 
The Blood Source

Smashwords Edition

copyright 2015, Ann Michaels

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents:

Chapter 1 -Into Night

Chapter 2 -Deadset

Chapter 3 \- Hiding Out

Chapter 4 – By Blood

Chapter 5 \- Dress-ups

Chapter 6 – Loneliness and Oceans

Chapter 7 – Cliff Hanger

Chapter 8 \- Che palle!

Chapter 9 \- Biker Man

Chapter 10 – A taxing Time

Chapter 11 – Just a Little Crush

Chapter 12 – Work and Play

Chapter 13 – Knife in the Draw

Chapter 14 – family Matters

Chapter 1.

Into Night

I felt wet and there was a crushing weight upon me. I could hardly breathe and the metallic aroma of blood filled my nostrils. I opened my eyes, but I couldn't see. Then the whole brutal scene began to flow back through my mind and I realised that the man who had forced me into his car at gun point, was pinning me down upon the rough grass. He wasn't moving.

Slowly I began to push his body off me. He weighed a ton. Then, I saw the great carpet of stars rolled out in the bottomless night sky and I became aware of the smell of damp earth, and the growl of cars on the highway. I felt like I had returned to earth, and that by degrees, my mind was filling back up with memories, and meaning.

I felt for the man's pulse. Nothing. I looked down; I was still holding the gun. A Glock pistol with an extended 30-round magazine. I looked about: it was night and I seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. I pressed my fingers onto my damp, black t-shirt, and the glittering sheen of moonlight showed me that my fingers were stained red. It was not my blood.

I then remembered traveling out along a dark road, passing the old Blacktown Drive-in movie place; the gun aimed at me the whole time. Was that ten minutes ago? Or two hours ago?

I bent over the body, and pushed the man over. Hell! He was heavy. A mass of muscle and bone: useless now, and already breaking down. I searched the front pockets of his cargo pants, as he lay half on his side, like a slab of meat. Nothing. I opened his leather jacket; I saw a white t-shirt emblazoned with a skull, flowers, and snakes; saturated with blood, and a bullet sized hole in the middle of the chest. I slipped my hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, it was lined with slick, red silk and I pulled out a leather wallet, and mobile phone.

There was a thick wad of money in the wallet; all hundred dollar bills. Must be about at least ten thousand bucks here, I thought. I pulled out a few cards: American Express, Diners Club, Mastercard. And more. I held them up to catch the moonlight and saw that some were in the name, Pasquale Scamardo, and others, Dino Fuda.

I pushed the heavy body, the back of the jacket a mess - a crater of blood. I checked the back pocket of the trousers and found keys. I scooped them up, and considered what I should do next. I took my own phone from the back pocket of my jeans, and called the Organised Crime Squad; Sargent Tiernan answered. Did that man ever go home?

'Sarg, its Agent Carras.....I've got a problem'.

'You're alive! What the hell happened? We heard someone ordering you to 'get in', on the mobile microphone, but then, it seems that a disabling device was used. We had no idea where you were until a few minutes ago, when your phone came back online. A car should be out there soon.'

'The guys dead', I said flatly. 'I jumped him before he got me, and managed to turn the gun around'. I paused, 'straight through the heart'.

'You'll need to go into protection', Sargent Tiernan said urgently. 'The Sciarra Outfit are ruthless and stop at nothing. This wasn't supposed to happen. You were just supposed to collect information, Agent Carras'.

'I know, I know', I muttered as I moved away toward the parked vehicle. I could hear the sirens wailing now, and there was no way I was going into protection. That would be the end of me, I'd likely be rubbed out by the Sciarra Outfit, and I'd never return to the job I loved.

I opened the door of the Mercedes, jammed the key in, and the engine roared to life. I floored the accelerator, and fired out of there with no lights. I took a hard left, and ripped along the dark, unlit and deserted road.

A few seconds later, the squad cars must have reached the place where my mobile phone lay on the bloodstained grass, next to the gradually stiffening body. Meanwhile, I had passed what appeared to be a giant, skeletal monster ready to pounce; although the sign proclaimed a mere water park; a place of sun and fun in daylight hours. Then I was out on the highway, heading west.

The Mercedes, in which I was bulleting down the highway, was a high-top cargo van. This vehicle, had delivered what appeared to be cans of tomatoes, to the pizza shop, where I was working under cover. Except, instead of tomatoes, these cans actually contained, ecstasy tablets. This, I had only learned about an hour ago, as I was taking a ciggy break out the back of the pizza parlour, at just past ten o clock on a Monday night. The slow time.

I had been hunched in behind the evil-smelling, old, boarded-up, outdoor dunny, when the oaf who had kidnapped me, drove in from a back alleyway, and unloaded a few boxes, into a detached, darkened garage. I then heard him on his phone, talking in a low voice, reporting that he had delivered the 'Vitamin E'.

Unfortunately for me, the oaf had smelt the cigarette smoke, and decided to investigate. He nabbed me a short time later.

Smoking was bad for me in so many ways, but this was a new one.

I thought about my workmates, Angie and Damon; they would both be wondering what happened to me, and why I didn't come back from my break. I hoped they were OK. They were little more than kids; both uni students trying to earn money to pay rent, and eat. I'd grown fond of them in the last few months, in which I had worked nights, undercover, at Joe's Pizza in Leichhardt, on Parramatta Road.

Angie was studying to be an accountant. She was petite and dark and pretty, with large, dark blue eyes. She had been working nights at the pizza place since high school. She said she had stayed working there, because, the boss only turned up to collect the nightly takings, and other than that, pretty much left the workers' alone. The other employee, Damon, was a social work student. He was shy, lacking in confidence, and just a little bit gay. But his Catholic family didn't know this, I'm sure. I reckon he was biding his time, playing it safe, until he had the resources to get out on his own. They were both good kids.

Funny, I was not that much older than them at 28, but I felt a hell of a lot more ancient. That's what this undercover detective gig does to you. I loved the job, though. It was always interesting and often exhilarating, and, I had worked my guts out to get to where I was. I felt my insides drop. Was my career over? Was I now a hunted person? Both the Sciarra Outfit, and the police, would be looking for me. I knew I was taking a big gamble here, handling things my own way. But I wasn't prepared to go into protection. The Sciarra Outfit were too strong, and they had their snaking tentacles everywhere. I knew if I did go into protection, I would be set up; found one day, dead, from a drug overdose, and soon forgotten. No. I would do things my way.

I was heading out to the bush, to an old shack out near Sofala, on the way to Hill End, where my dad had taken me when I was a kid. It was only a humpy, really, built out in the bush. Dad had only used it now and then, when he went out panning for gold. Dad was always hoping to strike it lucky.

Hill End and Sofala were damn near ghost towns now, with the days of the gold rush, riches and bustle, long since gone.

To get to this place, I had to head toward Bathurst, but turnoff to the right before I reached the town. Then, I had to drive for some time through the spill of suburbs, and just keep driving as the houses thinned out. Soon I would reach Wattle Flats, the place where my ancestors, on mum's side, used to own a gold mine. Not much happening here now, I thought, as I drove through a town whose large graveyards hinted at former glories.

I go past the turnoff to Sofala and head out on the steep, gravel road toward Hill End. About half way along that road, right in the middle of no place, with no houses and no lights, I have to swing to the right, off the road, and drive for a short time, until, I came to the shack. You couldn't see the dwelling from the road; you just had to know where to go. I hoped that I did.

I gritted my teeth, as the van climbed upward, vibrating and convulsing on its hair-raising journey on the unsealed road in utter darkness. I was feeling a bit outside myself and disoriented; like I was only attached to the world by a very thin, gossamer thread. At least I hadn't seen another car or person for the last hour, which was good. Then, whether it was instinct or memory, I wasn't sure, but I found myself, steering hard to the right, and bumping along through long grass, past clumps of trees standing about like ghosts in the moonlight. And then, there I was.

Memories came flooding back of the past, of dad trying in his own way to be some sort of father to me. Quickly, I blocked a tsunami of memories which threatened to drown me, and turned my mind away from that mad rush of emotion, and back to my present predicament.

I parked behind some trees, and rummaged around in the glove box for a torch. I found one. I also grabbed a chocolate bar, one of a small collection, and ate it hungrily. Killing a man and escaping from the law requires a lot of energy, I thought, ironically.

I was about to grab the man's mobile phone and wallet and take them into the shack to examine them, when I thought about what Sargent Tiernan had said about my mobile phone being off-line, whilst I had been traveling in this van. There must be some kind of phone disabling device fitted, I reasoned. So, if I were to take the phone outside of the van, the Sciarra Outfit would probably be able to track the phone, and me, straight away. And this phone could have spyware on it, like, TRACKER SMURF, which could easily pinpoint my geolocation.

So, I sat there in the dark, with the wind moaning softly outside and looked through the dead man's phone. I looked through his call log and copied the numbers down onto the back of an old invoice in the glove box. From what I could gather, Pasquale Scamardo didn't appear to have a girlfriend, but, his phone log showed frequent calls, to what appeared to be an Eastern Suburbs phone number, listed under his contacts as, Angel's Place, which just had to be a massage parlour. Business or pleasure? I pondered.

Pasquale Scamardo, or, Dino Fuda, or whoever he was, also appeared to be very vain. I scrolled through about 100 selfies of him, posing in his bathroom and bedroom, flexing his muscles and showing off his giant Crucifixion tattoo. In many of the photos, he was wearing miniscule Calvin Klein underpants of assorted colours, and bulging right out of them. I had to look away. I've always found overt egoism and narcissism pretty repulsive.

However, in a couple of the bedroom photos, I could see some very distinctive skinny trees outside the window, with yellow/green foliage. And behind the trees sat the iconic Sydney Harbour Bridge.

The area looked like East Balmain. I remembered staying there as a kid, with my Aunty Zeta and her dog LuLu, just after mum and dad had separated. I would have been about six years old at the time. Wow! I thought, with amazement, that was over twenty years ago.

I put the phone back into the glove box, and jumped out of the car. Switching on the torch, I began to step carefully through the tall, dry clumps of grass, which seemed to grope my legs, as they moved about in the swiftly flowing breeze, toward the disreputable looking old shack.

It's funny how much bigger things look when you are a kid. The shack, now, looked little more than a cubby house: dark, decrepit and creepy.

I was fervently hoping that I would not encounter any snakes or any other creepy crawlies in the grass, or in the shack. Once, when I was staying here as a kid, I went to the cupboard to get some bread to make a sandwich, and I had come eye to eye with a snake, which was resting in there. Dad got it out with a broom, and threw into the bush. That was a hairy experience, I can tell you! But it was dad's view that, the snake had just as much right to live, as we did.

I kicked the door open; everything was dusty, but undisturbed. I checked the cupboard and found a few tins of baked beans, and bottles of water. I grabbed an old, army blanket off the shelf and collapsed into the beat-up old rocking chair that we had picked up of the side of the road, years ago, and covered myself, hardly noticing the dust, spider webs, and objectionable smells.

It had been a very eventful night. I fell asleep.

Chapter 2.

Deadset

Agent John Johnson flashed his badge at the two policemen who had arrived at the crime scene before him.

'The suspect is deceased; with no ID or phone, found on the body. And, It also seems that an unidentified person absconded in a vehicle ', Officer Meijer stated, as Agent Johnson raised an eyebrow in his direction.

'I don't see Agent Carras about', Johnson said slowly, as he squinted into the darkness.

'We only found her phone at the scene. Not her.', Meijer replied.

There was a silence. The question was: had Agent Carras been kidnapped again by another member of the Sciarra Outfit? Or, had she done a bunk? Either way, she was in big trouble.

A couple of police vans arrived and began to set up lights and equipment, and to secure the area, so that the crime scene could be examined for evidence.

A while later Officer Reilly strode over to Agent Johnson who again raised his eyebrow quizzically.

'From the analysis of footprint impressions, we have found that two sets of footprints led away from where the vehicle had been parked: one set of size 11, combat boots, which followed close behind a smaller set of size 8 jogging shoes. These shoe impressions, then, showed evidence of a scuffle, near the deceased, who is wearing the size 11 combat boots. Only the size 8 shoe could be tracked back to where we believe the vehicle was parked.'

'So, officer, it looks like our girl has run out on us?

