Mac was about to say, Why the hell would they be checking passports? But he just shrugged, said he’d fi nd out.
Walking into the heat, Mac buzzed with what he’d just found out.
The Russians didn’t believe the bombers were locals either.
CHAPTER 7
After changing into clean civvies, Mac headed downstairs and Julie grabbed him as he walked into the hotel lobby. For someone who never seemed to rest, she had a clean, fresh look. Her dark drill skirt was pressed and her white short-sleeved blouse was free of the dust that everyone else picked up in Kuta.
‘Chester needs you, Mr McQueen,’ said Julie as Mac stopped, ‘for signing the Memorandum of Understanding with the Indon National Police.’
She didn’t wait for an answer, just turned and walked.
Mac followed. ‘By the way, Julie…’
She looked over her shoulder.
‘Call me Mac, huh? All this “Mister” stuff will just get everyone confused.’
She smiled, got to a dark door and leaned on it. ‘Okay, Mac. The big one in the suit is from the Indonesian President’s offi ce and the one with the fruit salad is Indonesian National Police. It’s now a joint op and DFAT has carriage from the Aussie side.’
‘And the MOU?’ asked Mac.
‘Joint AFP and INP. We’re doing forensics and DVI; the Indons are doing the investigation.’
Mac smiled. ‘Good thinking. That Chester’s not just a pretty face, huh?’
She laughed. ‘It gets better. The MOU precludes any foreign investigations and the INP will write the fi nal report. Non-negotiable, no dissenting opinions.’
One of Julie’s phones rang and she stepped away from the door, motioning for Mac to go through. There were fi fteen people in a small business centre. The ones with any clout sat around the oval wooden treaty table while the lawyers leaned down and pointed at documents with silver Parkers and black Montblancs.
Chester rose and introduced Mac and the Indonesians at the table all smiled and did their little bows at him. Despite being a bit of a dick, Chester was in his element in a diplomatic forum.
‘Alan, just to bring you up to speed,’ he said, with genial authority,
‘we now have an MOU with the Republic of Indonesia to run the investigation and associated logistics as a joint operation.’
Mac saw that one group at the table, the AFP representatives, were conspicuously not smiling and wondered what kind of arguments had erupted in the back rooms before the cops conceded it was now a DFAT show.
‘Mr McQueen will have overall sign-off on the public affairs side,’ said Chester, smiling like he was ingratiating a boyfriend with someone’s father. ‘I think we’re all in agreement on the need for a single interaction point with the media, yes?’
Afterwards Mac lunched with Chester in the main restaurant. They ate quickly and moved across the basics. The AFP would do all the heavy lifting, with the support of the Australian Defence Force. The cops would build the forward command post, and Defence would organise the chow tents, sleeping quarters, toilets and showers for the two hundred Aussies expected to descend on Bali in the next few days.
Of most signifi cance to Mac was the fact that the Indonesian National Police would write the only report. If Mac knew Indonesia even half as well as he thought he did that report would never be released to the Indonesian media and perhaps not even to their parliament. The INP answered directly to the Indonesian President’s offi ce, and that’s where the report would disappear.
‘Doesn’t leave much for us, mate,’ quipped Mac.
Chester smiled with the superiority of the diplomat as he chewed on his tuna. ‘I see our role as more the project manager – thought-leadership, if you will.’
Mac gagged slightly on his veal. If Jenny was here she’d be in the bloke’s face for that sort of comment. She had no time for men and their endless extra layers of management.
‘You okay, McQueen?’ asked Chester as Mac drank iced water and thumped himself in his still-tender sternum.
‘Good as gold, thanks,’ Mac spluttered.
As he put his glass down Mac saw John Morris, the AFP’s senior counter-terrorism bloke, patting his chest pocket like he was going for a ciggie as he ducked out of the restaurant. Mac got up to go, but turned back to Chester. ‘By the way, mate, I’ll need an assistant.’
‘Sure,’ said Chester. ‘Pick anyone… except Julie.’
Mac smiled. ‘I’ll take Julie.’
Chester stopped chewing and they stared at one another.
‘Perhaps we could get Canberra to decide?’ asked Mac.
‘That won’t be necessary, McQueen. She’s yours. For now.’
Mac checked his voicemail as he made for the hotel’s side exit. Most were from Julie or Chester. The one from Jenny said she wouldn’t be able to catch up with him before he left for New York because she was being rotated into Kuta immediately for the bombing. He wondered what his relationship with the cops would turn into once Jenny started stirring things up.
Outside, Mac found John Morris with another cop in the side garden area.
‘Well, look what the cat dragged in,’ Morris sneered, his dark cop moustache rising up like a living thing.
‘Boys,’ said Mac, offering his hand to the bloke he didn’t know – a tall, athletic Anglo with a tanned, shaved head. ‘Alan McQueen, DFAT.’
‘Jason Cutler, Federal Police.’
John Morris cut into the pleasantries. ‘Jase, if you wouldn’t mind giving us a second,’ he snapped, impatient.
Jason fl icked his butt into the shrubs and left without saying another word.
Six foot tall, short dark hair, squarish face and built like a front-rower, John Morris was about ten years older than Mac. His pale blue business shirts were always perfectly pressed and he wore a tie regardless of the temperature. Even in fi eld operations, Morris never wore overalls like most other AFP cops did.
‘Came to gloat, did ya, Macca?’
‘Mate, I’m supposed to be getting packed for the UN gig in New York. I didn’t want this,’ sighed Mac.
‘An outside agency running the media side? That’s bad enough.
But shit, Macca – DFAT is coordinating the whole show? I don’t even know where to start with that.’ Morris fl icked his butt, fi shed immediately for another smoke. ‘These incidents are what we train for. Since when did the Australian Federal Police need babysitting?’
Mac didn’t want to get into it. He had a girlfriend who had laid it all out for him on many occasions with a great deal more force than Morris was giving it.
‘John, I don’t think it’s like that.’
‘Oh, really, Macca? So why’d they bring in a spook from Manila to run the media side? Afraid we might tell the truth?’
‘Mate, do you mind?’ said Mac, eyes darting around the garden.
‘I got no problem with intel, you’ve got a job to do. But that, out there,’ said Morris, pointing with his slightly shaking cigarette hand,
‘that is a fucking mess, right? My guys are telling me a hundred and fi fty, maybe two hundred dead. We’ve got hospitals where the burns victims are lying in storage rooms, screaming their lungs out ‘cos there’s no morphine! We’ve got two blast sites fi lled with burnt body parts, Macca.’
‘Look, John -‘
‘Don’t fucking look me, McQueen!’ Morris cut in, his voice starting to tremble. ‘Our fi rst job is to build a comms centre and victim database that can handle the incoming. Those are real families with real pain, mate, and most of them are Aussies. Okay?!’
