Throwing the towel around his neck, Mac noticed a blonde woman sitting with a group of officers.
And then Jessica Yarrow looked straight back at him and she was on her feet.
‘Oh my god!’ she shrieked and ran towards him, throwing her arms around Mac’s neck and giving him a kiss. ‘You’re alive!’
Shrugging, Mac looked over her shoulder and gave the confused army officers a smile.
‘Where have you been?!’ she demanded, grabbing him by the biceps. ‘We thought you were dead, Richard! Manny went back for you. Is he here?’ she asked, looking around.
‘No, but he found me,’ said Mac, smiling.
‘Jesus, Richard,’ she said, hand going up to Mac’s cheekbone. ‘What happened to your face? Who did this?’
‘Walked into a door,’ said Mac, breaking into a chuckle.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Jessica. ‘Is something funny?’
‘No,’ said Mac, feeling an emotional release. ‘I’m just glad you made it.’
Mac and Jessica walked along the grass of Bicentennial Park, the enormous public area on the waterfront of Darwin, lined with red poincianas and rain trees. Mac told her about being caught by Kopassus, without going into details, and the story of Bongo bailing him out, leaving out the bodies in trunks, disinterment and death camps. When women said they wanted to hear everything, they never meant it.
‘After Manny rescued me, it wasn’t safe to leave through the commercial airport, so the UN flew me out – just like you,’ said Mac.
‘I’m still waiting for a new passport,’ said Jessica as they walked under the clear skies. ‘But army food isn’t too bad.’
Buying a couple of ice blocks from a vendor in the park, they wandered along the military displays that lined the foreshore, reading the plaques about which US warships had been sunk and how many Japanese planes made up the raiding party. Darwin had a fragrant, tropical ease to it, not unlike Honolulu. And like Honolulu, Darwin had a strong military and strategic significance.
They eventually strolled down to the semicircular lookout that surrounded a World War II naval gun. Gazing out over the Timor Sea they were silent for a few moments, before Jessica tucked herself into Mac’s arms.
‘I was so scared, Richard,’ she said, tears running down her cheeks. ‘After we found those kids, I’ve never been so terrified in my life. I’m still shaking.’
‘But what’s this about you and those kids?’
‘Did Manny tell you?’ said Jessica, embarrassed.
‘He said you’d made sure they were safe – what was that about?’
‘The militia was coming, they were shooting at the guerrillas and being driven back into us.’
‘Yeah, so?’ asked Mac.
‘So, I got the kids behind that tree and then I – well, you know, I had Manny’s gun.’
Her voice had lost all its former cockiness and Mac felt her fingers digging into his arms.
‘You did the right thing, Jessica.’
‘I killed two human beings, Richard,’ she sniffled. ‘Shit – they were just teenagers.’
‘Teenage rapists with assault rifles,’ said Mac, looking into her eyes. ‘Look, you got through, mate, and you looked after those kids – it balances, believe me.’
‘Don’t mention kids – please,’ she said, pushing away slightly.
‘What?’ said Mac.
‘I can’t sleep anymore,’ she said, and then took a deep breath. ‘Did Manny tell you that after the gunfight we went with the guerrillas to their camp in the hill?’
‘No’ said Mac.
‘There were women and kids and grandparents in this camp, Richard. It wasn’t a bunch of boozed freedom fighters. They weren’t preaching Marxism.’
‘For some East Timorese, Falintil means safety and food,’ said Mac.
‘I saw something terrible,’ she said, nestling into Mac’s chest so he could feel her warm tears through his shirt. ‘We arrived in the evening and there were all these children who looked strange – something was wrong with them but I couldn’t work it out. There was only the firelight.’
‘Yes,’ said Mac.
‘One of the mothers saw me staring, and she told me why they looked different,’ she said, bottom lip quivering.
‘She told me the militias had cut their ears off, Richard. Their fucking ears! The army offered a bounty payment for Timorese ears! I can’t get it out of my head!’
Mac held her while she sobbed and it took some time before she had recovered enough to speak.
‘My father’s not alive, is he?’ she said, her beauty and sadness a heart-rending combination. ‘I mean… that place, I…’ She tried to go on, before breaking off, tears in her eyes.
Mac was tempted to say something gallant, but it was a luxury he couldn’t permit himself.
‘I didn’t find Dad,’ said Jessica, almost talking to herself. ‘And if I was missing, Dad would find me, I know he would.’
They held a stare for too long.
‘Look, Jessica, East Timor is a disgrace,’ said Mac quietly. ‘You’re braver than ten men to go in there and demand answers about your father. Most people would spend one afternoon in that hotel and be on the next flight out – scared witless. You did what you could.’
‘You’ve probably heard the rumours about my father, and maybe they’re true,’ she said, flicking hair out of her eyes. ‘Dad’s not perfect, but he’s my father and I can’t just walk away.’
Silence fell between them. Mac had been in this situation before, as a young intelligence officer in Cambodia. He’d promised more than he could deliver and had vowed never to do it again. But Mac knew from his own family that you didn’t walk away from kin.
‘Manny’s still on the island,’ said Mac. ‘But I beg you – don’t go back there, okay?’
‘I don’t know if I can go back,’ she admitted. ‘But I don’t know if I can just do nothing. Manny’s still there?’
‘Yes, but he knows what he’s doing,’ said Mac quickly. ‘Leave it to him – I’m sure he’ll keep an eye on it.’
‘I hope so,’ said Jessica. ‘The Americans didn’t pay him to take a holiday.’
Stiffening, Mac pushed her away slightly. ‘The Americans?’
Jessica admitted that Bongo’s protection services were not contracted between them at the Hotel Turismo, as they’d led Mac to believe. An officer from the US consulate in Denpasar had helpfully insisted that she go to Dili with Bongo, who would keep an eye on her.
Thinking back on the pictures of Jessica and Jim at the Denpasar cafe, Mac realised the consulate guy was ‘Jim’ from DIA. He was relieved that at least Jessica’s involvement seemed to be purely civilian.
But he wasn’t happy with Bongo. Working for DIA was something Bongo should have shared with Mac. Not because Bongo was compromised, but because it showed that the Pentagon was interested in Bill Yarrow.
CHAPTER 30
Mac ran up the front steps of Arafura Imports in central Darwin, and entered the reception area, pushing up his sunglasses.
‘Just in time for your new phone, Mr Davis,’ said Sally the receptionist, pushing a brown box across the counter. The Arafura Imports office on Cavanagh Street was a corporate front for Australian SIS, and Sally sometimes found herself working as a stewardess in Qantas first class or as a concierge in the Marriott group.
‘Suppose a nine-mill is out of the question?’ joked Mac, as he signed the receipt docket.
Sally found a spare mug, poured Mac a coffee and escorted him through two PIN-enabled security doors and into one of the meeting rooms, where Tony Davidson sat at a conference table, phone to his ear.
Putting his coffee and bags down, Mac took a seat on the other side of the table and listened to his boss make placatory sounds to a desk-jockey. As the phone hit its cradle, Davidson stood to his bearish six foot five and extended a paw.