Nodding to the doorman — a squat Filipino — Mac slipped into the Saloon. It was a dark, loud pit, with a mix of the young crowd and expat businesspeople.
Moving to the busy but not crowded bar, Mac ordered a beer and looked across the auditorium, a space dressed up to look like an old French saloon. It was expensively fitted out, except that where the can-can dancers should have been were naked women of various stripes, squirming around shiny poles to a disco version of ZZ Top’s ‘Arrested for Driving While Blind’.
‘Mot Tiger, cam on,’ said Mac as the barman swaggered over and threw his vodka bottle in the air, catching it backhand. Dickhead Barman was a language spoken all over the world.
Paying with dong, Mac moved to a stand-up table near the far wall, checking for eyes. He may have been slightly ahead of himself by entering the club, but now that the Cong An was taking an interest in Quirk he wanted to push the operation along, stick his nose where it didn’t belong before the fuzz scared everyone away.
‘New wee, mister,’ said the young girl with the bag of magazines and newspapers. ‘Tine, new wee, new paper?’
Putting a day-old South China Morning Post on his table, she gave him the look and Mac sighed, pulled out some dong and gave it to her.
As the child walked away to harass a table of German tourists, Mac realised there was a mezzanine floor looking down on the main room. It looked quieter up there; if nothing else it would be a much better place from which to survey the club.
Mac stepped over the rope across the stairs and ascended into semi-darkness where the tables and chairs sat in an eerie silence compared to the noise down below. There was a disused bar, secured by a pull-down grille; there were two locked doors along the rear wall and a corridor at the end of the balcony section.
Moving to the balcony rail, Mac looked down on the pole dancers, but kept his head back.
His phone vibrated against his leg and he answered it immediately.
‘Hey, mate,’ he said to Tranh.
‘I think Apricot’s on his way,’ said Tranh, breathless. ‘A car just pulled up and they got out and walked into the club. I called as fast —’
‘They?’
‘Apricot and three others,’ said Tranh.
‘Locals?’ said Mac, sticking his head over the balcony. Below him two Euros in trop shirts pushed through the club, a third bringing up the rear. Between them, and not looking happy, was Jim Quirk.
‘Okay, mate,’ said Mac, ‘I see ’em. Keep the lines open and bring the bike to the front.’
Ringing off, he watched the leader — a burly, bald guy with a red shirt — unhitch the rope on the stairs and wave the rest of them through.
Pulling back into the shadows, Mac found a dark alcove and decided to observe. He didn’t want to go back to Scotty and admit he’d blown the operation because he’d been blueing in a strip club in Chinatown. Besides, he wasn’t armed, and the way those trop shirts were hanging he figured Quirk’s friends were.
Spilling into the mezzanine area just ten metres away, the two thugs pushed Quirk against the wall and stood around him, hands on hips. Quirk, still in his suit, was a mess; it looked like he’d been crying.
Approaching the group, the man in the red shirt walked up and kneed Quirk in the balls, grabbing a handful of hair as the Australian bent double.
‘We were just starting to make friends, eh, Jimbo?’ said Red Shirt in an accent that may have been Turkish or Bulgarian. ‘And now, you make me very angry.’
‘I’ve done what you wanted,’ said Jim, purple in the face.
‘No, Jimbo,’ said Red Shirt, as he nodded his head at a henchman. ‘I don’t care about the codes — the deal wasn’t the codes, the deal was access.’
One of the henchmen peeled away from the group, unlocked a door and walked through, light spilling out.
‘So, Jimbo,’ continued Red Shirt. ‘We’re going back to the computer, and we’ll start again, and then everyone’s happy. Okay?’
As they moved towards the open door, Mac’s heart pumped in his neck. He’d heard enough. Quirk was selling something — codes, access, whatever — to foreign nationals, and if he could extract the traitor from this mess, the Firm could take it from there, do the debriefs and the prosecutions. But right now he couldn’t just stand by and let a bunch of Turks slap an Aussie consular official. It didn’t work that way for Mac.
Red Shirt slapped at his trouser pocket and gabbled something in a foreign language to the henchman in the white trop shirt. Mac knew that language but couldn’t place it. Not Turkish… perhaps Hungarian?
The henchie took off for the stairs and vaulted down them. Stealthing back to the balcony, Mac watched him stride out of the club. Forty seconds later, he was walking back into the Mekong Saloon, jiggling something in his hand and making straight for the mezzanine stairs.
Red Shirt had disappeared into the room with Quirk and the door had almost swung shut. Moving to the head of the stairs, Mac ducked down and waited for the footfalls to reach the top. As the white shirt rose above the banister wall, Mac powered off his right leg and threw a fast right-hand uppercut. He caught the thug on the right jaw rather than the point of the chin and the victim staggered backwards but not off his feet. Throwing a left elbow into the bloke’s temple, Mac followed it with a straight right in his teeth which sent the man into the wall, spraying the white shirt with blood.
Using the wall for balance, the man stood straight and kicked Mac in the groin as he reached back for his handgun. Doubled over with the kick, Mac managed to keep the momentum going forwards and launched himself into a basic finger-strike to the eyes. As the man’s hands came up to his face in a reflex action, Mac threw a hand hold under the bloke’s chin and swept with his left leg, slamming the thug to the ground and smashing his head into the carpet.
Mac pushed the thug’s jaw to one side and struck him hard with a carotid punch to the neck. Watching the man’s eyelids flutter and his eyes roll back, Mac shoved his hand under the trop shirt and pulled out a matt-black SIG Sauer handgun.
Checking for load and safety, Mac dropped the clip into his hand and saw it wasn’t full — four, maybe five rounds remaining. As he heaved for breath in the semi-darkness, the voice of Red Shirt echoed out into the mezzanine — Mac’s victim was being called.
Moving along the wall, Mac tried to work his chest to control his breathing. He was nervous and sparking with adrenaline, and he made himself do what they used to tell them in the Royal Marines Commandos: if you couldn’t control anything else in your environment, at least control your breathing.
Gulping as he got to the doorway, he took a deep diaphragm breath and eased around the corner, squinting slightly into the fluorescent light. Holding the gun cup-and-saucer, he pushed on the door and as it swung back he arced back and forth, waiting for the shot opportunity. But it wasn’t a room. He was looking down a corridor, with a security door at the end.
‘Shit!’ he said, standing back a half pace and checking on the thug in the white shirt: still dazed.
Looking down the hallway again, Mac saw a potential trap. He saw bad odds, he saw zero element of surprise, he saw a situation that gave his wife the right to say, You said no more field work!
Mac’s breathing had slowed to normal but his pulse thumped in his temples as he moved down the corridor as fast as he could without running. The gun’s hatched grip swimming in his hand, he checked on the door — it was locked.
Tapping on it with the SIG, he mumbled a generically male series of monosyllables and stood back, holding the weapon against his thigh. Watching the handle move down until it clicked, Mac took two steps forwards and brought his foot up parallel to the ground in a hard kick, sending his hundred and five kilos into a small point above the lock.