‘Don’t look at me like that,’ said Mac, too tired for head games. ‘I infiltrated a fucking bio-weapons factory for this gig – I’ve earned immunity from that look.’
Sighing, Jim looked out to the choppy sea across the street. ‘Sorry, buddy, force of habit.’
‘So what’s up?’ asked Mac.
Lighting a smoke, Jim waved his hand. ‘Could be nothing – the SIGINT guys picked up some chatter about Boa being retrieved today, seemed too coincidental.’
‘Shit!’ said Mac, clenching his fist and trying to find the cut-out again in the crowds.
‘There was two calls with “Boa” in them, to this number,’ he said, opening the Jakarta Post and showing Mac a printed page with Da Silva, Carvalho Júdice e Associados – (Augusto Da Silva e Christian Carvalho) printed on it, with an address.
‘It’s a law firm in Dili,’ said Jim.
‘Law firm,’ muttered Mac, his head snapping up as he looked for the cut-out.
Trying to maintain a disciplined walk, Mac rounded the corner and peeled away from Jim to the other side of the street as he headed towards the Resende. Jim kept a safe distance, providing support.
Getting to the Resende, Mac paused at the glass door to regain his composure, before pushing into the cool of the lobby. His head swam with the possibilities, all of them negative: he didn’t like the way Jim sprang the news of the compromised operation and he didn’t like the urgency with which Da Silva had been moving towards the Resende. Mac was at his best when he was the one creating the timetable and the panic.
‘Ah, Mr Crawford,’ said the manager cheerily, in total contrast to how he’d treated the local woman and her kids. ‘How are we today?’
‘Good thanks,’ smiled Mac as he passed, before stopping as if in afterthought. ‘Actually, perhaps you could help me.’
‘Certainly, Mr Crawford,’ he smiled.
‘My manager asked me to have a look at the function facilities at the Resende for our conferences or expos. It’s a nice distance from Australia, China, Japan and India – if you see what I mean?’
‘Certainly, Mr Crawford,’ said the manager, coming around the counter and clicking his fingers for the bellboy. ‘Ernesto, please show Mr Crawford the ballroom and conference facilities.’
Following Ernesto’s dandruff-dusted black coat through to the rear of the Resende, Mac saw a large restaurant, a bar and a family-TV nook filled with sofas and coffee tables.
As they approached two large doors that met at the middle, Ernesto pulled out his master key, only to realise that the doors were now swinging open. After pushing through, Ernesto went to hit the lights, but they were already on.
‘This is the Resende famous ballroom,’ said Ernesto, sweeping his arm around a large space with parquetry floors, high chandeliered ceilings and a stage along the far wall, dominated by two enormous karaoke machines. Walking around the space, Mac marvelled at the aesthetic, somewhere between 1960s Las Vegas and 1980s Seoul.
‘Thanks, mate,’ said Mac with a wink, palming ten US dollars into Ernesto’s hand. ‘I just need to feel my way around this space for a few minutes, okay?’
Smiling, Ernesto headed to the doors, which Mac shut gently behind him before latching them.
There were two tall karaoke stacks on the stage, leading to two consoles, two microphones and two screens in the middle. Mac had spent enough evenings on the booze in Asia to know that many a duet had been sung on that stage, by people who had no right to do what they were doing to ‘Islands in the Stream’ or ‘You Don’t Bring Me Flowers’.
Checking the karaoke machine on the left, Mac pulled down the back flap which opened into a cable-storage compartment the size of two shoe boxes. It was empty.
Moving to the other side of the stage, Mac saw it before he got there: the flap was open, the compartment empty.
‘Fuck!’ said Mac, breathing fast.
Mac tried to think as he reached the doors. Had the cut-out been tipped off to Mac picking up a copy of Operasi Boa? He’d been in a panic when Mac saw him. Who – outside of Mac, Jim and Davidson – knew that they were looking for a copy of Operasi Boa at the Resende? It gnawed at Mac as he made for the lobby. Gesturing through the glass doors for Jim to join him at the front desk, Mac turned back to the manager.
‘Nice facilities – might get back to you on that. But tell me, I was meant to meet Augusto here ten minutes ago,’ said Mac. ‘And Christian.’
‘Augusto?’ shrugged the manager. ‘I not know any Augusto, mister.’
Mac thanked him and made for the doors.
‘Have we got it?’ hissed Jim as they spilled onto the street, Mac scanning the area for any sign of the cut-out.
‘Everything okay, mister?’ asked Ernesto, who was walking from a minivan with two suitcases.
‘Mate, I was supposed to meet Augusto and Christian here ten minutes ago – they’re our lawyers and it’s fairly important. I was wondering if they turned up, maybe I missed them?’ said Mac, looking at his watch.
‘Sure,’ said Ernesto. ‘I saw Mr Da Silva at back of hotel, after I show you ballroom.’
‘Shit,’ said Mac, looking over the crowds. ‘Did he say anything?’
‘No, mister,’ said Ernesto, eyes wide. ‘He running.’
‘I bet he was,’ growled Mac, wishing he had a weapon.
CHAPTER 54
The offices of Da Silva, Carvalho Júdice e Associados were exactly where Ernesto had sent Mac and Jim – over the road from the government engineer’s offices, upstairs in a swank professional suite, a block back from the ocean.
In an alley between buildings, they cased Da Silva’s offices while shots rang out from several blocks away and diesel engines screamed.
‘Kopassus intel front?’ asked Jim, looking up and down the street.
‘He told me he did their paperwork, gave the military’s extra-judicial trials some legitimacy,’ shrugged Mac, trying to get a look past the sun blinds into the law offices. ‘The best lies are actually the truth, eh Jim?’
Jim ducked that one. US intelligence used a network of law firms to make things work smoothly. One of the world’s largest law firms got rich from a list of clients that were CIA fronts.
‘I don’t think we can wait,’ said Jim, opening the large courier box he’d received on arrival at the Resende, and passing Mac one of two Colt Defender handguns.
‘I agree,’ said Mac. ‘Any ideas for a dignified entry?’
‘None,’ said Jim, checking the mag and the spout.
‘Okay,’ said Mac, feeling the nerves starting. ‘I’ll take Da Silva direct – you want to deal with the ancillary targets?’
‘Sure,’ said Jim, pulling back into the shadows as a Brimob armoured vehicle flew past. ‘Let’s go.’
Pushing out into the street, they jogged in their chinos and polo shirts, guns tucked into waistbands, and moved up onto the pavement, where they pushed through swinging glass doors.
Ignoring the elevators, Mac and Jim raced up the stairs two at a time, Mac coming to a standstill behind Jim as the American opened the fire door and peeked down the hall.
‘One receptionist, glass walls… wait, wait,’ he whispered. ‘Shit! The entry has an electronic lock on it. We have to get the receptionist to open it from inside.’
A door slammed and the sound of feet slapping on concrete echoed up to them. Moving away from the door, Mac gave Jim a wink as a signal to get in character.
‘So I’m not comfortable with that kind of dilution, champion. I need a sign-off on the tax position before we carve up the equity,’ said Mac, in as self-important a tone as he could muster, as a courier appeared behind them, a large package in hand.
Pretending to try to get out of the bloke’s way, Mac looked down and saw the package was addressed to Carvalho and Da Silva.
‘We can give you that buddy,’ said Jim. ‘But if my guys can’t get over twelve per cent equity at your NPV, they don’t even want to talk about the tax position. I told you – our deal is accretive, apples for apples.’