: the sheer will to confront this madness. Behm had no confidence that Peter Barbour had it in him to do so.
Murphy’s dawn invasion had knocked the stuffing out of Barbour. For that reason, Behm had not informed his boss about his own pre-dawn raid to rescue the operational files in his safe. Behm knew now that this had been the right move. No one had expected this police takeover, but his own deepest instincts had been engaged when he read the short memo from John Elliott, the assistant director-general ‘B’ Branch, setting out the confrontation he and Barbour had had with Murphy two days ago in the attorney-general’s office. Murphy had demanded to see ‘all documents’ regarding ASIO’s association with Croat extremists. He clearly wanted to know which Croats were paid informants, the names of those used in operations, those who operated effectively as agents, the nature and length of those relationships, and so on. Such disclosure would put lives at risk. It could not be allowed. Yet Murphy had warned Elliott to think long and hard about giving him a ‘nil return’.
It seemed to Behm that there was much between the lines in Elliott’s memo. When he extracted the man from his cloistered enclave and chivvied him, Elliott had confided his belief that Murphy was drunk during the encounter. A high-functioning drunk, but drunk nonetheless. How could one trust such a man with the lives of others? Behm knew that some secrets had to remain sacrosanct from politicians. That was the nature of their business. So he had taken the sensible precaution of emptying his safe.
Before returning to St Kilda Road that morning, Jack Behm had stopped off at the City and Overseas Club. He had booked a room there and in it secured the two cricket bags full of secrets, locking them in a cupboard. He had privately confided this to his closest confederates, men who agreed with him that Barbour’s insipid weakness was a threat to the Organisation. He told them that he was prepared to effectively run the Organisation from the club for the duration of the crisis.
Behm knew that by doing this he had established a shadow leadership. Barbour, if he found out, would consider it mutiny. But it was, Behm was convinced, a necessary measure to protect the integrity of their calling. He would also confide in Father William and Father John at the Institute of Social Order, men whose wisdom and discretion he could trust. He might even have to confess his actions to James Jesus himself, although that course would not be free of risk.
The lift disgorged Jack Behm on the seventh floor and he bustled past the uniformed policeman stationed there, aware that his movements would be monitored on security cameras by the police controlling the front desk. He went straight into the director-general’s office without knocking and found Peter Barbour gazing out the window as if contemplating the drop and the ‘honourable’ option of seppuku.
Barbour’s reverence for the ways of the Japs was yet another thing Behm held against him. That was what happened when your job was to speak to the bastards behind the lines, conducting soft interrogations, where you try to create a bond. It was a different kettle of fish when you actually had to fight them.
‘Director,’ he said.
Barbour turned, blinking with surprise. ‘Jack?’
‘Murphy’s here with his party. He wants to see you now.’
‘All right,’ said Barbour, straightening his hexagonal, black-framed glasses, touching his hair.
Behm saw that the filing cabinets and safe in Barbour’s office were sealed with yellow tape.
‘I see they don’t even trust you,’ he said.
‘No,’ said Barbour. ‘Trust is something we’re going to have to work at with this government.’
‘There’s something you should know before you go down,’ said Behm.
‘What’s that?’
‘We’ve got a turncoat, a traitor in our midst.’ Behm paused for effect. ‘It’s Tom Moriarty. He’s with them. The memo that Colin Brown requested Moriarty to hand-deliver down here—he’s given it to Murphy.’
Barbour’s reaction was not what Behm expected. ‘I ordered Moriarty to get close to Murphy,’ he said. ‘We need someone on the inside. In the attorney’s inner circle.’
‘You told him to give the memo to Lionel Murphy?’
‘No.’
‘Well, Murphy knows what’s in that briefcase,’ said Behm. ‘He says it’s proof that our people have lied to him and misled him. Moriarty clearly gave him that—the proof he was looking for—or gave him access to it. He’s betrayed the Organisation.’
