Ted sat up at that. ‘Australia?!’
Nodding, Mac kept it simple. ‘It disappeared from its storage place yesterday and we’re pretty sure it’s being peddled to JI’s Mantiqi Four, the JI cell responsible for bombing down here.’
‘Holy shit,’ said Ted, his eyes focusing downward.
‘So where does South Africa fi t in?’ asked Mac.
‘Well, it’s embarrassing.’
‘So blush – I just need to know.’
Clearing his throat, Ted fi ddled with his wineglass. ‘You heard of a person called Hassan Ali?’
Mac nodded, unable to speak.
‘Well, a bunch of old brothers -‘
‘You mean, white guys from MID?’ said Mac, referring to the old South African Military Intelligence Division.
‘Let’s not name names, eh Alan?’
Mac nodded and drank.
‘The brothers were being kept around by the new regime, but with no tenure. We were being used and then dumped and then re-employed. One day you could be standing in front of some tribunal, being accused of genocide. Next thing you know, you’re in the new Air Marshal’s offi ce designing a covert action against Mugabe. It’s been a shit-fi ght, mate.’
‘Yeah?’
‘In the late 1990s, the new regime found out that a number of the old nukes jointly tested by Israel and South Africa were being stored by the Israelis,’ said Ted, shaking his head, as if annoyed with himself.
‘Anyway, the new regime wanted them back. They were safely stored in the Negev, no threat to anyone, but these Marxist politicians in the new regime demanded their return. It was a point of African pride, they said. They wanted a nuclear military.’
‘What did the Israelis say?’
‘Weren’t keen. All but said that deal had been with another government. But then the new regime started stirring the White House, which under Clinton couldn’t be seen to be discriminatory to the new regime in South Africa.’
Mac picked up. ‘So they warn the Israelis, Just give the South Africans their goddamn nukes or we’ll stop sending our cheques?’
‘That’s it.’
‘What happened then?’
Ted exhaled, face regretful. ‘A bunch of us did something very stupid.’
‘What?’
‘We contracted Hassan, who at this stage was a well-known handler and transporter of nukes for Dr Khan.’
‘Fuck’s sake,’ said Mac, everything becoming clearer. ‘You didn’t -‘
‘Yes, Alan – we did.’
‘Not Hassan!’
‘He was the best – he was deniable,’ said Ted.
‘He’s a psycho.’
‘Thanks for the tip.’
Pretty much the full story came out of Ted over the next hour. How a bunch of old MID stagers raided the last of their corporate fronts’ bank accounts from the old days, bought Hassan’s services with the intention of having the nukes stolen and then destroyed. There were nine nukes that the South African government laid claim to – all of the sub-5-kiloton variety – and the Israelis had declared seven of them either inoperable or unstable. So they shipped two.
Hassan’s team had swooped on the six-thousand-container Aden Lady as she steamed out of the Gulf of Suez and into the Red Sea in February 2001. They had jumped off from Al Wajh in Saudi Arabia, seized the two mini- nukes and fl own off into the dark.
The brothers never saw their nukes.
‘It sounds too easy,’ mused Mac.
‘Yeah, well,’ said Ted, with rheumy eyes. ‘You know how it goes.’
‘Do I?’ asked Mac.
Ted looked away. ‘Jesus, as soon as you sat down in the Sierra I knew you were trouble.’
‘Just saying -‘
‘Okay, Alan, but only because I’m old and ashamed, not to mention a little drunk.’
‘And you see a chance to get the bastards who killed Tony and Vi?’
‘And that too,’ he said. ‘You’re right, it was too easy: fi nding the right container, at night, on a fully laden container ship? That’s hard, mate. But turning the whole op around in eleven minutes? That’s impossible.’
‘So, insiders? The Israelis were in on it?’
‘Half right. There were security mercenaries on board, but they were all shot. Hassan sent a frogman team on fi rst to soften it up. They knew where the security was.’
‘So, why not the Israelis?’
‘Because they weren’t doing the shipping.’
‘Who was?’
‘The Israelis didn’t trust the new regime in Pretoria and Pretoria didn’t trust the Israelis. So Tel Aviv organised a neutral intelligence outfi t to broker the hand-back. I always thought it was those guys who were the insiders.’
‘Who?’ asked Mac.
‘Our friends in London,’ snorted Ted.
CHAPTER 52
The RAAF Hawker Falcon corporate jet collected Mac at Marcoola airport on the Sunshine Coast at six am and brought him straight to Sydney. Easing back in the light brown leather seat, Mac looked out on the tarmac of the government annexe of the airport as a silver Ford Fairlane was driven to the stationary plane.
He’d used the trip to have another look at Freddi’s second latent from the Galaxy Hotel pad. There were a few lines, if you looked closely, and there were what looked like Hebrew or Arabic scrawls.
Perhaps not useless, but not obvious. It was disappointing.
A clanging of aluminium steps presaged the arrival of the Brass and suddenly the small cabin was fi lled with suits. Leading them was Greg Tobin, the ever-bouncy, glamour-prince of Aussie intelligence who, at the age of forty, had got the job most of his predecessors had not been offered till they’d been at least fi ve years older.
‘G’day, Macca,’ said Tobin, putting out his hand. Tobin sat in the facing seat, crossed his legs, peered out the window and shot his expensive cuffs. He was a good-looking, athletic man with a habit of speaking in short grabs, which irritated the serious thinkers of intelligence.
Mac looked up and saw a face he knew from the Nudgee dorms: Dave Urquhart. ‘Hi mate,’ said Urquhart. ‘Been in the wars, huh?’
Urquhart took the rear-facing seat on the other side of the aisle.
An APS bodyguard in a cheap blue suit walked back to the cabin door and stood lookout.
‘So, we’ve been talking with the Queensland cops – nasty business, eh?’ Tobin started.
Mac nodded.
‘So, Macca,’ said Tobin, discomfi ted. ‘What were you doing there?’
‘In Noosa?’ asked Mac.
‘Yeah – thought you were going home?’
Holding his temper in check, Mac went with it. ‘I was, but I had to check on Tony. He hadn’t answered his phone for almost three days and his voicemail was locked out, which means -‘
