Benny and Mac laughed, couldn’t help themselves. The Singaporean Chinese had no sense of why you’d make excuses for people who bombed cafes.
‘I’m like, to my Aussie friends,’ continued Suzi, ‘ When you live in Singapore, you know that you are Mantiqi One – lucky to be fi rst on their list.’
Mac met her eye as he tried to recall. ‘Mantiqi One – that’s…’
Suzi sipped her wine. ‘JI’s fi rst bombing zone. Singapore and Malaysia.’
‘Nice of them,’ growled Benny.
‘Yeah,’ said Suzi. ‘And if you’re in Western Indonesia, you’re Mantiqi Two. Mantiqi Three covers Sabah, Mindanao and Sulawesi, I think.’
‘Gee, what have they got for this – a spreadsheet?’ asked Mac.
Suzi giggled. ‘Don’t think you get off lightly. Guess where the bombs go off in Mantiqi Four?’
Mac shrugged. ‘What’s left? Flores?’
‘No, silly – Mantiqi Four is Australia.’
‘Really?’ said Mac, the humour draining from his face.
‘Yeah – Mantiqi Four. You know, the Fourth Brigade.’
CHAPTER 43
Mac was woken shortly before six am by the sound of a female voice hissing. Going out to his balcony, he looked down to the rear garden where Miss Rasmi was muttering insults and waving a broom at a koel bird in the tree. After a brief shower he reapplied his mo and walked around the corner to the Raffl es for some brekkie. Businesspeople sat around the restaurant, reading the Straits and texting on their BlackBerries.
Seeing a table by the rear wall, Mac dropped his phone and wallet on it and walked to the maitre d’ station, ordered the full cooked breakfast and a pot of coffee, managing to not blanch at the bill.
The coffee came quickly, in a large silver pot, and he surveyed the room for a tail while he poured. He clocked an early thirties Anglo or Euro male with short light brown hair and an athletic frame in expensive but anonymous clothes. The guy looked around the room for a fraction too long as he waited for the maitre d’, and then sat two tables away.
Mac gave him a wink. ‘How’s it going?’
Smiling, the bloke played it cool and turned back to his Straits Times. Mac decided he might have to fl ush the bird into the open rather than going stumbling into the bush. Firing up the Nokia, he redialled Freddi’s number. It rang twice before Freddi answered. ‘ Alo .’
‘Fred, it’s McQueen,’ said Mac, pushing his right hand onto his ear to block out the sound of the restaurant.
‘How are you?’ asked Freddi.
‘Bad time?’
‘If I say yes, you hang up?’
Mac laughed. He could hear a child talking in the background.
‘Mate, I’ll call back in thirty minutes.’
‘Okay.’
‘Thanks, mate – bye,’ he said and hit the red button, took a slug of surprisingly good coffee and made for the bain-maries.
As he sat with the bacon and eggs Mac made a show of looking at his watch, then sighed and stood up, grabbed his phone and wallet and walked out of the restaurant.
‘Back in a tick,’ he said, smiling at the head waitress as he headed out. Walking through the lobby at a brisk pace, he looked for eyes, although he didn’t expect to fi nd them in the lobby. There’d be someone outside and they’d have a prop: reading a newspaper, standing at a parking meter, sitting on a park bench with a phone to their ear.
Mac saw her as he was halfway down the Raffl es front steps. The other tail was a late-twenties Anglo or Euro brunette in a burgundy skirt suit, standing next to a car pretending to be on the phone. Mac continued down the steps and paused at the forecourt, looked directly at the girl and feigned surprise at being made. Running around the side of the building, through the gardens, he strode into the courtyard where he’d been with Suzi and Benny the night before and then let himself into the side alcove of the Raffl es lobby. Moving forward quietly, behind a porter’s trolley, Mac scanned the vast area, thankful for the air-con. To his left he could see the retreating form of the male tail, the large wood and glass doors swishing behind him.
Taking a deep breath, Mac walked across the lobby and into the restaurant, smiled at the maitre d’ and resumed his seat.
The eggs and bacon were still hot.
Freddi picked up on the fi rst ring when he redialled.
‘How are the kids?’ asked Mac.
‘They’re great – it’s their dad who get annoy.’
Mac chuckled.
‘So, where are you, McQueen?’ asked Freddi.
‘Surabaya.’
‘Just seen it on the Weather Channel – is it true, what they say?’
‘Okay, okay,’ said Mac, amused that Freddi was such a good operator. ‘A little west of there. So, mate – what’s up?’
‘Thought you might tell me.’
‘Maybe we should tell each other, eh Fred?’
‘Sure, so where are you?’ asked Freddi, not giving up.
Mac sighed. ‘On the Peninsula. But I wanted to know about the object, from the hotel?’
‘Yeah – nice call. We got a number.’
‘Anything from it?’
‘Got an interview.’
‘And?’ said Mac.
‘Going to have a look.’
‘Where?’ spat Mac, not able to hide his interest.
‘In Archipelago, yeah?’
‘ Shit, Freddi!’
‘Yeah, McQueen?’
‘Okay, I’m in Singers.’
‘Behaving yourself?’
‘Got a tail but they’re standing off.’
‘Who?’
‘Look Euro but probably Americans, judging by the girl’s make-up.’
‘What do they want?’
Mac shrugged, looked around the restaurant. ‘Beats me. So, we still chasing Hassan?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Where we going?’
‘Don’t know about we.’
‘Come on, mate. You might be interested in what I’m on to.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah,’ said Mac, wanting to be back on the trail.
‘Guys might not want it like that.’
‘But Fred, the guys don’t know what I bring to this, right?’
‘What do you bring?’
Mac had one eye on the restaurant entrance, his mind racing. ‘Can you get me on board?’
