The driver came out with a white plastic bag of phone goodies and tried to give Mac the change. Mac waved away the money and asked to be driven into downtown. They pulled up at a commercial mail centre and Mac asked the driver to keep the motor running and, putting his Heckler in the white plastic bag, he walked inside, gave the bag to the owner – Georgie – and asked him to stow it in Mac’s locked mail box.
They pulled up to a huge mall at 2.09 pm and after Mac paid the guy he shot into the vast, glass-domed space, his backpack over one shoulder. At a newsstand near the entrance, he picked up a Jakarta Post and waited for fi ve minutes. Seeing no eyes, he paid for the paper, turned and strolled down the mall concourse and out the other entrance into the heat and haze of downtown. Walking north he used both sides of the street, stopping suddenly as if taken by a window display. Striking left into the local rent-a-car alley, he walked past the Avis, Hertz and Europcar franchises and walked into the courtyard of Hadi Rentcar.
The Americans, British and Australians had good data feeds for rental-car outlets and the credit cards used with them. So Mac always went with the rental company least familiar to someone like Isla, sitting at her desk in the section, scanning for aliases and credit cards.
After navigating the Kijang Innova onto the Trans-Java Highway, Mac got the anonymous two-litre people- mover into the rhythm of the freeway – a two-lane carriageway to Surabaya at the far east of the island. As the new pre-paid phone sat charging next to him on the passenger seat, he sipped on water and munched on small Javanese oranges to keep his energy up. He was aiming for a six-thirty pm fl ight into Singers. Allowing for only half an hour of delays, he should make it. He had called SIA and made a fl ight inquiry but hadn’t booked. If anyone was getting really smart and knew he had a card in the name of Brandon Collier, then at the very least he wanted them scrambling in Singapore, not waiting outside the terminal at Juanda.
Mac pulled off the freeway into a Pertamina gas station in Mojokerto. Inside, he bought some green tea and a tray of chicken salad, took a seat at the window and had a good long look at the layout: one CCTV camera aimed at the service counter, but he couldn’t see any more. It wasn’t busy and he waited until there were no cars in the forecourt and just one bloke in the eatery. Then, letting himself out, he grabbed the black toilet bag from the Kijang and made for the restrooms. There seemed to be no surveillance cameras either outside the door or in the lavs, but he still made double sure before going into a cubicle and shutting the door. Opening the toilet bag and placing it fl at on the cistern, Mac pulled out the poncho of clear plastic, stretched it out and put the yoke over his head. Digging his fi ngers into one of the small jars, he rubbed the creamy contents into his hair until it was slick all over, then combed it through. Inside one of the smaller plastic packets, he found a black moustache. He treated it gently with his fi ngertips – a wonky mo was worse than useless – and, squirting clear theatrical glue from a tiny tube onto the back of the mo, he carefully put it on his upper lip. Next, pulling out two rupiah coins, he put one under his heel in each shoe. Finally, everything went back in the toilet bag, which went into the pack, and Mac emerged cautiously to check himself in the mirror.
His black mo really suited his new black hair.
CHAPTER 41
The fl ight was on time and Mac made it through immigration with no problems. Because Singers was one hour behind Surabaya, Mac was walking along the Changi concourse at much the same time as he’d left Indonesia. He felt tired but okay. Having adjusted to being back in the fi eld, he’d replaced emotions with the coldness he liked when he worked.
Emerging into the early evening heat of Singapore, he stood in line for a cab, acting casual but looking for eyes. Along the arrivals apron he saw Bruce Thorn, the friendly Canadian IT executive he’d sat next to on the fl ight, walking behind a chauffeur to a navy blue 7-series. Bruce waved as he dipped down into the BMW and Mac waved back. Mac was pleased to have the SIA computer-generated boarding pass Bruce had left in the pocket in front of his seat. Mac had taken it for later use.
