Faces in the Rain (21 page)

‘Never seen you in here before.'

Farrar's eyes had dissolved into slits in dark caves as he scrutinised him from his unwashed hair to his leather scuffs. It was Farrar's pre-explosive look. An Iranian cook behind the counter offered us some kebab and our Libyan escorts appeared at the entrance to the cafe.

‘I found God here,' the long-haired man said.

‘God in East Coburg?' Farrar said, winking at me. ‘Sounds like a book title.'

The long-hair looked blank while the fat Iranian nutter giggled.

A half hour slipped by and I had second thoughts about Farrar's insistence on meeting with Fazmi. The long trip from France had tired me and I felt the extra pressure of venturing out again in public. Farrar had heard that the police and ASIO were about to pull the Libyan in for questioning, and his judgement was that we should get in first, in case Fazmi was deported.

Even though I was wearing smart framed spectacles, a hat and beige gaberdine overcoat left for me by Oliver, I felt vulnerable. It needed just one person to recognise me, and I would be apprehended. There had been
numerous media stories about me in the time I had been on the run. My face would be engraved in most people's minds.

The chanting in the prayer room stopped and Fazmi appeared at the door wearing a white robe and under it the same safari suit he had worn to Martine's funeral. He was tall, lean and fit. He had a curly hair, a beak nose and small dark eyes set too close to his nose to be handsome. His face was pock-marked. He shook hands with me and Farrar, replaced his darkglasses and sat on a stool between us while his guards bustled the long-hair and the nutter out the front door. Fazmi began munching a kebab. ‘Who do you think killed Martine?' Farrar said.

‘It wasn't Mr Hamilton,' Fazmi said with a grin that came and went with the same rapidity, ‘and it wasn't me.' His English was good and reflected his British military training, which had included four years at an army base in Salisbury.

‘Who then?' Farrar said.

‘Perhaps you should speak with French Intelligence.'

‘That's not easy.'

‘No? Australian Intelligence found it easy enough.'

‘What do you mean?' I said.

‘Australian Intelligence and French Intelligence have always had a cosy arrangement, and it pertains particularly to my presence here,' Fazmi said, his grin dissolving into a sneer, ‘but ASIO and ASIS got a shock when they found that the agents they were dealing with had, shall we say, “misrepresented” themselves?'

I glanced at Farrar for edification. He took a breath.

‘Cochard and Maniguet were feeding ASIO data about the Libyans,' he said, sounding uncomfortable, ‘but ASIO decided to check on them. Colonel Fazmi is right.
They had once been French agents, but had left its security operations several years ago.'

‘What about Benns and the Homicide Squad?' I said.

‘ASIO unwittingly misled Benns and O'Dare into thinking that they should co-operate with Cochard in the search for Martine's killer,' Farrar said.

‘And now?'

‘Benns wants to interrogate Cochard again and Danielle Mernet, if they ever reappear in this country.'

‘Mernet too?'

‘She is a French agent,' Fazmi said with certitude.

‘How do you know?' I asked.

‘I came across her in Chad before the trouble,' Fazmi said. ‘There she was known as Joelle Riffaud.'

I didn't know whether to believe him or not. Fazmi sensed my scepticism.

‘Have you noticed her walk?' he said.

‘She seems to have a dislocated hip.'

‘I wouldn't be sure about that,' he said, ‘but I can tell you that she was injured in a helicopter accident in Chad in 1978 while operating as a commando for DGSE – Direction Générale de Sécurité Extériere – my country's worst enemy!'

I felt a now-familiar spear of terror.

‘You're saying she's still a Commando?' I said.

‘In the 1970s and 1980s she was a trained infiltrator who saw action in Chad, the Middle East and the Pacific, where since 1970 the French have run about a hundred operations not unlike the
Rainbow Warrior
mission.' He paused to sip some tea. ‘Mernet has made the Pacific her favourite playground. More recently – I believe – she has acted as an assassin.'

‘You believe?' Farrar said. ‘Who told you?'

A cunning expression crept over the Libyan's face.

‘I have my sources,' he said, ‘for which I must pay.'

‘The Mossad?' Farrar said.

‘Very good,' Fazmi said, with the arch of an eyebrow.

We were distracted by the Libyan guard at the door. One whispered in Fazmi's ear.