Barbour shook his head. ‘Tom Moriarty is one of our best operators. I prefer to think that he acted on his own initiative. What better way to establish trust with Murphy?’
‘That’s what he’s told you he was doing?’
‘He’s acting on my orders.’
‘With all due respect, that’s a crock of shit. What better cover for a traitor than to have the blessing of the director-general?’
‘Leave Moriarty to me, Jack. Shall we go down?’
From the phone box on St Kilda Road, Anna Rosen had rung the Herald’s bureau chief at home. To his credit, Paul Barton took her sudden relocation to Melbourne in his stride and she felt a small surge of gratitude. He really did trust her judgement.
Once she had explained the circumstances, he even congratulated her. ‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘had you woken me up to explain, I’d have organised a cameraman to be waiting with you at Melbourne Airport.’
‘That did cross my mind, Paul, but until Murphy and his entourage arrived at Canberra Airport I didn’t know if this was for real.’
‘I get that,’ he agreed. ‘Really, I’m just thankful to have you there. This will be huge. Commonwealth coppers all over the place, you say? That’s a police raid, there’s no getting around it. What is Murphy thinking?’
‘I still don’t know the answer to that. All my best contacts are locked away inside ASIO. As soon as we’re done, I’m going to call Arthur Geitzelt. He’s one of Murphy’s closest confederates and he’s an old mate of my dad’s. Maybe he’ll tell me something.’
‘Good idea,’ said Barton. ‘I’ll get Peter Tennant onto it as well. And … Bloody hell!’
‘What is it?’
‘I’ve just remembered: Gough’s heading in your direction to do the Melbourne Press Club lunch.’
‘What?’ cried Anna. ‘So Murphy didn’t tell the prime minister? They wouldn’t deliberately fly Whitlam into a press ambush.’
‘You wouldn’t think so. He’s in the air now. They took the small VIP, the Mystere. Bruce McKillop’s on board. I wrangled a seat for him just to get him off my back. He’s supposed to call me when they land. I’ll brief him when he does. Blimey, what a shower—Gough’ll hit the roof when he finds out about this.’
When Murphy’s party entered the foyer, Harper pulled Kerry Milte to one side, explaining in short, terse sentences what he had just learned about the fear and loathing in the lecture theatre.
‘Right. Wait on,’ said Milte. ‘Murphy needs to hear this now.’
As Milte rushed over to brief the attorney, Harper looked around the modest foyer. It was the first time he’d been in ASIO Headquarters and it hardly resembled the seat of the nation’s covert power. Before the spies acquired it, the building had housed the offices of the old Gas and Fuel Company; even now, the only indication that anything more interesting happened here was the security desk with its banks of TV monitors.
He watched as late-arriving ASIO employees were buzzed in through the secure zone behind the glass doors. They were already flustered, having run the gauntlet of the press.
One of the foyer lifts pinged open to reveal a man in a dark suit. It was the director-general of ASIO, robbed by circumstances of the mystique that normally came with his office.
Peter Barbour took a few steps and stopped some distance from Murphy and his entourage. He stood very still for a moment before adjusting the spectacles on the bridge of his long, straight nose. His hair was swept back neatly from an owlish face. He was meticulously dressed in a starched white shirt and handmade suit. His shoes gleamed.
Harper tagged him straightaway as a patrician type—Adelaide gentry. The hoi polloi may have invaded his inner sanctum, but he wasn’t about to let anyone see that it bothered him in the slightest. Looming over Barbour’s shoulder, his deputy, Jack Behm was, by contrast, the very picture of smouldering resentment.
Lionel Murphy didn’t wait. He walked briskly over to the pair of ASIO men. ‘Good morning, Director.’
‘Senator,’ said Peter Barbour without the offer of a handshake. ‘The last time we met was by appointment, as I recall.’
It was a mild provocation, but Murphy paused before answering. ‘I intend to explain to you why that was not possible on this occasion,’ he said.
‘That will be fascinating.’
