‘A white SD,’ said Beech, looking away in disgust.
‘I’ve said enough,’ said Mac. ‘Someone tell me what the hell’s going on.’
‘Mate, we have to find it,’ said Scotty. ‘But there’s no way it can get to Dozsa.’
‘Or Pao Peng,’ said Beech.
‘What’s it got to do with the counterfeiting scam?’ Mac asked.
‘Nothing,’ said Beech, gulping at the orange drink. ‘The currency just gives Pao Peng the keys to the kingdom. This chip allows him to start a war.’
‘What — against the Yanks?’ said Mac.
‘Forget the Americans,’ said Beech. ‘This is much closer to home and it’s a nightmare.’
Chapter 53
The late afternoon showers were finished by seven o’clock, leaving the trees dripping with water and the crickets rubbing their legs.
Dressing in the civvie clothes Scotty had bought at the riverside market in Kratie, Mac shoved the SIG into his waistband at the small of his back and pulled on a black baseball cap. They’d eaten in a restaurant to the north of the town and were now cruising back through the busy streets towards the Palace Guest House, a few blocks east of downtown.
‘That’s it,’ said Mac as they slid past the two-storey French-colonial mansion they’d based themselves in twenty-four hours ago and which Grimshaw still used as a base.
Mac wasn’t sure they had a plan to retrieve Lance and Urquhart, but if they could get the memory card they’d at least be able to bargain.
‘Here, thanks,’ said Mac, opening the rear door before the car stopped.
‘Take it easy, Macca,’ said Beech. ‘Don’t mess with this guy.’
Easing into the darkness of the roadside banyans, Mac stayed still as the Nissan slipped away.
‘Red Rover to Blue Dog — copy this?’ came Scotty’s voice on the earpiece.
‘Gotcha, Red Rover,’ said Mac. ‘Call you when I need a ride.’
Walking back towards the guest house, Mac wanted to be in and out, and no heroes.
There were four cars in the dirt forecourt and Mac saw Grimshaw’s dark green Toyota, one back from the manager’s office at the entrance. Removing the keyring of jiggers, wafers and bump keys from his pocket, Mac walked to the rear of the Toyota and released the boot lid on the second try. Letting it ride up a few inches, Mac pulled off his cap, bounced up the front steps and pushed into the yellow glow of the office, which consisted of a counter looking over a chess-board marble parquetry floor in what had been in the 1870s the grand foyer of a mansion.
A man sat at a desk behind the counter, watching a Thai game show where money was poured from the ceiling onto hysterical contestants.
‘Hey, champ,’ said Mac, smiling at the manager. ‘Davis, from room four — remember?’
‘Sure,’ said the manager, nodding his head.
‘You seen those thieves out there?’
‘What, mister?’ said the fellow, putting on his glasses and hitting mute on the TV. ‘What is it, the thief?’
‘Yeah, two of them, hanging around that American’s car. Green Toyota?’
Following Mac into the forecourt, the manager turned on his flashlight — a black Maglite that could be used as a truncheon.
‘They were messing around with the door handles,’ said Mac, cupping his hands and peering through the driver’s window like a concerned citizen.
The manager circled behind Mac, shining the flashlight into the interior of the car.
‘Here, mister,’ said the manager, raising the boot lid.
‘Better tell the American, eh, boss?’ said Mac.
Standing in the darkness of the baggage room adjacent to the foyer, Mac waited as Grimshaw stalked downstairs, his voice suspicious.
As the voices trailed into the forecourt, Mac opened the door, checked for eyes and sprinted up the mahogany stairs three at a time. Rounding the first-floor landing, he walked past a hall desk with a Lalique vase, along the runners of Thai silk carpets, and found room 3.
The management had installed new German deadlocks in the old doors and, casing the hallway, he pulled out his keyring and sorted through the Schlage section until he found one that looked the money — a Schlage five-pin.
Inserting it, Mac held his breath and listened for any movement from the other side of the door, his temples pounding. Hearing nothing, he pulled back slowly on the bump key until he felt the slight vibration of the key allowing the last pin to slip back into place. The next part would tell him if he’d used the right bump key. He jiggled the key side to side in a quick but light action, the lock made a sound like a mouse scuttling and the key turned.
Pushing into the fully lit suite, Mac let the door close behind him.
‘Red Rover, I’m in,’ said Mac into the radio mouthpiece dangling in front of his throat.
‘Copy that, Blue Dog,’ said Scotty. ‘Target’s taking his time with the car — doing a total inspection.’
Through the open window at the front of the living area, the voices of Grimshaw and the manager could be heard.
Mac moved quickly around the suite, looking for bags and backpacks. The credenza along the wall of the living area held a briefcase, a satellite phone and two cell phones — none of them Tranh’s red Nokia.
Opening the briefcase, Mac found a Harris military radio, laid flat in the bottom of the case and covered with documents. No cell phone.
Searching quickly through drawers and along surfaces, Mac moved around the corner and into the kitchen, where he found a laptop computer, open and running. Looking at it, Mac saw the NSA corporate logo and the security email system embedded within it. Under normal circumstances, he’d stay and have a read, but he was in a hurry.
The kitchen featured a bowl of bananas, the fridge contained half a six-pack of 333 cans and the bathroom — a tiled wonder of the colonial era — held only a toothbrush, shaving cream and a razor.
Taking the SIG from his waistband, Mac moved into the first bedroom where he saw a perfectly made double bed and a carry-on wheelie bag sitting on the luggage rack. Fossicking through it as carefully as he could, the crackles of Scotty’s voice erupted in his right ear.
‘Blue Dog — target’s locked the vehicle and is talking with the manager.’
‘Yeah, yeah, Red Rover — copy that,’ said Mac, adrenaline rising the longer his search came up empty.
‘Blue Dog, Blue Dog — target re-entering the building. Repeat — he’s on his way up,’ said Scotty.
‘Gotcha, Red Rover,’ said Mac, panting slightly as he turned from the wheelie bag and looked under the bed. Nothing. The wardrobe held one Oxford shirt and a pair of slate-grey chinos. No phone.
‘Shit,’ said Mac, entering the hallway, SIG in cup-and-saucer as he moved through the gloom. Pushing on the second bedroom door, the wooden four-panel swung open with a squeak as the radio earpiece came to life again.
‘Blue Dog, Blue Dog — target speaking with manager in foyer. Time to ride, Blue Dog.’
‘Okay, Red Rover,’ he said with a breathless snap. ‘I’m outta here.’
Sammy’s black Samsonite wheelie bag sat on the spare bed. Moving to it, Mac sorted through the clothes.
‘Blue Dog, hope you’re out of there,’ came Scotty’s voice.
‘Okay,’ said Mac, plunging into a yellow plastic bag and coming up with a house key, a small black wallet and a red Nokia.
Grabbing the plastic bag as he moved back to the hallway, Mac tried the first sash window above the sink but could only get it to rise six inches before it was stopped by a set of locked security bolts.
‘Christ,’ said Mac, seeing the rest of windows had the same bolts.
Mac heard the door to the suite open as Scotty’s voice came over the earpiece, repeating, ‘Move, Blue Dog.’