Comfort Zone (25 page)

He laughed at how stupid it all was. In his eyes, Farhia was stunningly beautiful. Emily was pretty and vivacious. They were both intelligent, and seemed to be caring, decent people. In what kind of world were women like this destined to be single? And, more to the point, why on earth would they be interested in someone like him? None of it made any sense.

14

Abduction

Jack was in a philosophical mood as he trawled for fares the next morning. For once, it was a nice day — lots of sunshine, not much wind, and the smell of jasmine in the air. He'd stopped worrying about the confusion engulfing him. He was fatalistic by nature, and he couldn't sustain focus on life-shaping issues for very long. So what if he ended up in jail for acting as a drug courier?

After an initial burst, fares were scarce. He stood leaning against the cab at the William Street rank, drawing heavily on his third cigarette for the morning. Determined office workers streamed all around him, clutching takeaway coffees, briefcases, handbags, and umbrellas. They reminded Jack of the tiny fish he used to chase in the shallows at the beach when he was a kid.

His mobile rang. His paranoia about
ASIO
had subsided, but he still did a double-take before answering.

‘Jack? It is Farhia. I am sorry. He is after you. You must go away.' Her words spilled out in staccato bursts, punctuated by short, shallow breaths. She was very agitated.

‘What? Who is?' The now-familiar surge of adrenalin hit Jack like a drug rush.

‘He hit you at the welfare centre. I am sorry … I had to tell him about your photos.' She stifled a sob, took another hurried breath, and continued. ‘He wants the book … he hit me. Now he is looking at you … I am sorry … I have hidden it, but he is coming back to get it …'

‘He's not with you now?'

‘No, he is gone.'

‘Where are you?'

‘The welfare centre.'

‘I'll be there in ten minutes.'

‘Jack, you must not …'

‘I have to. I caused all this, so I've got to fix it.'

‘He is dangerous to you …'

‘I don't care. Stay there, I'll be there in ten.'

Jack hardly recognised himself. The decisive tough-guy routine wasn't even an act. He wasn't trying to impress Farhia: he'd just had enough. The entire world was going crazy around him, and something inside him had snapped. He was sick of being attacked, threatened, and bullied. It was time to fight back. He didn't want to be the bloke who everyone stood over and took for granted any more. The new-found authority in his voice wasn't feigned.

He scrambled back into the cab and started the engine. The deep-throated hum of the Falcon gave him some reassurance.

‘Come on, come on!' He cursed the traffic lights at Victoria Street. At the first glimpse of green, the Falcon shot up Rathdowne Street, exceeding the fifty-kilometres-per-hour limit almost before he had crossed the intersection. Rathdowne Street was less congested than Lygon Street at that time of day.

It didn't take him much longer than the promised ten minutes to get to the flats. He parked illegally on Lygon Street and jogged down the ramp that led from the street to the ground level of the public housing estate, ignoring the shooting pains in his thighs. As he approached the welfare centre, he heard a crying-wailing noise piercing the calm spring air. His heart missed a beat.

He burst through the doorway, ignoring the clatter as the door slammed shut behind him. Farhia was sitting on one of the broken office chairs, slumped forward, sobbing. Aicha was leaning over her, her arm around her shoulders, comforting her.

Farhia looked up at him, her face radiating pain and anger. ‘They have taken him!'

‘Who? Who has?'

‘Yusuf! My little boy! Abdirahman has taken him. He demands the book.'

With some prompting from Aicha, Jack was able to extract the details of events over the past fifteen minutes from her. There was a slight bruise on the right side of her face, and her bottom lip looked swollen.

The man Jack recalled as Rooney — apparently named Abdirahman — had accosted Farhia outside the welfare centre and threatened her. She had told him of Jack's photos of the book. She then returned to the centre and rang Aicha and Jack, and then left with Yusuf. Abdirahman had been waiting for her behind the end of the tower block. He hit Farhia, grabbed Yusuf and hustled him into a car, and drove off. She had no chance of pursuing him: by the time she had recovered from the assault, Yusuf was already in the car. Aicha had arrived at the centre only a few minutes later.

Jack's brain was running in overdrive. Abdirahman wanted the book, and he wanted Jack's phone. He didn't know that
ASIO
also had a copy. They might have to hand over the book and his phone to get Yusuf back.

Now Jack was really out of his depth. It was hard enough dealing with unprovoked assaults. Dealing with the abduction of small children was well beyond his capabilities. It was probably time to get the cops involved.

When he suggested this to Farhia, she was adamant. ‘No police, no police! He will kill Yusuf!'

Aicha nodded. While Jack harboured a longstanding cynicism about the police, he was just beginning to understand how deep the distrust of law-enforcement agencies was in communities like the Somali's.

‘So where can we find this Abdirahman guy?'

Aicha looked up at him. ‘There is café down that street, Toledo … something. I do not know. They go there.'

‘Where? Which street?' There was real urgency in Jack's voice now, as he struggled to take charge of the situation.

Farhia was calming a little, and tried to explain. ‘In Johnston Street, after we cross Nicholson Street.'

A brief silence ensued, and then she spoke again. ‘Be careful, Jack. You must not let him hurt Yusuf. He is a bad man.'

‘I know some bad men, too. But you've got to tell me what this is all about. Why does he want your book?'

Farhia looked at Aicha, and Jack noticed a tiny glimmer of surrender flit across her face. Farhia took a deep breath, smoothed her crumpled robe, and sat up. She had stopped crying.

‘Sit here and I will tell you.'

Jack dragged a large wooden box over from the far wall and sat down on it.

‘So this is about terrorists, is it?' It was easy to imagine Abdirahman as a terrorist.

‘No.' Farhia smiled weakly through a tear-stained, but still beautiful, milky-brown face.

