Safe House

Chapter 4

4

Foley drove while Sam perused the file on Jackson Traynor. They travelled in an unmarked police sedan, heading north along the Stuart Highway, the main highway running from south to north through the centre of the continent.

“Interesting reading?” Foley asked, after they had been on the road for just over an hour.

“Yes, very interesting.”

“Tell me more.”

“Well,” Sam began, “this Jackson Traynor character has led an adventurous life.”

“As an undercover agent for the Federal Police?”

“Even before he joined the Feds.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He was in the military. Served with the SAS Commandos in Afghanistan. It says here he was awarded the Medal for Gallantry for his actions at the battle of Shah Wali Kot, in June 2010. He was part of Second Squadron Commandos deployed by chopper around Tizark, on a kill-or-capture mission hunting the Taliban and their leaders.”

“The Medal for Gallantry,” Foley commented. “I’m guessing he might have got a couple of the bastards.”

“Remind me not to piss him off,” Sam said.

“In that case, you better let me do all the talking; you’ve got priors for pissing people off.”

“I’ll be on my best behaviour. This dude killed people for a living.”

“Just like the two Mexican pricks, and maybe a couple of Australian contractors looking to put his lights out,” Foley observed.

“That would be a contest worth watching.”

“Yeah, from afar.” Foley slowed the vehicle and flicked the left-hand indicator on.

Sam dropped the file on the dashboard and looked ahead. “Are we there already?”

“No,” Foley answered. “I need a leak, and a coffee.” He turned off the highway.

One hundred and thirty-five kilometres north of Alice Springs, behind a stand of trees in the heart of Anmatjere aboriginal country, Aileron Roadhouse was set back close to three hundred metres off the Stuart Highway. The rest-stop would be easily missed by the traveller if not for the Anmatjere Man, a giant, steel sculpture of an aboriginal hunter standing 17 metres tall and weighing 8 tonnes, erected in 2005 on a hill behind the roadhouse. A lone sentinel overlooking Aileron and the surrounding area, Anmatjere Man was joined three years later by similar sculptures of a woman and child. The Anmatjere Man had a family.

“What the hell is that?” Sam asked.

“That’s the Anmatjere Man,” Foley answered.

“The Anma…what?”

“Anmatjere Man. He was on his own for a few years; then he met the lovely Anmatjere Woman. Now they’re a happy family.”

Sam stared in amazement at the giant sculptures. “I never knew they were here,” he said finally.

“They were right there when we came up this way on the ‘bones in the well’ case. But we didn’t stop here.”

“Why here, in the middle of nowhere?” Sam wondered aloud.

“This land is Anmatjere country,” Foley explained. “The Anmatjere people are the traditional owners. The sculptures invite people to stop, take photos, and spend money in the roadhouse. It’s all about marketing.”

“Well, it’s working. I’m hungry, and we never did get to have lunch.”

Foley parked in a designated area, got out of the vehicle, and stretched. He leaned down and spoke through the open door. “I’m gonna take a leak. You wanna order me a steak sandwich and a coffee to go?”

“It’s your turn to buy lunch,” Sam reminded him.

“My turn?”

“Yes, your turn! I paid for lunch last week.”

“That’s not how I remember it. Tell them to hold the beetroot.” Foley closed the door and started walking towards the roadhouse toilet block. Behind him, Sam got out of the vehicle, muttering just loud enough to be heard.

“b****y steak sandwich…hold the fuckin’ beetroot…rip-off, roadhouse prices…I’ll have to get a second job.”

Foley smiled to himself and continued walking.

A long, sweeping, right-hand bend from the south welcomes travellers into the small township of Ti Tree, two hundred kilometres north of Alice Springs. With the population in the surrounding district hovering around one thousand, approximately two hundred people call the town home.

Originally named Tea Tree and established in 1888 as an overland telegraph reserve connecting Adelaide in South Australia with Darwin in the far north of the continent, the reason for the name change to Ti Tree had been lost in the annals of time.

At the northern end of the sweeping bend, a service road branches off the Stuart Highway to the right, directing visitors to the Ti Tree Roadhouse, a typical road-side rest-stop supplying fuel, dine-in and take-away food, a licensed bar, and restroom facilities.

Foley slowed and pulled into a vehicle parking area between the highway and the roadhouse. A hundred metres past the roadhouse, a blue and white checked sign on top of a tall pole indicated the town police station.

“Do we make ourselves known to the local lads?” Sam asked.

“Our instructions are to go directly to the safe-house, liaise with the Feds, and pick up Traynor,” Foley said.

“Hmm,” Sam murmured.

“Hmm? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sam turned in his seat and looked at Foley. “Come on, Russ. You’re a smart guy. This sounds like a straightforward escort job. Sending two senior Major Crime investigators on a candy-run like this doesn’t make any sense.”

“Protecting a key witness from two, maybe four, hit-men doesn’t sound like a ‘candy-run’ to me. Do you have a theory, or are you still cranky because you had to pay for lunch?”

“I have a theory, and lunch is still repeating on me.”

“Would you care to share your theory?”

“Maybe the Mexicans are back home, drinking Tequila and snacking on Nachos.”

“You’re could be right. But I don’t think you are. There is still the Salim Ghandour contract.” Foley indicated the file on the dash. “If this was a candy run, it would be the General Duties blokes doing the job. I don’t think this is as straightforward as you suggest it might be. If the two Mexican hit-men know Traynor is here, they may be on their way here. They may be here already. In which case, this would definitely be a job for two highly experienced, intrepid crime fighters, such as us.”

“Intrepid crime fighters?”

“Just trying to lighten the moment.” Foley smiled.

“Holy Mexican murderers, Batman!” Sam cried. “Fire up the Batmobile!” He indicated the road ahead.