'Also, we cannot locate the gun used against the deceased.'

'OK Reilly, we've got DNA, hair and other samples for forensics, so I reckon we can wrap up. Also, Agent Carras rang Sarg and admitted that she shot the bloke who kidnapped her; the crime scene endorses this scenario.'

'Well, she's made matters very difficult for herself by absconding from the scene of a murder'. Sargent Tiernan drawled, as he walked up alongside Agent Johnson.

'Do you blame her Sarg? I reckon I'd do the same, if I polished off a member of this particular crime gang'.

Sargent Tiernan merely nodded. He was well aware that anyone who crossed the Sciarra Outfit, generally, ended up dead.

Chapter 3.

Hiding Out

I heard the soft music of rain, tap-dancing on the tin roof of the shack, as I slowly woke the next morning. I didn't smell very good, but, amazingly, after having been kidnapped, committing a murder, absconding from the scene of the crime, and hiding out in a bush humpy the night before, I had slept pretty well.

The chair hadn't been that comfortable, but strangely, being in this place that I used to stay with my dad, had made me feel secure and protected. Probably I was deluding myself. But it felt like dad was here with me in some way. Then, another part of my brain, that part which had studied psychology, began twittering and chirping and telling me that dad was dead; that he had gone from the Earth, and that I was probably trying to escape reality, and subconsciously give myself some comfort. Whatever.

I jumped up and looked about. I had missed this old shack, but I hadn't been here for years; not since dad died. As I looked closer about me, I thought it looked like the place also, hadn't been disturbed for years. There were plenty of spider webs, and a layer of dust covered everything. It was not exactly a five star hotel, but I had memories here: treasured memories.

I walked over to the single, jerry-built cupboard, and grabbed some water, which was thankfully in a glass bottle. Hell! I was thirsty. Then I opened a can of the baked beans, and ate them straight from the can, after rinsing a spoon with some of the water. It was not the tastiest of breakfasts, but I was thankful for it.

I grabbed one of the old towels from the same cupboard, and shook it out. There were a few nibble holes, mouse droppings, and dead spiders, but I ignored them. I stripped off all my clothes, wrapped the towel around my body, and still wearing my joggers, I raced off down through the bush toward the Turon River. Dad and I used to swim here. We also went gold panning, and sometimes, canoeing, here. At the moment, I just wanted to get clean.

As it was raining, I didn't have to worry too much about encountering any snakes, which generally come out in the hot, dry weather. Another snake incident I remember, happened when I about ten years old. I was swimming in the river on this really hot summer's day, wearing my favourite yellow bikini, when a pair of red-bellied black snakes, slithered out from under a rock, and began to fight right near where my towel and clothes lay: not a very pleasant memory, that one.

There wasn't much water in the river, and it wasn't as clean as I would have liked, but I did feel refreshed, because, there is nothing like a bit of skinny dipping in broad daylight to rev you up, and get you ready for action. I also, acutely felt the vulnerability of being alone, and on the run. And, believe it or not, I had the niggling fear of being seen in my birthday suit, by a stranger, in the cold and harsh light of day. Perhaps, I have more in common with the man that I killed than I thought: I am a wee bit vain.

I jogged back to the shack, clutching the towel, really, only for modesty's sake, as you never knew who you might encounter out here in the bush. But by the time I got there, the rain had stopped, and it looked like the sun was trying to come out. I put my jeans back on, with an old shirt of dad's, and then, I grabbed the keys of the van, so that I could examine its cargo in daylight.

I opened the heavy door of the van, and the chemical, plastic smell of the interior brought back some of the horror of the night before. I shivered slightly, and pulled open the glove box again, and took out the logbooks and registration papers. The papers were registered in the name Asper PTY LTD, with an address in the middle of the city of Sydney; probably a rented office in a skyscraper. I grabbed another chocolate, and chewed the sweet and sickly bar, as I continued my examination.

Next, I turned my attention to the back of the van. I opened one of the doors and climbed in, where I could see a mountain of boxes. I lifted several lids, and saw, what appeared to be lots of tinned tomatoes. But of course, it was more than likely that these cans contained something else entirely.

I jumped down from the back of the van, and put my hand out to push the door closed, when a flash of silver caught my eye. I jumped back inside the van to have a look and found a metal attaché case strapped to the vans inside wall. I took it out; it was not locked.

I unclipped the locks. As I opened the lid, I saw that the case was filled with stacks of money, and a stainless steel Taurus PT92 handgun. And so, again, I came to the fork in the road. I already had the roughly, ten thousand dollars from the dead man's wallet, but this case appeared to contain hundreds of thousands of dollars. However, I quickly reasoned, this money would help me survive, as I pitted my wits against the Sciarra Outfit, and, as I tried to fight my way back to my old life. But, I had to admit that, in reality, my old life and my fledgling relationship with Agent John Johnson were most likely over. There could be no going back. Ever.

I took the attaché case out of the car, and carried it into the shack, where I took down a really old and dirty, canvas knapsack, which was hanging on the back of the door, with various old coats; I shoved the money, and two guns into it. Then I grabbed the last bottle of water, and threw it on top of the money. I ran back to the van, to retrieve the rest of the chocolate bars, and left the car key in the ignition, taking the other keys. Feeling very much like a fleeing fugitive, I took one last look about me, felt a rush of sadness, and disappeared into the bush.

About an hour later, I was creeping around out the back of the old Globe Hotel in Sofala. I could see dad's old mate, Chook, from the side window, with his mouth working away nonstop. Chook was never lost for a word. He had opinions about many things, and he often felt it necessary to share these thoughts with any available audience.

Chook was serving at the bar of his hotel; pulling ice cold beers for the locals, and the tourists who blew in wanting to experience the remnants of the oldest surviving gold rush town in Australia. I needed to get his attention somehow.

Skidding around the side of the building, like a bat out of hell, came Bunyip, Chook's blue cattle dog, snarling and barking. Well this was inconvenient! As I didn't want to draw any unwanted attention to myself.

'Get down you great mong!' Chook roared, as he exploded out of the backdoor. But he stopped, as though snap frozen, as we came face to face.

'I'll be stuffed! Cleo, me luv! Come in, come in. Long-time no see'.

'Look Chook, I'm actually in a bit of trouble, at the moment, and I don't want to be seen'.

'Fair enough', answered Chook reasonably. 'Come in through the back here, and go up the stairs, and then scoot into the first room on the right. I use that as a bit of an office. I'll get Dawnie to take over the bar, and restrain this dog, and then we'll talk. Hokie doke?'

'Thanks Chook', I smiled.

'I'll be with you in a tic luv'. He nodded, and disappeared back through the door, with the bar towel hanging over his shoulder.

I whipped through the open doorway, and sped up the stairs. I had really missed this old place, with its timber shingles, and cool, covered verandas, and ghostly memories of times long ago.

The village of Sofala, these days, only consists of a few streets which huddle together. But back following the gold rush of 1851, Sofala was a bustling, vibrant town, with 40 licensed hotels, which spread 16 kilometres along the Turon River. Sofala's growth and optimism, however, was short lived, and by 1853, many miners were moving off to other gold fields. My mum's ancestors had merely moved south to nearby Wattle Flat, along Oaky Creek, and continued gold mining there for some years.

I opened the door immediately right of the staircase, and entered a small, sun-lit room, with an old timber divan, a spindly legged desk, and rickety chair. I sat on the faded, bottle-green divan, and breathed in the old, dusty smells, and listened to the groans and creak of the building; I was soon thrown back in time, to when my dad was still alive. I remembered curling up on the sheep skin rug in front of the huge, sooty-brick fire place, in the downstairs lounge room, and listening to dad and Chook, tell yarns about their youth. Dad told how he came out from Cyprus after the war in 1974, as a teenager with his parents. Chook talked of growing up in Sofala, with his brave and battling single mother. I returned to the present, and felt a deep sense of melancholy. All those times were long gone. Dad was gone.

'So tell me luv. What's the go here?' Chook asked as he stepped into the room, and closed the door.

I filled him in on the events of last night, and Chook shook his head, looking at me with soulful, brown eyes.

'You need to make sure that you don't come within cooee of those thugs, luv, or you'll come a gutser. Though I reckon those kind of mug lairs, would stand out like dog's balls around here'.

'I've got a bit of a plan, Chook. I just need to use the internet for a while.'

'Oh yeah. I've got an ancient old lap top computer that I use', he said, as he pulled the suitcase -looking, technological dinosaur out of his drawer. 'It works, though, and it suits me down to the ground'.

'Thanks Chook', I murmured. 'I'm going to use a search engine which won't track me, and then I'll erase my search history. But, even so, I would hide this thing for a while, if you can'.

'No worries luv', he replied, as he set up the laptop on the desk.

Chook shuffled off to make me a 'big fry up' for lunch, and I set down to work.

First, I searched online, on the various social media platforms, to see if there were profiles in the name of Pasquale Scamardo or Dino Fuda. I had a hunch there would be, as the main thought in the mind of narcissists' is, look at me!

Pretty much straight away, after searching the surname ' Scamardo', in Sydney, on Facebook, I found ten people. Five of those people led me to a profile called, 'Italian Stallion', where I saw familiar photos of the dead man, as he posed on his leopard skin bedspread, with the arch of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, in the background. In most of these photos, Scamardo had his clothes on, but there was one of him working out at a gym, with no shirt on, displaying his distinctive Crucifixion tattoo. I found it interesting how career criminals are often hyper-religious. I wondered if this was down to mere cognitive dissonance, which allowed discrepancies between beliefs' and behaviours. Or, if it is because the belief in redemption... later, allows for criminal activities, now?

However, I wasn't surprised to find the dead man displaying himself on the internet, as I am endlessly amazed how naïve most people are about what they publically reveal online; not realising how much information they are showing to anyone in the world, who cares to look. In this case, I formed the view that, Pasquale Scamardo was the dead man's real name, as he was connected with various people with the same surname. And, I was now sure that, he had lived somewhere in East Balmain, near the ferry terminal, as several of his photos showed the location from where they had been uploaded.

Next, I sent an email to Sargent Tiernan, explaining that I had left the van with its cargo of tomato cans, which were most likely full of illicit drugs, near a shack on the way to Hill End.

Then, I checked online, to see if the suspected don of this particular organised crime cell, called the Sciarra Outfit, was in the country.

The Organised Crime Squad, for which I was an agent, believed that a well-known Melbourne businessman, known here as John Merlo, was actually Giovanni Sciarra; a crime boss who had a long and extensive crime history back in Italy. We believed him to be involved in international drug trafficking, using many legitimate front businesses, as part of drug operations. It was only recently that, we had received a tip off linking Joe's Pizza in Leichhardt, as being a front organisations used by the Sciarra Outfit.

We also believed that, this particular organisation, gathered its members only from those related to the boss by blood or marriage; which would mean that Pasquale Scamado, was likely some kind of relative to Giovanni Sciarra.

This Merlo/ Sciarra character may have been a more recent arrival on the Australian criminal scene, but his Ndrangheta cell, a name coming from the Greek for courage or loyalty, fitted into a network of crime families, who had originally arrived in Australia in the 1950's. Before this time, Italians had had a very distinguished association with Australia, with two Italians, Giacomo Matra and Antonio Ponto, travelling with Captain Cook on the Endeavour, during his voyage in 1770. And later, many Italian gold miners' were part of the 1850s gold rush. Indeed, it was Raffaello Carboni, who wrote down his eye-witness account of the important Australian, historical event, Eureka Stockade.

But back in the 1970s, the inhabitants of Griffith, a town in south-western New South Wales, had long noticed that some of their neighbouring farmers, of Italian descent, seemed to be unaffected by industry downturns or droughts. And they were puzzled by where the money came from, to build the big palatial, nouveau riche mansions that they lived in. Rumours and mutterings swirled and swarmed. But the first public realisation that, the Calabrian-crime gang, known as the 'Ndrangheta' was operating in these parts, far away from its Calabrian home, was with the disappearance of an anti-drugs campaigner, Donald Mackay, in 1977. This disappearance would be revealed, as being Australia's first political assignation, instigated, to stop this man's crusade against the marijuana trade.

