Double Back (18 page)

Mac ran up the front steps of Arafura Imports in central Darwin, and entered the reception area, pushing up his sunglasses.

‘Just in time for your new phone, Mr Davis,’ said Sally the receptionist, pushing a brown box across the counter. The Arafura Imports office on Cavanagh Street was a corporate front for Australian SIS, and Sally sometimes found herself working as a stewardess in Qantas first class or as a concierge in the Marriott group.

‘Suppose a nine-mill is out of the question?’ joked Mac, as he signed the receipt docket.

Sally found a spare mug, poured Mac a coffee and escorted him through two PIN-enabled security doors and into one of the meeting rooms, where Tony Davidson sat at a conference table, phone to his ear.

Putting his coffee and bags down, Mac took a seat on the other side of the table and listened to his boss make placatory sounds to a desk-jockey. As the phone hit its cradle, Davidson stood to his bearish six foot five and extended a paw.

‘Macca,’ he said with a smile. ‘Didn’t your mother tell you to stay out of fights?’

Shaking his boss’s hand, Mac smiled back and said his hellos. His face was still a mess: two black eyes, a fat lip and a big lumpy shiner on his left cheekbone. Whatever disagreements Mac had with Bongo’s operating style, he now had total empathy with the Filipino’s need for payback – Bongo could have Benni Sudarto, Mac would take Amir.

‘Larrakeyah okay?’ asked Davidson, taking off his suit jacket and hanging it on the back of the door. ‘No one playing at nosey-buggers?’

‘No, it seems fine – but if you want me staying five-star, I’m game,’ said Mac. ‘Sheraton will do.’

Starting with a brief story of the East Timor mission and its dual goals – Blackbird and Boa – Mac included Bongo’s role as subtly as he could, although it still elicited a wince from Davidson.

‘Shit, Macca – Morales is a hit man, isn’t he?’

‘He was also at the meet where we lost the Canadian and Blackbird,’ said Mac. ‘I wanted him to brief me, and, well we came to an arrangement and he rode security for me.’

‘Okay,’ said Davidson, a little annoyed.

Answering some basic questions about the operation, Mac went over the meetings in Dili, describing how the Indonesian military-commercial establishment was still operating as if they expected no political change in East Timor. Then Mac told of being invited to the Lombok facility in Bobonaro district and being asked to do some procuring for Major-General Damajat, the man who appeared to be running the show. Putting the vial from Damajat’s office on the desk, Mac disclosed where he’d stolen it from.

‘It might be nothing,’ said Mac, nodding at the vial. ‘He says it’s about re-engineering a disease in order to cure it. But their procurement is covert and I’m fairly certain the Canadian was doing this job before me.’

‘Sydney’ll take too long – be faster to get it analysed by the Americans in Denpasar,’ said Davidson, poking at the clear vial which contained a tobacco-coloured liquid. ‘So, you’re in his office and Damajat thinks you’re the Canadian’s replacement – but then the Sudartos make you?’

‘Yeah – I’m Damajat’s best buddy, and then I get jumped by Amir Sudarto and a couple of Kopassus intel goons.’

‘So, a possible schism in the Indonesian military?’ said Davidson, making a small note in his ever-present detective’s pad. ‘Sudartos and Damajat not working to the same agenda?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Mac.

‘What about this death camp?’

‘Between a hundred and a hundred and thirty bodies, all ages and genders, all dead,’ said Mac, pausing as he remembered the sight. ‘Actually, one girl was still alive – Falintil rescued her.’

‘Were they shot?’ asked Davidson.

‘Poison, probably.’

‘Official?’ asked Davidson. ‘A military operation?’

‘Kopassus, for sure,’ said Mac. ‘I had an eyewitness account, third party. Joao – the Falintil leader – told me that a bloke called Antonio who had defected from the 1635 Regiment, was -’

‘That’s the locals’ regiment?’