‘Police patrolling the street,' Fazmi said to us. He gabbled orders at his guards, and they scurried out of the mosque.

‘Does Cochard work for French Security too?' I asked Fazmi.

‘He is ex-DGSE,' he replied, ‘but I suspect that when it pleases the French government he is not quite ex. You see, he is part of a maverick element in French Intelligence. The type used to blow up the
Rainbow Warrior
, murder a few troublesome Kanaks, and sell Exocet missiles to Argentina in the Falklands war. The group he comes from is also reckless. Its members make mistakes.'

‘They're on a payroll?' I asked.

‘No. They have front jobs,' Fazmi said, glancing at the door. ‘They may be asked to do a little spying on “enemies of France”, such as me, or Greenpeace in the Pacific. Or they work freelance.'

‘Freelance?' I said.

‘Yes,' Fazmi said, as the cook offered him another skewer of kebab, ‘perhaps these assassins are doing some dirty work in the Pacific for people not connected with the French government or military.'

‘Colonel,' Farrar interrupted, ‘we want to know if you employed Martine to . . .'

‘Spy on the French?'

Farrar nodded.

‘On the contrary,' Fazmi said, taking off his glasses to make his point, ‘the French were using her to spy on me.'

Farrar was bewildered.

‘That suggests you had a motive for killing Martine Villon,' he said.

‘No. There is such a thing as disinformation.'

‘You fed her disinformation?'

‘When it suited us, yes.'

‘So you don't think French Intelligence murdered her?' I said.

‘I don't know,' Fazmi said with a shrug, ‘I can't see any reason they would.'

A Libyan came through the front door and reported that police were outside.

‘I must go,' Fazmi said as he headed for the door.

‘You go that way,' Farrar said to me, looking at his watch, ‘I'll bring the car round in three minutes.'

I pulled aside the sheets of corrugated iron and slipped down a side alley. Uppermost in my mind was the trigger-happy nature of some police. It was dark and I didn't like the idea of running into one of them.

Farrar's car came round the corner and stopped. I waited. He flashed his lights and I marched to the car and got in. Farrar drove off fast.

‘Want to catch Fazmi,' he said turning into Nicholson Street and heading towards the city, ‘I think the cops are up to something.'

He fiddled with a radio selector until he came to a police frequency. A voice said, ‘The Libyans have to come down Beaconsfield Parade. All is in readiness. Over.' There was static and the voice came on again. ‘All cars in exercise Drunk. Proceed to Beaconsfield Parade and Pickles Street. Over.'

‘Exercise Drunk?' Farrar said with a nervous chuckle. ‘What are they up to? Should we check it out?'

‘Be careful. I should steer clear of police.'

The car radio crackled again.

‘Set to go on Beaconsfield, over,' the voice said.

We reached Kings Way, and headed straight for the beach at Port Melbourne. Just before Beaconsfield Parade, which ran along the beach front, we caught Fazmi's convoy. It turned left into the Parade. We followed some one hundred and fifty metres behind. Farrar pointed ahead.

‘There's Operation Drunk,' he said. ‘A booze bus!'

The police radio said, ‘Limo coming up fast. All alert. Commence exercise. Repeat, commence exercise.'

‘Shit!' Farrar hissed. ‘We can't turn off. We're going to get breathalysed!'

There was a police check ahead. All drivers in the one-way traffic were being stopped by police standing on a thin island in the middle of the road. Drivers were being forced to pull over for a blood-alcohol-level breath check.

We slowed to a crawl as a line of cars veered left. Police were everywhere. Some moved forward to speak with drivers and direct them to other police holding breathalysers. Drivers over the alcoholic limit were being directed to a bus for booking.

‘I'm getting out,' I said, reaching for the door handle. Farrar threw his left arm across my chest.

‘Don't be crazy,' he said, restraining me, ‘they're not after you!'

The radio announcer's voice was tensed for the first time.

‘Drunk ready,' he said.

Fazmi's limousine was approached by a big cop holding a breathalyser. We were about ten cars behind the limousine and with a clear view of proceedings. The radio was quiet. Then the voice of the big cop could be heard on the frequency.

‘Stop there, driver,' he said.

