it’ll be me writing the CX, okay?’
‘Okay, Tony. But…’ started Mac, before trailing off.
‘Get your phone charged and call me as soon as you’ve looked at Rahmid’s phone logs,’ said Davidson. And then he was out of the air-conditioning and into a cab parked at the kerb.
Sipping on the remains of his beer, Mac thought about his evening flight to Denpasar and what awaited him there. Martin Atkins would be uncomfortable with too much intelligence that slandered the Indonesian military and possibly messed with his own corporate advancement plan. Mac would have to be particularly careful about the Canadian: Bill Yarrow was connected with Atkins and any bad news about the Canadian’s true loyalties would have the potential to hurt Atkins’ career. If that looked likely, Atkins would do what all good office guys did: blame the field guy.
The tail didn’t stay hidden and didn’t make any of the standard gestures that would blend him into the streetscape: no magazines or newspapers, no caps pulled down over dark glasses, no ostentatious tourist maps. Judging by the chinos, polo shirt and Annapolis ring, he was American, and as Mac left the Victoria the tail simply rose from the park bench and followed.
Keeping a normal pace, Mac walked through the afternoon sunshine of Darwin, down Smith Street towards the Civic Centre and then around in a loop past Parliament until he was walking northwest down Mitchell Street through all the tourists and backpackers. The crowds gave him a chance to think about what was going on. Was the tail a remnant of the East Timor operation – had Jessica debriefed with the Defense Intelligence Agency and inadvertently made Mac more interesting than he wanted to be? Or was this tail the CIA, tailing an Aussie in Darwin?
Whatever species of Yank it was, it was a tad fucking cheeky.
It was also inconvenient. Sally had him on the 11 pm flight into Denpasar, and he’d wanted to catch a bite to eat with Jessica before heading for the airport. Cloak-and-dagger didn’t fit into the schedule.
Mac dived into a backpacker’s hostel built around an arcade and sped up, shooting through the cool alley lined with shops and tour-booking agencies, coming out the other end. Walking across the car park behind the arcade, Mac checked the tail in a van window’s reflection – he was still coming.
Crossing the Esplanade, Mac scoped plenty of joggers, mothers pushing prams and tourists strolling under the trees at Bicentennial Park. Lacking a firearm, he wanted some kind of disincentive to someone pulling a gun.
All of the park benches faced away from the street, over the Timor Sea, which was starting to chop up with the afternoon breeze. So Mac walked to the wall around the naval gun, leaned against it facing the Esplanade and waited, his hand tucked down in the small of his back to intimate that he was armed.
The American slowed but kept coming. Mac had him as six-one, late thirties, former athlete, probably tennis.
His heart beating up in his throat, Mac stiffened as the tail got to twenty metres away, stopped and put his open palms out sideways. It was the first time he’d seen the bloke without a black baseball cap.
Exhaling, Mac brought his hand out and showed his own empty palm.
‘Wouldn’t usually do this, McQueen,’ came the educated American voice.
‘Man’s gotta do,’ replied Mac. ‘How you been, Jim?’
They strolled south along the pathways of the park, then walked around Parliament and the Supreme Court building. Mac was always on edge with another intelligence outfit, even with Australia’s other intelligence agencies. When they first trained intelligence officers, the firm gave lessons on cellular information sharing, conducting exercises showing how easily those cells could be broken, secrets compromised and human lives with them. But Mac’s relationship with the Pentagon’s DIA had always been cordial.
‘Notwithstanding my charismatic personality and good looks, Jim,’ said Mac as they stopped and sat down at a park bench overlooking Frances Bay, ‘what the fuck do you want?’
Laughing, Jim pulled a soft pack from his chinos and lit a smoke. ‘Thought we might do an old-fashioned swap.’
‘Intel?’ asked Mac.
‘Sure,’ shrugged Jim, ‘’less you got the Aussie version of Cameron Diaz.’
‘Okay, wise guy,’ said Mac. ‘Shoot.’
‘Someone told me you’d infiltrated Lombok AgriCorp, had eyes in Damajat’s office?’
‘Nice story, Jim.’
‘Interesting place they got up there,’ said Jim, sucking on the smoke.
‘Lots to think about.’
‘I said to a colleague of mine that if McQueen actually got in there – if he managed to get into Damajat’s office – then I’d bet twenty to one that he came out with a little souvenir.’
‘Jim – I need you as my PR man,’ said Mac. ‘What do you want, mate?’
Pausing, Jim flicked the cigarette. ‘If you got a sample from Lombok – anything, man – then we need to take a look. It’s important – maybe urgent.’
‘And I get?’
‘You name it. I’m assuming we have the same interests in East Timor.’
‘Okay,’ said Mac, looking at his watch – he wasn’t going to miss his date with Jessica. ‘Tell me – what’s Lee Wa Dae doing in Timor? He’s from the North Korean general staff, isn’t he?’
Running his hands down his thighs, Jim looked away. ‘Well, that’s fairly advanced, McQueen.’
‘What did you think I was doing in Timor?’
‘Looking for your Canadian friend and getting to know Bongo Morales a little better.’
‘Well?’
‘Shit, McQueen – I thought you’d want to know about Yarrow.’
‘And Maria Gersao.’
‘We’ve heard that Bill Yarrow was at the Kota Baru barracks in Baucau,’ said Jim.
‘That’s a Kopassus base, isn’t it?’ said Mac, his hope of finding the Canadian fading fast.
‘Sure is, McQueen – so don’t go getting that girl’s hopes up, I don’t care how pretty she is.’
‘Me?!’ spat Mac. ‘I’m not the one giving her a bodyguard, encouraging her to go wandering around the hills of East Timor!’
‘Yeah, well, you know how it is, McQueen,’ shrugged Jim. ‘It wasn’t planned that way.’
‘And Maria?’ asked Mac.
‘The local girl you’re running?’
‘Worked at army HQ,’ said Mac.
‘I’ll let you know if I know, okay?’
‘Okay, Jim.’
Mac thought about throwing the Canadian’s ‘Tupelo’ query into the mix, but decided to clear it with Atkins first.
‘So – the samples?’ asked Jim.
‘In a consular pouch to Denpasar.’
‘To us?’
‘Yep – the Defense Department lab will do ’em faster than Sydney.’
‘Great,’ said Jim, relaxing visibly. ‘I won’t cut you out, by the way.’
‘From your reaction to my mention of Lee Wa Dae, I’m assuming there’s more to discuss,’ said Mac.
‘What do you know about him?’ asked Jim, looking out to sea.
‘Right now, probably a lot more than your mob,’ countered Mac. ‘But officially, he handles the finance side of the North Korean heroin rackets.’
Jim chewed his lip. ‘You around? Not running off?’
‘I’m around, mate,’ lied Mac.
‘Good,’ said Jim, slapping Mac on the shoulder as he stood. ‘Then maybe we’ll talk again, huh?’
Opting for an outdoor table at a modern Japanese restaurant, Mac and Jessica watched the crowds go by on Mitchell Street. Busying himself with the wine list, Mac let Jessica run the food side of the equation.
‘I’m sorry I dragged you into this, Richard,’ said Jessica after the waiter had poured her glass. ‘I had no idea what I was doing.’