‘It was necessary, Peter. There are difficult times ahead with the Bijedic visit.’
‘I do hope,’ said Barbour, ‘we’re not doomed to have an unorthodox relationship. That would be most unproductive.’
Murphy refused to go down that path. ‘Before we do anything else,’ he said, ‘I’d like to speak to your staff, to reassure them.’
‘It would certainly be wise not to keep them confined any longer. Shall we go?’
Two lifts ferried the ASIO men and Murphy’s party to the third floor, where it was possible to access the top storey of the annex built on to the front of the building. Murphy followed Peter Barbour out of the lifts and up a few stairs, entering a large anteroom.
‘We hold receptions here from time to time,’ said Barbour, as if conducting a guided tour. ‘It has a kitchen, as you can see, for that purpose. The lecture theatre is through there.’ He pointed to a pair of large doors, closed and guarded by several uniformed policemen. ‘That’s where my people are being held. We can go in. With your permission, of course.’
‘There’s no need for irony, Peter,’ said Murphy. The attorney-general strode ahead and pushed through the doorway, the ASIO director and Kerry Milte hastening in his wake. Harper signalled for his team to wait outside before himself walking past the police guards and through the heavy entrance doors.
There was a loud hubbub in the auditorium and he sensed a hysterical edge to the tension. Several women were weeping; some of the men had pale, drawn faces, while others were angry and animated.
Murphy appeared surprised and leaned over to whisper to Milte, ‘Some of them are crying. What do I say?’
‘Make them feel good,’ said Milte. ‘Give them a morale booster. Cheer them up.’
There was a surge of noise as people at the front recognised the man in the electric-blue suit. Like a single nervous system registering a shock, the realisation spread rapidly through the crowd that the enemy was among them. Shouts came from different parts of the room and some jeered, as if a pantomime villain had just leapt on stage.
Harper saw doubt in Murphy’s eyes for the first time. The senator was well used to addressing crowded rooms. In recent times, he had mostly fronted packed halls full of passionate supporters, there to catch a glimpse of the great man. But this was different; this was a room full of doubt, fear and anger. When Murphy hesitated, Peter Barbour stepped to the front and the noise began to subside.
‘Quiet now. Quiet please,’ said the director-general. ‘You’re all aware that Senator Murphy has chosen to pay us a visit today. He has asked to address you while he is here. Please give him your full attention.’ Barbour paused to scan the room, as if to snuff out any remaining dissent. Then he turned to Murphy. ‘Senator …’
Murphy walked to the front of the stage. ‘Thank you, Director. Ladies and gentlemen.’ His voice boomed in the room’s fine acoustics. ‘My name is Lionel Murphy and I am the attorney-general of Australia.’
‘We know who you are!’ someone shouted.
‘Just let us out of here!’ cried another interjector.
‘Please be patient,’ Murphy responded. ‘There is no need for any of you to be concerned. No reason at all. I am here to meet Director-General Barbour. When I’ve finished speaking to you, you’ll all be able to go back to your offices.’
More yelling was punctuated by another question, ‘Why the storm troopers?’, which prompted a howl of assent.
Murphy paused until the room was quiet again. ‘The Commonwealth Police are here at my request to secure file rooms and information relating to a threat to the life of a foreign head of government. I don’t intend to go into any more detail about that now.’
Murphy ignored scattered cries of disbelief.
‘I’ve come in here to speak to you this morning because some of you have questioned whether my visit is lawful, and because there have been misapprehensions and wild rumours about my intentions. I am not blind; I can see the anxiety on your faces. Let me lay that anxiety to rest.’
The angriest voices were stilled, waiting.
‘Many of you will know that, at its last federal conference, the Australian Labor Party had a serious debate about the future of ASIO. That’s no secret. It was a public debate, as such debates should be. Some in the party wanted us to get rid of ASIO altogether if we won government. I argued strongly against that. I told my colleagues—including those who had been subjected to intrusive surveillance because of their political beliefs—I told them that the Organisation would be subject to the lawful authority of an elected government, but that Australia still needs ASIO. All of you here are vital for protecting our national interest.’