‘That’s them,’ said Mac. ‘This Antonio drove an army truck in Bobonaro district and he said that he’d delivered supplies to this secret camp up in the hills behind Memo.’

‘On the border.’

‘Correct.’

‘I agree – Memo sounds like a death camp of some sort,’ said Davidson, mulling on it. ‘But what sort of supplies do you take to a death camp?’

‘Don’t know,’ admitted Mac. ‘But probably not food.’

For the next hour, Mac worked with Davidson to integrate some of the stranger revelations of the operation into a cohesive narrative.

‘The first problem came with Rahmid Ali.’

‘The guy from the President’s office?’ asked Davidson.

‘Yeah,’ said Mac, wondering how much credence to give the Indonesian spy who had ambushed him at Santa Cruz cemetery.

‘You believe he was there on the President’s authority?’ said Davidson.

‘He seemed genuine, and I got his sat phone to see who he’s been calling,’ said Mac, pointing to the pile of evidence he’d brought back from Dili.

Leaning forward, Davidson pushed a button on the desk phone and asked Sally to come through.

‘So what do you think he wanted?’ asked Davidson.

‘He wanted me to take that,’ he said, pointing at the English translation of Operation Extermination that Davidson held in his hands, ‘and he wanted it to be taken up by Aussie intel and military.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Habibie’s isolated and he needs Canberra to be kicking up a fuss about the Indonesian Army in East Timor, not going along with the generals.’

There was a knock at the door and Sally entered.

‘Get me the full logs on this phone, okay, Sal?’ said Davidson.

‘Sure, boss,’ she said, smiling at Mac as she took the phone.

‘And I need it asap.’

After she closed the door, Mac continued. ‘Revealing something like Operation Extermination could weaken the generals, but only if there’s international outrage.’

‘And if Habibie sticks his neck out too far in Jakarta, he gets it chopped, right?’ asked Davidson.

‘Yep,’ said Mac. ‘He’s trying to take the Republic into a democratic era but he doesn’t have a military power base. The military is also worried about the DPI gaining too much popularity post-Soeharto,’ said Mac, referring to the left-wing political party headed by Megawati Sukarnoputri.

‘Okay,’ said Davidson, weighing the documents and staring at Mac over the top of his reading glasses. ‘Let’s say Operation Extermination is real and there’s a deportation project planned for East Timor – what’s this false-flag thing that Ali was talking about? What do you make of that?’

‘Ali said the real campaign that was hidden behind Operation Extermination was called Operasi Boa,’ said Mac.

‘We know about that, right?’ said Davidson, flipping back through his notebook.

‘It was one of my targets in Masquerade,’ said Mac. ‘The meaning of Operasi Boa was what the Canadian was supposed to establish at his final meeting with Blackbird.’

‘Of course,’ said Davidson. ‘And?’

‘Well, then Bongo took him out – he thought I was being threatened.’

‘So let’s get it straight,’ said Davidson, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands behind his head. ‘The President’s office signs off on orders from the general staff. Those orders are Operation Extermination, a depopulation program for post-ballot East Timor. But the President’s office has a spy among the generals who reveals there’s something much worse hidden behind Extermination – it’s called Operasi Boa and we have no idea what it might be?’

‘That’s where we’re up to,’ said Mac.

‘I suppose it comes back to Ali’s credibility, and he’s not totally the good guy,’ said Davidson, reaching for his coffee, ‘because you found a corpse in his car, right?’

‘The Korean – Lee Wa Dae,’ said Mac, spelling the name.

‘Who is?’ asked Davidson, jotting a note.

‘I thought he was just a rude Korean businessman – he was staying at the Turismo. But in Ali’s bag there was a bunch of telephotos, two of them featuring Lee Wa Dae meeting with Bill Yarrow,’ said Mac as he handed over the manila envelope.

‘Yarrow’s our Canadian, right?’ said Davidson, pulling the eight-by-fives out of the envelope and going through them.

‘That’s him,’ said Mac, craving another coffee.