When it was revealed that the Calabrian-Ndrangheta was operating in Australia, making a fortune from cultivating and distributing drugs; the weight of the law fell, and key criminals went to jail. However, all too soon, the scrutiny and outrage melted away. This was a grave mistake, as these organised crime families were agile, with deep roots in crime: overseas, and in Australia.

The next generation of the crime family members, merely stepped up to the plate, and swung into action, moving into harder and more profitable drugs. They began to extend their tentacles into law enforcement, the public service and paying off judges, as police attention meandered elsewhere. The Ndrangheta, largely free of scrutiny, become cagier, and more daring, going underground, to darker regions.

And yet, the Ndrangheta, and the mafia, have long painted themselves in romantic and idealistic terms, as being invisible 'men of honour', but, their reality is actually rooted in: corruption, greed and money.

In more recent years, it was revealed that the long-time dead, campaigner against drugs, Donald Mackay, who once stood as a candidate for the House of Representatives, against Al Grasby, a man who went on to become a famous and prominent Australian Politician, and later Minister for Immigration, had truly been fighting the Calabrian Ndrangheta. It was revealed that, Grasby, who had not only divided himself between his wife in one city, and his mistress in another, had been in the pay of the Calabrian criminal network. It was his job to spread their nefarious influence.

By 2007, various execution style killings and gangland style murders, alerted the authorities to the fact that the Ndrangheta in Australia, had never gone away. The Ndrangheta, which had grown bigger and stronger right under our nose, had now infiltrated both sides of politics; resembling the Hydra of Greek mythology, with the many heads: when one is cut off, two grow back. The only way to stop these heads growing back after amputation was to burn the stump, as each head is severed from its blood source.

That is what we needed to do: cut and burn.

Before I finished with the computer, I sent an email to John Johnson, who was a fellow agent and someone whom I had fancied from afar, for a couple of years.

Johnson had divorced six months ago. Last week, he had invited me out to dinner at his local Thai restaurant and we had a great night, and got on really well. Only two days ago, I had casually asked him, if he fancied coming over to my little flat in Chippendale for dinner, and he had accepted. I had been hopeful that things might move in a more romantic direction. That didn't look too promising any more, but I thought that, I could still let him know that I was alive.

I shut down the computer, just as Chook opened the door, bringing a delicious aroma into the small room. He set before me a plate of fried eggs, tomatoes, bacon and chips, and, as I was feeling really hungry, I tucked in greedily, without giving a thought to calories or cholesterol.

Hearing raised voices and the thump of running feet coming from the bar, Chook shot of down the stairs, as I munched on crunchy chips. A moment later, he was back.

'A few blokes just came into the bar, all in a lather, going on about a load of police cars heading up the gravel road toward Hill End.'

'Looks like I better be leaving then Chook, before they come down here, and start looking around'.

'Maybe you can hide out here luv', Chook said, looking concerned.

'Thanks Chook, but I've got a few things I have to do. But I could do with a lift into town.'

'Righto. I reckon, Dawnie, can handle the bar for an hour or two. There's only two locals in at the moment any hows'.

I rose from the chair and hefted the bag of money and guns over my shoulder; grabbed an old army hat, hanging from a hook behind the door, and rammed into onto my head.

Chook checked that the coast was clear, and then, we shot down the stairs and fled along the deserted road toward the little wooden shack, where Chook lived with Dawnie. We pulled back the decaying door of his old garage, which was covered with pungent smelling creepers, tumbling about with abandon, and walked toward Chook's 1968 Suzuki T20 X6 Hustler motorbike. He handed me a cracked looking old leather jacket, and a helmet, which I put on. I shoved the army hat into my back pocket. Chook zipped up his own jacket, and slipped his helmet on, and we were ready to go.

We rode slowly and cautiously down the main road and turned to the right and bumped over the bridge. As we straightened up, a police car whizzed by us, on its way toward Hill End. We roared away in the opposite direction.

Chapter 4.

By Blood

Giovani Sciarra, born in San Luca, in the Province of Reggio Calabria, Italy, but mostly known in Australia, as John Merlo, sat looking out at the billowing white clouds, as they were tossed about by the brisk breeze. From the comfort of his Baroque style, red, velvet chair, he pressed the button, which allowed a door to slide open, and he watched, as his Capo, Salvatore 'The Wolf' Rattis, slid into the room. The Wolf was also Sciarra's oldest nephew, who had been born in Australia, to his eldest sister. He spoke only rudimentary Italian.

'In the dark of the night and under the shining stars and magnificent moon, I swore to standby my honoured brothers', The Wolf, said mimicking the distinctive Calabrian accent, of his initiation ceremony, five years ago, as he kissed the boss on both cheeks.

'So, what you learn?'

'It's not good, boss. The fool removed the GPS tracking device again. We warned him, plenty of times, but he still did it. We can't trace the van, and its cargo.... yet.'

Sciarra turned away from his nephew and looked at the bloodied picture of St Michael the Archangel. Sciarra's own finger had been cut by his father, a high ranking ndrina boss, over that painting, back in Italy years ago.

'The European syndicate are demanding money to make up for our recent losses, here and in Melbourne', Sciarra said without emotion. Then he brought his hairy, meaty fist down hard upon the mahogany desk, in front of him, and growled, 'do something'.

'We've got chemicals coming from Mexico, today or tomorrow, so, we can cook up some meth pretty fast'.

'This can't happen again. The European's will show no mercy '.

The Wolf nodded, and backed out of the room.

My nephew is looking too skinny, Sciarra thought.

........................................

Agent John Johnson jumped out of his Holden Commodore, and walked over to the van, flashing his badge at the police officers' from Bathurst, who had arrived first on the scene, after Sargent Tiernan had received the email from Agent Carras. The photographer was busy snapping away, and someone was inside the van's interior, dusting surfaces for fingerprints.

Johnson strode over to the disreputable looking old humpy, and entered the single room, to find Agent Hofer, who was in charge of the investigation, writing on a notepad.

Agent Hofer turned around and nodded at Johnson. 'I want you to manage the house-to-house inquires', she said briskly. 'There are only a few houses nearby. After you visit these, I want you door knock around the village of Sofala. I'll send someone else to Hill End to make enquires there. Just establish the identities and movements of any occupants, and visitors, and investigate for potential sightings of Agent Carras. You know the rigmarole. ' She smiled, and turned away. Johnson was left looking at the back of Agent Hoffer's blonde hair.

The room was pretty ramshackle and primitive; Agent Johnson found it difficult to imagine Agent Carras sleeping here last night. She was so sleek, poised and well groomed, with her short, straight bob and perfect olive skin. But evidently, there was much more to the woman than he had managed to find out, during their years working together, and their one dinner date.

Sighing, Agent Johnson returned to his car and braced himself for the shuddering drive, on the gravel road to Sofala.

\-----------------------------------------------------

After knocking on almost every door of the village of Sofala, Agent Johnson was of the opinion that, the locals around here never heard or saw anything: ever. All of which simply convinced him, that, many in this tight knit community had seen something, but they weren't saying.

Johnson had found, Dawnie Elliot, the co-owner of the Globe Hotel, with a bloke she called Chook, a particularly bad actress. And interestingly, this Chook bloke wasn't about, and, she couldn't say where he was at. But it was the way she avoided using the words 'I' and 'me', when she answered questions, that, really aroused Johnson's suspicions, as this was often used by people to psychologically distance themselves, when they are not, perhaps, telling the whole truth.

Standing in the middle of the quiet, empty road, in the soft breeze of the main street, Johnson looked into the distance and imagined the Cobb & Co coaches, which used to travel theses roads in the old days. He thought of the battles and competition that went on here, to gain riches, and he thought about how, for some people, the more riches they have, the more they seem to want. Then there are those who want the power which riches bring. And they will do absolutely anything, to get that power, and hold it.

He laughed and shook his head, as if to clear it. 'I'm turning into a bloody philosopher, he said to himself, and then walked back and jumped into his car.

\---------------------------------------------

Agent Jarvina Hofer knew that essentially, she had been assigned to lead this investigation, because, Agent Johnson was known to be romantically involved with Agent Carras, who according to Agent Hofer, had stupidly run off from the crime scene.

It wasn't that Agent Hofer was not very good at her job: she was. But Johnson had a few years' experience and seniority on her. Actually, his success as a detective and undercover cop was due to more than these things. She knew that. Johnson, it seemed, possessed the right instincts, intuitions and judgements for policing, and all these things were honed by his years of experience. I'll get there too, in time, she thought. But for now, Agent Hofer intended to make the most of this career opportunity to shine.

Back at the office, Agent Hofer got on the phone and made a call to a contact she had in the Spy Agency Taskforce, linked to the Organised Crime Commission.

'Hi Amr, how's things'.

'Not bad, Jarvina. I hope all's well with you and the family?'

'Fine, fine. Look, what I'm ringing about is, a case we're working on, involving the importation of MDMA in tomato cans, originating from Italy.'

'Interesting. I believe a seizure of tomato cans was made in Melbourne last week. These cans were then opened and filled with gravel, and resealed. The whole operation has been kept hush, hush, so as not to panic the big boys. We also believe that this same crime group can be linked to a recent seizure of religious statues containing heroin, found by x-ray. They're a cagy lot, though, because, a clean skinned courier company came to collect the stuff, and later delivered the shipment to a fruit shop. Since then, we've organised a probe and surveillance operation, with phone taps and intercepts.'

'So where do the roads lead Amr?'

'The roads lead to the Sciarra Outfit and ultimately John Merlo, otherwise known as Giovani Sciarra, who only took over operations in Australia five years ago. He's been busy, though, with a finger in many pies: drug trafficking, money laundering, illegal gambling, political corruption, extortion and infiltrating legitimate businesses. But they're a very tight crime family and proving hard to crack. No one particularly wants to cross them, for the obvious reason that they'll end up dead'.

'So where does this leave us, then'.

'Ah, well, here's the thing', his voice went down a notch. 'We couldn't get much on this group using phone taps, and physical surveillance. But we did identify this particular syndicate in Melbourne as being a group of six brothers and cousins'. But get this; it seems they are all nephews', by blood, to the don, John Merlo, as he calls himself here.

'We need something more to pin them, though, don't we, Amr. And it won't be easy, because, these people are very careful about what they say in public, and over the phone'.

'Look I'll ring you back Jarvina, I've got a call on another phone'.

Fifteen minutes went by, as Agent Hofer sat at her desk looking over the latest report. It seems Pasquale Scamardo was not related by blood, or marriage to Sciaria/Melro. That was a blow. Then the phone rang; Agent Hofer picked it up immediately'.

'Hi it's me Amr. There's a breakthrough in the case we were just talking about... Recently, our surveillance team found out that the Melbourne Sciarra boys have their meetings out in the open, in parks. And a meeting went down this morning, near St Kilda. Our lot managed to bug the tables, and caught some very good stuff too; they're scared for one thing, as they have to pay a few million for the loss of the drugs to a European syndicate. They also talked about other drugs, hidden in coffee and furniture, and how they were going to have to cook up some amphetamines, to make some money, to pay their debts'.

'So, with loss of the latest drugs, the other night, thanks to Agent Carras, the Sydney branch of the Sciarra Outfit must be really freaking out too, and also looking to make some money fast,' Agent Jarvina Hofer surmised.

'Yep. You can bet on it. These Ndrangheta cells talk a lot about brotherhood, but when a drug or money deal fails, they are beyond ruthless'.

'So if the Sciarra Outfit doesn't come up with the money soon, they can be expecting an ear in a jar, at the very least'.

'At the very least', deadpanned Amr.
Chapter 5.

Dress-ups

Chook dropped me off on the outskirts of the town of Bathurst. I planted a kiss on his weathered cheek, and then, I watched as he rode away. I felt a bit lost, but I didn't want Chook to get any more involved than he already was; though I knew that he would, willingly.

Chook had told me that he had been in a business and romantic relationship with Dawnie, for the last two years, and things were going 'gangbusters'. I was really happy for him, and I hoped that I would get to meet Dawnie one day.

I started walking around, hoping that I was not attracting any attention, searching the back streets of Bathurst for a charity shop, where I could buy some clothes, as I didn't want to risk going to the main street, and the shopping centre, where there might be cameras.

