‘I guess I should tell you why I’m here,’ said Berquist. ‘DG sent me up to retrieve you, Alan.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, there was a formal complaint lodged by the Republic of Indonesia,’ he said, pulling a black-covered dossier from his briefcase and opening it. ‘They cited a theft from their vaccine program, an attack on an army garrison at Maliana resulting in seven Indonesian deaths. They’ve implicated you in the bombing of a fuel store in which two buildings were razed and three army staff cars written off.’
‘I see,’ said Mac.
‘There was also the assassination of two Indonesian army officers and two army personnel at an unspecified location outside of Memo, and the execution of four Indonesian soldiers at a checkpoint between Balibo and Batugade.’
‘The streets aren’t safe anymore,’ quipped Mac.
‘This isn’t a joke, McQueen!’ snapped Berquist. ‘East Timor is sovereign territory – it’s Indonesia! Our friends and neighbours, mate!’
‘I know,’ sighed Mac.
‘This job isn’t a licence to go playing Rambo, okay?’ said Berquist. ‘I thought that had been spelled out after the Lok Kok debrief.’
Mac looked at his hands.
‘The frigging diplomats were running round Canberra all day yesterday trying to pin this on us, and they’ve succeeded,’ said Berquist, referring to the fact that Australia’s SIS shared the same corporate stable with the diplomatic corps from Foreign Affairs.
‘It’s what they do,’ said Mac.
‘And our thoughtful Javanese neighbours included a bill,’ said Berquist, holding up a page of figures to Mac. ‘Three hundred and eighty-seven thousand dollars – US – for one military heavy road transporter and one D6 bulldozer that they found at the bottom of a gorge on the road to Balibo.’
‘Okay.’
‘There’s a bill for the fuel and cars, a draft note to the UN, given that we’re so involved in the promotion of free and fair elections in East Timor. Oh, and you might like to see these,’ he added, pushing several black-and-whites across the conference table.
Mac saw a still of himself bending over the tray in Damajat’s locked cabinet and a time-series of Bongo, walking across an open area with a G3 in his hands, fire spewing from the barrel.
Mac shrugged. ‘Busy night.’
‘The Indonesians have identified one Alphonse Morales as the man in those pictures,’ said Berquist. ‘They say he was working with an Australian claiming to be Richard Davis, but who is known to their intelligence as an undeclared ASIS officer, previously associated with embassies in Jakarta, Manila and Singapore.’
‘I see,’ said Mac.
A knock sounded at the door and the receptionist stuck her head in, looked at Atkins and mouthed the words, Tony Davidson.
‘I’ll call him back,’ said Atkins.
‘He’s at the front desk,’ whispered the girl, with a sense of drama, before slipping back out and closing the door.
Face darkening, Atkins stood, not sure who to look at. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ he said, smiling without conviction.
‘Whatever happens here today, mate, there’s a way back, okay?’ said Berquist suddenly.
‘Really?’ said Mac.
‘And by the way, it wasn’t Beijing – it was Shanghai.’
Embarrassed at being overheard, Mac nodded. ‘Look, I -’
‘And it wasn’t lunch, ’less you count a few nights with the MSS as eating.’
‘I’m sorry,’ sighed Mac, feeling stupid. The MSS – China’s CIA – had a fearsome reputation for their interrogations.
‘It’s a funny distinction we make between the office guys and the field guys – I used to make that distinction too.’
‘What happened?’ asked Mac.
‘The Chinese took my eye,’ he smiled, pointing at his tricky peeper. ‘And I couldn’t do it anymore – nerves went, mate.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mac.
‘Talking about office guys, can you guess who my controller was for that gig?’ asked Berquist with a big smile.
‘Who?’ asked Mac.
‘Same bloke who’s out there trying to extract you from this long-drop,’ chuckled Berquist. ‘It’s just business, okay?’
Taking the offered hand, Mac sat back, humbled.