Murphy paused and ran his eyes over the crowd for a moment before he picked up the thread again.
‘My argument won the day. Yet you should understand this: I also agreed with your critics that abuses of state power would no longer be tolerated and that reforms were necessary to ensure that. But you don’t need to burn down the house to roast a chicken. ASIO is a vital part of our government’s apparatus and, like any part of the government, must be subject to the law. Whatever you may think, the very fact that I am able to visit you here today, without notice, is proof of that.
‘Through the Office of the Attorney-General, ASIO is accountable to the government and thus to the people. Make no mistake, the Labor government has very different priorities to our predecessors. We intend to enact new laws to protect the privacy of individuals, and laws to create the openness necessary for a free society to function well. I will not exclude you from this process. On the contrary, we must work together. That is for the future. As for this morning, I thank you for your patience. Good day.’
In the brief silence that followed, Lionel Murphy turned and left the auditorium.
When Peter Barbour joined him a few moments later in the anteroom, Murphy addressed him coolly.
‘Director, it’s time for us to talk. You’ve suggested the seventh floor. I presume the meeting room is large enough for my team?’
‘It is, Senator.’
‘I would like Mr Moriarty to join us too.’
‘Of course.’
‘Along with his briefcase.’
Seated at the conference table, Harry Harper had the sense of two opposing football teams facing each other across a veneered mahogany pitch. A line of ashtrays marked halfway. Murphy and Milte were on his right; his own police team was arrayed to the left of him, all of them waiting for the kick-off. Jugs of water and glasses were set up for half-time.
The attorney-general glanced at his watch every few moments, staring across the desk at the empty chair with an intercom sitting in front of it. That place was reserved for the director-general of ASIO. They were assured that Peter Barbour would be there soon. He had a matter to attend to first.
While they were waiting, Wally Price lit up a smoke. Jack Behm followed suit, as did Tom Moriarty. Then Sharp got Moriarty’s attention, touching two fingers to his mouth, and the spy slid his pack over the table, at which point Harper thought, what the hell, and took one too. When the director-general entered the room, a smokescreen had been laid between lines, the very fog of war.
Peter Barbour slid into the empty chair and met Murphy’s gaze. ‘I would say welcome to ASIO, Senator, but that seems rather redundant.’
Murphy was in no mood for flippancy. ‘Mr Behm did greet us in the car park, but I don’t recall the word “welcome”.’
Harper saw Behm stab his cigarette hard into an ashtray as Murphy continued. ‘There’s no point beating around the bush. We are running out of time. Prime Minister Bijedic is due here in three days and there is a credible threat to assassinate him on Australian soil. The threat comes from Croatian extremists. As I made clear at our last meeting, Director, I want you to provide the files you have on those terrorists and, as I indicated to Mr Elliott’—Murphy nodded across the table to the ‘B’ Branch head—‘I want to see for myself exactly what relationship ASIO has had with them.’
‘We are preparing the final document for you and you will have it by 4 pm today,’ said John Elliott. ‘We have information in draft form—’
Murphy put up a hand and interrupted him. ‘We will come to that, Mr Elliott,’ he said. ‘But before we go any further, a document was brought here this morning from Canberra. Mr Moriarty has it in his briefcase. Can I have it, please?’
Tom Moriarty lifted the briefcase from under the table, took out a manila folder and passed it over to Sharp, who handed it on to Murphy. The attorney scrutinised the contents briefly before sliding the folder across the table to the director-general.
‘Director, as you see, this is a memo summarising decisions taken at an interdepartmental meeting, just over two weeks ago on 2 March,’ said Murphy. ‘At his headquarters in Canberra last night, your regional director Colin Brown assured me that the only copy of this memo was here at St Kilda Road. As we can see, he then placed copies of the non-existent memo in his briefcase and dispatched it to Melbourne in the care of Mr Moriarty. That is deception, plain and simple.’