A cool wind blew in suddenly, as I walked up and down this particular street. But I knew that such odd weather as this sometimes happens, even on a summer's day out here. Then I caught sight of a St Vinnie's, on the opposite side, just around a corner. I ran quickly across the road, and ducked inside.

Fairly quickly, I sped around the store and gathered together a pile of useful items, which would help me to disguise myself. One shortish, toffee coloured, curly wig; a polyester tracksuit in a dirty pink; a 1970s pair of Homyped comfort shoes in brown; some old fashioned eye glasses; a shopping trolley, in a green, tartan fabric, and a Barbara Cartland novel called, 'Love Finds a Way'. I paid, and then, quickly headed to the toilet block in the nearby park, and changed into my new attire; shoving my bag of money, and guns into the old trolley.

I set out walking for Bathurst Train Station, which would take me about 20 minutes. I was hoping that there would be no police hanging about, checking passengers, as I only had my own identification, and I wasn't about to show that to anyone.

As I was walking along, I came upon the Bathurst library. I snuck inside, where I managed to find a free computer, and I sat down and checked my emails. There was one from Sargent Tiernan, telling me to give myself up and 'not be silly'. He said that, he had managed to keep the story from the press, for the moment, but he couldn't guarantee anything. Then I checked the train timetable; a train which was leaving at 2.10 p.m., could take me to Central Station in Sydney. That train was leaving in only 20 minutes away. I got out of there, and began walking along at a fast clip.

I soon came to the impressive train station building, which was something between Gothic and Tudor in its design. I thought, as I often did, when faced with such magnificence and craftsmanship, that, for all our progress, we don't or can't make buildings like that anymore. I walked in and immediately headed toward the ticket machine, to purchase my ticket. That was easy enough! I thought.

Then, I went to the ladies' toilet to examine my appearance. I looked rather startling, in the dated, orangey wig, mangy, old tracksuit, and old fashioned reading glasses. I stood staring, almost mesmerised, by how a woman of 28, could be transformed into a fifty year old, so easily.

I sat down on one of the wooden benches and took out my romance novel and began to read the insipid tale of a man who suddenly inherits a Dukedom, and then, becomes involved in a love triangle. Reading, however, was hard work, as the eye glasses that I had bought from the second hand shop, were making the letters very blurry, and kept slipping down my nose.

A short while later, from the corner of my eye, I saw two police officers marching toward me; I felt my heart begin pumping faster, but I kept calm and continued reading –or at least pretending to. The pair sailed past, without even giving me a second glance, turning into the ticket office. I could feel myself sweating under the wig; I was glad when the train pulled in two minutes later, with a screech of wheels and belching acrid fumes. In a little over four hours, I should be back in Sydney.

I finished my book about an hour into the trip, which was both good and bad. Reading it had been like eating sugar straight from the packet, which felt good at the time, but not so good afterwards. But I settled down to watch the beautiful countryside flash and roll by, and soon, I was almost rocked into a soporific state.

However, from the time I passed Penrith, the carriage began to fill-up with many loud and colourful characters, and I felt like I was watching a stage show. One rather large woman, undoubtedly, under the influence of many alcoholic beverages, was ranting about various injustices of the world. After a time, some of what she said sounded cogent and convincing to me, and I began to wonder if sometimes, we marginalise and dismiss people too easily, and so, create greater angst and injury.

Then, there was the man who danced and shimmied up and down the train isle and serenaded the various ladies' on board; some smiled and others, just looked fixedly out of the window, at the flowing scene. Not me, though, because, in my getup, I seemed to have become invisible, which was useful, yet disturbing. Was this what the future held for me, when I was no longer young and attractive?

Eventually, the train drew into Central Station. It was rush hour, with its thronging, clutter of jockeying bodies, and so, I was able to unobtrusively leave the train, pulling my tartan trolley behind me, and head toward the bus stop.

When I reached East Balmain, I began to walk around the area where I thought Scarmado's flat must be located. I was keeping a sharp eye out for those distinctive, yellow-green, spindly trees, which I had seen in some of his photos.

Then I saw them, in front of a block of units, which sat next to the complex, where Aunty Zeta had lived, and where I had stayed with mum, years ago.

The block of units was of a blonde brick, ugly 1970's design, with damp patches of moss growing on its lower walls. I knew, though, that despite the lack of aesthetic beauty, the price of a unit here would be exorbitant; beyond my price range....but then again, I did have a whole bag full of money....

I entered the property, using the key to open the security door. I made my way up the brown, carpeted stairs, to the second level, where I believed Pasquale Scamardo's flat was located. There were four flats on this floor; I slipped the key into the nearest door and voila! The door opened.

So far I had been lucky. Too lucky.

Inside, the place was a mess. It looked like it had been systematically ripped apart. I guessed that the Sciarra Outfit, or the police, but probably both, had been here before me.

I was looking for evidence to bust this crime family right open, but, since others had scoured the joint before me, I didn't like my chances.

I stepped inside and closed the door. I was in a lounge room with red sofas and a black and white zebra style mat. To my left, was a small orange kitchen, where drawers and cupboards were flung open, with the contents falling out. I walked a little way inside and I saw a small hallway to my right, with the bathroom directly in front of me, which I recognised from the photos. There were two bedrooms, one on each side of the bathroom. The main bedroom featured the leopard, skin bedspread, and the impressive views of the harbour bridge. The other room was empty, except for a mirrored wardrobe, and a black leather sofa chair.

Where to look first? I stood scanning the lounge room, from top to bottom. Then, I noticed that the glass display cabinet, which hung over the breakfast bar, had a gap of about ten centimetres on top of it, so I climbed onto one of the bar stools, which were lined up in front of the breakfast bar, and peered on top. I could see a leather covered book and a stack of DVDs. I grabbed these things and was ready to jump down and throw them into my tartan trolley, when I saw from the window, a black car stop a little way down the road, and two stocky men, with slicked back hair, jump out, wearing black shirts, jeans, and wrap around reflector sunglasses. I had the impression that these men were here for me.

I threw the book and the DVD's into my trolley and ran outside, but I stopped, as I was unsure what to do, as I didn't want to meet those thugs head on. Then, I noticed the security camera near the Stucco ceiling, directly in front of me. I cursed myself; why hadn't I checked before? Now my disguise was useless and it looked like the Sciarra Outfit knew exactly where to find me, in less than a minute, if I didn't get moving.

I started running down the stairs, dragging and thumping my heavy tartan trolley behind me, as best as I could. I came to the glass door, but just as I was about to turn the handle, the two thugs in their wrap around glasses were there, right in front of the door, blocking the way.

They both began to pound on the timber-framed glass doors, yelling threats, but as yet; they couldn't get in, as they didn't have a key. What to do?

One of the thugs, with a spiked, greying, black hairdo, suddenly reached inside his jacket. I sped back up the stairs, two at a time. I knew he was reaching for his gun, so, I kept going. As I reached the last floor, I heard the gunshot and the breaking glass, and I felt the rush of adrenalin hit my bloodstream, as I surged forward. Immediately to my right, there was another door of a rusted, fading blue, which sported a sign, 'Roof'. I tore through the doorway, and up the smelly, cement staircase, to find myself on the rooftop, in the hard light of a late summer evening. I stumbled about dementedly, with the silly trolley, looking for a place to hide.

There were plants in large terracotta tubs, and sun chairs up here, and there were clotheslines of flapping washing, and rusting exercise equipment. It was hot. In panic, I ran and hid behind a shelf of pot plants, and watched as the thugs stepped out into the light; like creatures of the dark, they seemed wholly out of their element. With guns held openly in front of them, they began to hunt me in earnest; throwing bikes and chairs and pot plants aside, to show me that they were in charge. Then, one of them began shooting pot plants and I felt even more like a hunted animal, as dirt and shards of pottery exploded all around me.

I heard the police sirens blaring in the distance, and I felt a sense of despair. In desperation, I looked about me. As the nearby washing flapped in the wind, I saw the words, 'Fire Escape', appear, between flaps. I began to edge that way, slipping through the agitated sheets; I tore toward the fire escape door, and pushed it open.

Picking the heavy trolley up, I leapt down four flights of dingy, cement stairs, with my lungs ready to explode.

I came out into the cheerless back garden of the flats, as the police siren screamed down the road, and then, suddenly, cut off in full wail. I edged along the side of the flats, where there were lots of black, putrid smelling rubbish bins lined up. In a flash, I hoisted the trolley onto of one of the bins, jumped on top of another bin, and hoisted myself, and the trolley, over the brick wall.

I climbed down onto the roof of a parked car (a white Honda) and found myself in the grounds of another block of flats. I slipped around the car, into the front garden, hunching behind a clipped hedge. I managed to crawl and climb my way through another five gardens, earning various scrapes and bruises in the process, until I came to the street corner. I bolted around the corner, and ran into a small park, where a group of people were performing t'ai chi. I kept running with the trolley banging behind me. I nipped down a lane, and saw the sign for the Balmain Wharf. I clattered down to the wharf, just as the last passengers were stepping onto a ferry. I sprung aboard and moved to the far side, and before long, we were pushing away from the land. I felt the sense of relief gently flow within me, as I saw the distance between the water and the land open up.

I sat, breathing in the salty air, as the sun slipped away; gliding through the water of the most beautiful harbour in the world. I looked up and watched the seagulls floating and soaring, with such ease and serenity. Strangely, I felt conscious of both a sense of peace and the immense weight of my troubles, as I gazed upon the rippling water, and the great expanse of darkening sky.

After fifteen minutes, I hopped from the ferry, and I was able to make my escape.

I didn't know who had access to the surveillance camera at the Balmain flats, so I was feeling a bit paranoid. And, there were police about everywhere, so I quickly whipped off the horrid, scratchy wig, and put on Chook's army hat. Then I took off the dirty, pink tracksuit top, and tied it around my waist. I'd lost the glasses back on the stairs in Balmain, when they smashed under my thudding feet, so I felt quite exposed.

I exited the ferry terminal, by keeping close to a large group of Japanese tourists, who were returning from a day at Taronga Zoo. Perhaps someone would think I was the nanny, I thought, as I edged closer to two teenagers, who were lagging behind the rest of the group. Though, I had to admit, I was a decidedly downmarket looking one, in my mangy wig and trackie dacks.

It was almost dark now and the street lights were on, along the road; showing people pouring from Circular Quay, scurrying by like rats leaving a sinking ship. I bolted onto the first bus waiting in a line, which was packed full of summer tourists and sightseers, who were chatting and laughing happily about what food they were going to eat, and how they would get to Bondi Beach in the morning.

I jumped off the bus a few stops past the city centre, and set out walking, through the backstreets, toward Surry Hills; a very eclectic and cosmopolitan suburb, which sat right next to the city.

I was tired and I was really hungry, and this morning felt like it was part of another life. I really needed to rest and recharge.

I was heading to an old pub, which I knew rented out rooms, with few questions asked. But just before I got there, I ran across a boutique, second-hand shop, on two levels, which was still open to catch the people heading to restaurants and bars.

Most of the clothing here was pretty wild; psychedelic 1960's and 70's, and disco wear. However, I purchased a few pairs of black trousers, a few plain t-shirts of different colours, and a black, long wig and a blonde, short wig. At another shop, I bought some expensive black jogging shoes, as there was a good chance that I might need to run.

I wore the long, black wig out of the shop, which made me feel like a different person. When I passed another shop selling bags and suitcases, I sailed in with great confidence, and bought a small suitcase on wheels, and a small backpack. I shoved some money into the backpack, and put the tartan trolley inside the suitcase. Then, I continued on to the pub, where I ate a hearty dinner of steak, potatoes, peas and carrots, and rented a dingy room for the night.

Chapter 6.

Loneliness and Oceans

On a barstool downing a whiskey and soda, in the luscious surroundings of the Marble Bar, under the Hilton, in the centre of Sydney, with a sexy blonde hanging onto his every word, sat Agent John Johnson. He was talking almost mindlessly, to the bottle blonde, Erica, who had honed in upon his authoritative, blue-eyed handsomeness, the moment that he strode through the door.

Johnson had just finished with police business at the Central Court House in Liverpool Street, when he decided to have a quiet drink, before he headed home to his empty, Coogee flat. His ten year old, daughter, Carly, only stayed with him every second weekend; that was next week. Johnson looked forward to his daughter's chattering voice and sweet face, which brought meaning and a heartbeat to his flat, and his life; especially, these days, when he was so much alone.

