Deborah Snow - Siege

First published in 2018

Copyright Deborah Snow 2018

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin

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Crows Nest NSW 2065

Australia

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ISBN 978 1 76029 693 3

eBook ISBN 978 1 76063 645 6

Cover design: Philip Campbell Design

Cover photo: Saeed Khan/Getty Images

Writing a book about the Lindt Caf siege was always going to present some unique challenges.

The first was the sheer scale of the event, which entangled hundreds of people over the seventeen hours of the siege itself and then hundreds more during the long tail of the aftermath. The saga swept up not just police officers, but paramedics, fire crews, defence personnel, intelligence agencies, politicians, their staffers, lawyers, the media, and of course the hostages themselves and their families and friends.

In piecing together a narrative from these multiple perspectives, I have relied extensively on evidence given to the inquest, police statements, exhibits and transcripts where these became part of the public record, the coroners report itself, more than fifty interviews I conducted with key players (some on the record, some off) and media reports.

I could not have written this book without the extraordinary help given to me by two of the hostages, Louisa Hope and Jarrod Morton-Hoffman. Theirs are the main voices in the narrative sections set inside the caf. Of the other surviving hostages, some gave me assistance of a background nature, others I was unable to reach in the time available, or else I received word they did not wish to re-visit the event. In those instances, I have relied on police statements, the extensive evidence they gave, and interviews they did in the months after the siege.

The experience of each of the sixteen survivors was traumatic for all of them. On some details, memories vary. I have done my best to reconcile any disparities by seeking out those descriptions and recollections where the weight of consensus among them is greatest.

A second challenge was the need to make extensive use of pseudonyms in order to comply with non-publication orders issued by the Coroners Court during the inquest. Where a police officer has been given a particular pseudonym by the coroner, I have adopted the same name as the inquest. Where the coroner relied on a job description only to shield identity, I have coined pseudonyms of my own for ease of reading. Thus, to the two senior police officers who were in charge at different times at the Forward Command Postperhaps the most critical roles on the nightI have given the code-names Lima and Victor. Some officers are able to be named because their identities were not shielded.

Monis murdered former wife was given the pseudonym Helen Lee by the courts for the protection of her children, and I have adopted that as well. Again, in line with court requirements, some people are referred to by initials only.

15 December 2014, ten days out from Christmas

A tall, thick-set man with a light beard and baseball cap, wearing a large black backpack, walks steadily through Martin Place, a broad pedestrian plaza that slices through the heart of Sydneys business district. The plaza is thronged with people on this bright Monday morning. Shoppers mingle with office workers spilling out of the twin entrances to the nearby underground railway station. There is a crackle of anticipation and urgency in the air as the city bustles to get its business done before the long summer break.

The man betrays no sign of nervousness. Nothing about him signals malign intent. A large Christmas tree softens the civic space. Long, shimmering banners, designed to reflect light and to add to the festive air, are strung at intervals along the plaza. Nothing could appear less threatening. Yet they too will come to play a role in the drama that is to come.

Its not long after 8.15 a.m. now. The man maintains his unhurried pace. He crosses several intersecting streets following the slope of Martin Place up towards the colonial-era State Parliament building which sits near the top of the rise. But that is not his destination.

One block short of the end of the plaza he reaches the Lindt Chocolate Caf, sited on the ground floor of a handsome thirteen-storey building clad in red granite and terracotta masonry. The distinctive crest of the famous Swiss chocolate-maker sits over the main entrance, its double doors set at a pleasing diagonal across the corner of Martin Place and Phillip Street. On the floors above, a warren of barristers chambers hosts some of the biggest legal names in the city.

At 8.33 a.m. the man pushes through the doors into the caf. No one gives him a second glance. Only the silent sentinel of the CCTV camera posted at the Reserve Bank across the road notes the precise moment of his entry.

He takes a seat near the front, among the early-bird lawyers and finance workers who frequent the caf at this hour, and orders tea. Then he waits.

Eight floors above, thirty-three-year-old barrister Michael Klooster has been toiling away in his office since shortly after 5 a.m. and decides he needs a caffeine hit before his first court appearance of the day. He rides the lift down to the ground floor and enters the caf via its rear entrance, a set of glass doors from the barristers foyer accessed off Martin Place.

At 9.20 a.m. he is placing his order when a heavily accented voice calls his name. Turning around, Klooster sees a tall, thick-set figure who he cant momentarily place. Then the penny drops. Its a former client, Iranian-born Man Haron Monis, looking very different to the last time Klooster saw him, when Monis had been decked out in the flowing robes and cap of an Islamic cleric.

Now the man is sporting camouflage pants, a baseball cap and a long-sleeved shirt and his once-long beard has been trimmed much closer to his chin. The chance encounter catches both by surprise.

Hi Michael, how are you going? Monis asks. I didnt know you worked here.

They discuss the family law matter Klooster handled for him some months previously, an application that Monis lost and is now appealing. Its a brief conversation. Monis invites the lawyer to join him for coffee, but Klooster begs off, saying he has to be in court in ten minutes.

The exchange is friendly enough. Nothing about his one-time clients demeanour rings any alarm bells. Klooster bids him farewell and Monis returns to the table he is now occupying, close to the lobby doors.

The decision to leave the caf and prepare for court may just have saved the barristers life.

Shortly before 9.40 a.m. Monis pushes aside the tea and chocolate cheesecake hed ordered and asks the young waitress to call over the manager.

They dont know it yet, but the eighteen staff and customers in the caf with him are caught tight in his trap. The ordeal they are about to face will test them in ways very few of us will ever have to experience. Two of them will never walk out of the caf alive.