‘It is pirates. You know about Somali pirates.'

Jack nodded. He was listening intently.

‘My brother was with the pirates. We are from good family in Bossaso, but he went with pirates. He is educated, a leader, they offer him money. He had a fight with other leader, men were killed, he ran away. They chase him because he knows many things. He was the organiser, for the money. He got money from Saudi, he bought guns, he made bribes.'

Jack stared at her wide-eyed, completely transfixed. It was like something on TV, not quite real.

‘He wrote down information in the book, gave it to me when I was in Somalia. It is his protection. They know if he is killed, his family will use the book. The world is against pirates, they will use the book to destroy them. My brother is hiding, somewhere near Mogadishu. I take the book with me everywhere. The pirates work out that I have it, they hurt my father, he tell them it is in Australia. So now they chase me. At first they think my father lied. Now they know I have the book.

‘The pirates have friends in Australia — bad men, Abdirahman and some others. They know he is in our family. Perhaps the Saudis pay them. People think pirates are just fishermen, but it is a business. Rich people make investment, buy guns and boats, pay for the pirates. Saudis, Somalis, Yemenis, maybe even Ethiopians. My brother did not go on the boats, he was like manager. So he knows many things about the pirates. And there is big man in the book. Abdullah bin-Taif, I think he is called, he is working for Saudi prince, in charge of his businesses. If people find this, there are very big problems.'

Jack didn't know much about the politics of the Middle East, but he knew enough to understand that any evidence of a link between Somali pirates and the Saudi royal family would be explosive.

‘The kids who attacked Yusuf and Omar, they part of it?'

‘I think so. To frighten me. To make me know they will hurt them. The man with the knife, he tells them what to do. They were not sure I have the book. When they hurt Yusuf and Omar, you mess it up.' She smiled ruefully at him. ‘Police come, so they stay away for days. Then they come back. I am sorry, Jack, this is not your problem.'

Jack's mind was in turmoil. His mouth was open, he was shifting around on his seat, and absent-mindedly fiddling with his left index finger. At last some of the extraordinary recent events were becoming comprehensible. But now what?

‘It is my problem,' he said quietly. ‘I will get Yusuf back for you, but you'll have to give me the book.'

The pained look on Farhia's face told him all he needed to know. ‘I cannot. I cannot betray my brother. What about your phone? He knows there are photos also.'

Jack nodded. He didn't want to give up his phone if he could help it, but if he had to, he would. He would need to use guile, intimidation, and bluff to have any chance of getting Yusuf back, and preserving his phone would be a bonus.

Intimidation? Who was he kidding? He was the one being intimidated.

He stood up with an air of purpose that masked his inner fears.

‘I have a friend who can help. We'll get Yusuf back, don't worry. You need to get Omar somewhere safe, where they can't find him — maybe Emily's new flat. Still got my mobile number?'

Farhia nodded. She didn't challenge Jack's assertion of authority.

He extracted his phone from his pocket and called Emily.

‘Emily? Hi, it's Jack. Listen, got a bit of an emergency happening here. Farhia's in strife — the same bloke. We're down at the welfare centre, with Aicha. Can you take them to your new place, look after them for a bit?'

Emily said she would be there in a few minutes, but baulked at the idea of returning to her flat.

‘Doesn't matter your place is a mess. It's an emergency. Yusuf's been snatched by that guy who thumped her. I'm going to go after him, but you've got to look after her.'

Jack turned his phone off and spoke quickly to Farhia. ‘She'll be here in a minute. Don't worry, I'll be back soon.' He took Farhia's hand in his and looked straight into her terrified eyes.

‘I'll get him back.'

He walked out of the centre, thinking through the limited options available to him. They all ended up pointing to one man: Scabber McPhee. He would know what to do. He was an old-style crim, the kind who didn't like people picking on kids. One of Scabber's more notable exploits in prison had been beating up a paedophile so severely that he had almost died.

Jack thought about poor Yusuf. No doubt he was terrified. Already suffering a broken arm, he would not be handled gently by the vicious Abdirahman. Any kid in this situation would be praying for his mother to rescue him.

Thinking about kids triggered the abrupt realisation that he was due at basketball training soon. Jack cursed under his breath. He didn't like people to think he was unreliable. Yet this was an emergency. He would ring a few of the parents and explain later.

Jack didn't know how he was going to find Scabber, but he was confident someone would be able to track him down.

In the end, it was Scaly Jim at Matt's Blue Room who did the trick. The middle of the day on a Tuesday wasn't exactly peak hour at Matt's: there was hardly anyone around. One of the handful of patrons who greeted Jack when he arrived was Scaly Jim, a short, hunched psoriasis sufferer who was an old mate of Scabber's. Or, more strictly speaking, an accomplice.

Within less than half an hour, Scabber joined them at Matt's.

‘Don't like blacks, and I don't like people who hurt kids. This one's a freebie. Should be fun.'

Jack wasn't surprised that Scabber knew the café where Abdirahman supposedly hung out. It was only a little after midday when he stopped the cab at the Fitzroy end of Johnston Street. Jack looked at Scabber as he got out of the cab and slammed the door. He had a few years under his belt, but there was an understated menace in his precise, easy movements. Jack could see a new glint of alertness in his eyes, lighting up his battered face. Like a hunting dog in search of prey, or a footballer about to run down the race, Scabber was a different man when he was about to engage in battle.

They walked into the café, taking note of the tell-tale decor. If ever there was a place deserving of the adjective ‘dingy,' this was it. Worn lino, cheap plastic chairs, stinking kitchen, and an antique coffee machine: it had the lot.

The patrons weren't any better presented. A couple of drugged-out backpackers, probably Swedish or German, and a handful of glassy-eyed Somali men had draped themselves across the plastic chairs, chatting listlessly.