Caroline, his wife, had left him over a year ago, for a bank manager: a man with a stable job, she had said. That had hurt, but losing his family had hurt more.

Lately, though, Johnson had found himself thinking more and more about Agent Cleo Carras, but she was a wanted person now: by the Ndrangheta and the police. He had been thinking about her, and her beautiful, intelligent, dark eyes, and thoughtful conversation, as he sat at the bar and took his first sip of whiskey. Then, this blonde vision had appeared out of nowhere, and commenced stroking his ego with gusto.

He knew he could take Erica, the blonde, home easily. But it didn't feel right. His reasons were these: he preferred to sleep with a person that he cared about, and a person he could talk to, and have a connection with. Then, there was this aspect of his personality which he secretly called his 'inner prude'. He didn't fancy women who tried too hard to be sexy, like Erica, with her low-cut top, short skirt, and lofty, high heels. These things, he felt, put barriers between him and a woman, and he didn't like it. Not that he would tell any of his mates about these thoughts; he didn't want to be laughed out of town.

Johnson drained his drink, thanked Erica for her company, and got up to go home. He'd stop by Coogee Beach and take a dip in the ocean. It was a beautiful night.

Chapter 7.

Cliff Hanger

The sun was at full power at 6 a.m. the next morning, when it called me from sleep. As I threw off the scratchy, funky smelling blankets, I thought how wonderful it would be, to stay somewhere luxurious like the Hilton, for a night. Forget about that, girl! I admonished myself.

I rifled through my bags and took out the leather-bound book, which I had purloined from the dead man's flat in Balmain yesterday, and I began to examine it. Essentially, it seemed to be a list of businesses connected with the Sciarra Outfit; which were mostly located throughout Sydney and Melbourne. These businesses consisted, mainly of: pizza shops, cafes, grog shops, fruit shops, car yards, transport and freight companies, and real estate agents. As I flicked through, I saw various names of contacts listed, sometimes with large amounts of money pencilled in long columns. I didn't have time to look through these lists carefully, now, but, I had the general idea, and soon, I would pass this evidence on to Sargent Tiernan.

As I showered, I had a bird's eye view of the back lane way, where I could see various drug deals and other illicit transactions taking place. Such shameless illegal conduct in public, in broad daylight, made me feel a bit despondent. As initially, I had got into policing with idealist thoughts of making the world a safer and better place. That seemed a long time ago now.

The black trousers and simple blue t-shirt fitted comfortably, but were in no way glamorous, which was good, as I didn't want to stand out. I pushed my own hair under the long, black wig and tied it back with a bit of string that I had found in the ramshackle, bedside drawer. Now I was ready to leave and face the new day, and what it would bring. I had been debating, though, whether I should stay at this pub for another night, but then, I decided that it wouldn't be wise.

The eggs and toast that I ate at a little café, which I stumbled upon, as I made my way toward the Surry Hills Police Centre, were delicious. The owner was a very friendly drag queen, named Rhonda, who also happened to be a former lawyer, and sometime hip hop artist. As I ate, she regaled me with amusing and shocking stories, about her many friends and acquaintances; she had been superbly entertaining and diverting, and so, when I stepped back outside into the gritty air and recalled my mission and predicament, it was like falling to earth, from a long way up.

But being reminded of my situation, made me step back inside the café and ask Rhonda if she knew of a place that I could store my suitcase for the day.

'Sweetie! You can put that unattractive baggage in my shed out the back. But please, next time, get something a bit more fashionable when you purchase travelling accessories. You know: something pink and sparkly'.

It was certainly a small shed, but it was neat and clean. Rhonda handed me the key and said, 'I trust you sweetie, so don't let me down'.

I nodded. I felt the same way.

Nonchalantly, I strolled past the Surry Hills Police Centre, avoiding as I did so, looking up toward my office on the top floor. The police centre, is a massive, brutalist structure, which is so imposing, so cold and so authoritarian looking, that many viewing the building for the first time, feel that they have landed in a North Korea. Indeed, the building seemed to look over the character filled, Victorian, terrace houses of Surry Hills, with a hard, cynical and jaundiced eye. Like Panoptes, the giant from Greek mythology, with a hundred eyes.

I kept walking until I came to a set of traffic lights, where a group of joggers were waiting for the 'walk' sign, so that they could cross the road. I took out a cigarette, even though I had vowed to stop, as I needed an excuse to linger about here. The lights changed, and the joggers bounded across the road, as the waiting traffic steadily built up again.

By the time I had half-finished my smoke, a group of mothers' and fathers' with strollers and prams, were pressing the button to stop the flow of cars. The lights changed, and the group began to trundle across the road, chatting idly, and looking at phones. I saw the Holden Commodore, came to stop behind a fifth waiting car, I bolted over, opened the door and jumped inside.

'Hello', I said cheerily.

Agent John Johnson laughed, then smiled, and said with a wink of the eye, 'what a pleasant morning surprise....I'm not sure about the hair, though!'

Without another word, Johnson, drove past the Police Centre and up to Oxford Street, where he turned right; then out along Anzac Parade. He picked up some coffee and Lebanese cakes from Randwick, and then continued on, through the seething mass of the morning traffic, until we came to Bronte, where the car squeezed through narrow roads, and tight corners. The car came to rest, outside Waverly Cemetery, which sits on the cliffs, overlooking the vast Pacific Ocean.

The wind hit me like a live thing as I stepped from the car; it whipped the black hair of my wig, from side to side, and plastered my clothes against my body. But it was invigorating, reflecting my turbulent feelings.

Walking around the car, Johnson grabbed my hand and we walked like two love birds into the cemetery, with its soaring stone, grave markers and beautiful funerary monuments, set against the blue sky, and ocean. We walked past aging urns, crumbling crosses and weeping angels; melancholy and beautiful in their decay and stopped near the edge of the cliffs, and looked out at the seemingly endless ocean.

'I've found a book which lists front businesses associated with the Sciarra Outfit', I said, getting right down to business. 'I've only skimmed the list, but soon I'll send it along to Sargent Tiernan; so I don't put those thugs on your trail'.

Then, I said, this bloke I polished off seems to have frequented a massage parlour in the Eastern Suburbs called, Angel's Place. I think.... I don't know......it might be important'. I handed Johnson a paper with the phone number and other names and numbers that I had found on the dead man's mobile phone.

'How have you been?' Johnson asked, staring at me with those blue eyes, and seeming to ignore my business-like tone.

'It hasn't been the most relaxing few days', I laughed dryly, 'but I'm OK'.

We drank our coffee and ate the sweet and sticky cakes, just standing and looking out to sea. Then, Johnson lowered his brow and looked serious, and said, 'what's your next move? And what do you want me to do?'

Before I could reply, I felt the barrel of a gun hit me in the back. I flicked my eyes to the side and I could see that Agent Johnson seemed to be similarly afflicted. He looked angry, and I hoped he wouldn't do anything rash.

'The boss is very upset', a slightly accented voice said from behind me, as he pushed the gun harder into my back'. He then he hissed in my ear, very close, 'si cagna muto', which didn't sound very friendly.

'Now it looks like you've got your boyfriend here in trouble too....of course, it would be lonely to die alone', said a deeper voice coming from behind Johnson.

'How'd you find us?' Agent Johnson asked, buying for time.

'A simple tracking device on your boyfriend's car', returned the deeper voice. 'Not very smart were you?'

'No, Johnson replied, as he widened his eyes at me.

At the same time, we swiftly jumped sideways, out of range of the guns. Without thinking, I found myself performing a running somersault toward the edge of the cliff, where, without a backward glance, I leapt straight out off the cliff. I brought my hands over my head, and pointed my toes and plummeted through the cold air for what seemed like years, until I hit the water like a bomb. Immediately, upon smashing into the freezing, hard water, I stretched out my arms and legs, and arched my back, to stop my body from plunging too deep.

As I rose upwards, I felt a rip pulling me out to sea. I began to swim strongly parallel to the shore, in the hope of escaping the rip. But waves kept coming and ducking me under, and I was becoming tired. So, I floated for a while, to conserve my energy. I rode along with the waves, in the frigid water and watched the gulls circling, and calling to one another. They seemed oblivious to me.

I felt very alone in the world, and yet, strangely calm. I played a film of my life, in my brain and thought about mum and dad, who were both lost to me: dad, because he died of alcoholism, and mum, because, she had married another man, and had another family, and a new life. Mum and I had drifted apart, and now, there seemed to be no room or place for me in her world.

Eventually, the rip turned in a great arc and I was able to swim back to shore, but in a quite different place to where I had jumped in. And, I'd lost my wig. I checked the zip-up pocket of my trousers; I still had my key to Rhonda's shed. Good.

I dragged myself up onto the sand, and lay down in the sun to dry for a while. I wondered what had happened to Agent Johnson. I hoped he was still alive.
Chapter 8.

Che palle!

Vincenzo! Alonzo! Porca vacca! What you doing? You stupid! Teste muti!

The three men froze, as a tiny, but wide, black clad dame, holding a huge, wax candle, bowled toward the pair, like an ill west wind.

The two thugs quickly dropped their guns, and hung their heads, as the woman with a head like an old potato, who had emerged from a huge, elaborate burial vault, continued to berate the duo in gunshot fast Italian.

Agent Johnson took the opportunity to run toward the cliff, to see if he could see Agent Cleo Carras. He wasn't sure, but he thought that he could see something bobbing around in the swelling water down there. Such a jump from this height, could easily kill a person, he thought soberly, his blood running cold. He took out his phone and rang his mate, Benji, who manned a surf and rescue helicopter in Bondi. 'Be out there in two ticks', Benji said.

Johnson turned around, the old woman was still going strong, and so, he slipped away, back to his car, and took off. Wherever Agent Carras was, Johnson, felt sure she would understand why he didn't wait around. He had work to do.

Chapter 9.

Biker Man

I must have dozed off for a moment, as I was woken by the buzzing, cutting sounds of a helicopter above me. I didn't move, as I probably looked just like a sun worshipper where I was.

The chopper moved away, and I jumped up and ran up over the sand and into the public toilets to fix myself up a bit. I was almost dry now, but I had no money and no way to get back to Surry Hills, where the bag of loot and guns was stored in Rhonda's shed.

So I left the beach and began to walk along the nearest road, in what I thought was the general direction of Surry Hills, imagining that such a walk would take me at least two days. However, as I stopped, waiting for some cars to pass, so I could cross a road, a bike rider drew up alongside of me.

'Hi' I said. 'How would I get to Surry Hills, walking from here?' Then, before the poor bloke could answer, 'I added, 'must be a huge hike, eh?'

'Nah', came back his laconic response. 'Only takes a bit over an hour. When you drive, you have to go around the long way. But on foot, it's just over five kilometres, if you go via McPherson Street. It takes about an hour and ten minutes'. Then he told me the ins and outs of all the roads I needed to take, and he was off, with a swoosh and a wave.

I really enjoyed the walk back to Surry Hills, and I also felt that, I had learned a special secret, as I never imagined that Bronte and Surry Hills were really so close. I would do this walk again, one day, for pure pleasure.... I hoped.

As I walked, I also had time to think about my next move, as far as the Sciarra Outfit was concerned. My thoughts also strayed to John Johnson. I felt that he liked me, but as a divorced man with a child, he was hesitant; not eager to entangle his heart and his life, with another so readily, as he had done when he was younger. Relationships with others, I mused, can be the most rewarding and fulfilling experiences of our lives, but also, the most damaging and disabling.

I had almost got married once. I was only twenty and pregnant to this handsome tradesman named Scott. Luckily, Scott dumped me at the altar and a short time later, I had a miscarriage. It could have been worse: I could have had a kid with the dipstick.

Rhonda rushed forward and hugged me as I entered her little café. Then she held me out from her, eyeing me sideways, and said, 'So you lost the wig?'

'It's a long story, Rhonda, but I promise I'll tell you about it when I can'.

'OK sweetie', she smiled. Then she became serious and said, 'If you are in some trouble, I'm here'.

