‘Sure, Mac. It’ll be, “The terrible Muslims, the violent Asians who think life is so cheap, have bombed themselves again. ‘Cos that’s what these Asiatics do – they blow themselves up, and take others with them.”’
Freddi shifted his weight. ‘Something like that, eh Mac?’
Garvey wouldn’t have taken that shit, not from an Indon. But Mac liked to get the local perspective, liked to see it from their angle. He nodded slightly, enough so as not to give Freddi any confl ict to go on with.
‘So what’s with the hole?’ Mac pointed into the crater, perplexed by the size and the depth of the thing. ‘What made that?’
Freddi moved forward to the edge of it and looked down. ‘Well, whatever it was, it wasn’t no local IED.’
‘Reckon?’ said Mac, who had already decided that if JI was running around with a couple of improvised explosive devices, they’d be big enough to do the Paddy’s blast, but not this: not concrete blasted off its reo rods fi fty or sixty feet away.
‘Yep,’ said Freddi, putting his hand out for the water after all. ‘I’m betting there were two crews on this – the pros and the patsies.’
When Mac’s phone went off, Freddi raised his hand and walked away with the water. Mac looked at the phone screen, which said Scare Me – Mac’s code for SCM, or Service Chief Manila.
‘G’day, Joe,’ said Mac.
‘Red setter thirty,’ replied Joe Imbruglia, and then hung up.
Mac stared at the phone. He was too tired for this shit so early in the day. He was expecting plane loads of federal cops, DFAT and Australian military to descend on the place in a few hours and most of them would be trying to prove they were better investigators than the next guy. Each Commonwealth agency would be travelling with its own public affairs fl ak and it would be down to Mac to control what they released and what messages they gave to reporters. And now his station chief was going all cloak and dagger on him.
Mac moved south down Legian Street and saw a Wartel store on the right. There were hardly any TI phones in Kuta so visitors used private phone agents who sold you phone cards that only worked in their phones. Mac bought a pre-paid mobile phone and SIM card set and headed for Poppies Restaurant.
He turned right on to Poppies Gang, a secondary road that ran west from Legian Street to the ocean at Kuta Bay. There was an attractive woman outside the restaurant spruiking for customers. The blasts had cleared out the foreign tourists and the watering holes were empty. Mac walked on, doubled back, cased the place and looked for eyes. He hated the feeling of being trapped in a restaurant or bar. He liked exits.
Finally walking up to the woman, he asked if they were open. She almost hugged him, then virtually dragged him into the cool of the place. He asked to sit down the back, near the fan, as the heat built to what Mac reckoned was going to be thirty-seven degrees. After ordering green tea, rotis and nasi goreng, he tore open the mobile phone and put in the battery and the SIM. Once the girl had walked into the kitchen Mac reached behind him, unplugged the fan and plugged in the phone to get some charge. When the plain silver Nokia had some juice it worked without dramas, and he texted in the codes from the SIM and then input another code to activate the extra credit he’d bought.
Mac waited in the cool for the girl to come back with his stuff.
His watch said it was twenty-one minutes since Joe’s call. He ate then sipped the tea, and when his G-Shock said it was 10.34 am local he called the pay phone that looked out over the back gardens at the Manila Hotel.
After ringing once, a man’s voice said, ‘Red Setter.’
‘Albion,’ said Mac.
Joe read out a new mobile number and hung up. Then Mac rang the mobile number with a Philippines prefi x and was through.
‘Christ, Joe – what’s this about?’ snapped Mac as the connection was made.
‘Mate, you know what Commonwealth phones are like,’ said Joe.
Mac snorted. One of the fi rst things he had learned at ASIS craft school was how to run a phone surveillance, and his fi rst sit-ins were listening in on Commonwealth employees – the ones who were having affairs, trying to buy drugs, that sort of thing. ‘Yeah, of course, but what’s up?’
‘We need to get your brief straight,’ said Joe.
‘So shoot.’
‘There’s going to be some pressure down there to, umm, widen things.’
‘Widen? It hasn’t started yet, has it?’ asked Mac.
‘Ah, yeah. The Indons might have a broader view of what went down, right?’ said Joe, sounding embarrassed.
‘Well they’re talking about three blasts – guess any cop is going to want to start with them as separate events,’ said Mac.
‘Well, umm…’
‘Yes, Joe?’
‘Our job is to keep it sensible,’ said Joe.
Mac felt bile rising. He was trained for this, it was what he did. But he was the son of a police detective and he knew how investigations got twisted and bent by higher authorities with all sorts of different motives.
‘Sensible?’ asked Mac.
‘Yeah, mate. There’s no point in letting this get beyond what it obviously is, eh?’ chuckled Joe with false bonhomie.
‘Obviously?’
‘McQueen, don’t give me that tone…’
‘What, the you’re full of shit tone?’
Joe let out a long breath. ‘Mate, let’s keep it simple: this is an investigation into Indonesian jihadists carrying out an IED attack on Australians and other Anglos, right?’
‘Just your good old anfo light show. Ammoniuum nitrate and fuel oil strikes again?’ said Mac, trying not to sound snide.
‘Well, you know how the Indons get – all those conspiracy theories about the Christians and the Jews trying to discredit the poor Muslims.’
‘You been down here?’
‘McQueen, this is JI carrying out their threats. It’s pretty clear, right?’
‘Oh really?’
‘Fuck’s sake, McQueen. You want that UN gig? Well get with the program!’
Mac couldn’t believe the threat. He’d earned the right to New York.
Joe sighed. ‘Mate, sorry ‘bout that. I just need you to make this happen, okay? That’s what you’re being paid to do down there. I told them I’d send my best guy.’
Mac watched a group of Aussies come into the restaurant. Two young men were supporting a middle-aged woman who was beyond distraught. It looked like her legs were going to give out before they got a chair under her. Tears poured down her face.
The hairs went up on the back of Mac’s neck. ‘ Them? Who’s them, Joe?’
There was a pause while Joe thought of the right offi ce guy words.
‘You know, Canberra.’
‘DFAT?’
Mac heard Joe swallow. ‘No, McQueen – we’re working for PMC on this one, okay?’
CHAPTER 6
Cover-within-cover had become second nature for Mac. As an S2 intelligence offi cer who undertook paramilitary operations, he was completely beneath the radar of most embassy types, as well as the majority of ASIS personnel. Holding an S2 status from the Minister for Foreign Affairs meant you had the right to carry and use fi rearms.
Only the Minister, the Director-General of ASIS and Mac’s controller on the particular job knew what was really happening.
