‘What? Why?’
‘Seriously? Because a member of my team had gone rogue and stolen millions of dollars. Shit was raining down on us from all quarters. I couldn’t exactly argue; I would have done the same thing if I was running the ACIC. Either I was incompetent and I fucked up or, worse, I was complicit. And the bank needed to be mollified, reassured that the authorities were acting. So I was the sacrificial lamb. Me and my team. I was moved to a non-operational position. My career was over. I took early retirement.’ There is no emotion beneath Griff’s raspy voice; this is old territory for her.
‘So in all that, do you know if the bank knew Molloy was undercover, or did they just think he was a lawyer on the make?’
‘My guess? Those who killed him knew he was a cop. Others in the place probably believed the theft-and-flee cover story. But that’s only a guess.’
Again there’s a pause in the conversation, this time filled by Jack Goffing. ‘The body was well preserved. Concrete can do that. There are signs Molloy was comprehensively tortured before he was shot.’
‘Jesus,’ says Martin. ‘So they would have extracted everything he knew.’
‘Most likely.’
Another silence as thoughts recalibrate.
Martin’s phone pings, a regular SMS, not WhatsApp. Need to meet. Come to Surry Hills ASAP. Martin shows the screen to Jack Goffing. ‘This number. Can you confirm it’s Morris Montifore?’
Goffing compares it to his own phone’s contact list. ‘Yeah, it’s him. What happened to your phone?’
‘I needed to scrub it. Long story.’ He puts the phone away. ‘What about Montifore? Can I trust him?’
‘What do you mean?’ Goffing’s voice is cautious.
‘He’s New South Wales police. Ultimately answerable to Macatelli. And he wants to see me.’
It’s Griff who answers. ‘I’ve never heard anything bad about Morris. He has a high clearance rate, no hint of unethical behaviour.’ She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. ‘But he’s also known to be politically astute.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘He doesn’t ruffle feathers. Has an aversion to challenging the status quo.’
‘So I shouldn’t deal with him?’
‘Quite the contrary,’ interjects Goffing. ‘Griff is retired. She can’t be seen anywhere near this. I’m ASIO, I don’t want to break cover. Which leaves you. You’re the one we need to deal with Montifore.’
‘I see,’ says Martin, ‘I thought you were concerned about my safety.’
‘Yours, and that of the realm,’ says Goffing, a half-amused smile playing on his lips. ‘So are you in? You want to be part of the team?’
Martin shrugs. ‘I guess I am.’
‘There is one more thing,’ says Goffing.
‘What’s that?’
‘Harry Sweetwater is listed as an AFP informant. He’s protected.’
‘What? By whom? Who’s he informing to?’
‘I don’t know yet. The AFP doesn’t hand out information about their informants.’
Martin thinks it over: even knowing Sweetwater is an Australian Federal Police source is testament to just how well connected Goffing is.
‘The FBI doesn’t even know the AFP is using him,’ adds Goffing grimly. ‘So no telling anyone. And don’t even think of publishing it.’
‘Surely you’re going to detain him? A senior mafia figure, operating under an alias.’
‘Well, that’s kind of academic. He’s vanished. We can’t find him.’
‘He’s been tipped off?’
‘It’s possible.’
Only later, after Goffing has dropped him a block from the police station, does Martin reflect on the absurdity of the car park conversation: talking to a former cop whose name is not really Griff, about an undercover operative whose name was not really Tarquin Molloy, investigating a mafia captain whose name is not really Harry Sweetwater.
chapter thirty-two
‘Hell,’ says Yev.
‘What is it?’ asks Mandy.
‘Look.’ Yev points at one of his screens, at an icon. ‘This folder. A few minutes ago, it was chock-a-block with files. Now it’s empty.’
‘Whose folder? Max’s?’
‘Yes. Password-protected files. Encrypted. I’ve been trying to get into them. And now …’ Yev hits some more keys, and lets out a long, deflating sigh. ‘And now nothing. Now the folder itself has disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’
‘Deleted. Gone.’
‘Someone is in there, cleaning it all out?’
‘Yes.’
‘But how would they know where to look?’
‘Your phones. Did you and Martin discuss this?’
Mandy thinks back to their conversations, last night and this morning. And he must have talked to Eileen Fuller and Wellington Smith. ‘Yes,’ she says, voice small.
‘Too late, then. Look.’ Yev refreshes the screen again and the remainder of the files are gone. ‘Finished.’
‘Who could do that? Clear out the files like that?’ asks Mandy.
Yev shrugs. ‘The owner of the files. An administrator at the company. Someone who has the passwords. Any half-decent hacker.’
‘We’re screwed, then,’ says Mandy.
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ Yev gives up his crooked-toothed smile. ‘The first thing I did was download the folders, so I can work on them later. Offline.’
‘Brilliant,’ she says, face bursting into a huge smile. ‘That is so clever. Thank you.’
‘Yes. Brilliant. But it will take me some time to open them. It depends on how well protected they are.’ He frowns, looking at the screen. ‘It may take days. Or weeks. Maybe you want to come back? I can WhatsApp you.’
‘Sure. But there is one other thing first. A different company. A bank.’
‘Ha, as if,’ says Yev, his tone disparaging. ‘I can’t hack a bank. It’s not possible. Organised crime, terrorists, governments, they’re all trying, big sophisticated teams. I can’t compete with that.’
‘Not bank accounts. Not the financial systems, not where the money is. Just admin systems, emails, personnel, that sort of thing.’
Yev shrugs. ‘Maybe that’s possible. But unlikely. Banks are very sensitive: any successful hack would inflict reputational damage.’
‘Can we try? I have passwords.’
‘Passwords? Okay, then. Let’s give it a whirl.’
Mandy guides him to the login page, the web address unchanged since her days working at Mollisons. The site itself is updated with new graphics, but if anything the new layout is simpler and easier to navigate than the one she remembers. She gives Yev her old username and password, just in case they might still grant them access.
‘No,’ says