'Thanks Rhonda, that means a lot to me', I replied. I spoke the truth; so few people will go out of their way to help a stranger that they barely know. Believe me.

It is strange how you can have an instant connection with someone, like I felt with Ronda. Then there are people you may be related to by blood, who you may know your whole life, and yet, never feel close to them.

Again, I needed another disguise. But for the time being, I just unzipped my bag, as I came to a quite alley, and shoved the short, blonde wig on my head, and pushed my own hair out of the way, as well as I could, as I walked the streets toward the Surry Hills Library, to use the internet,.

The Surry Hills Library is an interesting building. Atheistically, I am not sure how I feel about it, but as a future concept for sustainable design, it is important, with its many energy saving features, and water conservation. There are, for example, grasses growing on the roof top, as a form of insulation, and plants are also used to filter the air, which is drawn in through the atrium.

The library was packed with people today, so, I had to lurk about for a while, as I waited for a spare computer to become available. Finally, I got one and I went back to Pasquale Scarmado's Facebook page and browsed his 'friends list', and associated people, as I searched for information. I found a conversation with someone called Tika Honey, who was going to a party on New Year's Eve, on a superyacht moored in Rushcutters Bay. She had asked Scarmado, whether he would be working there that night. 'Yes siree', he had replied.

It was New Year's Eve tonight. I was going to a party.

Chapter 10.

A Taxing Time

High up on the top floor of the Surry Hills Police centre, Agent Johnson was pacing backwards and forwards, wearing a path in the synthetic, grey carpet, in Sargent Tiernan's office.

'So, what did you find out about ASPER PTY LTD, the company that registered the Mercedes ', Sargent Tiernan asked, as he put down the phone, and turned his chair and looked expectantly at the pacing Agent Johnson.

'So far, I've found evidence of a murky corporate structure' Johnson replied, as he ran his hand distractedly through his dark hair. 'This ASPER PTY LTD is owned by a non-profit organisation called World Health Crusade in Luxembourg. Very little tax is being paid, from what I can see. However, this is just the start of a very complicated business structure, where money flows from subsidiary to subsidiary and through various non-profit organizations, and tax havens. But one thing I can tell you is that, some very clever accounting has made sure that none of it touches our friend Giovani Sciarra, alias, John Merlo'.

Sargent Tiernan nodded and said, 'the kingpin usually isolates himself totally in these crime structures, never giving direct orders himself, even. Uses a Capobastone to direct the 'family' members and he alone reports directly to the don. Larger organized crime syndicates have separate capos to direct different and district crime cells, but in this case, the information that we have received tells us that this is a small, tight, crime family, operating in Sydney and Melbourne, which has associations and links with other distinct calabrain- Ndrangheta cells.'

'This structure is what makes it so damned hard to pin the crime boss, boss'.

Nodding again, Sargent Tiernan asked, 'any info yet about this brothel called Angel's Place?'

'It's strange, every time we ring, what appears to be an Eastern suburbs number, found on Pasquale Scamardo's phone, we get diverted to a message service. So, no, not yet, but I'm working on it'.

'OK, we need some more specific information, if we want to crack this mob apart. So get on it'.

Johnson hadn't mentioned the books and DVDs that Agent Carras had discovered, yet, but he was hoping that he would soon be able to get his hands on them, soon.

As Johnson opened the office door, ready to step out into the hall, Sargent Tiernan called out, 'My sister's throwing a party at her house in Sans Souci, tonight. You're welcome to come if you are free. A lot of good sorts' will be there'.

'Thanks Sarg, but I've got other plans'.

Chapter 11.

Just a Little Crush

I found another old pub on the other side of Darlinghurst, and payed cash for a single room. I took out a load of cash from my suitcase, and stuffed it into my small back pack and locked the suitcase in the old timber wardrobe, and then, went outside to have something to eat. After that, I dropped into another charity shop and bought a baggy pair of black tracksuit pants and a sleeveless hooded jacket, which I put on over a plain t-shirt. Some cheap sunglasses and a plain blue baseball cap completed my look.

I walked down Oxford Street, with its gay bars and curry houses, strolled across Hyde Park, crossed the busy road, and entered into the heart of the city. It was time to go shopping in earnest.

My first purchase was a short, red, lycra cocktail dress, which was so light that it could be rolled up into a small ball. Then I scoured the boutique shoe stores, until, I found just what I wanted: a pair of shoes, made in Greece, which could convert from flats, to a slinky stiletto, by means of a flip out heel mechanism. What else? Ah yes! I needed a waterproof, backpack, swim pouch; a Speedo swimming costume, latex swimming cap, and a pocket knife. So, I rolled into one of those huge sports stores and was soon walking out with my purchases and heading along George Street, through a great crush of people. Then, I ambled along to the Byzantine style, Queen Victoria Building, and rode the lift up to the third floor, and bought a good quality platinum, blonde wig, in a short, blunt, bob style.

Now that I was somewhat organised, I could allow myself to bask in the excitement and the buzz, of the city full of people anticipating tonight's celebration: as one year formerly ended, and another one began. All around me, there was a simmering fever of exhilaration, as people gossiped, ran for buses, bought new clothing, sprayed perfumes, munched on tasty foods, and sipped cold drinks. I also felt that there was a collective hope, that the day would not get too hot, and stay that bit milder, like it had been.

I went back to the seedy old pub and lay on the bed and started to read through the leather bound book. But it seems I fell asleep, as when I woke, the muted sounds and faded light of late evening, were coming through the open window of my room.

I was invigorated and ready for action.

\--------------------------------------------

'Come along this way sir', purred the attractive Brenda, who led Agent Johnson out of one of the luxurious, private lounge rooms, decorated with pink, satin chairs, and gilt mirrors, and into a hushed hallway. He followed her swaying figure, up the carpeted staircase, of the four-level terrace house, on New South Head Road, in Sydney's Eastern Suburbs, as oriental, citrus scents bloomed in the air around them. These aromas were designed to manipulate the brain's limbic system, and so, create a more powerful bedroom experience.

Johnson followed Brenda into the spa room, decorated in a soft peach, with gold accessories and huge, fluffy towels neatly folded on top of a nearby satin covered, heart-shaped bed.

Brenda took off all her clothes and climbed into the shell-shaped spa bath, and smiled at Johnson. He unbuttoned his shirt and threw his clothes onto the waiting bed and climbed into the warm, perfumed water with her. Slowly, as though in slow motion, Brenda reached over and pressed the button, causing streams of air and water to spurt from gold jets on the bath wall. As the water turbulence increased, and the air bubbles began to detonate on his skin, Johnson moved closer to Brenda.

'What is it you want to know, Johnny?' Brenda asked, wide eyed.

'We'll get to that in a moment, Cheese Ball. How've you been?'

Benda giggled. 'God! I haven't been called that in a while'.

'Do you ever miss the old neighbourhood?' Johnson asked softly.

'No....only when you call me that, Skinny Legs', Brenda replied, as Johnson chuckled tenderly.

'Speaking low, Johnson became more serious. 'I want to know if there is a massage parlour around these parts, which might be linked to a bloke called, John Merlo otherwise known as Giovani Sciarra. It's called Angel's Place, but I haven't been able to find out exactly where it is located'.

Brenda stared at Johnson with her doleful eyes. 'The top floor here is called Angel's Place. It is open only to the mega rich....and there is some high stakes gambling involved. I don't know anything about those names you mentioned, but it is managed, from what I've heard on the grapevine, by a very beautiful young woman'.

The spa jets stopped and the room became a vacuum of silence. Johnson pressed the button again, and said, 'so you don't know anyone called Pasquale Scamardo?'

'You must mean the security guy! I call him Pascal. I remember he told me once that his name means Passover or Easter, in Italian, but I had trouble saying it, the way he said it, and the name Pascal sort of stuck'.

'He's dead, sweetheart'.

'Oh!' Brenda responded, wide eyed. Then she continued, 'by the way, my friend, Tika, is working for Angel's Place tonight, on a superyacht parked out in Rushcutters Bay. Here's her number.'

'Thanks Cheese Ball, I owe you', Johnson breathed into her ear, as he jumped out of the tub and pulled his clothes over his lean body. He leaned over and kissed Brenda on the lips and whispered, 'You earned every cent sweetheart'.

Brenda laughed, throatily and said, 'You know that I'd do anything for you Skinny Legs'.

Chapter 12.

Work and Play

I slipped the lycra dress, the shoes, the swimming cap, and wig, into the waterproof backpack. Then, on second thoughts, I also threw in the Glock pistol. I dressed, putting the Speedo swimming costume on underneath the tracksuit pants, sleeveless vest, and baseball cap ensemble.

I packed up my suitcase and tided my room. It didn't look much better. I dragged and thumped the suitcase down the bald, smelly carpeted stairs, and began to walk through the backstreets. I was making my way to Rushcutters Bay, going through Darlinghurst. It was only a little over a half hours walk away. I had plenty of time.

I wandered by the gelato shop in Darlinghurst and joined the long line of people, who also wanted to sample the cool, sweet delights available within. As I ambled along, eating my Macadamia Crunch cone, my mind wandered back to working in Joe's Pizza Shop in Leichardt, which amazingly, was only a couple of days in the past. Which makes you think about how fast things can change; I mean, one minute you're in the middle of something, and then, next thing, that part of your life is over, never to return.

I'd got the job at the pizza shop, as part of a 'level one' undercover assignment. I was recommended for this role by Sargent Tiernan and this was endorsed by Inspector Briggs, the head of our unit, as they believed that I possessed the necessary self-confidence, social skills, and ability to adapt. I was furnished with a false identity, which had my parents born in the same village in Calabria, as Giovanni Sciarra, and my fabricated surname was selected from one of those related to this crime family; although, this touch was probably unnecessary, as most people in these villages in Calabria are related. My major problem was that I didn't speak Italian, but as I was mostly only involved in washing and cleaning at the pizzeria, this hadn't proved to be a problem.

In all the weeks I'd worked undercover, I hadn't experience one thing that was mildly suspicious, until I had been kidnapped by the now dead Pasquale Scamardo, delivering the drugs in tomato cans.

I hadn't even seen 'The Boss', who was supposed to collect the nightly takings.

I suppose, in this period of non-activity, I had started to become complacent; forgetting the danger that I had willingly put myself into, as part of my job.

The Sciarra Outfit, an Australian outpost of the Ndrangheta, have very strong bonds with their parent group back in Italy. And taking on the Ndrangheta, is a very dangerous business. This crime group is believed to have been formed in the 1860s, in Calabria, by exiled Sicilians, and since then, they have become known for their extreme brutality. In 1973, the Ndrangheta, were responsible for kidnapping John Paul Getty III, the grandson of oil tycoon, Jean Paul Getty. They cut off the 16 year old boy's ear, and sent it to his family; threatening to return the boy in 'little bits', unless a ransom was paid. A sum of $2.9 million was sent to the Ndrangheta, and the boy returned to his family - minus his ear.

Today, in Europe, the Ndrangheta is believed to control around 80 percent of Europe's cocaine traffic. And their criminal activities contribute about 3 percent to Italy's GDP. Essentially, though, this is a group of terrorists', who subvert the system of justice, democracy and the public interest, to satisfy their own ruthless greed for power, and wealth.

When I arrived at Kings Cross, a place famous for its clubs, pubs and sleaze, I zipped around to one of the small side streets, where my cousin, Petros, owns a Greek souvlaki shop. I hadn't seen my cousin for a few months, but I was pretty certain that I would find him hard at work, as he worked 12 hours a day, 7 days a week.

'Ade re malaka! I can't believe it!' Petros boomed, with his hands held out wide.

I smiled at my cousin, who had just handed a food package over the counter, to a skinny looking blonde woman, who had likely come out of one of the nearby brothels. You may think that it is hard to tell the working girls, from the rest, in this day and age, but believe me, there is more than clothes, to the difference. A lot of these women who work the massage parlours, are treated by the customers and wider society, with so much distain; like they don't have any finer feelings that these women begin to wear their inner outrage like armour. I'd learnt to recognise the glow of that armour from a mile away.

'Going on a holiday?' Petro asked, his eyebrows hitting his receding hairline.

'No, I've got a job around here, and I was wondering if I could leave this bag here overnight. That's all'.

'You've got a job on New Year's Eve?'

