‘Haven’t been asked to. But if you want to talk…’
Which strongly suggested that Garvs was wired.
Mac changed tack. ‘What’s Xiong doing in Singers?’
‘Maritime security. That’s the conference, isn’t it?’
‘Why would Xiong come in to talk about that? Bunch of pirates, terrorists messing with the Chinese economy? It’s a pretty old story.’
‘Could be that naval base shit again,’ said Garvs, sniffi ng and looking away.
Mac’s ears pricked up. Skin crawled. A sixth sense, when someone has verbally slipped and is using nonchalance to recover. Where had naval base come from?
He looked at Garvs, but the big guy was looking out the venetians.
Trying to change angles.
‘So where you been, old man?’ said Garvs, too casually.
‘Just looking into things,’ said Mac.
Garvs crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Things, huh? Where?’
Either Garvs was foxing or the Twentieth’s reputation for maintaining a fully classifi ed operation was holding true.
‘Round the archipelago. You know how it is.’
‘How it is was that you were on a plane back to Sydney, last time we spoke,’ said Garvs, forced smile.
‘Yeah,’ said Mac, like he was a teenager weighing which rock concert he would get tickets for. ‘But there were loose ends. Things didn’t add up.’
‘What’s this? Hawaii 5-0?’ said Garvs.
‘In your dreams I guess that makes me Dano.’
The two stared at each other, the years compressing.
The front doors suddenly opened and an Aussie girl in her twenties and two British girls came through, laughing about what someone did to ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ at the karaoke last night. Realising Mac and Garvs were there they blushed, shut their mouths, walked through to the admin area.
Garvs got up, shut the door behind them. ‘See, Macca, I can’t work out why you went back to Sulawesi.’
Mac shrugged. ‘Told you, things didn’t add up.’
‘What things?’ Garvs was making swirls with his fi nger on the desk.
Mac fi xed him with a look. ‘I realised Garrison had to be working with one of our guys. I decided to fi nd out who.’
Mac thought he saw an eye tremor, wondered if Garvs was dissembling.
If he was, Garvs rescued it quick with a laugh. ‘Don’t tell me, Macca – a mole, right?’
Mac didn’t let the stare go, even though Garvs was laughing at him. ‘Mole sounds very Cold War, doesn’t it, Garvs?’ he said. ‘Let’s say there’s another kind of black operator who’s no mole, not a double and maybe isn’t even behaving illegally?’
‘Okay.’
‘Might be a good man, asked to do something. Something he’s not completely comfortable about, but which gets him into the Big Boys’ Club.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Might not know the whole picture. Only be told the outcome or only told about the benefi ts.’
Garvs shot his eyebrows up too quick. ‘How would someone work that?’
‘It’s an old move. If blackmail and threats don’t work, try some reverse fl attery.’
‘Really?’
Mac was taking Garvs into areas he hadn’t been into. Truth was, Garvs wasn’t very good at the things Mac excelled at. Thought he’d give a glimpse of himself in operational mode.
He altered his voice, got into character. Did what he’d done a thousand times, all over Asia. ‘You know, “Garvs, it so amazes me that you’re still only an IO after so many years. You’re so smart. So much smarter than these smarmy pricks who are getting paid twice as much as you and deciding your future. Don’t know who the halfwit is who’s been passing you over, but you know, I see you as director material. Fair dinkum, Anton, you’re the type of person we need for these new taskings. No one else knows what the fuck’s going on.
But hey! Here’s an idea! I’m having lunch with the DG next week in Tokyo, it’d be great to know I had your permission to put your name forward… ”’
Garvs was embarrassed. Had broken the stare. Put his hand up.
‘Okay, okay.’
Mac pushed on. ‘How it works, mate. Only, as an afterthought, I’d say something like, “You know, Anton, we’ve been having this little problem. Been working on it with the American side. Hush-hush, classifi ed, of course, but thought you’d like to sit in, lend us a hand while we get you in front of the DG, huh?” ‘
Mac didn’t know if he’d hurt Garvs. Or if he’d struck something else. The big guy exhaled, looked through the venetians at the heat shimmers now coming off the concrete of Halim. He shoved a hand in his pocket, brought something out, popped it in his mouth. It was chewing gum.
The front doors fl ew inward and a bloke Mac knew entered the building, bandage across his nose, black eye – one of those ones with an egg yolk in it. A black cap on his head, he was dressed in grey ovies. He had a man and a woman in his wake as he stormed along the entry corridor.
The party went down the hallway and the MI6 guy called Paul suddenly reappeared. He’d reversed up, didn’t miss anything. Paused at the door, smiled at Mac and entered the room.
‘You’re up early. You shit the bed?’
Mac laughed. ‘Nah, that was your missus. You can have her back now.’
Paul came forward, shook Mac’s left hand. Mac did intro ductions with Garvs.
Paul turned back, kept the musical Pommie accent going. ‘You could be the man we’re looking for, McQueen.’
Mac looked at Paul, looked at Garvs. ‘Yeah?’
‘Got a small thing in Singers this morning. Need a bloke who’s all over it.’
‘Short-staffed?’ asked Mac.
‘All at a conference. They pulled me out of MMC.’
Mac thought about the IMO security bash at Raffl es City and realised that that’s where the Service would always have deployed him.
Natural fi t: his turf, his specialty. The penny dropped. They wanted him out of Singers too.
Garvs cleared his throat. He seemed nervous around Paul.
‘Mate, you didn’t see the ankle bracelet. Makes him look like a tart, if you ask me,’ said Garvs to Paul.
Paul looked down. ‘He’s right, McQueen. It’s tarty. Lose it and let’s get going.’
Garvs stood, looked at Paul, chewing furiously. ‘He’s in custody, mate. Understand?’
‘Sure,’ said Paul. ‘But we’ll be needing him.’ He walked to the door.
Turned back to Garvs. ‘Have him ready in two, thanks mate.’
Garvs shook his head, like this Pommie was going to get a word in the shell-like. Paul put up his hand. Yelled ‘Anthea’ over his shoulder.
Garvs and Paul eyed off for eight seconds. Something colder than hate.
A medium-height brunette came through, a clipboard in her hand. Paul said, ‘Can we get a copy of that executive order? And bring a requisition for Mr McQueen to sign, okay? It’s McQueen, Alan.’
Anthea dashed out of the room. Paul stood his ground and Garvs straightened up, a bead of sweat on his top lip.
‘ Davis is going nowhere, ‘cept on a plane into Darwin. Townie, if he’s lucky,’ said Garvs.
‘Ten days ago your government resourced us to requisition from all coalition partners as part of our joint CT sweep. So I’m requisitioning,’ said Paul.
Garvs tried to stare him down. But Paul didn’t seem to mind. He stared straight back.
Anthea came back, gave Paul a piece of green paper, the last or second-last sheet on a triplicate form. The whites, reds and blues were sitting somewhere else, probably in Canberra and the British Embassy.
The green paper had a man’s handwriting in the tasking section. Some boxes were ticked, N/A was written in other places. The signature was looping but you could read the name: the Australian Minister for Foreign
