Right up high near the jawbone. He straightened his arm, drove up through his right leg and threw his right hip behind it. Turquoise’s feet left the pavement and he went down on his back, winded, his eyes wide with fear and surprise. Mac pulled the bloke’s gun hand away from the holster with a Korean wrist-lock, belted the guy in the temple with a right-hand punch. Turquoise went slack.
Mac’s wrist pulsed white-hot with the impact. Agony.
He looked around. A couple of people had watched, but now quickly turned away. Mac shook his hand but it made his wrist hurt even more. He dragged Turquoise behind a pile of garbage in the stinking alley and pulled the handgun out of the holster – a Browning.
He stuffed it in his belt in the small of his back. He checked the guy’s two breast pockets in the trop shirt: nothing. Had a feel in his pants, came out with a laundry slip from the Golden Hotel. What was it with Javanese men and their goddamned pants? He looked closer and saw Turquoise’s room number on the docket. It was 414 – level four, harbour-facing.
There was something else: a scrap of paper with a series of numbers written on it in ballpoint. He trousered the scrap, checked the other pocket and laughed as he came up with a red plastic rectangle with the gold stamp of 414 on it.
He put the key and the laundry docket back, then input the eleven-digit number into his phone. A bank account? He put the scrap back too.
Turquoise mumbled something, came to, looked at Mac, and panicked. Mac slapped him with the Browning. Turquoise slumped again. Picking up the Straits Times, Mac opened it and spread it over him. Just another drunk sleeping it off. Then he took off.
Mac’s instinct was to go straight to the Golden, enlist his way into Turquoise’s room and have a good old nosey-poke. Messing around in other folks’ lives was what Mac had been trained for. But he wasn’t going to do it. He remembered Ray-Bans’ presence and general demeanour from the Mindanao Forest Products infi ltration, and he hadn’t seemed stupid. In fact, as Mac ran it through his memory, it could well have been Ray-Bans who’d engineered the doubling of Tony Kleinwitz.
So Mac wasn’t going to go stumbling into a hotel room which could be an ambush. The hotel key in the pocket? If Ray-Bans was smart enough to double Kleinwitz right under Mac’s nose, he was smart enough to plant that key knowing that Turquoise might not be up to the job.
Mac walked north, his wrist aching, sore as. He moaned softly to himself as he tried to get his wrist comfortable. It just got worse. He’d have to attend to it.
Ducking into a convenience shop, he bought arnica ointment and crepe. Continuing on, he came back to the rear of the Sedona, checking for eyes and cars. He walked in the rear loading bay, passing waiters having a smoke and laundry girls fl irting with the guys having a smoke. Pushing through saloon doors into the lobby, he checked for eyes before going through to the bar, asking for a bucket of ice to be brought poolside.
Then Mac raced up the fi re stairs, made two passes of his room door, and paused outside it: the DO NOT DISTURB was still in place and the soap-scum he’d laid across the underside of the doorknob was still set in one glob, right where he’d put it. He bent down, sniffed the door knob – no solvent smell. You could remove soap scum with solvent and then put your own scum back on. But the solvent smell would linger.
He entered the room, nervous as hell, dumped everything into the black backpack, then swung around and left.
Mac sat by the Sedona pool, in the shadows of the palms and poured the contents of the ice bucket into the plastic mail centre bag from the pack. Screwing the top of the bag closed, he laid it on his wrist.
Gasped. Sore as!
Mac leaned back, trying to let the stress go, trying to breathe out the pain.
After twenty minutes he rubbed as much of the arnica in as he could without yelling aloud and bandaged the wrist as tight as possible. Stars fl ashed in his eyes, darkness closing in from his peripheral vision. He was almost in tears as he pulled the last of the bandage around behind his thumb, held it there with his teeth and fastened it with the bandage claws.
Agony!
Mac’s blue Commodore rolled up to the big security gates of the Port of Makassar. He’d hired a private car and a driver called Sami to give him a better image.
Mac got out, walked to the glass security cage, showed the MPS key. The Port Authority guy looked him up and down, put his hand out. Mac turned over the Richard Davis passport. Please don’t scan it; please don’t scan it.
The bloke could have run it through his database, the same as Indonesian Customs. But instead he wrote the passport number and Commodore rego onto his log sheet, gave the passport back and fl ipped his head slightly. By the time Mac got back to the Commodore, the boom gate was up.
They drove onto Hatta Quay, one of the huge container aprons on either side of the traditional pinisi wharves. Sami said he knew where the non-bond stores were and they drove north to a set of buildings.
Mac left Sami at the security gate for MPS and strode across a concrete courtyard until he stood in front of a shed with the number 46 painted in huge gold letters on a black industrial roller door. It was the same as a whole group of the same doors fronting four large buildings. The warehouses were subdivisions.
There was a single pedestrian door in the main one, and Mac put the key into the welded padlock and turned it. The door swung inwards. Mac pulled out the Browning behind him, turned back and went into the warehouse.
It was about thirty metres long and twenty metres wide, with natural light coming down from glass panels in the gabled ceiling.
Mac guessed it was eight, maybe ten years old.
Empty.
He walked around the edges, the Browning in his left hand. He felt stupid. Confused. He’d gambled everything to get back to Makassar and here he was strolling round in circles in an empty warehouse.
Nothing but the sound of scuffs on a concrete fl oor.
He put the Browning back in his belt, breathing deep, and rubbed his temples and eyes. He was so tired; fatigued like he used to get in the Marines. Rooted.
He went through the options. He could go back to the gatehouse, try to either enlist or terrify the locals, fi nd out what the fuck was going on. But he didn’t see that as productive. He already knew they were scared of someone and he had a good idea who. He’d have to hurt someone and he’d only end up with intel along the lines of, Some guys turned up in a truck, they paid in cash, they unloaded the stuff, then they picked the stuff up, then they fucked off. And if he didn’t kill them, he’d be caught by the cops or the Port Authority bulls and charged with terrorist activities or economic sabotage. They’d think of something.
His biggest problem wasn’t Ray-Bans or Garrison or Sabaya or the Service, but allowing too many hours to go past without telling Cookie that he was back in Makassar.
He locked the door as he left, then went for a walk to get some air. Finding a path across the concrete apron and the rail tracks, he walked to the water’s edge. It was an area where standard loose cargo was stevedored – cargo that wasn’t in containers. A lot of Indonesia’s trade saw feeder ships bringing goods from secondary regional ports to the larger ports, where freight forwarders and merchants would aggregate the stuff into containers for on- shipping. That’s what MPS was for. To his left were the huge cranes of the Hatta container terminal. To his right was a breakwater made of large concrete blocks.
Two boys stood on the blocks, casting lines.
The sight of the boys put a smile on his face. They reminded him of growing up in Rockie.
He wandered over. The boys were nine, maybe ten. Skinny, cocky, big smiles. No fi sh.
Mac asked how they were doing. Their English wasn’t great, but fi shing is the same in any language. They shrugged. Mac noticed one of them had a Brazil soccer shirt. He pointed, said, ‘Ronaldo, Ronaldinho.’ Said it sagely.
The boy burst into a smile, forgot about his fi shing line and jabbered something at his mate, who was getting shitty. Brazil pointed at his friend and said, ‘Enger Land.’ He made a face.
Mac said, ‘Beckham? Rooney?’
That triggered off an excited exchange between the two boys.
Mac was amazed at the global reach of soccer. The passion was just as strong in Makassar as in Rio or
