know? What more could Amir Sudarto want from him that he didn’t know already?

‘Let’s talk about the cemetery,’ said Sudarto, sucking on his smoke.

‘The cemetery?’

‘Yeah, McQueen. Santa Cruz.’

‘It’s a nice place.’

‘Nice?’ said Sudarto.

‘Yeah – it’s a pretty place,’ said Mac.

‘Sure, it’s pretty, McQueen,’ said Sudarto, looking straight through him. ‘But maybe you meet someone there?’

Oh fuck! thought Mac, since Amir could only be referring to Rahmid Ali and his approach in the cemetery.

Trying to control the adrenaline that hammered in his temples, Mac realised his position was much worse than he had first thought. Benni and Amir Sudarto, and Kopassus intelligence, had discovered Mac in Dili because they’d been tailing Ali. They’d been tailing Ali because he represented the new President Habibie, whom the military wanted to hobble before democracy could break out.

Mac’s pain and fear deepened as he suddenly saw his predicament: he’d gone and put himself in the middle of a turf war between the Indonesian military and their president.

CHAPTER 22

The beating continued until blood ran from Mac’s face and his left inner ear throbbed.

‘I told you,’ shouted Mac through mashed lips. ‘He collared me in the cemetery while I was checking on the radio transmitter. You don’t have a telephoto of this?’

‘Tell me again, McQueen,’ said Sudarto. ‘Start from the beginning.’

‘He called himself Rahmid Ali, he walked me at gunpoint into the trees against the wall of the graveyard and interrogated me about being in Dili.’

‘Say where he from?’

‘No – I assumed BAKIN,’ lied Mac. ‘He kept on about a company called Ocean Light in Dubai and what he called the “Singapore transactions”. I told you this!’

‘Singapore transactions?’ sneered Sudarto, losing control and not happy about it. Good interrogators had their theories confirmed; they weren’t necessarily wanting new information.

‘Yeah, Amir – that’s what he kept pushing me on. I had a SIG in my face, and it was all about these Singapore transactions and Ocean Light, and -’

‘What else, McQueen?’

‘That’s it. He was angry, kept demanding why Canberra would send a Treasury investigator to Dili.’

‘You Treasury?’

‘No, mate – and I have nothing to do with this IMF shit, okay?’ said Mac, referring to the International Monetary Fund consultants helping Indonesia with the Monekris, who’d been making unpopular demands about corruption and collusion under the cover of IMF policies.

‘So?’

‘So, I didn’t get to hear the end of his story because Bongo sorted it,’ said Mac.

‘Bongo?’

‘Yeah, he, you know…’

‘Yeah, I know,’ said Sudarto.

There were sounds from outside and Amir and his sidekick exchanged glances.

‘We’ll get to the bottom of that one when Benni gets here, right?’ said Amir, glancing at his watch.

‘Benni?’ said Mac, trying to keep his neck straight so the wire didn’t dig into his Adam’s apple.

‘Yeah, McQueen, he wants to talk to you.’

Lighting a cigarette, Sudarto cocked his head to another sound outside the building and shot a look at the other spook, who left the room to investigate.

‘There’s a blonde girl, McQueen,’ said Sudarto. ‘Pretty. She your girlfriend?’

Mac smiled, his back now in spasm from his awkward kneeling position. ‘No, she’s looking for her father.’

‘Father?’ said Sudarto, facetious. ‘Can’t go losing your father.’

‘She suspects foul play – she’s in Timor to find him.’

‘She registered at the Turismo as Yarrow,’ said Sudarto, narrowing his eyes at Mac. ‘Her passport’s Canadian, address in Los Angeles.’

‘She’s at UCLA,’ said Mac.

‘Good cover, eh McQueen?’

‘Look, Amir,’ said Mac, trying to sound forceful, ‘she’s not in our world, okay?’

‘No?’

‘She’s a girl scout, a civvie whose father dropped off the map a few weeks ago and she can’t get answers from the Canadian or Indonesian governments.’

‘Why doesn’t she ask the Aussies?’ said Sudarto, smiling now, enjoying himself.

‘Mate, whack me for the Canadian, okay? It’s over, you win the back nine – whatever. But, shit!’

‘So she just good friend with Bongo, too?’

‘Bongo’s with me, bodyguarding – he’s freelance these days, right?’ said Mac, trying to breathe out his pain.

‘Really?’ said Sudarto, picking up the envelope with the photos. ‘So all these people, from Australia, United States and Philippines – they just meet at Turismo and all these coincidence happen, right?’

‘Amir, I’ve asked that girl three or four times to leave the island, swear to God, and I told her not to go into the mountains. I found her at a cafe in Aileu – she’d hitched a ride with the UN for fuck’s sake!’

‘She got mind of her own?’

‘Knows everything there is to know,’ said Mac.

Pulling another eight-by-five black-and-white from the envelope, Sudarto glanced at it and then held it in front of Mac’s bleeding face.

‘Taken four days ago – Denpasar,’ said Sudarto, exhaling smoke.

Mac’s heart sank as he looked at it: a telephoto shot of Jessica Yarrow, dark sunglasses and a white polo shirt, talking with a man under a Bintang umbrella at an outdoor cafe. Mac knew how to cover his feelings and use a poker face, but his mouth must have gaped.

‘Looks like it’ll be a fun night with Benni, eh McQueen?’ chuckled Sudarto, sliding the photo back in the envelope. ‘So much to catch up on.’

Mac tried to make the pieces fit. Mac knew the man in the photo as ‘Jim’, and although he didn’t know his surname he certainly knew his employer: Defense Intelligence Agency, the Western world’s most powerful spy network.

Sudarto was right. This would be an all-nighter.

The explosion came at what Mac reckoned was 6.30 pm. The blast shook the walls and a flash of brightness came through the high windows. As Mac tried to get his head around to see what was happening, Sudarto lashed out with his foot and caught Mac on the corner of his left jaw, increasing his agony.

‘You move when I tell you to move,’ snapped the big Indonesian, a new tone in his voice. The sidekick hadn’t returned from his errand and Mac had noticed Sudarto taking a couple of furtive glances at his wristwatch.

A dull glow filled the room and they heard panicked voices from outside as tendrils of smoke started coming in under the fanlights. Standing, Sudarto whipped a Nokia from his pocket and hit a speed dial before snarling at the machine. Wherever he was, the sidekick wasn’t answering his phone.

‘Guess we pick this up later, okay, McQueen?’ said Sudarto.

‘What?’ said Mac. ‘And leave me to burn?’

‘Said you didn’t want the fast way, yeah?’ said the Indonesian, the orange of the flames reflecting on his

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