'Crime doesn't stop for the holidays, sadly, cuz'.

'No problem. Bring it out the back here....and I'll make you a Greek coffee'.

'No thanks! I don't fancy drinking mud', I replied laughing. The fact that I was only of half Greek blood, was an ongoing joke between us.

'Bloody Skip', Petros said, as he shook his head in mock outrage. In reality, Petros, loved being an Aussie, and he was a bit of a flag waver. We got on well, but only as long as we didn't talk about politics.

After I was free of the suitcase, containing a gun, and the proceeds of crime, I set off again, walking toward Rushcutters Bay. I didn't have far to go.

The wonderful view of the blue water, seemingly fused with the sky, and the contrast of the crisp white boats, hit me with its sublime beauty, as I walked through the park, which led to the boating marina. This was a millionaire's view, though. Part a world which was throwing away social and moral considerations, and allowing prices and the market to reign, and deliver up the winners and losers: a system which also allowed the Ndrangheta to thrive. I reflected on this, as I watched the luxury yachts, and motor cruises, that bobbed and floated with great gentility, on the silken water; as the sky slowly darkened, on this last summer evening of the year. I couldn't help thinking that generally, it is very difficult to become really rich, by working on the right side of the law.

Walking up and down the marina, as night slipped in and lights came on, I scanned the many floating palaces that were berthed here. I knew that the Ndrangheta used sailing boats, yachts, and catamarans, to bring in mostly cocaine and heroin from Latin America, and the Dominican Republic. But I didn't believe that tonight's party was related to business. Or was it?

\----------------------------------------

Salvatore 'The Wolf' Rattis, slinked into his modest Toyota, which his uncle, Giovani Sciarra, The Boss, had given him. The veneer of modesty was important to the Sciarra Outfit: no flashy suits, jewels, or houses; as the parade of wealth was liable to prick up the antennae of the law, and other crime syndicates. But the Boss had his luxury yacht, and he hardly ever moved from it. Sure, the yacht sailed from Melbourne to Sydney, frequently, but The Boss himself, stayed inside like a turtle in its shell; in his bullet proof cabin, in the throne-like chair, working the numbers. Of course, The Boss was so overweight now, that it would be difficult to move him. Which made Rattis wonder: what was the point of life for the old fella?

Rattis drove to a house in Greenacre where an ice lab was set up. The strong smell of acetone hung heavy, as he got out of the car; which served to remind him that he had taken yet another short cut. He should have found a more remote location for the lab, but he didn't care much anymore. He could clearly see the whole Sciarra Outfit imploding before long. And he'd go down with it.

Inside, the house was squalid, marinating in toxic vapours, and covered with buckets, tubes and glass beakers. His cousins, Frank and Luca, were lying, fully clothed, but dirty and dishevelled, on a grimy sofa, with an empty bottle of whiskey on a nearby table. He knew that they had been drinking it: the ice that is, added to the whiskey. Rattis sat down next to his cousins, and picked up the glass pipe. Soon he would feel the hit. His mind would clear, his energy would rocket, and the pleasure would flow through him like honey. This is the only thing that matters, he thought.

Chapter 13.

Knife in the Draw

Agent Jarvina Hofer had been very busy. She had discovered that Pasquale Scarmado had been engaged at the time of his death, to Giovanni Sciarra's granddaughter no less. The engagement party had taken place at the Al Fresco Function Centre, which looked over the water, near Five Dock. His fiancée, it was said, was a very clever and beautiful young woman, who was being held back by the misogynistic attitudes of the Ndrangheta, who generally viewed women as subservient and inferior. What was unclear, however, was whether this young woman actually wanted to get out of the life of crime that she had been born into, as some said. Or, whether she saw herself as the next boss of the Sciarra Outfit, as others proclaimed. And what were her reasons for getting engaged to Pasquale Scamardo, who didn't seem like he was the sharpest knife in the drawer?

\----------------------------------------------

After his hit, Salvatore 'The Wolf' Rattis, was feeling brilliant; like the world was his for the taking. He didn't bother waking up his zonked out cousins, but decided to head to Angel's Place, and get a girl.

Rattis was not a very deep or analytical man. It would not have occurred to him that he was treating a person like a commodity: a product to buy or sell. He simply saw women as objects, placed on the planet to serve men, in whatever capacity was required. This attitude was common among many gangsters, and it seemed fixed, incapable of change. What had changed, though, was that women born, or married into these crime families, were more often rebelling against the patriarchy. Though, often, they paid for this rebellion with their own lives.

\-------------------------------------

It was 9 p.m., I was sitting at the restaurant overlooking the marina and its flock of yachts, which were worth a king's ransom, sipping on a white wine, and biding my time, waiting to see which yachts were hosting parties tonight. Two yachts had already left, to sail around the harbour, but I was sure that these were not related to the Sciarra Outfit, because the first group had been of Asian appearance and the members of the other group were all pretty much over 60, and had American accents.

It was just after 9.30. p.m. when the Sciarra Outfit began to arrive, stepping out of fairly modest cars, but wearing expensive, sharp looking Italian suits and couture dresses. I watched as they headed toward a 50 metre yacht, which was subtly lit up, as though keeping a low profile, despite its luxury status, and exorbitant price tag. I could see sofas, armchairs and low tables spread out across its front decks. I imagined that the dining room was inside somewhere, probably on the upper deck.

About twenty people had boarded the yacht so far. So I decided it was time for me to get on there too. I walked down near the water, where the luxury yachts and sea craft were lined up, and took off my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the ground. Just wearing my swimming costume, I took the swimming cap from my waterproof backpack, placed it on my head and slipped the pocket knife into my cap. Then, securing my backpack onto by back, I edged into the water and began to swim through the salty, chill liquid, very silently, toward the Sciarra superyacht.

As I neared the yacht, I swum around and found the anchor line and soon proceeded to climb the slippery rope, by pinching the rope between my feet, and pulling myself upwards. Grabbing the knife from my cap and flicking it open, I plunged it into the hull of the boat and stepped onto the handle. I was able to use knife, and the rope, to lever myself over the side, and into the boat.

I quickly moved into a shadowy corner and slipped off my wet swimming costume. I opened my backpack and rolled the lycra dress over my wet body; put on my blonde wig, took out my shoes and folded out the heel, and slipped the dangerous looking stiletto shoes onto my feet. I took out the Glock Pistol and checking the bullet chamber, I slid the gun under my wig, at the back of my head.

I tottered over to the side of the boat, and looked out to the marina, and saw a group of women arriving, who were most likely some of the sex workers from Angel's Place.....although one of them was plain ugly, with wiry, black hair, chunky glasses, and a long black dress, reminiscent of a potato sack. Probably some old bird from the old country, I thought. Then, I noticed that she was carrying a huge cake. The goon standing at the entrance to the boat, simply waved the group on, in a bored manner, and went back to his conversation with another man, who was sucking on his cigarette as though it was his mother's teat, as the group walked up onto the deck.

Keeping to the shadows, I slunk around the side of the yacht, until I came to the deck where the other guests were lounging on sofas and standing around in intimate circles, chatting and drinking white wine or cold beers, and eating dainty foods off plates, which were held, or resting on small tables.

'You've got to go in there sweetheart', said a muscular, middle aged man, smoothly, as he sidled up alongside me. He pointed for me to go through the doorway in front, and I gave him a smile of thanks. This man may have been an attractive, silver fox, but he was undoubtedly a criminal and a murderer. And that was a very sobering thought.

I stole through the doorway, and came into a room where buffet tables were set out with elaborate finger foods and a large glass-fronted fridge was filled to bursting with Asti Spumante, and various brands of beer. A waitress dressed in a black dress and white frilly apron tuned around, and pointed to another door. I went through and wandered into a deserted and dark luxury, lounge room. I opened another door and found a huge, but very handsome man glaring at me.

'You're late', he growled, his white teeth shining weirdly under the lights. The others are already inside'. He moved aside, and revealed a small staircase going downward.

I didn't trust myself to speak, so I merely smiled and stepped onto the stairs, and down I went. There were obvious security cameras all around me, but I kept my eyes on the floor, and my feet moving one after another. I came to a single door; I didn't know what to do. Should I knock?

Slowly the door slid open, without me doing anything, and I stepped into a large room, where an obese man was holding court, on a custom-made red, velvet throne. All eyes tuned my way and I could see some of those eyes narrow, with a mix of what seemed to be jealousy and suspicion.

I was trying to keep my cool, despite feeling like I was a mouse caught in trap. Also, the room was stuffy and claustrophobic; its only window shuttered against the night. Then I recognised Tika from her Facebook page. I decided to take a chance.

'Sorry Tika, I got your message late', I said breathlessly.

'What? Wait a minute', Tika spluttered. Then, she gave me an odd sidelong look and said, 'well, yeah, you took your time'.

And that was that.

Now the scene that greeted me was this: the group of five women in various states of undress were draped all about the gross, old man, who I believed to be Giovanni Sciarra, sometimes known as John Merlo. I couldn't be exactly sure, as the photo I had seen of him was of a much younger and thinner man. However, I believed that I had walked right into the Ndrangheta boss's lair.

Tika, who was petite, with long black hair, was perched on one knee of the great lump of wobbling flesh, and a buxom blonde, was on the other knee. It was a very strange scene, like a show or act was going on. It occurred to me that these women were here to bolster the old boy's ego; to let him play act that he was young and virile, but in reality, he was probably a toothless tiger: in one sense at least. I also thought that it was very odd that the Sciarra family members' were out mingling and eating and drinking on the decks, while the head of the Sciarra Outfit was being entertained by a pack of prostitutes. But I suppose that this group of criminals has shown time after time that they have no morals; only a strange and warped religiosity, whereby they believe strongly in the idea of forgiveness, as a licence to do absolutely anything, and be absolved.

I noticed a security monitor on the wall, which was surveilling several locations on the yacht, all on the same screen. I noticed the dark part of the yacht, where I had entered the boat, flash up onto that screen. Either I had been lucky, Sciarra hadn't been watching, or, he was onto me, and waiting for the right moment to pounce.

The lady killer in the chair crooked his finger, as he impaled me with his pale eyes. I walked toward him, trying to think what my next move would be. I didn't want to end up providing an erotic service to the old fellow; that would be a bridge too far in the line of duty.

'Vieni qui tesoro. I want you to massage my feet', he commanded in a highly accented voice.

I walked forward, and got down on the thick, golden carpet, which was no mean feat, in such a short dress. I slipped off his loafer style, leather shoes, which were finely made and beautiful, although misshapen by his boat-like feet, and slowly rolled down his silk socks, in what I hoped was a sensual fashion. I got to work.

The door slid open; I didn't turn around, but I could feel a wave of recognition travel through the room. A voice spoke; a voice I knew.

'There's a woman here with a cake. She says you ordered it specially, and she won't go away until you have laid eyes upon it', said the woman.

'Sounds very suspicious to me', said another voice. Another voice that I knew.

'Bring her here', said Sciarra. 'I will deal with her myself'.

The door opened again and the pair left to collect the woman with the cake. I could feel the room hum with fear and anticipation, as thoughts and suspicions spun about. I could feel these women looking at me, and trying to work out what I was up to, and what my presence here may mean for them. These women had taken a gamble in getting mixed up in this crime outfit. Or, they had realised too late, what they had got themselves into. Most of them only wanted to make a buck.

The door opened again.

'So, signora, I ordered this cake, eh?' the bloated old toad, whose feet I was patiently massaging said, dangerously, as he reached into a drawer of his desk and drew out a gun.

\--------------------------------------------------

Chapter 14.

Family Matters

Agent Hoffa was looking into the mirror of her mother's bathroom, at her flat on the 13th floor in Double Bay, getting ready to go to Sargent Tiernan's family party, when her phone rang for the 5th time. Agent Hofer decided she better check the phone, just in case it wasn't her ex-boyfriend, Charlie, this time. He often got drunk and wept and begged her to take him back, especially, on weekends and public holidays.

It wasn't Charlie.

But a series of MMS pictures from Agent John Johnson. She hesitated before opening the pictures. You never know what you might see, she thought. And you can't unsee anything. She knew this from experience.