Pausing and looking back and forth between two of the telephotos, Davidson’s forehead creased.

‘Saigon?!’ he said. ‘What the fuck is our Canadian doing in Saigon with this Korean prick?’

‘That’s what I wanted to talk about, Tony,’ said Mac, pushing the black Adidas bag across the table. Pulling out one of the cash-cushions, Davidson held the US dollars in front of him and looked down at the logo on the bag. ‘We know what this says?’

‘Vacation Palace Hotel and Casino, Poi Pet.’

‘Oh really?’ spat Davidson, throwing the cash on the conference table and looking at the ceiling. ‘Poi Pet! That’s great, that really is.’

The Vacation Palace was a Cambodian money-laundering operation run by the North Korean generals. Their heroin money came back from the United States, Canada, Australia and France and was exchanged for chips in their own casinos. Having been laundered, the subsequent US dollars paid out by the cashiers were used to buy real estate, gold and businesses all over the world.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ whispered Davidson, reaching for the phone and dialling.

‘Judy,’ he said into the phone, ‘I need a priority work-up on Lee Wa Dae – Korean or North Korean – and I need it yesterday, okay?’

As he spelled the name Mac could imagine Judy Hyams scrawling on her notebook, putting her ego aside to deal with Davidson’s demands. A part-time lecturer at the Australian National University and a full-time head of research at ASIS, Judy suffered Davidson’s demands in a way that women weren’t supposed to in the 1990s. Still, she always got the leave she wanted and Davidson religiously remembered her birthday.

‘Thanks, Jude…’ he barked, but didn’t put the phone down.

‘We do?’ said Davidson, addressing the phone with a new tone in his voice. ‘Let’s have it.’

He listened and then, putting the phone down, took off his glasses and massaged his eyeballs with his left hand.

‘Lee Wa Dae is known to us, apparently,’ he said, peering out from now-bleary eyes.

‘Who is he?’ asked Mac, troubled by Davidson’s demeanour.

‘He’s a bag man for the North Korean Army’s drug business.’

The doors to the gents flapped and Davidson was back in the public bar of the Victoria Hotel. Outside, tourists meandered along Smith Street mall in the tropical heat.

‘So I guess I don’t need to say this, Macca,’ said Davidson, checking his watch. ‘But when you debrief with Atkins, why don’t we leave out the Rahmid Ali involvement? For the time being, eh?’

‘You mean that the President’s office tried to speak to me direct?’

‘Yes, that,’ said Davidson, looking around the pub. ‘I’m thinking there might be another way to move on this. I’ll tell him about it later, when we’ve explored it.’

‘Another way?’ said Mac.

‘Trust me – do your meeting with Atkins in Denpasar.’

‘What if he takes it, tries to write it himself?’ said Mac.

‘Do nothing, Macca, just call me,’ growled Davidson. ‘If Atkins really wants to step up a weight division, then it’ll be me writing the CX, okay?’

‘Okay, Tony. But…’ started Mac, before trailing off.

‘Get your phone charged and call me as soon as you’ve looked at Rahmid’s phone logs,’ said Davidson. And then he was out of the air-conditioning and into a cab parked at the kerb.

Sipping on the remains of his beer, Mac thought about his evening flight to Denpasar and what awaited him there. Martin Atkins would be uncomfortable with too much intelligence that slandered the Indonesian military and possibly messed with his own corporate advancement plan. Mac would have to be particularly careful about the Canadian: Bill Yarrow was connected with Atkins and any bad news about the Canadian’s true loyalties would have the potential to hurt Atkins’ career. If that looked likely, Atkins would do what all good office guys did: blame the field guy.

The tail didn’t stay hidden and didn’t make any of the standard gestures that would blend him into the streetscape: no magazines or newspapers, no caps pulled down over dark glasses, no ostentatious tourist maps. Judging by the chinos, polo shirt and Annapolis ring, he was American, and as Mac left the Victoria the tail simply rose from the park bench and followed.

