Mac rubbed his chin. ‘Bongo?’
‘The one and only.’
‘And Pryce knows about Bongo?’
‘He knows that Bongo’s a friend of yours,’ said Scotty. ‘And he wasn’t saying it like it was a good thing, either.’
‘That was two weeks in Timor, a lifetime ago,’ said Mac, feeling cornered. ‘I needed protection —’
‘Settle, mate, settle,’ said Scotty. ‘I told Pryce that Bongo had been employed by the Firm for security services — and besides, for an officer’s safety we don’t divulge details of joint ventures with foreign nationals.’
‘How did that go down?’
‘Tobin backed me and Pryce didn’t push,’ said Scotty.
‘And the DG?’ said Mac, wondering where the head of Aussie SIS stood.
‘Our esteemed leader felt it better that he sit that one out,’ said Scotty.
‘He shafted me?’
‘He supported you covertly,’ said Scotty. ‘Look, whoever briefed Pryce warned him that Bongo is political poison. That’s all Pryce had to hear and he was flipping out.’
‘Shit,’ said Mac. ‘Don’t tell me what I think you’re going to tell me.’
‘It wasn’t my idea, Macca,’ said Scotty, a boarding announcement echoing. ‘And it wasn’t Tobin’s either.’
Disgust rose in Mac’s throat. ‘We’re going to beat Bongo to McHugh?’
‘Finding her can’t be that hard,’ said Scotty.
‘Finding Geraldine McHugh is the least of our worries,’ said Mac. ‘Getting in Bongo’s way is the problem.’
Using the calling card, Mac phoned a business in south Jakarta called the Bavaria Lagerhaus — a bar and restaurant in the consular precinct of Jakarta, owned by a Suharto-era intelligence bigwig named Saba.
Saba had safe-deposit boxes in his storeroom where soldiers, spies and mercenaries kept their spare passports and emergency stashes. He also acted as a general cut-out man for people in Mac’s profession; if one operator wanted to contact another but didn’t have a number then they’d call Saba. And if Saba liked them or found them useful, he’d put their request on the jungle drum. He didn’t charge for what he did — knowing the secrets was a commodity to Indonesian players like Saba.
Mac’s call was answered after one ring. ‘Who this?’
‘Richard Davis, for Saba,’ said Mac.
‘Wait,’ said the man’s voice and the line went to generic hold music.
Forty seconds later there was a click and Saba was on the line. ‘Mr Mac, such a nice surprise.’
‘Hi Saba — how’s Jakarta?’
‘Hot, dirty — always the traffic jammed,’ said the Indonesian. ‘Where are you, Mr Macca?’
‘Auckland,’ said Mac.
‘Not Singapore?’ said the ex-spy, toying with Mac.
‘Maybe — recently,’ said Mac.
‘Nice view from the Pan Pac, yeah?’ said Saba.
‘Yes, Saba,’ said Mac, admitting defeat. ‘I’m looking for Bongo. I just need to talk.’
‘Could call him at Manila office,’ said Saba, knowing very well that Mac didn’t want his calls to that number logged by whoever was spying on Bongo.
‘Informal would be better,’ said Mac, and read out the number of his new mobile phone.
Mac had always been careful to keep Saba handy but not involved. But Saba was impeccably connected in Indonesia’s military and intelligence worlds and Mac needed more from him before he got off the phone.
‘Saba, is there much Israeli action around at the moment?’
‘Depends what you mean by action,’ said Saba.
Israel had no consular presence in Indonesia and people travelling on Israeli passports could not enter Indonesian ports without a sworn affidavit from a foreign Indonesian notary. Yet the world’s only Jewish state had vital interests in monitoring the most populous Islamic nation and so the Mossad had used other means to gain intelligence in Indonesia and Malaysia.
Mac prompted him. ‘Snatches, infiltrations, assassinations, double agents. All the good stuff.’
‘No action,’ said Saba. ‘In this country the Jews still hide behind their pharmaceutical firms and finance companies.’
‘Just thought I’d ask,’ said Mac.
‘Why?’
‘I keep crossing paths with an Israeli crew — could be former IDF or ex-Mossad,’ said Mac.
‘Nothing down here, Mr Mac,’ said Saba. ‘But… no, that wouldn’t be it.’
‘What?’ said Mac.
‘Well, it’s probably —’
‘Try me.’
‘Well, six, seven month ago, Yossi in Bangkok get the tip about the Mossad coming to town; they do the tail and follow the two Mossad across the border into Cambodia, right?’
‘Okay,’
‘Turn out, these two Mossad are following more Jews, in north Cambodia — right up there at Anlong Kray.’
‘More Israelis?’
‘Yeah, they Mossad. But Chinese there too,’ said Saba. ‘Right up in that forest. I try to remember — it was just talking, right?’
‘Okay,’ said Mac. ‘So the Israelis and Chinese, what were they doing up there?’
‘I talk with Yossi, and then call you,’ said Saba.
‘Okay,’ said Mac. ‘I’d like to know who they are.’
‘Were,’ said Saba.
‘Were who?’
‘The Mossad who come through Bangkok?’ said Saba. ‘The other Mossad kill them.’
A silence buzzed on the phone. The revelation confirmed for Mac that Yossi’s Israelis in north Cambodia could also be the ones Mac was looking for.
Saba broke the silence. ‘Mr Mac, you there?’
‘Yeah, sure, mate,’ said Mac. ‘Let me get this straight: the Mossad that Yossi followed, they were killed by the other Israelis? In northern Cambodia?’
‘Yeah,’ said Saba. ‘Yossi tells me, “That when I know they not in Mossad no more.”’
‘Shit.’
‘These are the ones?’ said Saba.
‘I don’t know,’ said Mac, knowing he’d already given it away. He felt sick.
‘You watch it, Mr Mac,’ said Saba. ‘Jews and Chinese? That bad enough. But when Jew kill Jew — how you say it? Give him the miss?’
Chapter 33
Hanging up, Mac tried to stay calm. Saba might have mangled the Aussie saying, Give it a miss, but he’d nailed it in one. It was precisely the smartest option available to Mac: to meet Scotty at the airport, fudge the McHugh search, grab his wife and get the hell out of Indochina before Jenny established a link between Quirk and the Israelis and decided to raise the roof.
He needed a plan for getting where he wanted to go rather than just reacting to events. He needed the information ascendency — the main building block of all intelligence professionals — yet Mac realised he hadn’t checked the identities of the Israelis, or even if that was their nationality. He’d been tweaked to their status and background by Maggins and it had conformed with what Mac knew about some of their techniques: the box surveillance around the Mekong Saloon had been pure Mossad, right down to the man with the newspaper waiting beside the entry. The light-bulb bomb at the Cambodiana was also a good indication, as were the clothes: the Mossad had spent decades trying to coach their operators into chameleon wardrobes yet for some reason they couldn’t help but dress like someone’s great-uncle. The Sansabelt slacks, the Seiko watches, the sensible shoes and the ankle-breezing trouser hems, all worn with an intense confidence which gave it that Mossad smell.
But Mac needed more and he knew who could help. Phoning Indonesia Telekom directory, he asked for Konstelasi Komputer in Jakarta and waited while the line buzzed and chirped.
A young male employee answered and Mac asked to be put through to Charlie, the owner.
‘He out,’ said the lazy kid, a person Mac knew from his last visit to the shop.