‘Really?’ said Mac.
‘And by the way, it wasn’t Beijing – it was Shanghai.’
Embarrassed at being overheard, Mac nodded. ‘Look, I -’
‘And it wasn’t lunch, ’less you count a few nights with the MSS as eating.’
‘I’m sorry,’ sighed Mac, feeling stupid. The MSS – China’s CIA – had a fearsome reputation for their interrogations.
‘It’s a funny distinction we make between the office guys and the field guys – I used to make that distinction too.’
‘What happened?’ asked Mac.
‘The Chinese took my eye,’ he smiled, pointing at his tricky peeper. ‘And I couldn’t do it anymore – nerves went, mate.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mac.
‘Talking about office guys, can you guess who my controller was for that gig?’ asked Berquist with a big smile.
‘Who?’ asked Mac.
‘Same bloke who’s out there trying to extract you from this long-drop,’ chuckled Berquist. ‘It’s just business, okay?’
Taking the offered hand, Mac sat back, humbled.
The door opened and Atkins strolled in slowly, reading a letter. Behind him, Tony Davidson filled the door, all smiles.
‘Carl!’ he said, advancing and shaking Berquist’s hand. ‘Nice to see you here.’
‘Nice to see you too, Tony,’ said Berquist. ‘What’s up?’
‘McQueen’s been seconded to the Yanks – hush-hush,’ said Davidson.
‘Nice idea but bad timing, Tony,’ said Berquist, friendly. ‘I’m here to retrieve McQueen.’
‘Oh yes?’ asked Davidson. ‘Whose authority?’
‘DG’s, I’m afraid,’ said Berquist, pulling a letter from his briefcase and slapping it on the table.
‘Better look at this, Carl,’ said Atkins, sliding his own letter across to Berquist, who had the grace to smile as he read it.
‘Congratulations, Alan,’ said Berquist, forcing a grin as he looked up. ‘You’ve been bailed out by the Minister for Foreign Affairs.’
CHAPTER 35
Mac ordered the Golden Lantern’s famous duck and a couple of beers, then sat back.
‘You okay?’ asked Davidson, examining Mac’s face.
‘I’m tired,’ said Mac, sipping at a cold beer while the throng of Denpasar passed on the street. ‘But I’m okay.’
‘You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?’
‘Sure, Tony,’ said Mac, well aware that, in the intelligence game, emotional or psychological problems were an express lane to a desk job.
‘Okay,’ said Davidson, casing the restaurant, ‘get some rest and you’ll be contacted by your new controller tomorrow.’
‘We know who?’
‘Yep. Jim, from DIA,’ said Davidson.
‘Why the Yanks?’ asked Mac, thinking back to his chat with Jim in Darwin.
‘They’ve been on Bill Yarrow for a while, as I understand,’ said Davidson. ‘They don’t like the company he keeps. Now they hear an Aussie officer’s been in this, um, facility…’
‘Lombok AgriCorp?’
‘That’s the one – it’s of interest to the Pentagon.’
‘Why?’
Davidson took a swig of his beer. ‘When was the last time anyone from DIA spoke to you in a full sentence?’
‘Probably the last time I saw rocking-horse manure,’ said Mac.
‘Done any work on our presidential problem?’ asked Davidson, lowering his voice.
‘I haven’t been able to find Rahmid’s controller,’ said Mac. ‘Although I think he was working out of a front in KL.’
Unfolding his hotel stationery, Mac gave Davidson the phone numbers and addresses of Penang Trading and Andromeda IT, which Davidson jotted on his detective’s pad.
‘The controller is going to be difficult,’ said Mac, ‘but I think we’ve found who Rahmid was running as an agent in Dili.’
As Davidson went to write the name and address on his pad, he stopped and looked up at Mac. ‘That’s PT Watu Selatan,’ he said, looking around the restaurant. ‘That’s a company set up by Soeharto’s generals!’
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Mac.
‘Good work, mate,’ said Davidson. ‘But it’s still hush-hush, okay?’
‘Sure, Tony. Are we going to approach this guy?’
‘We have to,’ said Davidson.
‘Be careful who you send,’ warned Mac.
‘Careful doesn’t come close,’ said Davidson.
Watching the All-Star baseball game on the big screen, Mac washed down shots of Bundaberg rum with cold Bintangs at the Bar Barong, a few blocks from Puputan Square. American commentators screamed about what Mark McGwire was doing wrong and what Sammy Sosa wasn’t doing at all as Mac lounged on his stool.
On the bar in front of him sat a small white envelope that Jessica had slipped into his wheelie bag at Larrakeyah. It said Richard on the front, in blue ballpoint, and had a small heart beside it. He’d avoided opening it, not wanting to get mired in distractions. The letter would either profess a love he couldn’t return or it would make him feel bad about her father, as if he and Bongo hadn’t done enough. And maybe they hadn’t. Mac had withheld information about Bill Yarrow’s whereabouts and, as much as he could justify it, he didn’t feel good about it.
‘Another, mister?’ asked the barman.
Mac nodded, dropping the rupiah on the wooden counter as the commentators turned their hysteria to Ken Griffey’s ability to hit the advertising hoardings at the back of Fenway Park.
Bundy burning in his stomach, Mac slugged at the Bintang, deciding that the last thing he needed in his fatigued state was a female complication. Jessica Yarrow was beautiful and fun but she was way out of his price- range. Jessica was going to graduate from law school, join a big law firm and move to the suburbs with the perfect husband. By contrast, Mac had a detective father and his mother was a nursing sister at Rockie Base Hospital – he was a rugby league player who went to Nudgee College on scholarship to play rugby union. Thanks to Nudgee, Mac had gained the education and the self-belief to go to UQ and apply to the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade. But in his heart he was still a footy player from Rockhampton who was never going to chase the kind of money that the Jessica Yarrows expected as their due.
‘Rubbish, mister?’ asked the barman, pointing to the letter on the counter after he’d picked up Mac’s empties.
‘No,’ said Mac, trying to think. ‘But it can go in the can.’
Watching the barman toss the letter in the trash, Mac felt something move inside him. It wasn’t relief.
The mango and rockmelon went down nicely with strong coffee for Mac, who was nursing a medium-sized hangover in his corner of the Natour Bali’s dining room. A Jakarta Post lay unopened at the empty table setting opposite and Mac picked it up to use as a prop to look around the breakfast crowd: corporate and government types, mostly, he surmised, and no eyes. The Natour was not the hotel you stayed in for a beach holiday. It was in the centre of Denpasar and Mac liked it because it was hard to hide behind a loud shirt or a silly holiday hat.
Jim appeared at the maitre d’s dais just before 9 am. Mac raised his hand unobtrusively and Jim made his
