groups of male cops on the booze, with conversation openers like, That Jenny Toohey is such a piece of work.
Mac toyed with the idea of skipping out the back way and pretending not to have seen his girlfriend. But Garvs came back to the table and did one of his lair’s wolf-whistles. Jenny looked over her shoulder, irritated. Seeing them, she got rid of the blokes and came into the bar. ‘Well, Garvs – how could a girl say no to an opening like that?’
Garvs laughed and they hugged.
‘You’re such a charmer, mate. I’m always amazed you don’t have a string of girls on your arm,’ said Jen, disentangling herself.
Then, moving over to the table, she put her hand on Mac’s shoulder and gave him a dry kiss on the cheek. ‘Hello, you.’
Garvs asked her if she wanted a beer, to which Jenny patted the black Glock on her right hip and said, ‘No thanks, I’m carrying.’
‘So what brings you down, Jen?’ asked Garvs, all smiles and blushing.
He’d had a crush on Jenny for as long as Mac could remember.
‘Situations like this bring out the scumbags. They snatch the kids who can’t fi nd their families. Thought I’d come down, ruin their day.’
Jen had barely taken her eyes off Mac and he sensed he was in trouble. Garvs cottoned on and said he had to use the gents.
As Garvs left, Jenny put the clipboard on the table, put her hands on her hips. ‘See you’ve been making yourself popular with the troops.’
‘Jen!’
‘What, Macca? There’s a problem?’
‘Mate, it’s a job. I didn’t ask for it.’
‘Not what they’re saying.’
Mac sniggered. Bad move.
‘Something funny, McQueen?’
Mac hated it when cops used a surname to put a person in their place.
‘Look, I was getting ready for New York and the next thing I’m being fl own into Kuta. Into this mess – I mean, Jesus!’
Jenny crossed her arms, her ring fi ngers running up her biceps.
‘Well I only got in ninety minutes ago and all I’ve heard is that Delaney and McQueen are running the show. So a couple of DFAT boys are calling the shots for a hundred or so federal cops.’
Mac went to grab his beer, but didn’t drink – he’d lost his thirst.
‘We’re not calling the shots, it’s more like -‘
‘Don’t tell me, Macca. Project management, right?’ she said sneering as she made quote marks with her fi ngers.
‘No! Not at all. Umm, it’s more like a coordination role.’
Jenny did a three-second blink – female for you are so full of shit.
‘You and Chester know anything about the work that you’re managing ? Sorry, coordinating?’
‘Jen…’ said Mac appeasingly, wanting to be out of that gaze.
‘Well, do you? Know what a DVI is, Macca?’
Mac tried to recall. ‘I dunno. Something, something, Investigation?’
‘No, Macca, it’s a Deceased Victim Identifi cation program. Rotating crews are going to be working twenty- four hours a day for as long as it takes, and they’re going to be bagging and tagging bits of human body, storing them and adding them to a massive database. And they’re going to double-check and triple-check every bit of person they add to the database so that when they’re one hundred per cent certain of the ID, they can notify the next of kin. That’s when they get to hand over a plastic bag of body parts. And that’ll be considered a good day.’
Mac looked out the window, exhaling.
‘And you know what, Macca? Our guys are going to be upset and the families are going to be upset and it’s going to be a very emotional experience for everyone involved. And around all this is going to be a criminal investigation and a CT project and a logistics program to repatriate injured people. There’s even going to be a crew to round up the orphaned kids before the slavers get to them. And all my guys want to know is that they can do their jobs without a bunch of smartarses from Foreign Affairs trying to predetermine the conclusions. They can’t work like that Macca, understand?’
It was twilight in the street outside Tubes when they left. Jenny play-punched Mac on the left shoulder, said, ‘Take it easy,’ and walked over to a white Holden Commodore wagon with two male cops sitting on the hood, the tall one talking into a radio.
Mac’s phone rang and as he answered he noticed the short male cop bumping his mate in the arm and both of them jumping off the front of the Commodore, running their hands through their hair.
It was Ari, wanting to talk. Mac said he’d see him in fi ve.
Ari was sitting in a blue Toyota Camry sedan, about two-thirds along Poppies Gang. It was dark and Mac walked the north side of the street fi rst, getting eyes on Ari, seeing his stance, looking for clues.
Anxious? Alone? Nondescript van nearby? Mac came back on the south side of the street.
There were few people around, locals mostly. Most of the Aussies and Kiwis were at Bali International Airport in Denpasar where AFP, Foreign Affairs and ASIS were debriefi ng and processing every one of them before they could get on a plane. According to Jenny they had thirty AFP agents with computer servers and a massive internet connection doing nothing but downloading pictures and video from the tourists’ cameras before they made immigration.
Unarmed and cagey, Mac walked towards Ari’s car and then walked past, looking for anyone who might be hiding. He kept going, stopped behind a palm tree, cased the area and walked to the Toyota, opened the rear door and got in.
‘Kuta Puri,’ said Ari without preamble, nodding his head across the road. ‘You might be interested.’
Mac smelled stale cigarettes and saw a six-pack of large Evian bottles on the fl oor behind the reclined driver’s seat. It was a stake-out car. Mac had been there, done that. He looked across the road to where the Kuta Puri Bungalows sat dispersed among stands of palms and frangipani trees. There were strategic lights in the bushes and he could see some citronella fl ares burning further into the compound in what Mac knew to be the pool and communal barbecue area.
‘What are we looking for, mate?’
‘Hassan,’ mumbled Ari, not taking his eyes off the Kuta Puri.
‘Hassan Ali – Pakistani intelligence.’
Mac looked at him, trying to recall Hassan. He’d never worked in the subcontinent and some of the names weren’t familiar.
‘This Hassan,’ said Ari, ‘he’s in here with the – how you say? – the crew.’
Mac looked through the side window to the Puri, but couldn’t see anything except trees refl ecting a purple sunset. ‘Pakistani intelligence.
So you mean ISI?’
‘Nah, nah, nah,’ said Ari, nodding. ‘He was, and then no more.’
Mac felt a creeping sensation up his neck and spun sideways to see where Ari’s backup was coming from. ‘Where’s your backup, Ari?’ asked Mac, grabbing the door handle.
‘He’s following these other crews,’ shrugged the Russian. ‘In Java, yes?’
Mac paused, intrigued. He wanted the story before he did the Harold. ‘Ari, why were you following me this morning?’
Ari shrugged, grabbed his smokes.
‘Okay, let me put it this way,’ said Mac. ‘Why did you stand out there like a beacon, wanting to get made?’
‘Because,’ said Ari, putting a cigarette between his teeth, ‘I wanted to stay close.’
‘Why me?’
Ari exhaled a plume of blue smoke, picked something off his tongue. ‘Because the very small bird tells me you
