‘Drive,’ Mano told Mac, and went to the rear of the boat where he opened one of the white plastic seat- lockers.
The revs dropped and as Mac took the wheel he saw why: the boat had a dead-man’s brake in the footrest. Mac stepped on it and the revs came up again. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Mano heft and check an M4 assault rifl e of the kind used by special forces.
Bringing his eyes back forward of the black beauty, Mac saw the red speedboat gunwale-dancing in from their two o’clock, clearly heading straight for them.
Suddenly, a tapdance of three-shot rifl e bursts came from behind and Mac smelled cordite. Acid rose in his throat, mixing with the fuel fumes and exhaust. He felt sick. The red boat at their two o’clock was closing quickly, now just eighty metres away. Mac could see three locals crammed at the windscreen, one of them holding a rifl e.
The gunfi re continued from behind and as Mac looked back the white boat was fi fty metres away and closing. As Mac tried to steer away from the red boat’s trajectory, a star of shattered glass appeared in the windscreen in front of him, shards spinning out like gossamer in the sunlight. His fi rst instinct was to duck down, which initiated the dead-man’s brake again and the revs cut to an idle.
‘Fuck,’ said Mano as he came forward and clambered onto the bow decking. ‘When I say it, you hit the throttle, okay? Give it everything.’
Mac came to his feet in a crouch. ‘Sure.’
Mano made to kneel on the decking – diffi cult as the black beauty rode the swell – but before he could get a shot off, his right leg sagged and a puff of meat bounced out the side of his shorts. Mano took all his weight onto his left leg, tried to get his balance but the shock to his leg was too great and he collapsed sideways off the deck and into the Malacca Straits.
Swivelling around, Mac saw the speedboats were almost on him and he shut down the throttles, swore to every sea god he could think of and prepared for the boarding. He could have grabbed the Glock from his backpack under the transom seats and involved himself in a shoot-out, but he wasn’t in the hero mood. Mano was out there somewhere and Mac had to get to Idi, had to make that meeting with Freddi.
The white boat got to him fi rst and two young locals clambered on board, the taller one with a battered AK- 47, the other one with what looked like a Soviet Makarov handgun. The third guy stayed at the helm of the white boat, letting the big black Mercury outboard idle.
Mac held his hands up but the pirates basically ignored him, the short one moving straight to the tiller and taking control while training his Makarov on Mac. The taller one pulled open the hatchway between the pilot’s and passenger seats, and disappeared into the boat’s long below-decks. He seemed to know exactly where he was going. A strange smell wafted up from the hatch door – sweet but musty.
‘How’s it going?’ said Mac, hands held high as he smiled at the gunman.
The red boat pulled up in what North Americans call a ‘hockey stop’ and two thugs in sarungs, plastic sandals and T-shirts leapt onto the black beauty and started yelling at Mac. One walked up and barrel-whipped him across the left side of his forehead with an AK. Mac staggered back but stayed on his feet. As the blood gushed down his face, Mac watched a small Malay man get out of his white Naugahyde seat, jump across to the black boat, and walk up to Mac.
‘G’day, how’s it going?’ said Mac, blood dripping off his left jaw and onto his overalls.
The little man smiled – full lips like a woman and beautiful but crooked teeth.
‘Ah, oop-oop!’ he said with a smile.
They all laughed. In South-East Asia, oop-oop meant an Aussie, thanks to what an Asian thought a kangaroo might sound like as it hopped.
‘Yeah, cheers,’ smiled Mac. ‘Sweet as.’
The little man looked him up and down, though thanks to the height differential it was more up than down. Then he pointed his thumb at his chest and said, ‘Anwar,’ and said it as though he might have been saying President and CEO of Ford Motor Company.
Mac exhaled and smiled. ‘Mac,’ he said, pointing his thumb at his own chest.
Anwar turned his mouth down in an attempt at dignity. ‘Anwar
– the boss.’
‘Sure, boss,’ said Mac, his blood now splashing on the wooden decking.
Anwar smiled and looked at his gang for vindication, and pretty soon they were laughing again, Anwar pointing a thumb at his chest and saying, ‘The boss!’
The tall pirate stuck his head out of the cargo hatch between the front seats and yelled something to Anwar.
The boss turned to face Mac slowly, shaking his head with theatrical sadness. ‘No ganja today, eh Mr Mac?’ He looked down at his feet, then looked Mac in the eye. ‘Which mean… you got cash, yeah?’
Mac shrugged, smiled wanly.
Anwar shook his head, pursed his lips. ‘No money – no ganja.
That no good for the boss.’
Mac cursed more sea gods. Benny had booked him on a frigging drug boat.
CHAPTER 45
The pirates soon found the large shopping bag full of things that Benny had insisted Mac buy before he left. Following instructions to the letter, Mac had lugged the thing onto planes, Land Rovers and drug boats. Now, as the boss and his pirates pulled bottles of Johnnie Walker and cartons of Marlboros from the bag, Mac fi nally got it.
As the tall sidekick made to strip the seal from one of the bottles of Red Label, Mac used the opportunity to score some points. ‘That for the boss,’ he said, winking at Anwar.
Anwar screamed and the tall one put the whisky back in the bag, snatching his hands away like the thing had got hot. Anwar took a seat in the front passenger seat and another sidekick pulled out a Marlboro and lit it for the boss.
Ducking his head into a sleeve of his overalls, Mac tried to stem his bleeding. The mix of blood and briny humidity was a potent smell. There was some fear in there too, and Mac didn’t want the boss smelling it.
Anwar took a huge hit on the smoke and pointed at Mac with his cigarette hand. ‘So, Mr Mac, where you going?’
‘Sumatra,’ said Mac, too freaked to bullshit the bloke.
‘What in Sumatera?’ said Anwar, a thick cloud of smoke fl owing from his mouth and nostrils.
Mac shrugged, not wanting to provoke. ‘Meeting a friend.’
Anwar nodded, serious. ‘Where in Sumatera?’
‘Idi. I’m going to Idi,’ said Mac, looking Anwar in the eye.
Like a line manager listening to some lame excuse for low production outputs, Anwar made a point of thinking through what Mac was telling him. In this part of the world, every social interaction was theatre; people played their parts and participants had to walk away with some kind of respect, even if only small or token. Anwar had demanded to be the boss and because Mac had instantly given him that respect, he was now attempting to show that he was worthy and could return it, as a professional boss of pirates should.
‘Okay, Mr Mac – I tell you what,’ said Anwar, sucking on his ciggie like it was Mum’s own breakfast of champions. ‘I gonna look for the cash, right?’
Mac nodded, wiped his forehead again, feeling the blood smear back into his hairline. His legs were getting sore standing in the one place – at least that was his excuse for why his left thigh had the shakes.
‘If there no cash on boat, you go Idi, the boss keep boat, right?’
‘Okay,’ said Mac, breathing out slow, trying to control the fear.
‘If I fi nd cash, you swimming, right?’
Mac gulped and nodded. Benny Haskell had just made his top-ten list of People Who Must Get Slapped.
Anwar’s crew spent ten minutes going over every inch of the cockpit area and the engine bays, while Mac shook with nerves, wondering if he’d ever see Rachel or Jenny again. He tried not to feel sorry for himself, but he