At that moment Jack Behm leaned forward to stare at Tom Moriarty, who was busily lighting another cigarette.
‘We’ll find out who’s deceiving who soon enough,’ said Behm.
But the director cut in quickly. ‘There’s been no deception here, only confusion,’ said Barbour, holding up the manila folder. ‘Mr Brown sent this to Melbourne on my orders. You see, Senator, Brown stayed in the office when you left last night and, after a thorough search, he found the memo. Before joining you here just now, I telephoned Mr Brown to go back over exactly what happened.’
Barbour consulted the handwritten notes in front of him before continuing his narrative. ‘Mr Milte called Colin Brown at home and woke him at 5.15 am with instructions that he formally notify me of your intention to visit ASIO Headquarters this morning. When Brown called me soon after that, he told me about the memo and your interest in it, so I instructed him to send two copies of it on the first flight. One for me and one for you, Senator. It’s as simple as that.’
Murphy was silent and Harper turned to see how he’d respond. It seemed to him that ASIO had slid out from under the first charge: that of deliberate deception.
‘Very well,’ said Murphy. ‘I will leave to one side what I was told by both Mr Brown and Mr Hunt last night, and their miraculous discovery of the memo subsequently. Now I would like to see the original, which I’m informed is held in your files here.’
‘That may take some time.’
‘I direct you to find it.’
‘Very well,’ said Barbour. He pressed a button on the intercom. ‘Can you please send in Mr Fraser.’
Harper watched the confrontation with growing unease. Murphy was playing with fire. He recalled a senior spy once confiding to him that ASIO’s chiefs considered themselves to be a reserve power, ready to step in and take control of the country in certain circumstances. He suspected such men as Jack Behm might consider today’s events as falling into the category of ‘certain circumstances’.
A mousey-looking fellow came into the conference room—Mr Fraser, evidently. He was a clerical type, unused to being called into the presence of power and painfully aware of the tension in the room. It was his job to escort the attorney-general into the seventh-floor file room.
Murphy and Milte stood up.
‘Come with us, will you, Harry?’ said Murphy.
Harper told his team to wait while he followed the small group down the corridor. A policeman stood aside, allowing them to enter a large room full of sealed filing cabinets, the yellow police tape still crisscrossing the locks. Fraser led them to a large, four-drawer steel cabinet.
‘With your permission I’ll remove the tape, Senator,’ said Fraser.
‘Go ahead,’ said Murphy.
As he stripped it away, Fraser gave a running commentary.
‘This is safe No. 16. It’s a Class B container.’ He held up a large key. ‘It’s a very secure cabinet. It would take eight hours to drill through this lock, even with a diamond tip.’
The document was not in it.
Fraser consulted the file numbers again and took them to safe No. 85. As he attempted to open the cabinet, the attorney-general loomed over his shoulder. Harper became aware of Milte’s annoyance as the man fumbled with the locks and began an agitated search through the drawers.
‘Are you deliberately stalling?’ said Milte.
Then Murphy leaned over and pulled a green manila folder part way out of the top drawer.
‘I think this is it,’ he said.
Fraser pulled out the folder, scrutinised it, and handed it to Murphy, who took out the memo and signalled for Milte to look at it. ‘This is it? The original?’
‘Yup,’ said Milte. ‘It’s initialled by everyone who’s read it. Including, guess who?’
‘Jack Behm.’
Murphy turned to Fraser. ‘Right, let’s go back.’
When they reconvened in the conference room, the two teams resumed their places on either side of the table. Murphy sat down, placed the recovered memo in front of him and began a cross-examination of Peter Barbour.
‘How was ASIO represented at the interdepartmental meeting which took place in Canberra on 2 March 1973?’
‘By the assistant regional director in the ACT, Mr Ron Hunt.’
