So why, wondered Mac as the train pulled into the international airport station, did Liesl get on the phone to Jenny and allege Australian government involvement in her husband’s murder?
He wasn’t comfortable about Liesl being a loose end, even if he did like her and owed it to Ray to look after her. Emotional, grief-stricken women making phone calls about Australian complicity in double murders in a foreign country was bad enough; when they were on the right track, it could be disastrous.
As he stepped onto the platform, Mac turned for the bridge to the international terminal and breathed deeply as he walked. He had to establish if Liesl’s and Urquhart’s stories overlapped. And to do that, he would have to talk to Liesl Hu.
Waiting for his courier, Mac sat at a coffee shop on the upstairs deck of the terminal, eating a filled croissant. His seat gave him a view to the lower airside level of the large, naturally lit terminal, while also allowing him to see anyone approaching on the upper level.
At 12.15, the heavyset yet quick-walking gait of Rod Scott came into sight. He bought two Crown Lagers at the counter and moved to the table.
‘Cutting it fine,’ said Mac, whose Qantas flight left at 1.40. ‘And why’re you here? Bit below your pay grade, isn’t it?’
Sipping his beer, Scotty put his folded Courier-Mail on the table and Mac pulled it towards him and let a plain envelope slide out of it and onto his lap. Removing the Richard Davis passport, he placed it on the table with his ticket in the name of Davis.
‘I thought we should chat,’ said Scotty, removing his sunglasses and rubbing his right eye with the heel of his hand.
‘Okay,’ said Mac, not wanting the beer.
‘Mate, what was Urquhart after?’ Scotty looked around discreetly.
‘Shit, Scotty. You had someone on me?’
‘No, mate — just a routine check of the tapes in the business lounge.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Mac, catching Scotty’s guilty smirk. ‘Urquhart tried to co-opt me — reckons what happened in Singers was due to a rotten apple in the Firm.’
‘Really?’ said Scotty, brow furrowed. ‘Urquhart came out and said this?’
‘Sure,’ said Mac.
‘And you said?’
‘I told him to get fucked.’
Scotty looked confused. ‘And that was it?’
‘He gave me a card, in case I wanted to talk.’
‘Really?’ said Scotty, relaxing.
‘He wouldn’t tell me who he worked for,’ said Mac. ‘Just that it was the executive arm.’
‘Got the card?’
‘No, mate — I’m clean, remember? But I can tell you the stamp on it was a federal coat of arms.’
‘Okay, leave it with me,’ said Scotty. ‘And if he contacts you again, bring him along and let’s see what he’s on about.’
‘I’ll let him talk,’ said Mac. ‘But I’m not snitching on my own people.’
‘Oh, by the way, Macca,’ said Scotty, chugging at the beer, ‘the name is Operation Dragon, the contact protocol is standard, and your team is in place.’
‘Team?’ said Mac.
‘One asset. Local.’
‘What about Bailey?’ said Mac, who’d wanted the former navy spook.
‘Bailey’s heading up to Thailand for an APEC junket.’
‘So who’s up?’ said Mac, tasting the beer.
‘Name’s Tranh. English is passable. Has his own little IT consulting business in Saigon. He hires himself out to visiting reporters and film crews as a driving contractor.’
‘Good cover.’
‘Yep,’ said Scotty. ‘He’s also nicely connected with some of the old ARVN networks and the black markets. He can get stuff, make things happen.’
Mac looked around the concourse as a person with a Chinese name was paged. ‘Local, eh?’
‘Not that kind of local,’ said Scotty, clocking Mac’s face.
‘In Saigon,’ said Mac, ‘they’re all that kind of local.’
Chapter 9
Booking the express checkout option at Changi’s Crowne Plaza, Mac asked for a steak and chips to be sent up before taking the elevator to his fifth-floor room overlooking the drop-off aprons of T3.
After a quick shower, he changed into fresh clothes and ate most of the steak before walking into the humid evening air. The cabbie looked at him once too often, so Mac asked him to take a left exit off Pan Island where he stopped outside a large shopping mall. Paying the fare, he walked through the concourse of the shopping area and out the side exit, where he hailed another cab and asked to go to Holland Park, but this time via the East Coast Parkway.
The humidity of pre-monsoon South-East Asia created a smell of dirt and leaves as they hooked north out of the traffic and gradually got into the quieter and leafier streets. Asking to be dropped beside a pay phone, Mac alighted and stood in the booth, pretending to talk but watching the almost-dark streets for silhouettes in parked cars or headlights being switched off.
Venturing out, he walked for eight minutes, passing Singaporeans as they took their evening walks, eventually stopping outside a plain white home. It was set back from the road, guarded by a stand of bamboo and a few palm trees. Walking past Liesl’s BMW and Ray’s Toyota, Mac chuckled at the different cultures of Hong Kong and Singapore: if Ray had lived in Honkers, he’d have worn garish gold watches and driven a Bentley. In Singers, he drove a Camry and owned a house that looked almost modest from the street.
Walking softly across the paving stones, he stepped up onto the porch and rang the bell, shifting to the side of the door as he did so. Standing still, Mac rehearsed what he was going to say to Liesl, but nothing cute and insincere came to mind. He was going to wing it, look into her eyes and decide on the fastest way to the answers. If that meant getting on the turps and talking about Ray all night, he’d do it. If he had to scare her, take her immediately to the worst case, he’d do that too.
Looking through the glass side-panel beside the wooden door, Mac squinted to see if there was movement, and then pressed the doorbell again. Glancing back, he walked to Liesl’s blue BMW, put his hand on the bonnet. Cold. The Toyota too.
Walking around the side of the house, he winced as the security lights came on, revealing a double camera which looked either way down the alley. A thick, deadlocked gate blocked his passage and he grabbed the top of it, pulling himself up until he could see over. Through the kitchen window of the house next door a maid washed pots and pans while a couple of young kids in pyjamas chased each other around.
Easing over the gate to the other side, Mac caught his breath from the exertion and became aware of a new sound. Someone crying? Moving slowly down the side alley, he wished he was armed. Poking his head around the corner to a poolside area where he had cooked many barbecues and finished a few beers, Mac saw the source of the crying. The black cocker spaniel stopped his whining and stared at Mac, posing a challenge.
‘Woody!’ said Mac under his breath and the animal came to life in a squeal of joy and greeting. He released the slobbering dog from his leash and the beast sprinted down the side of the pool and darted under a tree to relieve himself.
Opening the patio ranch sliders, Mac peered into the dark house. ‘Hello!’ he said, the silence ringing in his head. ‘Liesl? You home?’
Easing into the living area, Mac listened and sniffed the air for alien aftershave or stale cigarette smoke — something to tweak him. But the front part of the house seemed empty.
As he moved across the expensive carpet, the Chagall and a Basquiat glimmered out of darkness along one wall and the huge Whiteley hung over the Santa Fe fireplace. The massive Middle Ages chess board dominated an alcove like a challenge to anyone who entered this house; Ray was an excellent chess player and the chess set he called ‘the Dominican’ was one of his most cherished possessions.