‘Okay, Davo,’ said Mac. ‘So long as it’s in writing, it’s a loop of two.’
‘You think you can take orders from me?’ said Urquhart.
‘As long as you don’t put me in danger.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Urquhart.
‘Oh,’ said Mac, ‘and Tranh comes with the deal.’
‘The local bloke?’
‘Yeah — he was promised two weeks’ work and he shouldn’t have to scratch-and-feed with DFAT accounts just to get a cheque.’
‘I thought we’d use Lance,’ said Urquhart. ‘He can do everything whatsisname is doing, and he’s TS-PV.’
‘No one can do what Tranh does,’ said Mac. ‘And by the way, Lance probably needs some work on his craft, and that’ll be my call.’
‘Okay, Macca — that’s your call, but you report to me,’ said Urquhart, his eyes burning with resentment. ‘Got a number?’
Reading out his mobile number, Mac made to go.
‘Where will you be?’ said Urquhart.
‘Don’t know,’ said Mac. ‘But it’ll have a big screen, the Wallabies will be playing and they’ll serve Bundy without adding too much ice.’
Urquhart stood aside as he brushed past.
‘Just tell me, Macca: why were you in her apartment?’
‘Simple,’ said Mac. ‘Cong An have fitted me for the murder.’
Chapter 20
Lance was watching TV again as Mac sauntered out of his office. The corty was killing the pain in his knee but it still felt unstable. On the screen, another Australian mining negotiator was being led into a Chinese courtroom with his wrists cuffed under a jacket, the Asian media going into a frenzy of flash photography and screamed questions as the accused was marched past.
‘For such a closed society, the Chinese love a photo opportunity, eh, Lance?’ Mac eased himself onto the neighbouring sofa as Lance hit the mute.
‘Yeah, it’s a circus up there,’ said Lance, some rounded vowels creeping through his street pretensions. ‘Do they really think they’ll control Aussie ore prices by bullying our mining guys?’
‘So long as our mining guys have Asian faces and Chinese names, they think they can get away with it,’ said Mac.
Lance turned to look at Mac. ‘You reckon?’
‘Yeah, I reckon,’ said Mac, as Urquhart closed the office door. ‘So, Lance, you with the Firm?’
‘Currently,’ said Lance, a glint of an earring sparkling under his rock-star hair. ‘I’ve been on a series of attachments.’
‘Attachments, eh?’ said Mac.
Aussie intelligence had a mutual-attachments system between the Firm, federal police, ASIO, the defence intel departments and the executive arms of Prime Minister & Cabinet and Attorney-General’s. People were always being attached for what the HR people called ‘skills transfer’; it helped agency inter-operability when the pressure went on. But attachés always had a home tribe and Mac wanted to know who Mr Kendrick was gossiping to when he was having a few quiet beers.
‘So how’s Jase, in Bangers?’ said Mac, to see if Lance had been at the Bangkok embassy long enough to know the declared ASIS guy, Jason Tremain.
Lance shrugged. ‘It was a fast assignment in Bangers — I’ve been in Jakarta for a while, working with the Feds.’
‘Not the CI training thing?’ asked Mac, referring to the AFP’s counter-intelligence training program.
‘No. Broader issues.’
Mac decided to drop it. ‘Well, talking of broader issues, you’ve probably had some craft training, right? Learned how to make a stranger go into the street and wave a shopping bag around like a goose?’
‘Yep,’ said Lance.
‘But you haven’t done any live field work, have you?’
Lance looked away. ‘Well…’
‘Relax, mate — I had a first time too.’
‘Okay,’ said Kendrick. ‘What do I do?’
‘See Tranh over there?’ said Mac.
‘Yeah.’
‘What do you notice about Tranh?’
Turning down his mouth, Lance shook his head. ‘Nothing really — looks fairly typical for South-East Asia.’
‘Good answer,’ said Mac, standing and walking over to Tranh, digging out a sheaf of dong. ‘Tranh’s going to take you down to his favourite market, find you a barber, get you a shave and get you kitted in something a little less Guns N’ Roses.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ said Lance. ‘You’re not my mother.’
‘No, champion,’ said Mac, handing the cash to Tranh with a wink. ‘But if I were my mother, I’d be reaching for the jug cord you keep talking like that.’
‘Okay, okay,’ said Lance. ‘Let’s go shopping.’
‘Oh, by the way,’ said Mac, as Tranh pulled out his van keys, ‘you got a safe in your room, right?’
‘Yeah, I think so — why?’
‘Somewhere to leave that earring, okay?’
Ordering the ginger duck and rice, Mac sat in the rear of the tiny restaurant and watched the street traffic move along Dam Street in the lee of Sunwah Tower. He wanted to return Benny’s call but he needed time to think first.
Opening the esky on the floor beside the counter, the owner pulled out a bottle of Saigon bia, tore the top off it and dumped it on the table with a tiny glass. Vietnam’s beer was a similar style and temperature to Queensland’s: a cold, light drink to have with lunch.
Sipping, Mac felt the heat rolling in waves off the street and thought about what he might salvage from this operation. The only thing that could be done for Quirk’s family was catching the shooter and getting him into a courtroom. And that wouldn’t happen if Mac sat around in Canberra for a week retelling his story to a bunch of back-seat drivers.
Dave Urquhart’s hands-on involvement was strange. His old friend had made a commitment to his corporate ambitions long ago, and in Canberra the only way to the top was by staying in the office and never getting your hands dirty. The idea of Urquhart venturing into the field was about as natural as a politician standing back and letting someone else take the credit.
Urquhart was known as the silent guy sitting at the back of the interagency meetings, jotting in his notebook. When he was assigned to ONA, he seemed to spend most of his time in the PM’s office; when he was officially in the PM’s office, he was seen lunching with DGs from ASIS and ASIO. He was one of those rare operators who gave both cops and spooks the creeps, while makings politicians feel comfortable and relaxed.
Now Urquhart was in Saigon as soon as Quirk was killed. Mac had made the Quirk connection merely as a last-gasp attempt to stay assigned in Saigon. It was only a guess, but Urquhart hadn’t disputed it.
Mac decided he had to be carefuclass="underline" when a snake like Urquhart ventured into the light, someone was going to get hurt, and Mac wondered if he shouldn’t demand a consular passport and the legal protection of a declared position under Chester.
The phone rang and Mac hit the green button as his duck arrived. Urquhart, wanting to know where he was.
Seven minutes later, Dave Urquhart staggered into the open front of the restaurant and asked for water.
‘Shit, it’s hot,’ he said, gasping and seating himself at the table, his waxy pallor dripping.
‘Yep, and when it breaks it’ll be like someone poured a bucket out of the sky,’ said Mac.
‘You’re back in,’ said Urquhart, examining Mac’s lunch as the owner brought a bottle of European water and two glasses.
Mac paused as he raised his fork. ‘Who with?’
‘Let’s just say PMC,’ said Urquhart. The operation was for the Department of Prime Minister and Cabinet.
‘Let’s just say that’s a bit vague,’ said Mac.
‘It’s via the AG’s — there’s a letter sitting in the safe,’ said Urquhart. ‘And there’s a letter of attachment from Tobin in your secure email.’