Keeping a normal pace, Mac walked through the afternoon sunshine of Darwin, down Smith Street towards the Civic Centre and then around in a loop past Parliament until he was walking northwest down Mitchell Street through all the tourists and backpackers. The crowds gave him a chance to think about what was going on. Was the tail a remnant of the East Timor operation – had Jessica debriefed with the Defense Intelligence Agency and inadvertently made Mac more interesting than he wanted to be? Or was this tail the CIA, tailing an Aussie in Darwin?

Whatever species of Yank it was, it was a tad fucking cheeky.

It was also inconvenient. Sally had him on the 11 pm flight into Denpasar, and he’d wanted to catch a bite to eat with Jessica before heading for the airport. Cloak-and-dagger didn’t fit into the schedule.

Mac dived into a backpacker’s hostel built around an arcade and sped up, shooting through the cool alley lined with shops and tour-booking agencies, coming out the other end. Walking across the car park behind the arcade, Mac checked the tail in a van window’s reflection – he was still coming.

Crossing the Esplanade, Mac scoped plenty of joggers, mothers pushing prams and tourists strolling under the trees at Bicentennial Park. Lacking a firearm, he wanted some kind of disincentive to someone pulling a gun.

All of the park benches faced away from the street, over the Timor Sea, which was starting to chop up with the afternoon breeze. So Mac walked to the wall around the naval gun, leaned against it facing the Esplanade and waited, his hand tucked down in the small of his back to intimate that he was armed.

The American slowed but kept coming. Mac had him as six-one, late thirties, former athlete, probably tennis.

His heart beating up in his throat, Mac stiffened as the tail got to twenty metres away, stopped and put his open palms out sideways. It was the first time he’d seen the bloke without a black baseball cap.

Exhaling, Mac brought his hand out and showed his own empty palm.

‘Wouldn’t usually do this, McQueen,’ came the educated American voice.

‘Man’s gotta do,’ replied Mac. ‘How you been, Jim?’

They strolled south along the pathways of the park, then walked around Parliament and the Supreme Court building. Mac was always on edge with another intelligence outfit, even with Australia’s other intelligence agencies. When they first trained intelligence officers, the firm gave lessons on cellular information sharing, conducting exercises showing how easily those cells could be broken, secrets compromised and human lives with them. But Mac’s relationship with the Pentagon’s DIA had always been cordial.

‘Notwithstanding my charismatic personality and good looks, Jim,’ said Mac as they stopped and sat down at a park bench overlooking Frances Bay, ‘what the fuck do you want?’

Laughing, Jim pulled a soft pack from his chinos and lit a smoke. ‘Thought we might do an old-fashioned swap.’

‘Intel?’ asked Mac.

‘Sure,’ shrugged Jim, ‘’less you got the Aussie version of Cameron Diaz.’

‘Okay, wise guy,’ said Mac. ‘Shoot.’

‘Someone told me you’d infiltrated Lombok AgriCorp, had eyes in Damajat’s office?’

‘Nice story, Jim.’

‘Interesting place they got up there,’ said Jim, sucking on the smoke.

‘Lots to think about.’

‘I said to a colleague of mine that if McQueen actually got in there – if he managed to get into Damajat’s office – then I’d bet twenty to one that he came out with a little souvenir.’

‘Jim – I need you as my PR man,’ said Mac. ‘What do you want, mate?’

Pausing, Jim flicked the cigarette. ‘If you got a sample from Lombok – anything, man – then we need to take a look. It’s important – maybe urgent.’

‘And I get?’

‘You name it. I’m assuming we have the same interests in East Timor.’

‘Okay,’ said Mac, looking at his watch – he wasn’t going to miss his date with Jessica. ‘Tell me – what’s Lee Wa Dae doing in Timor? He’s from the North Korean general staff, isn’t he?’

Running his hands down his thighs, Jim looked away. ‘Well, that’s fairly advanced, McQueen.’

‘What did you think I was doing in Timor?’