The door opened and Atkins strolled in slowly, reading a letter. Behind him, Tony Davidson filled the door, all smiles.
‘Carl!’ he said, advancing and shaking Berquist’s hand. ‘Nice to see you here.’
‘Nice to see you too, Tony,’ said Berquist. ‘What’s up?’
‘McQueen’s been seconded to the Yanks – hush-hush,’ said Davidson.
‘Nice idea but bad timing, Tony,’ said Berquist, friendly. ‘I’m here to retrieve McQueen.’
‘Oh yes?’ asked Davidson. ‘Whose authority?’
‘DG’s, I’m afraid,’ said Berquist, pulling a letter from his briefcase and slapping it on the table.
‘Better look at this, Carl,’ said Atkins, sliding his own letter across to Berquist, who had the grace to smile as he read it.
‘Congratulations, Alan,’ said Berquist, forcing a grin as he looked up. ‘You’ve been bailed out by the Minister for Foreign Affairs.’
CHAPTER 35
Mac ordered the Golden Lantern’s famous duck and a couple of beers, then sat back.
‘You okay?’ asked Davidson, examining Mac’s face.
‘I’m tired,’ said Mac, sipping at a cold beer while the throng of Denpasar passed on the street. ‘But I’m okay.’
‘You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?’
‘Sure, Tony,’ said Mac, well aware that, in the intelligence game, emotional or psychological problems were an express lane to a desk job.
‘Okay,’ said Davidson, casing the restaurant, ‘get some rest and you’ll be contacted by your new controller tomorrow.’
‘We know who?’
‘Yep. Jim, from DIA,’ said Davidson.
‘Why the Yanks?’ asked Mac, thinking back to his chat with Jim in Darwin.
‘They’ve been on Bill Yarrow for a while, as I understand,’ said Davidson. ‘They don’t like the company he keeps. Now they hear an Aussie officer’s been in this, um, facility…’
‘Lombok AgriCorp?’
‘That’s the one – it’s of interest to the Pentagon.’
‘Why?’
Davidson took a swig of his beer. ‘When was the last time anyone from DIA spoke to you in a full sentence?’
‘Probably the last time I saw rocking-horse manure,’ said Mac.
‘Done any work on our presidential problem?’ asked Davidson, lowering his voice.
‘I haven’t been able to find Rahmid’s controller,’ said Mac. ‘Although I think he was working out of a front in KL.’
Unfolding his hotel stationery, Mac gave Davidson the phone numbers and addresses of Penang Trading and Andromeda IT, which Davidson jotted on his detective’s pad.
‘The controller is going to be difficult,’ said Mac, ‘but I think we’ve found who Rahmid was running as an agent in Dili.’
As Davidson went to write the name and address on his pad, he stopped and looked up at Mac. ‘That’s PT Watu Selatan,’ he said, looking around the restaurant. ‘That’s a company set up by Soeharto’s generals!’
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Mac.
‘Good work, mate,’ said Davidson. ‘But it’s still hush-hush, okay?’
‘Sure, Tony. Are we going to approach this guy?’
‘We have to,’ said Davidson.
‘Be careful who you send,’ warned Mac.
‘Careful doesn’t come close,’ said Davidson.
Watching the All-Star baseball game on the big screen, Mac washed down shots of Bundaberg rum with cold Bintangs at the Bar Barong, a few blocks from Puputan Square. American commentators screamed about what Mark McGwire was doing wrong and what Sammy Sosa wasn’t doing at all as Mac lounged on his stool.
On the bar in front of him sat a small white envelope that Jessica had slipped into his wheelie bag at Larrakeyah. It said Richard on the front, in blue ballpoint, and had a small heart beside it. He’d avoided opening it, not wanting to get mired in distractions. The letter would either profess a love he couldn’t return or it would make him feel bad about her father, as if he and Bongo hadn’t done enough. And maybe they hadn’t. Mac had withheld information about Bill Yarrow’s whereabouts and, as much as he could justify it, he didn’t feel good about it.