Bush on the screen.
‘Never trust a man who stands behind you at the urinal,’ said Mac, and they clinked bottles.
‘So,’ said Jim. ‘You want to know about Lombok AgriCorp?’
‘It would be nice,’ said Mac. ‘Since on the two occasions I’ve been up there someone’s tried to kill me.’
‘Might be simpler to start with Lee Wa Dae.’
‘The Korean drug guy,’ said Mac, wanting Jim to get on with it.
‘Not entirely,’ said Jim.
‘That’s what the file -’
‘That file came from us, McQueen,’ said Jim, looking exhausted. ‘We wanted him running, to be confident, so we washed his file.’
‘You mean, you fabricated intelligence that was shared with your allies?’
‘Okay,’ nodded Jim. ‘That’s what we did – after the snafu in Iraq, we became a little isolated, a bit paranoid perhaps. We didn’t want another situation where we were drawn into a joint operation like UNSCOM, only to have the bad guys reading our secret briefings word for word.’
‘That bad?’
‘Worse,’ said Jim, sipping his beer. ‘When I was tapped to join UNSCOM Four as the head of operations, Saddam’s goons vetoed me, went around UNSCOM to the UN Secretary-General’s office, which then won the support of my President. They knew everything about me and a whole lot of stuff I’d forgotten – I was deep- sixed.’
‘You punched out a guy from the State Department?’
‘It was a push that went too far,’ said Jim. ‘The jungle telegraph did the rest.’
‘So, Lee Wa Dae,’ said Mac.
‘He is a drug lord of sorts, but he’s also a master procurer of materiel and feedstock for chemical, biological and nuclear programs,’ said Jim. ‘Lee Wa Dae was always the bag man for the North Korean generals; he arranged joint-venture bio-weapons projects, which were essentially Korean R amp;D conducted in another country.’
‘How did he get in touch with Haryono?’ asked Mac.
‘Haryono had always run these highly profitable but bogus medical research projects, under the auspices of the Indonesian Army. As Soeharto’s power waned, and oversight was minimal, Lee Wa Dae approached him with a pay-to-play deal and Lombok AgriCorp was born. Haryono was a scammer, rather than a bio-weapons nutcase.’
‘No one thought to tell the Aussies?’
‘What was there to say?’ asked Jim. ‘There’s a SARS vaccine program in the East Timor hills and it’s registered with WHO. You know how warm and fuzzy that makes journalists and UN-types feel?’
‘So you used an innocent Aussie to go in there?’ said Mac.
‘Sure beats tipping the Indonesians off by having a bunch of Yanks up there.’
‘Okay,’ said Mac, annoyed about being played. ‘So this bio-weapon actually works?’
‘Possibly,’ said Jim, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘Based on the samples, we think they’ve finalised a super- pneumonia – what the scientists are calling SARS. Of course, having the disease agent is only part of the project,’ he continued. ‘Then you have to weaponise it so it endures heat and concussion. Other versions have to be light enough to float on the breeze when you spray them.’
Images from CNN flashed on the screen in front of them. The sound was down but the images showed the ballot boxes in East Timor while the island was in flames. Militiamen ran along streets with assault rifles, T-shirts wrapped around their faces – many of them Kopassus operatives, no doubt, thought Mac as his anger rose. Kijangs filled with young thugs sped through the smoke, mothers ran with their kids, uniformed soldiers and police directing the mayhem like a movie. An Anglo man in a Banana Republic safari shirt said his piece to camera, probably before dashing to the airport – the same airport Mac was flying into the following morning.
‘So the Indonesians have weaponised SARS?’ asked Mac. ‘That’s what we were looking at underground in Lombok? Those corpses were the victims of SARS? And up at the death camp too?’
‘We think so, yes,’ said Jim. ‘It’s not confirmed.’
‘The generals are hosting this for a nice fee?’ asked Mac.
‘Yeah,’ smiled Jim. ‘Heroin money from North Korea, laundered in Poi Pet, delivered in cash to the generals in East Timor.’
‘The money we found on those boys in the bush?’
‘Sure. About a million US couriered into Bobonaro every month – now we know the destination was Neptune. Wa Dae used to carry it himself from Dili, but he got spooked by your Canadian friend’s capture, and changed to a run coming from Kupang instead. That’s what you intercepted, I guess.’
‘A super-pneumonia. What does it do?’ asked Mac, still not clear.
‘People with no immunity have twelve to eighteen hours,’ said the American. ‘They drown in their own phlegm.’
CHAPTER 53
The Boeing 737 descended through the early morning cloud and lined up for Comoro airport in west Dili, revealing a panorama of smoke which, if it was Queensland, would have signalled bushfire season. Looking in the reflection of his cabin window, Mac clocked his dark hair, brown contact lenses and black moustache and felt his guts drop as the plane steepened its trajectory.
He was feeling cornered, having been woken at 5 am by Tony Davidson and informed that DIA would be playing a backup role in clearing the drop box at the Resende. Mac had argued, not wanting the Yanks charging around in what was the maelstrom of Dili. But politics had won the day: Australia had intelligence-sharing arrangements with the US, UK and Canada, and the price to pay for the high-quality product was to allow the senior partner to take any chair he wanted.
He just hoped the Americans stood off and let Mac do his job. His stomach churned with a dark fear – someone, either the Koreans or Kopassus, had got to Bongo and killed him. If someone could kill Bongo Morales, then they’d make easy work of an Aussie spy if they really wanted to.
After emerging from the panicked crowds in the concourse at Comoro, Mac grabbed a minicab from the apron. Settling in the back with a crowd of journalists and cameramen, he noticed Jim waiting in a queue surrounded by Brimob officers as the van surged away.
Driving through the official military roadblocks and the unofficial ones put there by militias and pro- independence locals, a French reporter told an Englishman in a fishing vest that the Turismo was the only Euro- friendly place in town. An American camera guy with a blue do-rag pulled a can of mace from his breast pocket and shoved it in the Frenchie’s face.
‘Don’t mess with Texas,’ he laughed, getting some sniggers from the Aussies and English.
‘One can of mace against one of the largest armies in the world,’ snarled the Frog. ‘You Yankees are so smart.’
Mac looked away, lost in thought. Certain types of journalists thought themselves a breed apart if they went someplace dangerous while hiding behind the protective shroud their profession gave them. At least half of these people would be back at the airport within two days, begging for a standby seat, he reckoned.
The Resende was still a utilitarian structure that looked more like a Stalin-era office block in Warsaw than a hotel in a tropical paradise. Checking in as Doug Crawford, Mac accepted the warnings of the manager that this was no place for outsiders right now, and went to his room. Hitting the Nokia as soon as he put his bags down, Mac made loud declamations to his Southern Cross Trading associates in Sydney about the climate for organic cosmetics and synergies with the government in East Timor. Everything in the Resende was bugged and the staff were often informers, but Mac sometimes found it easier to sleep with enemies than to evade them.
After waiting ten minutes, Mac wandered down the stairs to the lobby, stopping to look at a rack of tourist brochures while he checked for suspicious types. A few minutes later a Brimob van screamed past in the street, broadcasting orders over a loudhailer. When a woman ducked into the hotel with two children, the manager at the desk tried to shoo her out.