‘Looking for your Canadian friend and getting to know Bongo Morales a little better.’

‘Well?’

‘Shit, McQueen – I thought you’d want to know about Yarrow.’

‘And Maria Gersao.’

‘We’ve heard that Bill Yarrow was at the Kota Baru barracks in Baucau,’ said Jim.

‘That’s a Kopassus base, isn’t it?’ said Mac, his hope of finding the Canadian fading fast.

‘Sure is, McQueen – so don’t go getting that girl’s hopes up, I don’t care how pretty she is.’

‘Me?!’ spat Mac. ‘I’m not the one giving her a bodyguard, encouraging her to go wandering around the hills of East Timor!’

‘Yeah, well, you know how it is, McQueen,’ shrugged Jim. ‘It wasn’t planned that way.’

‘And Maria?’ asked Mac.

‘The local girl you’re running?’

‘Worked at army HQ,’ said Mac.

‘I’ll let you know if I know, okay?’

‘Okay, Jim.’

Mac thought about throwing the Canadian’s ‘Tupelo’ query into the mix, but decided to clear it with Atkins first.

‘So – the samples?’ asked Jim.

‘In a consular pouch to Denpasar.’

‘To us?’

‘Yep – the Defense Department lab will do ’em faster than Sydney.’

‘Great,’ said Jim, relaxing visibly. ‘I won’t cut you out, by the way.’

‘From your reaction to my mention of Lee Wa Dae, I’m assuming there’s more to discuss,’ said Mac.

‘What do you know about him?’ asked Jim, looking out to sea.

‘Right now, probably a lot more than your mob,’ countered Mac. ‘But officially, he handles the finance side of the North Korean heroin rackets.’

Jim chewed his lip. ‘You around? Not running off?’

‘I’m around, mate,’ lied Mac.

‘Good,’ said Jim, slapping Mac on the shoulder as he stood. ‘Then maybe we’ll talk again, huh?’

Opting for an outdoor table at a modern Japanese restaurant, Mac and Jessica watched the crowds go by on Mitchell Street. Busying himself with the wine list, Mac let Jessica run the food side of the equation.

‘I’m sorry I dragged you into this, Richard,’ said Jessica after the waiter had poured her glass. ‘I had no idea what I was doing.’

‘Seem to be doing okay,’ said Mac. ‘Sounds like you can handle a gun.’

‘I’m a farm girl – trucks and tractors are no problem, either,’ she said. ‘I was just annoyed with my government for letting my dad disappear without making any attempt to find him.’

‘Maybe they were?’ asked Mac, unobtrusively clocking every set of eyes in the pedestrian traffic.

‘Well, maybe,’ she shrugged. ‘But if that American – Jim – hadn’t hooked me up with Manny, I wouldn’t have lasted long.’

‘What about your mother? Brothers or sisters?’ asked Mac. ‘They pitching in?’

‘Only child… and Mum hates Dad,’ she said, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘They divorced when I was fourteen, and even though our comfortable life ran on his money, she made it hard to know him.’

‘Handy dad for a place like UCLA,’ said Mac. ‘It’s not cheap.’

‘Actually,’ she said, fixing him with a stare, ‘Dad pays my fees and accommodation – I work for everything else.’

‘Really?’ asked Mac. ‘You work?’

Sighing at him, she crossed her tanned arms. ‘Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays at a campus bookstore, and I do telemarketing for a company in Century City. And there’s no end in sight now I’m in the School of Law.’

‘Okay,’ said Mac, surrendering.

‘Oh, and you might have noticed – I buy my own drinks.’

‘Amen to that,’ said Mac, raising his glass.

‘Dinner doesn’t count,’ said Jessica, clinking glasses and giggling. ‘I’m independent, but I don’t go Dutch.’

Jessica made a production of ordering the dishes, but without losing her sense of humour. And as she handed the menu to the bowing waitress, she fixed Mac with a grin.

‘So, Richard – how does a man trying to find sandalwood opportunities end up driving around with someone like Manny Alvarez?’