‘What instructions were given to Mr Hunt concerning this meeting and how did it come about?’
‘None at all. I understand it is a standing group which meets ad hoc. Hunt is the ASIO representative in that group.’
‘Mr Hunt’s memo was logged here on 5 March 1973. You saw me in person after that date. Why was I not told of such a meeting taking place and of any decision taken at that meeting?’
‘Well, the meeting was of a group that meets on an ad hoc basis for the purpose of coordinating intelligence reports on matters involving terrorism and political violence.’
‘That is not an answer.’
‘It is usual for each representative of such committees to consult his minister. If this is not understood, I will make it so.’
‘I will deal with the representatives from my own department. I am questioning your judgement now and I am very disturbed, Mr Barbour, that you didn’t make me aware of this memo. It states here that the attorney-general should not be at variance with the previous attorney-general. That is to say that there is no evidence of Croat terrorist activity in Australia. That was Ivor Greenwood’s position. Now I find that a document was being prepared for me that was completely different to every statement made by me on this subject. It also troubles me that it is at variance with the opinions you have stated and with what the police have reported.’
‘You mean the memo?’
‘Of course! This goes further than neglect. It is quite serious when such a decision is made behind my back. Especially when the government’s position is so well known. I should instead have been getting material which quite clearly showed the existence of terrorism.’
‘We are preparing such a document for you, as Mr Elliott said, and you will have it at 4 pm today. I have had relevant files brought in, which you can read for yourself, if you wish.’
‘Do you accept that there has been strong recent evidence concerning people with a tendency to go overseas to engage in unlawful terrorism activities? Has it ever been taken into account?’
‘There is a lot of evidence. It should have been taken into account.’
‘But it was not taken into account in this memo. The evidence was ignored and I am not interested in the opinions of the previous government, who showed tolerance. My desire is to produce the evidence of terrorism and I wish to show it to the Senate. The previous attorney-general said there was no evidence of organised terrorism, but I have seen up to a hundred documents refuting this assertion. I must not be put in a position where I receive reports that smother this proof. There is so much evidence that I am astonished by it. Has somebody put together a document saying that there is an organisation of Croats and referencing the evidence supporting it?’
‘Senator, I can only repeat, that is what we are doing and we will have that document for you later this afternoon.’
‘That only begs the question as to what ASIO has been doing about this threat until now.’
As Murphy relentlessly pursued this line of questioning the director seemed to be drawing on his meagre cricketing skills, playing a dead bat to every ball. It would be typical of the silly fool, thought Behm, to imagine himself putting in a gritty innings for the team.
Jack Behm didn’t bother with metaphors. Barbour was quite simply a coward who had quailed under Murphy’s bullying. His predecessor, Colonel Spry, would have sent Murphy packing and demanded an audience with the prime minister. Spry would have barred the doors to the Commonwealth Police in the first place. He would never have allowed it to get to this point.
Inspector Harry Harper, for his part, sank deeper and deeper into his chair, not only from exhaustion but also from embarrassment for his own disciplined force. It had become clear to him that this whole mad odyssey had misfired.
The smoking gun memo had turned out to be a fizzer, a damp cracker. The charge of deception had been thrown out. The memo was essentially the work of one relatively junior officer, rather than a direction from the top; in fact, it seemed unlikely the director himself had even seen it before today. If ASIO had been protecting Croatian terrorists or running them as agents, the evidence of that would now have been buried so deep that it would never resurface.
In pursuit of phantasms, Murphy had alienated his own security service. When details of the raid became more widely known, he would almost certainly have made enemies at the highest levels of US intelligence. And for what? The clock ticking down in Harper’s head told him he had eighty-four hours before Prime Minister Bijedic touched down in Canberra—and they were no closer to finding the would-be assassin.
Harper was going through this depressing checklist when Price passed him a note from Al Sharp. He unfolded it surreptitiously and read:
Get us out of here, boss!!