Mac got to the guardhouse, got in the Commodore and asked for the Pantai Gapura.
Mac waited until they’d driven away from the port area before he fi shed out the mobile phone and made a call. From his recollection, sensitive explosives could be triggered by something that disturbed the atmosphere. Cellular systems ran on microwaves which did plenty of atmospheric disturbing.
He patched through to Cookie’s compound in the foothills of Mount Malino. A local took the call, patching him on, probably to Cookie’s sat phone. Cookie came on the line. Clear, but with noise in the background. A helo or a logging site.
‘Yeah?’
‘Mr B – it’s Mac. Alan McQueen.’ He still didn’t have the ticker to call him Cookie.
‘Ah, Mr Mac. How’s it going?’
‘Yeah, good mate,’ he lied, his wrist throbbing and his eyelids heavy with exhaustion.
‘So you’re in town?’ asked Cookie.
‘Um, yeah, arrived yesterday, Makassar. Been busy.’ Mac tried to work out how much of a lie he could tell. He was cut off from the Service, chasing a CIA bloke and the former number one terrorist in South-East Asia. Or were they chasing him? He needed the reach that Cookie could bring.
Cookie laughed, loud, like a pirate. ‘Just checking, Mr Mac. Knew you wouldn’t lie to me.’
Mac expelled a lungful of air. He needed someone on his side, couldn’t do this by himself.
‘Mr B, I need to talk.’
‘Don’t we all.’
‘Remember that hocus-pocus a couple of years ago? The story about the cache of hazardous materiel found in a secret bunker at Clark? You remember that bullshit?’
There was a pause, then Cookie said, ‘Was that bullshit?’
‘Wasn’t it?’ asked Mac.
‘It might not have been,’ said Cookie.
Which in the intel world was code for We were infi ltrated – we had eyes.
Mac wanted him to spill, but couldn’t sound too eager. ‘Oh well, I guess a bit of Agent Orange never hurt anyone, huh?’
Cookie scoffed. Too smart. He’d written the book on that ploy.
‘Mate, while I’m digging into my memory, tell me what’s going on with this Garrison prick,’ said Cookie.
‘For a start, it’s not just Garrison anymore. I think I have enough to say he’s now operating with Abu Sabaya. They’re a team.’
Mac winced, held his breath. Waited for the laughter or the scoffi ng.
‘That could make sense,’ said Cookie.
‘It could?’
‘Sure. I never thought the guy was dead. They never found the body, never even ID’d him on the boat. I mean, did you see him that night?’
Mac didn’t respond – Cookie already knew the answer.
Cookie seemed to be thinking something through. ‘You know, if Sabaya’s part of this, then it’s big, right?’
‘That’s my guess,’ said Mac.
‘So where are they?’
‘They were here this morning. In Makassar. Don’t know where they are now.’
‘In Makassar?!’
‘Hatta container terminal. They cleaned out a warehouse and took off.’
‘Which way?’ asked Cookie.
‘Umm, sorry?’
‘Which way did he go? Garrison?’
Mac was lost. ‘You mean, which road?’
‘No, I mean he’s standing on a dock. How did he leave? Land, sea or air?’
Mac felt like a dickhead. He’d become so exhausted, was following so many pieces of the puzzle, that he’d missed the obvious issue.
‘I – I don’t know,’ he said, wondering if he could double back, ask those boys how Garrison and Sabaya had left the dock.
The Commodore stopped at lights. There was a thud, and a thunk, and Mac was suddenly looking down the barrel of a Glock 9 mm.
He looked up into Samoan eyes. Steady Samoan eyes.
From the other side of the car, a door slammed and the phone was ripped out of Mac’s hand. Mac turned away from the Glock to a big, big smile from a big, big man. The bloke hit the disconnect button on the phone, tossed it over his shoulder. It landed on the back dash.
‘G’day, Macca,’ the big man said with forced friendliness.
”Zit going, Boo?’ said Mac, his smile icy.
Mac had inadvertently given Boo his nickname, and Boo had hated him for it ever since. It was during a Christmas party at the Jakarta embassy compound a few years back. Those who weren’t going home fi red up the barbie, cranked up the AC/DC and Helen Reddy and hooked into the piss, big time. Christmas in Aussie embassies meant the spooks, the law enforcement, the diplomats and the trade people all mushing in together. Drinking, dancing, pashing.
And it all stayed on the fi eld.
It also meant socialising with a section of Australian Protective Service known as the I-team. The I-team removed Commonwealth people abroad who’d developed drug habits or were going to paedophile brothels. That sort of thing. Their leader was a hulking ex-navy Military Policeman called Barry Bray.
Barry had annoyed some of the women at the Jakarta embassy because of his forced removal of a young woman who’d got hooked on the then-new drug that Japanese teenagers were calling ice. The woman had had the full psychotic episodes and, because the situation wasn’t entirely medical, Bray was called in.
The thing that got the women going was Barry’s use of a straitjacket before he put her on a Qantas fl ight. It was the fi rst time Mac had really noticed Jenny Toohey. The womenfolk had been going off like a bunch of hens but it was Jen who stepped up to Barry, told him to cut it out and let her and another female AFP offi cer do the escort. She’d stood there in front of Barry, poking him in the chest, giving him the old what’s what. Barry brushed her aside. Jen complained to the Ambassador, complained to the Jakarta AFP station chief. She was a piece of work, all right.
Not long after, the I-team was back in Jakarta for Christmas and wanting to party like nothing had happened. The ladies were bristling but were standing off. Barry was a large, arrogant man with a reputation for violence.
Mac had got a bit boozed, noticed that Barry had the dirtiest teeth he’d ever seen. He’d said to the Customs bird he was cracking on to,
‘He looks like Fu Manchu with a mouthful of bamboo.’
The Customs girl loved that, and the next day Jenny Toohey was calling Barry ‘Bamboo’. Saying it with a wink and a giddy-up. The girls soon shortened it to Boo. Female revenge, served with laughter.
Boo stuck. Barry tracked it back. Never forgave Mac.
Now Mac, Boo and his sidekick, Marlon, sat in a suite at the Pantai Gapura, waiting for the evening fl ight out of Hasanuddin to Soekarno-Hatta. Boo had rightly surmised that the crowded concourse of a major airport might be a better place for Mac to stage a getaway than facing off in a hotel room. So they were waiting.
Boo turned his chair around, sat down like he wanted to have sex with it. Marlon stayed on his feet. He was heavy-set in the chest and arms, about fi ve-eleven, one hundred and ten kilos and carried a handgun in a shoulder rig under a blue blazer.
‘So, Macca, what’s been up, mate?’ asked Bray.
‘Oh, you know,’ said Mac. ‘Just enjoying the weather. Sulawesi’s beautiful this time of year.’
‘Temperate climate. That’s what it is…’
Mac chuckled. He could do this all day – a former Navy MP would get the shits before he did. But he didn’t want to sit there all day. He had a call to make to Sawtell and a call to Cookie to fi nish. He was either going to talk his way out, or fi ght his way out. His wrist was begging him to do it with charm.
