‘So you used an innocent Aussie to go in there?’ said Mac.
‘Sure beats tipping the Indonesians off by having a bunch of Yanks up there.’
‘Okay,’ said Mac, annoyed about being played. ‘So this bio-weapon actually works?’
‘Possibly,’ said Jim, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘Based on the samples, we think they’ve finalised a super-pneumonia – what the scientists are calling SARS. Of course, having the disease agent is only part of the project,’ he continued. ‘Then you have to weaponise it so it endures heat and concussion. Other versions have to be light enough to float on the breeze when you spray them.’
Images from CNN flashed on the screen in front of them. The sound was down but the images showed the ballot boxes in East Timor while the island was in flames. Militiamen ran along streets with assault rifles, T-shirts wrapped around their faces – many of them Kopassus operatives, no doubt, thought Mac as his anger rose. Kijangs filled with young thugs sped through the smoke, mothers ran with their kids, uniformed soldiers and police directing the mayhem like a movie. An Anglo man in a Banana Republic safari shirt said his piece to camera, probably before dashing to the airport – the same airport Mac was flying into the following morning.
‘So the Indonesians have weaponised SARS?’ asked Mac. ‘That’s what we were looking at underground in Lombok? Those corpses were the victims of SARS? And up at the death camp too?’
‘We think so, yes,’ said Jim. ‘It’s not confirmed.’
‘The generals are hosting this for a nice fee?’ asked Mac.
‘Yeah,’ smiled Jim. ‘Heroin money from North Korea, laundered in Poi Pet, delivered in cash to the generals in East Timor.’
‘The money we found on those boys in the bush?’
‘Sure. About a million US couriered into Bobonaro every month – now we know the destination was Neptune. Wa Dae used to carry it himself from Dili, but he got spooked by your Canadian friend’s capture, and changed to a run coming from Kupang instead. That’s what you intercepted, I guess.’
‘A super-pneumonia. What does it do?’ asked Mac, still not clear.
‘People with no immunity have twelve to eighteen hours,’ said the American. ‘They drown in their own phlegm.’
CHAPTER 53
The Boeing 737 descended through the early morning cloud and lined up for Comoro airport in west Dili, revealing a panorama of smoke which, if it was Queensland, would have signalled bushfire season. Looking in the reflection of his cabin window, Mac clocked his dark hair, brown contact lenses and black moustache and felt his guts drop as the plane steepened its trajectory.
He was feeling cornered, having been woken at 5 am by Tony Davidson and informed that DIA would be playing a backup role in clearing the drop box at the Resende. Mac had argued, not wanting the Yanks charging around in what was the maelstrom of Dili. But politics had won the day: Australia had intelligence-sharing arrangements with the US, UK and Canada, and the price to pay for the high-quality product was to allow the senior partner to take any chair he wanted.
He just hoped the Americans stood off and let Mac do his job. His stomach churned with a dark fear – someone, either the Koreans or Kopassus, had got to Bongo and killed him. If someone could kill Bongo Morales, then they’d make easy work of an Aussie spy if they really wanted to.
After emerging from the panicked crowds in the concourse at Comoro, Mac grabbed a minicab from the apron. Settling in the back with a crowd of journalists and cameramen, he noticed Jim waiting in a queue surrounded by Brimob officers as the van surged away.
Driving through the official military roadblocks and the unofficial ones put there by militias and pro-independence locals, a French reporter told an Englishman in a fishing vest that the Turismo was the only Euro-friendly place in town. An American camera guy with a blue do-rag pulled a can of mace from his breast pocket and shoved it in the Frenchie’s face.
‘Don’t mess with Texas,’ he laughed, getting some sniggers from the Aussies and English.
‘One can of mace against one of the largest armies in the world,’ snarled the Frog. ‘You Yankees are so smart.’
Mac looked away, lost in thought. Certain types of journalists thought themselves a breed apart if they went someplace dangerous while hiding behind the protective shroud their profession gave them. At least half of these people would be back at the airport within two days, begging for a standby seat, he reckoned.
The Resende was still a utilitarian structure that looked more like a Stalin-era office block in Warsaw than a hotel in a tropical paradise. Checking in as Doug Crawford, Mac accepted the warnings of the manager that this was no place for outsiders right now, and went to his room. Hitting the Nokia as soon as he put his bags down, Mac made loud declamations to his Southern Cross Trading associates in Sydney about the climate for organic cosmetics and synergies with the government in East Timor. Everything in the Resende was bugged and the staff were often informers, but Mac sometimes found it easier to sleep with enemies than to evade them.
After waiting ten minutes, Mac wandered down the stairs to the lobby, stopping to look at a rack of tourist brochures while he checked for suspicious types. A few minutes later a Brimob van screamed past in the street, broadcasting orders over a loudhailer. When a woman ducked into the hotel with two children, the manager at the desk tried to shoo her out.
‘Busy out there, eh?’ said Mac with a smile as he moved alongside the woman and the manager.
‘Dangerous, mister,’ said the woman as the manager walked away, tut-tutting.
Having second thoughts about being in Dili, Mac saw Jim walking towards him with an overnight bag.
‘Warren?’ asked Mac, loud enough to make it play for the manager. ‘Warren Johnson? Holiday Inn, Waikiki – what was it? A cosmetics expo or something?’
Straight into character, Jim responded warmly. ‘Doug Crawford – you’re the organic cosmetics guy.’
‘That’s the one.’
‘And everyone’s like, Organic?! I don’t want to eat it!’
‘That’s the problem with a nation of people that thinks cheese comes out of a spray can,’ said Mac, smiling and shaking hands.
Thirty-five minutes later, Mac sat at a sidewalk cafe on the Esplanada, waiting for Jim. He’d had a chance to do a recce of the Resende’s ballroom, which had been filled with military types drinking coffee.
His stomach churning, Mac ran through the mission: he needed to be in and out quickly. And he needed to do it undercover, not with an American QRF coming to the rescue with eleven choppers.
Jim was supposed to be touching base with his Dili asset to get a driver and secure a couple of firearms, then meet Mac at the cafe. And he was late, a bad omen. As Mac checked his G-Shock, his breath caught as he glimpsed a tall bloke loping along the Esplanada. It was the cut-out.
Sliding down in his chair, wishing the big white Bintang parasol was lower, Mac made himself breathe through the nose as the man glanced to his left, but not far enough to clock Mac. Walking north and buttoning a navy blue linen sports coat, he hurried past, stress etched on his face.
Breathing returning to normal, Mac watched the local lawyer disappear towards downtown, swerving through pedestrians and looking from side to side amid the chaos on the streets. Blackbird and the Canadian were no longer around, so Mac wondered what the man was in such a panic for. His family, probably.
‘Hey, Doug,’ said Jim as he sat, Jakarta Post folded under his arm. ‘Everything okay? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I’m fine, what have we got?’ said Mac, summoning a waiter and ordering two coffees.
‘I think we’re compromised,’ said Jim. ‘The tip-off that got Blackbird sprung may not be a one-off.’