In front of Mac’s perch on the sofa, the stocky Chinese lifted his cell phone and dialled. The mumbled conversation wasn’t pleasing to Stocky: ‘Okay, so you lost them — what I want to know is, can you find them?’
Mac assumed the Chinese driver who’d waited out the front had lost the trail of the gunmen.
‘Keep looking, keep me informed,’ said Stocky, snapping the phone shut.
Voices rose from the street and the flexi-cuffs around Mac’s wrists dug in.
‘Cops are here,’ said Tall, in a Texan accent. ‘An ambulance too.’
Stocky sipped on bottled water, not dropping the stare he had on Mac.
‘How many cops?’
‘Three cars — uniforms and Ds,’ said Tall, his back flat to the wall adjacent to the window.
‘Time to go,’ said Stocky. ‘Just have to decide what we do with Mr McQueen.’
‘Leave him here,’ said the tall one. ‘See if he’s got problems talking when the local cops drag him into the basement.’
‘He’s not going to the basement,’ said Stocky. ‘He’s probably consular. Cambodians won’t touch him.’
Mac gulped; he knew that whatever or whoever these Chinese-Americans were, they had to interrogate him, kill him or let him go. Either way, they didn’t want to spend an evening talking to the police and explaining why their apartment was filled with guns. Mac hoped he represented some value alive — that the same connections Urquhart liked so much might buy his life.
As Stocky mulled it over, a cell phone trilled. Stocky looked down towards the sound coming from the sofa, then stepped forwards and pushed Mac onto his side so he could pull the pre-paid Nokia from Mac’s back pocket.
‘Number unknown,’ said Stocky, reading the screen and inclining his head towards a black briefcase on the kitchen bar. The phone kept ringing as Tall opened the briefcase and extended a thick black aerial out of it. Stocky sat beside Mac on the sofa and held the phone between their ears so they could both hear.
‘Be nice, okay, McQueen?’
Mac shrugged and Stocky hit the green button.
‘Hello,’ said Mac, croaking.
‘Hi — perhaps I have the wrong number? Who’s this?’ came a heavily accented voice. It sounded like the man who’d killed Jim Quirk.
‘No, you got precisely the right number,’ smiled Mac. ‘Why else would I be answering? Who can I say is calling?’
‘I was looking for Mr Davis. Richard Davis, of Southern Scholastic Books?’
‘He’s not here right now, Mr…?’
‘No, that’s okay,’ said the man, gentle but in control.
‘He has an answering service,’ said Mac.
A pause opened and Mac thought he heard a sigh. Then the thick accent started again but with a nasty edge. ‘Okay, my friend. Tell Mr Davis that the delivery from Saigon was not to my liking. Tell Mr Davis that he has no involvement with my business interests, but if he wishes to be involved, I will resolve that situation very quickly.’
‘Situation?’ said Mac. ‘What situation?’
‘Tell Mr Davis that when we all stick to our own business, we can all prosper — but I will not tolerate interference.’
The connection ended and Stocky looked at the display, where a blinking phone icon informed that 00.58 seconds had elapsed.
‘Shit,’ said Mac, flopping back on the sofa.
‘Get it?’ said Stocky, moving to the briefcase.
‘Yep,’ said Tall. ‘MobiTel roaming charge to VinaPhone — made the call from a cell zone called “Royal Palace”.’
Stocky made to leave. ‘Ring Eagle, let him know.’
Royal Palace was on the Tonle Sap, across town and half a dozen blocks north of the Australian Embassy. The Israelis were moving fast, but to where? Mac thought quickly about what he could do to stay in this game. Two minutes ago his every instinct had been to get away from these two, but now he wasn’t so sure.
‘Are we locked on?’ said Stocky, collecting his phone and gun from the kitchen bar and shoving them into a backpack.
Tall got off the phone to the driver. ‘We’ve got a lock but I doubt they’ll use that cell phone again.’
‘It’s in the ditch as we speak,’ said Mac, deciding to involve himself.
‘You talkin’ all of a sudden?’ said Stocky.
‘If you’re gonna catch these pricks, sure,’ said Mac.
‘No, tough guy,’ said Tall from the other side of the room. He’d closed the briefcase and was stowing his own backpack. ‘You’ll talk because you want to live.’
‘Oh really?’ said Mac, smiling now that he’d split their team. ‘So how will you explain Captain Loan’s investigation into McHugh?’
‘Captain?’ said Tall as he moved on Mac, fists clenched. ‘The fuck you talking about?’
‘See, you don’t know where the Cong An fits into this story, but I do, and I’m sure Jim here prefers me alive and talking to dead and making the maggots fat.’
Stocky held up a hand to silence his partner as he eyeballed Mac. ‘What’s your deal? And make it fast, McQueen.’
‘Get me out of here. I’m no use to you if the Cambodians get involved.’
‘And what do you get?’ said Stocky, shouldering his pack.
‘I get enough to track down the pricks who just called me,’ said Mac, hoping he could see interest in Stocky’s eyes.
Stocky looked at Tall quickly. He had a round Chinese face, with slab cheekbones and a nose that had been broken at least once. His hair was groomed to look civvie but it cried out to be military. Mac was hoping he was right and this bloke was ex-military — at least he’d understand why these Israelis had to be hunted down.
‘Your partner?’ he said, not taking his eyes off Mac. ‘He Vietnamese? Slim build, hard-on with a gun?’
Mac smiled. ‘Sounds like him. Did he make it?’
‘Don’t know,’ said Stocky. ‘I’m Sam — that’s Phil.’
‘What do you need, Sam?’ said Mac.
‘You answer one question honestly, and you’re out of here. Lie to me and I feed you to the cops, maybe plant a gun on you.’
‘Hit me,’ said Mac, wanting to speed this up.
‘Why were you following us?’
‘Actually, it was you who followed a mate of mine to the Ozzie Bar,’ said Mac, his eyes feeling like raw meat. ‘When he was run down I assumed you guys were involved — the green LandCruiser was gone but I saw you getting out of a tuc-tuc and into a Camry. We followed you to this building, someone shot at us, I got a face full of concrete. That’s it.’
Sam swapped a look with Phil.
‘Sounds about right,’ said Sam as he pulled out a pen knife and turned Mac to get at the flexi-cuffs. ‘Think you can act like a normal human long enough to walk out of here?’
‘I can shave off a few IQ points, hide the movie-star good looks,’ said Mac. ‘That what you mean?’
Sam smirked as he headed for the door, but Phil fronted Mac and gave him the look. It was the kind of gesture that if it happened in Rockhampton would have triggered a brawl. But as he slid around Phil to follow Sam into the hallway, Mac gave him a wink.
Phil now hated him, which meant he was just where Mac wanted him.
The Phnom Penh streetscape flashed past, Mac in the front passenger seat wondering how this was going to end. Phil sat in the back of the silver Mazda retrieved from the apartment building, a SIG on his lap aimed at Mac, the cell phone tracking device sitting beside him. The submachine gun was now looped over Phil’s shoulder.
The location of the mystery cell phone had frozen on Wat Phnom, a religious landmark on the river about fifteen blocks north of the last lock.
Mac needed more information. ‘So, you going to tell me who you are?’
‘Sam and Phil.’
‘Good American names,’ said Mac. ‘So tell me about these Israelis.’