Mac had got Boo and his boys spared on the basis that they weren’t so unlike Sonny and his boys. Mac had had to work on that, emphasising that dead APS blokes would bring POLRI’s Criminal Investigation detectives in from Jakkers. But he didn’t know about the bloke in the luggage compartment.
They drove past the turn-off to a popular family swimming hole where the waterfall emptied straight into a big pool. Mac’s mind worked overtime, struggling to work out what Garrison and Sabaya were doing, what the missing container in Manila contained and why Garrison had Diane working as a double agent months before this thing had gone down. He had to stay clear on that without the feeling of betrayal muddying everything.
His immediate goal was to create a scenario where the guy in the back didn’t have to die.
Mac leaned forward, whispered in Sonny’s ear, ‘I reckon I can get something out of this bloke if we’re alone. You guys go on, leave him with me. Whaddya reckon?’
‘I don’t care if you want to fuck him, make him your missus. All I want is something I can take to Mr B. Got that?’
Mac nodded.
Sonny’s sat phone trilled and he took the call before passing it back to Mac.
‘Hello,’ Mac rasped.
Cookie Banderjong wanted Mac to stay in touch. Reckoned there was still life in the Garrison-Sabaya thing. Said, ‘Don’t be a stranger, mate. Remember your friends.’
Cookie was really saying, The trail’s dead for now but if you come back to this island, you’re dealing with me.
Mac’s head spun and he struggled to breathe properly.
As Cookie was signing off Mac had a sudden thought. ‘Mr B, if the US military is shipping something to Johnston, what are they doing?’ he said.
Cookie chuckled. ‘They’re burying their mistakes, mate.’
Mac said nothing; he was beyond riddles.
‘Johnston Atoll is a US Army base about two hundred miles south of Hawaii. It’s a huge incinerator plant out there in the Pacifi c. Hush-hush, run by DIA,’ said Cookie.
‘What do they burn?’ asked Mac.
‘All their CBNRE stuff – diseases that don’t work, explosives that don’t meet stability specs, dogs with two heads. All that scientist shit.’
Mac was totally awake again, his heart thumping.
Behind him, someone groaned. A long, animal-like exhalation of pain.
‘Mr B, the secret cache at Clark – what was it?’ demanded Mac.
‘Oh that. About four thousand tons of VX gas,’ said Cookie. ‘Nerve agent. Nasty shit.’
CHAPTER 27
Mac tore the grey duct tape off Ray-Bans’ mouth, sliced the white fl exi cuffs from his wrists, and watched him slump to the carpeted fl oor of the HiAce van. It was late afternoon, the temperature was low thirties, and dust seemed to fl oat on the heat. Wafts of kerosene and scorched rubber came from the helos and military air-lifters around Hasanuddin Air Base and the F-111s from the Indonesian Air Force’s Eastern Command screamed as they took off.
The HiAce sat beside Cookie’s LandCruiser in a private hangar that looked over the whole spread of Hasanuddin Air Base and the airport.
A security bloke strolled with a German shepherd about eighty metres away near the huge sliding doors.
Mac put a bottle of water in front of Ray-Bans. Watched the guy squirm and wriggle to get comfortable. Blood was smeared down his dark red polo shirt and across the thighs of his cream chinos, and his right eye was puffed, dark purple and about to get a nice yellow yolk in the middle. Struggling onto his right elbow, he pushed himself up against the wall of the HiAce with his boat shoes. He put his hand out for the water, revealing a heavily muscled arm. Couldn’t reach it, so Mac opened the top and gave it to him.
Mac stayed at arm’s length. The guy was an athlete and Mac was in no shape to go close-range with him.
Ray-Bans drank, convulsed slightly, then wiped his mouth and spat. A tooth bounced on the black nylon carpet.
‘This when I die?’ he asked, in a London accent.
‘That depends on both of us,’ said Mac.
Mac had developed paranoid ideas about Ray-Bans for the last couple of days. It wasn’t just that the bloke was put together and looked like he knew what he was doing. It wasn’t just that from Minky’s place and all the way up Sulawesi and into the highlands the two had been playing cat and mouse. It wasn’t even that Mac had fi nally clicked and realised that the bloke was part of the Sabaya retinue during the Mindanao Forest Products infi ltration. The big thing Mac had been overlooking, and which hadn’t occurred to him during this totally out-of-control mission, was that Ray-Bans might be a lot more like him than he was comfortable with. He had the same aura Mac drew around himself in the fi eld: the unknown quantity, the person who could be from anywhere, doing anything. About the only people who noticed the kind of blandness Mac affected were other spooks.
‘Smoke?’ asked Mac.
Ray-Bans nodded.
‘Bad luck, I don’t,’ said Mac.
They both laughed, Ray-Bans through a busted-up mouth. He stopped himself quick.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Mac.
‘Call me Paul. Yours?’
‘Then I’d have to kill ya,’ said Mac.
Paul snorted, looked out the HiAce window, still casing his surrounds. He was a good-looking man up close, even with the facial he’d got from Hemi. He could have starred in General Hospital, sort of an Asian Rick Springfi eld.
‘You knew during the Mindanao Forest thing that I wasn’t a forestry consultant,’ said Mac.
Paul looked at the fl oor. ‘Didn’t know what the fuck you were, tell the truth. You were a pretty good deal- maker for an impostor.’
‘You liked that?’
Paul looked at him with one eye, nodded. ‘Chinese liked it too.’
‘And Sabaya?’
Paul grinned, looked away. ‘Embarrassed him, getting a pale-eye to broker something between a Filipino and the Chinese. Didn’t really live up to some of his ethnic ideas…’
‘But you let it go.’
Paul shrugged, slugged at the water, winced slightly.
‘You NICA, one of Garcia’s boys?’ asked Mac, referring to Philippines intel.
Paul shrugged.
Mac waved the Browning. ‘I’m the one with the gun. In the movies, that’s good for me, bad for you.’
Paul smiled, looked Mac in the eye. ‘I’m not NICA.’
‘Agency?’
Paul shook his head.
The van was getting stuffy and Mac got up, pulled the sliding side window back. Let some air in, sat down.
‘Paul, there’s something worth knowing. I’m really tired, really stressed. I’m even a bit emotional,’ he said, looking down at the Browning on his lap. ‘I’m not going to sit here all day asking questions like I’m on a date with a diffi cult bird. I’m sure you’d like to get on your bike too, huh?’
Paul nodded, said, ‘Mate, I’m Old School.’
Mac looked at him. Old School was intel-speak for MI6 – the oldest intelligence organisation in the Western world and the one that most others were in some way modelled on. ASIS, the CIA, Mossad and the Canadian SIS
