Morris’s eyes were wet now and Mac did the Aussie male thing, looked away for a few seconds. Morris was right: it was a fucking mess out there. As Mac looked back, Morris was dabbing his left eye with the back of his hand.
‘Fucking pollen,’ said Mac, shoving his hands in the pockets of his overalls and waiting as Morris collected himself.
‘Macca, I don’t care how much spooky, high-level shit you’re trying to juggle here – in fact, I don’t want to know. But here’s the deal: if you know anything that has any bearing on this investigation, then I want to know, okay? You hold out and you and me, mate, we’ll be going at it like cat and dog. Okay?’
Mac thought that sounded fair enough, nodded, and then said,
‘The Russians are in town. GRU, I think.’
‘That intel?’
Mac nodded. ‘Military. Answers to the general staff. I spoke with one of them this morning.’
‘And?’
‘And he wanted to know if we were checking passports,’ said Mac after looking around. Another group had huddled for a smoke but they were fi fteen metres away.
Morris shook his head slowly and looked into the sky. The job had just got larger.
‘And BAIS thinks there were two crews,’ continued Mac. ‘The pros did Sari and the patsies did Paddy’s.’
‘Great. So we have the world’s most porous borders and a foreign outfi t responsible for the big blast,’ snarled Morris, fl icking his butt.
‘But they’re long gone, right, so we arrest the patsies, fi t them up for the whole thing, and then it’s “the Muslims did it”. That the DFAT script, eh Macca?’
Mac shrugged. ‘Your investigation, John.’
Morris’s eyes fl ashed with anger. ‘Fuck the pricks,’ he said as he left.
Mac stayed in the garden for a while, thinking about cops and spies. There’d been one afternoon in Jakarta when Jenny and her transnational sexual slavery crew had been on the tail of a container load of kids. They’d been working on it for two days, no sleep, and had cornered a bunch of businessmen. They had them cold: emails, bank records, trucking documentation and, the clincher, a purchase order for hundreds of kids’ pyjamas, clothes and soft toys.
The plan was to arrest and heavy the business guys, fi nd where the children were being kept, save the kids and bust the slaving racket.
They were on the verge of doing just that – had the forensic guys from Scotland Yard and a Kopassus unit to do the storming. Then someone in the POLRI team snitched, and the word quickly went higher and higher. It soon reached way up into the shitosphere of the political zone and at six minutes before ‘go’ they were stood down. Just like that. It’s how the slave trade worked – more often than not it was protected from above.
By the time Jenny got to the embassy after the op was cancelled, the men who’d stood her down had sensibly vacated. She tracked down the counsellor-political at the Jakarta Golf Club where he was drinking with other Foreign Affairs brass. According to a mate of Mac’s who’d been there, Jenny had stomped up to the table, yelled something about how if it was white, middle-aged men who were being raped for money, the slavers would be shut down immediately.
When the boozed-up Foreign Affairs bloke stood to put a conciliatory hand on her shoulders, she’d pushed him in the chest so hard he’d fallen across the table and into the arms of another Foreign Affairs luncher.
That was Jenny and that was the tension between cops and the apparatus Mac was a part of. So Mac knew where Morris was coming from. He was leading a crew that had to sift through body parts and dental records; ask victims’ relatives the hard questions about whether there was ever a broken bone in their loved one’s right-hand femur; reconstruct and deconstruct and then catch the bastards who did it.
And they had to do it with grieving rellies and an angry public baying for answers. The last thing they needed was a bunch of diplomats over the top of them. Every cop at every level knew where that would lead: you get a bunch of smarties like Chester and Mac in to massage the message and inevitably the tail starts wagging the dog.
Mac headed back to the hotel wondering if that was really Abu Samir on the ship. There was all that and something much bigger weighing on his mind. Freddi’s idea about the pros and the patsies was gnawing away at him. It wasn’t such a far-fetched theory for the pros to operate in the shadow of the more obvious amateurs.
In fact, it was standard operating procedure for most intelligence outfi ts.
CHAPTER 8
Garvs brought two Tigers back from the bar, boogying slightly to Powderfi nger’s ‘My Happiness’, and went straight back into his theories about why the Roosters had got over the Warriors in the rugby league grand fi nal.
Early in their careers Garvs and Mac had become a sort of Laurel and Hardy of the Australian intelligence community: Anton Garvey, the bull-like corporate guy who was lairish on the booze yet very much a man with an offi cial career path; Alan McQueen, more of a solo act and the buddy who made the peace when Garvs got into a blue. Which was often. They’d both been boarders at St Joseph’s schools – Garvs in Sydney and Mac at Nudgee in Brisbane – and talking footy was a highly clinical exercise, like politics or religion was to others.
‘Just goes to show you, Macca,’ said Garvs, his big tanned face serious, ‘that an organised defence beats enthusiastic attack every time.’ Relaxing a bit, he looked around the virtually empty room of an Aussie bar called Tubes, and pondered on where all the sorts had gone.
‘They heard you were coming, Garvs,’ said Mac.
Garvs yeah, yeah ed and wandered over to the bar, looking for nuts.
They’d already had their debrief chat: Mac had told Garvs about Ari and Freddi, the Indon and the Russian viewpoints. Garvs had been more circumspect about what he was working on. The declared ASIS crew down from Jakkers had an image problem: they should have caught the chatter about a bombing and they’d even staged a simulated terror attack in Kuta a year earlier – with AFP and Australian Defence Force involvement – such was the likelihood of an attack on Bali. Mac had been in Afghanistan at the time of the Bali simulation, so Garvs was indoctrinated to the defensiveness and Mac wasn’t.
Garvs shared Mac’s discomfort with the Sari Club’s crater. ‘When I was doing my IED rotation at Holsworthy, we could make a crater with anfo but Christ, we needed a shitload of the stuff,’ said Garvs, shaking his head at the thought of how much of the terrorists’ favoured bomb fuel would be required. ‘And mate, we’d tamp it – it was fl ush with the ground. So these bombers needed, what, a container of anfo and it had to be sitting fl at on Legian Street? Without anyone noticing?’
Legian was a busy street in October. It ran north-south parallel to Kuta Beach, its shops, restaurants and cafes coming right up to the footpaths, which were narrow. Humanity crowded onto and along Legian and neither Mac nor Garvs could imagine how such a large blast would have been managed, let alone clandestinely.
The sunset fl ooded through the windows and Mac fi elded a call from Julie, who was setting up the media centre. Then he got a call from Joe on his new pre-paid Nokia. Still in Manila, Joe wanted to know if there were any dramas. Mac joked that the Prime Minister had turned up for a surprise visit and everyone was drunk. Then he said, ‘Gotcha, Joe,’ and hung up.
He was still waiting for Garvs to return when he suddenly became aware of a shape he knew well. Jenny Toohey was standing on the street outside, her dark brown hair pinned at the sides and pulled into a French plait at the back. She had her clipboard, two mobile phones on one hip and her weight on her other hip, and was using a pen to make a point to a couple of AFP blokes.
Mac groaned. He’d tried to tell Jen that some males took exception to a woman standing like that, telling them how it had to be. She’d assumed he was joking at fi rst, couldn’t understand what he was talking about. In her line of work you had to move quickly and make all the right decisions, and some people just needed to be directed.
What to her was a comfortable posture to many men looked bossy.
The shorter of the federal cops Jen was talking to had averted his eyes from her. Within a week there’d be