After seven minutes in the taxi queue, Mac got a cab and asked the driver, a guy called Ravi, to take him to the Riau Hotel, a private colonial joint tucked away in Little India.
They got talking and it turned out Ravi was a Tamil. ‘Where you coming from, sah?’ he asked, in a singsong voice.
‘Sydney,’ said Mac.
Ravi wanted to know if Mac knew any of his family, many of whom lived in Sydney. ‘You might be knowing them,’ he insisted, rattling off fi fteen or twenty names.
Mac laughed and went for a soft spot. ‘So, that’s a lot of family to have in another country, mate.’
‘Yes, I am knowing this. It is why for this,’ said Ravi, widening his eyes at the steering wheel. ‘But working, working, and then we can afford.’
‘We?’ asked Mac, interested.
‘Yes, sah. My wife and our two sons and her mother. Working, working -‘
They pulled into a Shell service station and Mac laid it out for Ravi. ‘Champion, would you mind getting me a SingTel pre-paid SIM card?’
‘Hmm,’ said Ravi. ‘But you are needing to register for card, yes sah?’
Flicking him a Singaporean hundred-dollar note, Mac asked nice.
‘You know how it is with foreigners trying to get pre-paid cards these days, Ravi?’
Ravi nodded.
‘I’m only here for two days and I don’t need the hassle.’
It was clear Ravi just wanted to get it done, get driving, get his fare, go do another one. So Mac pulled out his wad of US dollars, peeled off a few and gave them to Ravi. ‘How much is there, mate?’
Wide-eyed, the cabbie counted the notes. ‘There is being fi ve hundred dollars here, sah.’
Mac was using an old spy trick for turning a person, known as
‘white-grey-black’. It entailed starting at white by leading someone in with a legitimate transaction – such as getting a pre-paid. You then introduced them to something semi-legitimate or clandestine, such as getting the pre- paid under a false name, which moved them into the grey zone. And then you tried to move them to black, in this case with a wad of cash for doing something clandestinely. If you’ve committed them to white and grey, they’re likely to go to black.
‘Tell you what, Ravi. Get me a hundred-dollar SingTel pre-paid and we’ll go to the Riau, huh?’
There was a trick to offering money: never promise or suggest an inducement, just put it in their hand or on their desk or in their pocket and allow them to make the decision.
Ravi had a slender, thoughtful face and after briefl y considering what Mac was saying, he lit up like a fl uorescent tube. The money had already found a pocket before he got out of the cab.
Miss Rasmi personally supervised Mac’s welcome at the Riau, taking him to his room on the third fl oor, overlooking the rear tropical garden. Once the porter had done all the work, Miss Rasmi dismissed him and stood there waiting for her tip. A short, wide middle-aged Indian woman, Miss Rasmi ruled the Riau with loud commands that erupted from her lips in a manner reminiscent of a boy pretending to shoot a machine gun.
She got US$300 out of Mac, which had nothing to do with the luggage and everything to do with the fact that he’d checked in as Bruce Thorn and listed his passport number straight off the Canadian’s boarding pass – one of the joys of modern international travel. Miss Rasmi preferred cash payments and she was prepared to log passport numbers rather than make a copy of the actual document. That part was worth two hundred. The other tonne was for Miss Rasmi pretending not to notice Mac’s disguise.
Waiting for her to leave, Mac wandered onto the small stone balcony overlooking the gardens. He input a number on his new SingTel service, pressed the green button, then waited and waited.
Davidson’s phone was ringing out and Mac was very uncomfortable with what that might mean.
He tried another number and after the third ring a man with a smoker’s throat said, ‘Yeah?’
‘Benny!’ said Mac, looking out over Singapore as the sunset dimmed and crickets raised the roof. ‘Are you okay? I’ve been checking hospitals, phoning railway stations -‘
A cackle came from the other end. ‘Christ – fucking McQueen!’
‘I’m in town and I’m thirsty.’
‘Oh man,’ laughed Benny Haskell, ‘you’re still a mad bastard.’