The pictures were a series of stills, showing a marina, a superyacht, two men talking, a group standing around chatting and enjoying themselves; a kitchen, some stairs, and then a room with a fat man pointing a gun at the camera.

'Oh bugger!' Agent Hofer expostulated. This must be Giovanni Sciarra, and he is about to shoot Agent Johnson!

\-----------------------------------------------------

'Crikey! That BBQ was bloody hard to clean, Sargent Tiernan said to his wife, as he stepped back into the kitchen to start making salads, and prepare the steak and sausages. His wife, Gloria, looked up from the keyboard of her laptop and frowned slightly. 'I'll be finished this article in a minute, and I'll give you a hand', she said distractedly, retuning with intense concentration to her task.

'These are hard days for journalists', luv', Sargent Tiernan replied, placing his warm hand on his wife's shoulder. He knew that Gloria had to work all hours, in the rapidly changing media field.

The mobile phone vibrated on the table and without thinking, Gloria Tiernan, reached over and answered the call. He face morphed into a strange expression. 'You better listen to this', she said, looking straight at her husband. 'I think it's important'.

Sargent Tiernan listened to the call that came from Agent John Johnson's number. First he heard footsteps, and then, the words, 'So, signora, I ordered this cake, eh? And then the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

The phone began to vibrate again and he heard a waiting call alert. Sargent Tiernan answered. 'Sarg, he's at Rushcutters Bay inside the Sciarra Outfit's yacht!'

'Call for backup, Agent Hofer.'

\-----------------------------------

Just as Sciarra shot the gun, without even thinking about it, I pushed his hand upward, and the bullet entered the ceiling. Then I jumped up and grabbed the gun out of Giovanni Sciarra's hand, and quickly moved to a better position.

I could see the woman in the black dress had cannily used the cake board as a shield, but the cake itself, had fallen sloppily onto the floor.

'We didn't trust you from the start, did we sis', stated Damon, staring at me with great malevolence, and then, looking toward Angie, who evidently was his sister. Why hadn't that occurred to me before?

'No, we were keeping an eye on you, and we were careful – well, until Pasquale ballsed things up', Angie said, looking from me to her grandfather.

'So you are responsible for Angels Place', I asked.

'I didn't want to be', Angie replied defiantly.

'You do as you're told girl', Giovanni Sciarra cut in roughly. I saw Angie glare at her grandfather, as though to say, I'm a match for you. I wondered if there was a power struggle going on here, but as a female, I didn't like Angie's chances, with this pack of misogynists.

Giovanni Sciarra must have pressed some kind of alarm system, somewhere, because I could hear the sound of running feet and the door began to slide open. I pulled the Glock out from the back of my wig and pointed one at Giovanni Sciarra and the other gun at the security guard, which I had passed on the stair, as he burst through the door.

'You're bluffing girl', the guard shouted and made a move to lunge at me. But before he could do so, Damon threw himself in front of the guard and cried out wildly, 'no!'

I didn't move, as Giovanni Sciarra screamed hoarsely, 'finocchio, control yourself! You bring shame to us!'

We all watched as Damon flushed with either embarrassment or defiance.

'This is not the old country, nonno', Angie said, softly, yet dangerously. Many men and women are gay. They don't hurt anyone else, so what is the problem?'

Sciarra said nothing, but he looked like he wanted to kill his grandson with his bare hands.

Salvatore 'The Wolf' Rattis slithered through the door, holding a gun. He looked jumpy and anxious, and he was breathing fast. He was looking at Tika.

'I wanted you and you were not there.'

Tika shrugged and said, 'I had to work, you know'.

'I should be your number one priority'.

Tika was beginning to look worried, like it had just occurred to her that Rattis was not entirely in a reasonable state of mind.

'Look at you', Sciarra sneared. 'You taking the drugs!'

Ratsis turned his attention and his gun on Sciarra. 'Yep I'm a meth head. What you going to do about it?'

With an athletic lunge, Angie threw herself forward, and swiftly took the gun from Rattsis.

'Girls you get yourself outside and far away from here OK', she said, looking intently at Tika and the rest of the girls. They got up and started to move out very quickly toward the door, which was closed.

'Open it', she ordered her grandfather. He did not move, but glared at her like the malevolent toad that he was.

Ratsis grabbed Tika by the arm. 'You're not going anywhere', he said, with chattering teeth.

'Yes she is', I replied, as I leaned over and pressed the button under the arm of Sciarra's chair, which I had seen him use to open the door.

He was so obese and slow moving that he made no move to stop me.

I straightened up and watched the women file out; except Tika, that is, who was being restrained by the explosive and deranged looking Ratsis.

Then, as though in a dream...or nightmare, I became aware that Angie had her gun aimed at me.

'Let me tell you something, whatever your name is, about what it is like to be born into a Ndrangheta family', she said, as I listened. 'It's growing up and thinking crime is normal; it's having no choice but to be complicit in these crimes, and later, to find yourself permanently embedded in a crime organisation, motivated by greed, and the lust for power. An organisation which is comprised of your family, of whom you belong by blood, but which is so morally bankrupt that it makes you sick'. She paused for a moment and looked hard at her grandfather. 'I was outspoken when I was younger, I never wanted to be part of any of this.' She waved her hands about. 'His response was to dig me in so deep, to dirty me with all the sleaze and crime, so that I could leave, only, with my head being served to my parent's on a plate'. She spat with disgust onto the golden carpet.

'stai zitto!' Screamed Sciarra, whose face was red and dewy with sweat. He looked toward Rattis and some of his authority returned. 'Get back to cooking up the drugs, the Europeans want their money. Now or.....finito'. He drew his finger like a knife across his throat.

Angie was still pointing the gun at me and I was still pointing one gun at the security guard, and the other at Sciarra. Nobody moved.

Then the lady in black, potato sack, put down her cake board shield, ripped off her wig and almost, casually, took the gun from Angie. It was Agent John Johnson. My mouth dropped to the floor.

'Well, I think I've got all of that recorded and it's been sent off into the ether', Johnson stated in an amiable manner. He turned toward Sciarra. 'I think we have enough info here to do you slowly, sir'.

We became aware of a hubub of the sound; of helicopters, of boat motors, of people yelling and screaming. I looked up to the surveillance monitor, and saw police storming the yacht.

Ratsis threw Tika aside. She slumped to the floor as thought drained of energy, and he bolted out the door yelling, 'they'll not take me alive'.

An image of Ned Kelly came into my mind. It was comical. I almost laughed.

A short while later, when the police entered the room, it was almost a letdown, as Sciarra simply sat unmoving and staring straight ahead, in his throne like chair. The security guard and Damon embraced and looked sadly at each other, as they were led away, and Angie nodded her head toward me, with begrudging respect, before she too was taken away.

'Look after this one, she's alright', I said, as an officer chivvied the tottering Tika out the door. She merely gave me a look of supreme bafflement. I think the night had been too much for her.

Sciarra had to be lifted from his chair and half carried, half pushed, out the door. He could barely walk and puffed and panted as he went slowly up the stairs. He was an old and terrible man. I did not feel sorry for him.

I became aware of the sounds of many happy people, counting down to midnight, as their words rose up, and floated on the air; then, much Hip, hip hooraying, shouting and general revelry.

I became aware of John Johnson moving into my personal space and kissing me softly on the lips.

'Happy new year', he whispered.

'And to you' I said. 'And may it be a good one'.

He smiled, and then, looked puzzled and angry. 'Did you put a loaded gun under your wig, Agent Carras?

'No', I replied, 'there were no bullets in the chamber'. I smiled sweetly, he shook his head, and we returned to work.

With a cursory examination of the yacht, various unregistered weapons had been recovered and some very incriminating footage from the surveillance cameras. Tomorrow, another police outfit would move in and systematically begin dismantling the yacht, but for now, we were finished here.

I was alone with Agent Johnson.

'It took you long enough to make your presence felt', I said, drily.

'Sorry about that', he replied sheepishly, but I've pegged you as a girl who can look after herself.

'Thankyou', I said. 'And thank you for sending that chopper out to look for me, after I foolishly jumped into the sea, at Bronte - although I didn't need it.'

'You are welcome', he said, as he inclined his head.

'I generally feel that blokes are trying to smother me, and control my life. You are an interesting change', I added, smilingly.

'The thing is, I have this idea that women must help in building this world, if we want to make it a better place,' Johnson said, and then added. 'You know, that young woman, Angie, was right. A lot of women and men, come to think of it, are born with a gender straightjacket on. We are socialised to be a certain way. I mean, lots of boys are expected to be all macho, and supress women, and we are given a very narrow idea of masculinity.'

'It is the same for women', I said. 'We too are imprisoned by femininity. You know my grandmother had a maid to do her housework, and a nursemaid to look after her children. She was expected to be passive and motherly, and never say a bad word. It all changed in my mother's time, she had to clean her own house, and look after her own children. Now, we women are expected to work full time, clean our houses, and ship our children off the day care centres. And, if you question the prevalent orthodoxy, you are deemed unfeminine and probably dangerous.'

'Are you thinking about having children, Agent Carras?' spoke the voice of Sargent Tiernan, as his head appeared through the door.

'No sarg, not at the moment.'

'Good. So, can you get yourself off your feminist high horse, and back to the work?'

'There are a few other items of evidence, which need to be collected', I said, ignoring Sargent Tiernan's male dinosaur imitation.

'Go on Agent Carras, what are these items?'

'At my cousin's souvlaki shop, just down the road, there is a suitcase of money and a gun, and there is a very interesting book containing business transactions......oh! And some DVDS. These are all complements of Pasquale Scarmardo'.

Sargent Tiernan's eyes bugged out, and he added, 'I will be expecting a full report, Agent Carras. A full report.'

I merely nodded, and then said, 'I will be requesting a couple of days off, too sir, if that's OK?'

'What! More days off!'

'Sarg, I was on the run from a criminal organisation. The last few days were not exactly a holiday'.

'Well, alright, but only few days. We'll be needing you'.

\---------------------------

A few days later, I drove out to Sofala, and had lunch with Dawnie and Chook. Then I drove with Chook, on that convulsing, gravel road, to dad's old shack. We emptied dad's ashes into the bush around there, and into the Turon River.

I spoke out loud, one of dad's favourite poems called 'Last Trams', by Kenneth Slessor. Some words stayed with me, repeating in my mind, for many years to come:

Lost now in emptiness

Deep now in darkness

Dad had died five years ago, from a heart attack, and alcoholism. He hadn't really looked after himself, not for a long time, and so, his death, in a way, wasn't really a surprise. I hadn't done anything with his ashes in all that time, except keep them in an urn in my lounge room. I had thought that, perhaps, I should take the ashes back to Cyprus. But dad had left that country when he was a teenager, after the war, and his childhood home was on the Turkish occupied side now. But, since staying at the shack that night and feeling a sense of dad's presence there, whether real or imagined, I decided that this was dad's spiritual home. And here, his ashes would lie, and slowly, return to the Earth.

The following day, I went swimming at Bronte Beach, with John Johnson. The day was really hot; the sun like a ball of fire, and the sand seared our feet with burning intensity, as we hopped down toward the cool water. As we padded about near the shore, he told me all about how the Italian mama at the cemetery had saved his life. I laughed out loud.

Thanks to Pasquale Scamardo, we had plenty of dirt on the Sciarra Outfit, with his book of business transactions and DVD's showing recordings of drug deals. Scamardo didn't really trust the Sciarra Outfit, it seems. Also, both he and Angie had been pressured into an engagement, against their inclinations, because Scamardo came from a family with transport, and shipping connections. But this business had been going downhill for some time, and needed an injection of funds to survive.

In the evening, we had dinner at a little Italian restaurant. As I tasted the delicious river trout in aniseed sauce, in the restaurant run by an old school friend, I thought how the Ndrangheta and Mafia do so much harm to their own people; they make prisoners of the women, and deprive the young of choice. But the roots of their power are very deep now, requiring them to be blasted from their thieves den. But doing this, also, causes plenty of damage, to the innocent.

But that is the thing with this job: it never ends. Plato, I think it was, said: 'Only the dead have seen the end of war'. I think this applies to crime too.

Oh! And tomorrow, Agent Johnson is coming over for dinner. I think I'm going to cook an Asian stir fry. It's time to move on.

\-------------------------------------

57

