‘Freddi!’ yelled Mac, his voice verging on the hysterical. ‘Freddi Gardjito! Freddi!’ he screamed, the crowds parting in front of him.
Then suddenly Freddi was there, SIG Sauer in his right hand.
‘McQueen, what happened?’
‘Two shot, dead. We’ve got to get this one to the hospital. Please, mate – please! ‘
Freddi spun around and led them through the lobby into the hotel’s underground car park, yelling into his lapel. Another BAIS guy appeared and Freddi issued an order before the bloke ran off.
Mac sat in the back of the LandCruiser with Diane, laying her down to stop the blood pumping out and talking her through it as her eyes rolled back in her head and her lips turned white.
‘It’s okay, mate. You’re going to make it, Diane,’ said Mac, cradling her head on his lap.
In front of them a POLRI Jeep Cherokee and a POLRI motorcycle led them to MMC, the big Western hospital on Rasuma Said, next to the Aussie Embassy.
The emergency crew at the ambulance dock seized on Diane immediately, dragging her onto a gurney and slapping a breathing mask on her even before the LandCruiser had fully stopped. Freddi and Mac jogged behind the gurney as it was taken through to the emergency ward and into an operating theatre.
Sitting outside with Freddi, Mac looked down at his feet, things suddenly seeming hopeless. The tears came and he put his hands over his face, embarrassed. Freddi’s hand touched his right shoulder and Mac took his hands from his face.
‘ Shit, Freddi,’ he said through his tears. ‘I mean – shit.’ He sniffl ed and felt Freddi’s hand grip him harder, give him a shake.
‘I know, mite. I know.’
It was 9.21 pm when the nurse came out of the recovery room and said, ‘The patient would like to see Mr Richard.’
Mac got up like he had three tonnes on his shoulders and turned to Freddi, who just shrugged. ‘I’ll be here, McQueen. Take as long as you want.’
Mac walked like a robot behind the nurse and stood at the end of Diane’s bed. Her face was so pale it had fl ushed out her tan, a tube went into her nose, a machine bellowed in and out beside her and another tube was connected to her arm.
After a while, her eyes fl uttered open and Mac went to her left side. She saw him, and her face screwed up as she started crying.
She put her hand out and Mac held it as he perched on the edge of the bed and felt her weak sobs. Her grip was strong and desperate and she pulled him down to her.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered, tears running down her cheeks. ‘Love you.’
‘Yeah, I love you too, mate,’ Mac whispered. ‘You got a shot at the bastards?’
Diane nodded. ‘Out-fucking-standing,’ said Mac.
‘Handbag from the hotel,’ she rasped, really faint. ‘Bring Filofax, need to talk.’
Mac nodded, glad he was all cried out. He wanted to at least appear strong for her. ‘Will you be okay?’
‘Just bring it.’
Nodding, he stood. ‘Back soon, Diane. You’ve been so brave but please rest now?’
She nodded, her eyes closing again as Mac left.
Mac and Freddi talked through the scenario in the LandCruiser on the way back to the Lar. Mac didn’t want to hand over everything he knew, but Freddi had a personal stake in this thing too – he’d also been badly affected by what’d happened out at that old airfi eld in Sumatra all those years ago. Freddi had taken administration duties at BAIS for six months afterwards and Mac had gone back to Manila with a lot of pain inside. He had blamed himself for Merpati being shot to pieces and her brother, Santo, being snatched. He had promised them safety if they just did what he said. They were good kids, they did as they were asked, but they’d been let down badly.
Mac had hit the booze back in the Philippines, but after a six-week binge he sobered up and did something he’d vowed never to do in his life. He found a shrink in Mataki, off the beaten track for expats and embassy colony types, and went twice a week for eleven weeks. Her name was Lydia Weiss, a Canadian psychotherapist who was about ten years older than Mac and bore a striking resemblance to Barbra Streisand. She was smart and funny and on their fi rst meeting Mac, who was a bit vague with the world, had called her Barbra by mistake.
She laughed and asked him if he’d like singing as part of the service.
‘As long as I can be Barry Gibb,’ he’d said.
She asked him to start with what set him apart as a person, what made him different. And he didn’t know what to say, so he said, ‘I’m not an atheist.’
She smiled and said, ‘At last, a live one!’
They got along well and she got him talking about a lot of things.
He wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to do or how honest he was supposed to be. His main criterion was that she was discreet. Jen had used counselling from time to time, when she felt she needed it, but she was a woman and it was expected among female cops. Amongst male spooks, they’d prefer you were on the piss, depressed and going brothel-hopping every night than openly seeing a shrink. You were either admitting you couldn’t handle it, or you were breaking open the entire psychological secret of covert fi eldwork – the secret being that no one could really handle it as well as they pretended, and all it took was a shock of violence or pain caused to a child or some other innocent party and you were in emotional la-la land.
Lydia had been quite clear about that. ‘Richard, if you knew how many cops, spies and soldiers I see in these rooms, you might relax a bit. It’s okay to need to talk,’ she’d said.
That was fi ne with Mac, but he still used a cover and paid in cash.
At the last session, she’d asked him to sum up a few things for himself. He hadn’t understood, so Lydia asked him to describe as honestly as he could what he was feeling when he sat there in the Sumatran jungle with a broken, bleeding girl in his arms.
Mac had shrugged.
‘Let’s try that another way,’ smiled Lydia. ‘You didn’t cry, did you.
Why not?’
They had sat in silence for three or four minutes.
‘Because,’ he said, like he was in a dream, ‘I was scared. And that made me ashamed.’
Mac collected Diane’s girlie things from the bathroom – the combs and brushes and little bottles. He looked under the bed and found knickers and a sock, checked the bedside table, the bathroom and her suitcase. He found two mobile phones in her handbag, but no Filofax.
Stripping, Mac threw his bloody clothes into the corner and had a long shower. He had the shakes in his hands and in his facial muscles.
Freddi was waiting in the living area of the suite, which made him feel safe, but there were things coming to the surface he thought he’d beaten.
Getting out of the shower, he grabbed some clean clothes from his bag and got dressed in Diane’s room. As he made to leave, he looked in one last place – under her pillow. It was there: a dark blue twenty-year-old Filofax diary. He opened it to make sure it was all there, and found that all the entries were in acronyms or about grocery lists, that sort of thing. He was snapping it shut, about to throw it in her leather handbag, when something caught his eye. In the front inside sleeve, a corner of something poked out. He pulled at it and out slid a photo. It showed Diane smiling at the camera, looking a little tired, in hospital blues and holding a baby to her breast.
‘Shit,’ he mumbled.
He turned it over and in Diane’s hand, in black ballpoint, was written Sarah, one day old.
He turned it back over and looked at the picture again. You could see from the foreground of the bed that the nurse or doctor had put down their clipboard on the bed in front of Diane before taking the photo. Mac put the Filofax in the handbag and found a duty-free carry bag and put Diane’s clean undies, bras and socks into it – she might appreciate them as she recovered.
As he moved through to the living area, Freddi looked up.
‘Thanks for that, Fred,’ he smiled. ‘Mate, you wouldn’t have an imaging guy downstairs would you?’
‘Of course.’
Images were a big deal at conferences. You spent all your time grabbing pictures of people, running them through the software to enhance them and run matches in the databases. They ducked into the back offi ce of the