‘Same as you,’ said Mac, as light as he could. ‘You stay in hotels like the Turismo often enough, then you meet people like Manny. If you find them useful to travel with, you make a friendship, come to an arrangement.’

Sipping at the excellent New Zealand sauvignon blanc, Mac wished Jessica would get off the occupational line. He lived his work and there were times when he just wanted to enjoy the wine, appreciate the company and not have to do the dance of the seven veils.

‘You know, Jessica, I’ve been wondering about you.’

‘That’s a good start,’ she said.

‘Well, actually – you’re probably sick of talking about you,’ said Mac, smiling.

‘Oh, you bastard!’ she shrieked, but finding it funny. ‘That’s not fair.’

‘I was wondering why you don’t have a boyfriend? I mean, you’re -’

‘You mean, am I a psycho?’

‘It had occurred to me,’ said Mac.

‘Ha!’ she laughed, looking around. ‘I had a boyfriend. Wayne.’

‘Can he still chew food?’ asked Mac.

‘Very funny, Mr Richard!’

‘Social issue?’ Mac asked.

‘Like?’

‘Like at fifty-seven, why’s Wayne living with Mum?’

Jessica chuckled and then lowered her voice. ‘Actually, when men say they like a smart girl, they don’t always mean it.’

‘What happened?’

‘Undergraduate was fine – making law school was a bridge too far for a man just starting his career as a junior marketing manager.’

‘So?’ asked Mac.

‘We were dating. I got accepted. We broke up. The end,’ she said, shrugging but sad.

Sipping in silence, they avoided one another’s eyes until Jessica put her hand across the table and grasped Mac’s forearm.

Opening her mouth to speak, nothing came out.

‘Yes?’ said Mac.

‘Umm – nothing,’ said Jessica, releasing her grip and sitting back. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’

Standing beside the taxi as it idled outside the officer apartments, Mac was torn. He could get in the cab, do the Harold Holt and go to Darwin airport, or he could try to make amends with Jessica. Perhaps say a proper goodbye. The past few days had been emotional for both of them, worsened by his reticence about starting a relationship with a girl who didn’t even know his real name. If they’d met while he was visiting his folks in Rockhampton, he’d have been plain old Alan McQueen. But, short of marrying her – not on the cards at this stage of his career – Mac was not going to reveal his true identity. There was no statute of limitations on the kind of anger he’d engendered in his professional life. His only protection was hiding his identity, an advantage ruined once you revealed it to a civilian woman.

But there was one conversation he could have with her, if he could convince himself that it wouldn’t ruin his other objectives.

‘Shit!’ he said to himself finally, and asked the driver to hold for a minute.

Knocking on Jessica’s door, he was edgy, even if he hadn’t worked out what he was going to say.

‘Go away,’ came Jessica’s muffled voice from behind the door.

‘Look, Jessica,’ he whispered, not wanting half the base to come out and ask him what was up. ‘I’m sorry about the flight, okay?’

‘Oh piss off!’ came the response.

‘It was the only flight to Denpasar, and my company booked me on it – I’m sorry,’ said Mac, trying not to yell.

‘Sorry?!’ she said, the door opening with a flourish. ‘You take me to dinner, and take me to bed, and then as an afterthought you tell me you’re flying out tonight?’

‘Can we keep it down?’ asked Mac, looking around. ‘People are trying to sleep.’

‘It’s ten past nine,’ said Jessica, and Mac could see her eyes were puffy. ‘I wanted to spend time with you, Richard – I can’t do this on my own.’

‘I know,’ said Mac, putting his arms around her.

‘I’m scared,’ she sobbed into his neck. ‘Really scared.’

Over Jessica’s shoulder, Mac saw Gillian Baddely emerge from an apartment, give him a nasty look and shake her head.

‘I have a plane to catch,’ mumbled Mac, and pushing himself away he headed for the cab, trying to put Jessica’s sobs out of his mind.