‘Correct,’ said Mac.
‘Tell me about Orion.’
‘Run by an American called Charles, his sidekick is Sammy Chan — definitely a military background, but neither are confirming who they work for.’
‘This Charles,’ said Scotty. ‘Tall, silver-haired — about my age?’
‘That’s him,’ said Mac, wondering why Scotty was scowling.
‘If it’s the same guy, his name is Charles Grimshaw the Third — old North Carolina family,’ said Scotty. ‘His father was an OSS original, who never officially became CIA but remained one of the Brothers, the true believers.’
‘You know this guy?’
‘I remember him from a gig in Iraq, in the lead-up to the first Gulf War. He was attempting to unpick the lies and bullshit around all that trade finance being written for rearming Saddam. It was before your time, but the US taxpayer was funding the credit guarantees for Iraq paying its imports — Lockheed or Hughes or Raytheon would fill an order for rockets or landmines, and the American taxpayers were underwriting Saddam’s credit risk.’
‘What was he like?’ said Mac.
‘Grimshaw? He conducted his interviews with a tractor battery and a set of crocodile clips,’ said Scotty with a chuckle. ‘He was hard core.’
‘He’s Treasury?’
‘He does a lot of work for US Treasury but he’s more like an intel consultant for the Yanks.’
‘So he’s not an accountant?’
Scotty smiled. ‘Grimshaw was a Green Beret in the Phoenix Program during Vietnam, and then he led CIA black ops teams in Laos, Burma and Cambodia.’
‘I see,’ said Mac, now understanding what he’d noticed in Charles, lurking beneath the smooth exterior. Agency black ops in those three countries, in the late 1970s, did nothing but assassinate communist leaders.
‘What’s he doing in a Cambodian houseboat?’ said Mac.
‘Something involving Oz, which is why we’re going to help them find our Aussie girl.’
‘Why haven’t I heard of him?’ said Mac, annoyed.
‘Because you might find he works for NSA,’ said Scotty, meaning the US National Security Agency. ‘He works for the President.’
Chapter 38
Booking into the Rex as Brandon Collier, Mac went to his second-floor suite, removed his moustache and contact lenses and took a quick shower.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he shook his kit onto the marble bench top and selected the men’s face scrub. Squirting a palmful, he spread the N10 dye over both hands and massaged the strong-smelling goo into his wet hair for two minutes, and then picked up a wide-tooth comb and ran it through his hair to even the application. After twelve minutes, Mac had another shower to wash out the colourant.
Wandering into the living area of his suite, Mac did thirty push-ups and fifty sit-ups followed by five minutes, and then of shadow-boxing. Dressing himself in new clothes from the menswear store across the road, he returned himself to Richard Davis — textbook salesman — and checked himself in the mirror: now that his short, thin hair had returned to blond he noted a few grazes and scratches along his temples, probably caused by the bits of concrete that hadn’t found his eyes.
Dialling the Saigon number for his calling card, Mac worked his way through the prompts then keyed in the number on a tattered white card.
‘Captain Loan,’ said Mac, when a voice answered. ‘Richard Davis here.’
‘Where are you?’ said the captain.
‘In Saigon.’
‘You remember the cafe we first spoke in?’ asked Loan.
‘Sure.’
‘Meet me there in half an hour,’ said the detective, and hung up.
Walking to his window, which overlooked Nguyen Hue Boulevard, Mac sipped on his bottled water and searched for suspiciously parked vehicles or men reading tourist maps. He especially looked for phone company workers. His gut churned: he was not confident about being in this city or what was being asked of him. He’d only been a couple of years out of the field but it had dulled him slightly. He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly, but it came down to his new lack of selfishness: not so long before, Mac would have attacked Marlon without hesitation. But two days before, he’d paused as the big bloke walked in the door. In his profession a pause was as good as death, and he wondered if he had the focus to go up against Joel Dozsa. Saba’s story about the real Mossad going into northern Cambodia and being killed by Dozsa’s boys was scary. There’d always been factions inside Israel’s secret service, but ambushing and killing your former brothers? That was extreme.
The fact that his wife was in Saigon was another distraction. Whenever he looked over his shoulder, the phone taunted him. Was he going to call her, admit he was in Saigon and arrange to meet? Or was he going to revert to his professional habits, never tell anyone in a phone call where he was?
He didn’t like lying to Jenny, and not only because she usually caught him out. She’d grown up hard, the daughter of a drunken farmer in Victoria’s west who liked to beat his wife and kids. When Jenny was fifteen, she’d hit back at the old man with a crowbar; her father had picked up a rifle and shot at her as she ran through the orchard. So Jenny — as smart and as beautiful as she was — did not trust men easily, and Mac had always done his best to be an honest husband and good friend. It was part of the deaclass="underline" Mac got the sweet, loving side of his wife’s quite flinty personality, and Jenny had her rock and protector.
Picking up the phone, Mac dialled the calling card then input Jenny’s mobile number. It rang and Mac hoped that she wouldn’t pick up so he could just leave a message and not have to dodge too many questions.
The greeting came immediately. ‘Toohey.’
‘Darling, it’s me,’ said Mac, massaging his temples. ‘How’re things?’
‘Tropical, hon,’ she said, in a tone that suggested she was trying to get niceties out of the way. ‘You get my message?’
‘Yep.’
He could hear Jen cover the mouthpiece and say, In the DFAT file — the blue pages.
‘How long you in Auckland for, Macca?’ she said, coming back to him. ‘I don’t want to rush you but I told Frank and Pat that you were due back on the weekend.’
Looking down at his G-Shock, Mac saw the word Wed on the screen above the time.
‘Yeah, weekend might do it,’ he said, trying to sound convincing. ‘Could be Monday, Tuesday.’
‘Okay, can you call Pat?’ said Jen, as a commotion erupted beside her. ‘Hang on, okay?’
‘Sure,’ said Mac.
He could hear his wife spelling out the record-keeping protocol for this investigation and the fact that she wouldn’t be compromising on it today or tomorrow or anytime soon, so they might as well get it right from the start.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Jen, back on the line. ‘I’ll call Pat and tell her — but can you ring too? Sarah loves getting calls from you.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ said Mac. ‘You in Saigon?’
‘Here now,’ said Jen. ‘Shit — you remember Jim Quirk, from Manila?’
‘I think so,’ said Mac. ‘Trade Commission, sportsman of some sort?’
‘Cricket,’ said Jen. ‘He was murdered up here, three days ago.’
Mac hated doing this to her. ‘I read about it. At a nightclub?’
‘Place called the Mekong Saloon, in Saigon’s Chinatown.’
‘You investigating?’ said Mac.
‘Yeah — the AFP teams from Honkers and Manila were held back for some reason.’
‘Any leads?’
‘Apparently there was a vehicle chase through Cholon after the murder, and the staff at the club say an Australian soldier was acting strangely during the incident.’
‘No wonder they called you guys,’ said Mac, his heart sinking.