‘Tall. Short hair. Bony head.’
Dave whistled. ‘So you’re not at home, then?’
‘No.’
‘Stay away. I’ll see what I can arrange.’
‘I’ve got something else. A long shot, exceedingly long. Somewhere he might be. In Tasmania.’
Pause. ‘You’ve been busy. Listen, drive to Tullamarine now. Park in the short-term parking area. Go to the international terminal. Find somewhere you can watch the Qantas check-in and keep a lookout for me. I’ll run these names, be there inside an hour. And Jack…’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t contact anyone, don’t tell anyone anything. Got me?’
I drove around the streets of Northcote for a while, then I took the direct route. Along Brunswick Road to the Tullamarine Freeway. At the airport, I got the old raincoat out of the boot. Dry-mouthed, empty feeling in the stomach, I headed for International.
The wait was brief. I saw him from a long way away and he jerked his head towards the exit.
On the way to his car, Dave said, ‘Good name that, Christopher Armstrong. Person of that name flew to Hobart on the day the hire car was dropped at the Hyatt. What’s the place you’ve got?’
I told him about Gary and his connection with Painter’s chook farm. He unlocked the car as we approached, got in, unlocked the passenger door. When I was seated, he got out again, walked to the front of the vehicle. I could see him take out his mobile, dial with his right thumb, speak, listen, speak, put the phone away.
‘Go tonight,’ he said, easing his big body onto the seat. ‘Fly from Essendon, just down the road.’
There didn’t seem to be any reason to object.
40
Two passengers in an eight-seater aircraft. Dave sat across the aisle, dark suit, hands in his lap, eyes closed, closed since before take-off. Outside, flashing lights on the wingtips.
Flying across Bass Strait at night in a twin-engined aircraft, crew of two. A small car had picked us up at the Essendon terminal, driven us across the tarmac to a far reach.
No baseball caps worn backwards here. Short-haired men in blue shirts, ties, unhurried, looking at glowing instruments, seldom at each other, sitting back in their seats. Men at work.
‘Tell me about Black Tide,’ I said.
Dave opened his eyes, found his packet of Camels, lit up with the old Ronson.
Silence for a while.
‘Money laundering,’ he said. ‘Looking for the laundrymen. Victorian Police operation, fraud people, not drugs. Six Vics and six of us from Canberra. Small, very tight. We reckoned it was leakproof. That was the mistake.’
One of the men up front was talking quietly into his throat mike. An atmosphere of peace and calm, of competence and confidence.
‘Started with these South Africans,’ Dave said. ‘Two of them. Business migrants. Know what that is?’
‘They have to bring in a certain amount of money.’
‘Invest it, create jobs, that was the idea,’ he said. ‘These blokes, they’re cousins, they’ve got the money all right. But the money doesn’t come from South Africa. It comes from Hong Kong. The cousins go into the travel business. Not how they made their money in the old country, they’re making a fresh start. Buy a little travel agency in Carlton. Then one in Camberwell. It goes on. All over Melbourne. But also Sydney, Brisbane, Perth. Darwin. All over. About thirty of them. They borrow money from Hong Kong to finance the deals.’
He looked at me, drew, blew a thin stream of smoke upwards. ‘Now the first interesting part is this. These are all small businesses, two three people. After they get bought, it’s just weeks before the old staff’s gone. New people. People without experience in the travel business. And the cousins don’t link these businesses, form a chain, use the clout of a chain with the airlines. No. They stay small independent businesses.’
Hissing through the night, pleasantly warm in the cabin.
‘Well,’ said Dave, ‘they turn into pretty good businesses. Turnover goes up nicely, not spectacular but up. And everything gets declared for tax.’
‘Good business migrants,’ I said. ‘Success story.’
‘Excellent migrants. Excellent managers. The cousins do a lot of managing. And they create jobs. For the relatives mainly. We work out after two years, there’s nearly twenty relatives in the businesses. Fly around. The family’s in every agency at least twice a week. In Melbourne, once a day. Hands-on management. This success story only comes to the attention of anyone when a young woman comes in to the cops in Melbourne with a strange story. She works for one of the cousins’ agencies, ends up talking to the frauds. She doesn’t know much but it smells strongly. Then there’s a problem. She vanishes. Gone.’
Dave put out his cigarette. ‘That was a mistake for the cousins. They could have bluffed their way out of her story. But gone, that’s different.’
Silence. ‘That’s how Black Tide got started. It’s slow work but the picture comes out after a while. It’s not only the businesses doing well. They are and they’re paying the interest on the loans to Hong Kong. Big interest. The customers are also doing well. When we run the sums, we find the average amount in travellers’ cheques bought by the cousins’ customers is about twice what you’d expect on the national figures. And something else. We find lots of the customers put cash in their credit card accounts before they go overseas. For months before they go travelling, they regularly stick small amounts into their credit cards, always in cash, turn them into debit cards.’
I was beginning to see light. Gary’s friend Jellicoe of WorldWind Travel, efficiently bludgeoned to death in his sitting room. Novikov, the travel agent shot dead in his suburban garage.
‘And these customers,’ said Dave, ‘they’re not high-income people. Some of them come off the dole or the pension just a month or two before they open a bank account with a modest sum, put more in regularly, apply for a credit card. Modest credit limit. And because they’re not on benefits and they’re not avoiding tax, the sweep doesn’t pick them up.’
‘The sweep.’
‘Social Security runs a sweep through all the government databases every six weeks or so. Matches the data. About ten million matches tried every time. See what comes up.’
‘That’s legal is it?’
Dave shrugged, lit another cigarette. ‘There’s worse goes on, much fucking worse,’ he said. ‘Back to Black Tide, what we found, these customers all pass through Hong Kong or Manila or Bangkok, usually on the way home, and they cash most of their travellers’ cheques there, take out most of the money in their credit card accounts. Then it’s gone. Average expenditure’s around ten grand. Lots of repeat business for the cousins’ agencies too. This one waitress, she goes six times in two years.’
‘Out of the tips,’ I said.
Dave nodded. ‘That’s the domestic side of the business. The foreign side is even better. Say you’re a young Italian, German, whatever, you’re coming to Australia. Backpacker. You’re a German, you go to the travel agency your friend knows about, you give them, say, 5000 Deutschmarks. They give you an Untergrundbahn ticket, torn in half, something like that.’
‘Public transport’s not cheap in Germany,’ I said. I knew what he was talking about.
He acknowledged the joke with a lip movement. ‘You get to Sydney, Melbourne, somewhere they tell you to go, you meet someone, give him your half ticket, he matches it with his half ticket, gives you an envelope full of dollars, cash, thirty per cent over the exchange rate. Maybe more. Cheapest holiday you’ll ever have. Who needs travellers’ cheques?’
‘The money, what’s involved?’
Shrug of the big shoulders. ‘Impossible to say. Many, many millions, they’re moving a fair bit. Not as much as they’d like but this is just part of washing the street cash, other cash.’
Adrift in fatigue, mind wandering. ‘Gary,’ I said. ‘How does this involve Gary?’
‘Gary’s a frequent flier, he came to the drug people’s attention long ago. But he declared a lot of income, paid