The limousine kept rolling. The big cop put his hand on the bonnet. The limousine's brakelights went on. The driver's automatic window lowered and the Libyan poked his head out.

‘We haven't been drinking,' he said. The cop handed him a breathalyser. The limousine driver looked over his shoulder for guidance from Fazmi in the rear, took the instrument and put it to his mouth. Fazmi's voice could be heard on the radio.

‘We are Moslem,' he said, ‘we never drink alcohol.'

‘That's what they all say,' the big cop said, still cool. He examined the breathalyser and handed it back to the Libyan driver.

‘This time try blowing,' the big cop said, ‘not sucking.'

The limousine was isolated from other cars in the line.

The big cop examined the driver's second effort.

‘That's better, sir,' the big cop said. ‘Could you get out of the car? All of you. Out please.'

The driver turned to Fazmi. He wasn't budging.

A car careered along the road and spun to a halt in front of the limousine as the booze bus disgorged police like a dealer fanning a deck of cards. A volley of shots followed and the tyres on the two Mercedes hissed flat. Smoke danced eerily in the car headlights as the Libyans began climbing out of the two Mercedes.

Four plainclothes police with rifles surrounded the limousine and in a second had put holes in its four tyres. Moments later, Benns and O'Dare got out of a car across the road and took charge as Fazmi and the three other Libyans still hadn't moved. Benns stood near another vehicle and cupped a free hand to his mouth.

‘All-of-you,' he yelled in a precise staccato, ‘out-of-the-vehicle! Hands-in-the-air. Now!'

As he bellowed, police surrounded the limousine and aimed their weapons. Moments later, Fazmi and the others alighted. They were searched and pushed to the side of the road.

The limousine trunk was opened and a sub-machine gun and rifles were removed. The eight Libyans were ordered into the booze bus just as a policewoman approached our car.

Farrar tried to back out of the line of vehicles.

‘Take it easy!' I said.

The policewoman arrived at the driver's door. Farrar lowered the window.

‘You in a bit of hurry, sir?' she said peering in and glancing at me.

‘Didn't want to stay round after the shootin',' he said with a rough grin. Police were directing the banked-up line of traffic away. The policewoman handed him a breathalyser.

‘You're lettin' everyone else go,' he protested.

‘That's right,' she said, ‘but you were in a big rush to leave.'

I wanted a hole in the ground to swallow me up, but had to act casual.

‘It's OK, Tony,' I said, ‘you haven't been drinking.'

‘Not for four hours,' he said, blowing hard.

The policewoman examined his effort.

‘You're right on the limit,' she said with a frown, ‘are you going straight home?'

‘Yes,' Farrar said. She caught my eye a few times more. I kept meeting her gaze with the most pleasant expression I could muster short of a nervous twitch.

‘Make sure you are,' she said, and waved us on to the road.

M
Y BROKER'S HIDEAWAY
was a converted apartment on top of the Society restaurant at the Spring Street or Parliament end of Bourke Street in the city. It could only be reached by a back staircase from a narrow alley. Oliver had used the apartment, or ‘Bunker' as he called it, when he wanted to work without interruption, or conduct one of for his after-hours dalliances. It had an office with all the usual machine accoutrements, such as Fax, computer, telex and a stock-exchange monitor. Oliver had stacked the fridge with food and drink and this would allow me to stay out of sight most of the time.

There was a bedroom and a long living room done in a modern, Japanese style with a low granite marble table and tall glass shelves. The paintings included two ‘desert-scape' originals by Clifton Pugh. There was a dinner table to seat twelve, and a beige semi-circular sofa that stretched about ten metres. The windows gave
a fine view of Bourke Street running up to the steps of the State Parliament, as grand as anything nineteenth-century Vienna could offer. I had always loved its imperial solidity, but now it had taken on a more ominous meaning as I watched the changing of its police guard.

It was the morning of my first day back and I wondered how long it would be before they were alerted to my return.

The chances of finding Martine's killer had increased, but not enough to be able to clear me. Freddie was almost certainly dead. Maniguet definitely was. Claude Michel was number one suspect, in my view, but I didn't have enough evidence to make a case against him, or even discover his new identity. Cochard and Danielle were probably still in Paris and I had no way of determining whether they'd been involved – even though I knew Cochard wouldn't flinch at murder.