‘It’s not only that,’ said Mac, trying to be delicate. ‘The Australian government may not want your name associated with her rescue.’
‘That’s their problem, brother,’ said Bongo. ‘You gotta know your friends, McQueen, and they’re not in Canberra.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Means I was late for the airport this morning ’cos I got eyes on something.’
‘What?’
‘White Toyota, followed us from the hotel.’
‘Followed you?’
‘Yeah, McQueen. The driver was that one you know, with the funny skin — Eckhart?’
‘Urquhart,’ said Mac, the beer threatening to reflux.
‘Yeah, him.’
‘What happened?’
‘Stopped at the lights — Didge got out, went back there and asked the passenger if he knows the way to Bangkok.’
‘And?’ said Mac.
‘And this guy’s sliding down in his seat — young Aussie, look like Adam Ant with that bad hair.’
‘What did they say?’
‘Pointed, said, “That way.” Just having some fun with them but I wonder why Urquhart and the lady-man following.’
‘They know you’ve been hired to find Geraldine McHugh,’ said Mac.
‘Of course,’ said Bongo, smiling. ‘So why they following me when they know you doing the gig?’
‘Don’t know,’ said Mac, looking away from Bongo’s taunting eyes.
‘Neither do I.’ Bongo gulped his beer. ‘Anyway, you know the Yank who was killed in Phnom Penh?’
‘No,’ said Mac.
‘He worked with Sammy. His name’s Phil Brown — Secret Service guy.’
‘Okay, so?’ said Mac.
‘So I picked up the phone, talked to my guy — see about Phil Brown.’
‘And?’
‘And he’s operating as a currency investigator, with the C-note Squad. You heard of it?’
Mac recalled the US hundred-dollar bills in the back of Sam and Phil’s car. ‘No.’
‘You want to?’
‘Yeah, but —’
‘Here’s the deal, brother,’ said Bongo. ‘If I find the girl, I’m flying her back to Australia.’
Staring at the Filipino, Mac wondered how he ever put his life in this man’s hands. ‘Okay — you got it.’
‘The Secret Service’s C-note Squad is on a sweep through Asia, clearing up any counterfeiting problems with the current US hundred-dollar bills, before they’re changed to the new format.’
‘Problems?’
Bongo chewed gum. ‘There’s some illegal protocols in the wrong hands — come from Beep or BP or —’
‘BEP,’ said Mac. BEP was the US Bureau of Engraving and Printing — the federal agency that created US currency.
‘That’s it,’ said Bongo. ‘BEP protocols.’
Mac didn’t see the news flash. ‘The fact the Yanks protect their currency isn’t entirely surprising.’
‘No,’ said Bongo. ‘But my guy’s been dealing with the real C-note Squad, and Phil Brown ain’t on it.’
Back at the guest house, Mac ran up the outside stairs of the former colonial mansion as Grimshaw arrived in the car park in his green Camry. Letting himself into the second door on the left, he made a quick search of the tiny room and decided he was alone. Putting his wheelie bag on the single bed, Mac tried to remember where he’d left it or if he’d even kept it: the piece of paper he’d grabbed from the top of that box of US dollars in the back of Sammy’s car.
Rummaging through the pockets of the bag, he came up empty. Then he took his clothes from the bag and checked under the lining and in the ASIS-issued bag’s three secret hides.
He wondered if he’d even grabbed that paper — he’d been under enormous stress that night and he may have confused his desire to take it with having actually done so.
Standing to the side of the sash window, he looked down on the street and thought about what Bongo had said: Phil wasn’t from the Secret Service. So what was he doing?
Looking at his clothes on the bed, he saw the cheap market-bought chinos he’d been wearing on the night Phil Brown was killed. They had an inside coin pocket on the right hip and out of it Mac pulled a folded piece of paper.
Unfolding it, he saw a handwritten note in cursive script. Intercepted Stung Treng Province. October 12, 2009 — P, I, D, SF, SN = genuine. It still meant nothing to Mac but he decided to hang onto it anyway.
The sound of a revving motorbike sounded and Mac left his room, walked to the rear balcony of the guest house.
Below, in the parking area, Sammy flipped the stand of one Yamaha 250cc trail bike, while a local dismounted from another and put his hand out for the money.
Descending, Mac had a look.
‘Not bad — about three years old,’ said Mac, checking the tyres and chains. ‘How does yours ride?’
‘Rides okay, but it’s not mine,’ said Sammy. ‘I’m running the radio from the truck.’
‘That leaves Didge,’ said Mac, looking at the odo.
‘Not Bongo?’ said Sammy.
‘No — Didge spent a lifetime on these things in Aussie special forces,’ said Mac. ‘Besides, you’ll feel safer with Bongo, believe me.’
‘I hope so,’ said Sammy. ‘I met with Charles half an hour ago.’
‘Yeah?’
‘We can’t delay this any longer.’
‘We start early enough, we’ll have a recce of Dozsa’s compound by lunch,’ said Mac.
‘I mean, no delay,’ said Sammy.
‘What delay?’ said Mac, not getting it.
‘Waiting is the delay,’ said Sammy. ‘We’re going this evening.’
Chapter 46
The afternoon rains eased shortly after eight o’clock and the four of them made for the pre-arranged ferry ride across the Mekong.
The ferryman didn’t want the Chev on his small wooden ferry, but when Mac offered a further inducement, Sammy reluctantly agreed to pay it and they slipped into the dusk, the red sunset poking through the lifting black clouds as they reached the banks opposite Kratie.
Heading north on the riverside track, Mac rode ahead with Didge, doing not much more than sixty k an hour through the mud and puddles, keeping enough distance that the motorbikes did not look to be connected with the truck. A keen observer would see an M4 carbine over the riders’ shoulders and maybe handguns on their hips, but the locals were used to UN and World Bank consultants being accompanied by armed escorts.
It was dark as they reached the ferry head opposite Stung Treng and turned left for the interior and the wilderness of Chamkar.
Riding like that for ten minutes past peasant farms and a small village, Mac slowed to a stop in the beginnings of the forest and walked back to talk with Sammy and Bongo, who sat in the front seat of the idling Silverado.
‘Give us thirty minutes exactly,’ said Mac, as the other men set the mission clocks on their watches. ‘There’s a fork up ahead — take the left and you’ll come to the checkpoint in three or four minutes. And come in hot. Okay?’
Walking back to Didge with two Kevlar vests from the Silverado, Mac laid it out. They would take the right fork in the road, double around, neutralise the checkpoint, and wait for the others. If they got this part right, it would make the compound infiltration much easier.
‘Sure, boss,’ said Didge.
‘I’d like to avoid gunfire, if we can.’
Didge winked. ‘No worries.’
Killing their headlights as they made the fork, Mac slowed and told Didge through the radio headset, ‘It’s all yours, mate.’
Australia’s army special forces — the 4RAR Commandos and the SAS — both trained on bikes and were experts across broken ground at night with no headlamps.
After three minutes of running, the radio crackled in Mac’s ear. ‘Drop to first, boss,’ said Didge. ‘Stay close.’