‘I remember,’ said Atkins, walking to the door of his safe and passing Mac a plain folder.
‘All the meaningful stuff went up to Jakarta,’ said Atkins, sitting. ‘That was a random piece of gibberish. No one had an answer for it, so it’s just been sitting there.’
Mac read the note, which told of Bill Yarrow happening upon a group of senior Indonesian military brass at the Resende; they were talking about Tupelo or Deetupelo.
‘Nothing after that?’ asked Mac, already losing interest.
‘No, mate.’
Shaking his head, Mac made to stand but Atkins gestured for him to stay.
‘I know you don’t think much of the managerial guys,’ said Atkins. ‘But, just so you know, I’ve spent fourteen months filing reports on the over-capacity of Lombok, the probable existence of Operation Extermination, the fact that the East Timor militias are funded and controlled by the army and the frequent discrepancies between what the generals are claiming and what we know for a fact. It all got re-purposed and second-guessed by the Prime Minister’s guys in Canberra. It was sending Sandy Beech half-crazy – we used to go drinking down in Kuta, and he was in a bad way.’
‘So I’m not alone?’
‘Mate, remember that I brought you in to find Blackbird and get a copy of Boa,’ said Atkins. ‘We were already on this, but we work for the executive of the Commonwealth, not the people of East Timor.’
‘Maybe we could further the interests of the Commonwealth by not abandoning President Habibie right now,’ said Mac. ‘Bloke could do with some ammunition.’
‘Habibie makes all the right noises, but staying tight with the military is a basic part of good relations with Indonesia. Shit, Macca, if Canberra openly sides with a president against the generals, we can kiss goodbye to good relations with our neighbour for the next decade.’
‘I’m not talking about politics, I’m talking -’
‘I know you’re not, Macca,’ said Atkins. ‘But you serve politicians, and they are talking about politics. If the politicians have decided that the Indonesian generals making a few million with the Koreans is not something to fight over, then that’s it.’
‘I want the politicians to embarrass Jakarta into shutting down this bio-weapons program,’ said Mac. ‘So you tell me, Marty – how am I going to do that?’
‘You’ve got those days off, Alan,’ winked Atkins, in an Aussie signal that would not be recorded by the listening posts. ‘I suggest you enjoy it to the best of your ability.’
The flight arrived in Singapore at nine o’clock local time and they caught a cab straight to the Cecil Street address that Leena had dug out from Rahmid Ali’s sat-phone logs. The last thing Chloe had said to Mac was for him to contact George, in Singapore. Mac was going to see where it might lead.
Atkins had basically given him a green light to do what he had to do. And after Mac had handed over the remaining bag of dollars he’d kept from Maliana, Bongo was on board. However, Mac wasn’t sure what he could do – if his own organisation was determined to stay sweet with Jakarta, then his options were limited.
Stopping a block away from the eight-storey building, they paid the driver and cased the main entrances and the rear tradies’ access points.
‘Don’t like it,’ said Bongo, pointing at the entrance. ‘Flush him out – ask him down to the Telok Ayer park on the corner. I’ll cover.’
Mac wasn’t convinced with that approach. ‘Let’s look at the tenant board first, okay?’
Shrugging, Bongo walked with Mac to the big glass-fronted entrance, and stood guard outside. Mac found the Penang Trading Company quickly. It was a first-floor location and, watching others get into the lifts, he saw no one swiping cards or using keys.
Mac walked Bongo back the street. ‘I’m going in and I’d like you along.’
‘Long as you understand that when it’s time for Mr Eagle, then that’s what’s happening,’ said Bongo, referring to the large-calibre Desert Eagle handgun he carried inside his sports jacket. ‘No one comes at me without getting some back, okay?’
Mac nodded and they moved into the building and got straight into an elevator, which deposited them on the first floor in a modern space with PENANG TRADING in silver letters over the reception desk.
Mac slipped alongside a man who was talking to the receptionist and looked down at the business-card stand on the counter. The second card in the stand was in the name of George Warfield, director of marketing and communications. A classic spook front title.
As the first man took a seat next to Bongo, Mac asked for George.
‘May I ask your name, sir?’ asked the pretty girl at the desk.
‘Alan McQueen – please tell him it’s urgent.’
CHAPTER 61
‘Please take a seat, Mr McQueen,’ said the girl, hitting a button and holding her hand to her earpiece.
Sitting down, Bongo and Mac clocked the camera on the wall and listening devices under the coffee table. After a minute the girl stood and Mac saw she was athletic, could probably look after herself.
‘Follow me, please, Mr McQueen,’ she said, smiling.
They walked around the corner to a door which the girl opened with a swipe card – a copy of which was in the top right-hand drawer of her desk, hopefully.
Mac recognised the doorway as a disguised metal detector and he was happy he didn’t have his Heckler. The girl gestured for Mac to pass through into an office where a middle-aged Indonesian man, dressed in an English suit and tie, sat behind a desk.
‘George?’ said Mac, recognising the face but under a different name.
‘Mr McQueen,’ said George, a nine-millimetre handgun appearing over the level of the desk. ‘Where is Chloe?’
‘She was shot, last night,’ said Mac, gulping. ‘She asked me to speak with you.’
‘How did you find me?’ asked George, a nervous sheen of sweat appearing on his forehead.
‘Found a trail from the sat phone of a man calling himself Rahmid Ali,’ said Mac.
‘You’re a liar,’ said George. ‘You’re working for Haryono. You Australians are all in his pocket. I warned Chloe to go nowhere near you – and I was right.’
‘I didn’t shoot her,’ said Mac. ‘And thanks to Rahmid, I found out about Operasi Boa.’
‘What is it?’ asked George, shifting in his seat, a man who hadn’t been getting sleep.
‘I’ll tell you what we know, George, but I told my companion that if I wasn’t out in reception in one minute, he should feel free to shoot the place up.’
George squinted into a small video monitor he had on his desk. ‘The big one? That’s your friend?’
‘Yep – name’s Bongo Morales. Want to put down that gun, have a chat with me?’
George pressed on his intercom. ‘Ask Mr Morales to join us, please.’
Putting the gun in his drawer, George Warfield suddenly looked beaten. ‘This has been going on too long,’ he shrugged. ‘If a president doesn’t control the military then he’s not a real president.’
‘You’re trying, and I’m trying too,’ said Mac. ‘There are people who care, but right now my government isn’t one of them. The most important thing is to stop the bio-weapons spraying.’
‘We figured Boa might be bio-weapons, but spraying?’ asked George, confused.
‘They’re going to spray East Timor with a disease that behaves like SARS,’ said Mac. ‘It delivers a super- pneumonia to an entire population.’
‘So Operasi Boa is a pneumonia?!’ he said, face screwed up. ‘Oh my God!’
A beeping sounded from the metal detector and then Bongo walked into the room silently, took a seat on the sofa on the back wall.
‘By the way,’ said Mac, ‘didn’t I know you before you were George Warfield?’
‘I could no longer serve my country as an officer,’ said George quietly. ‘Not after Ambon. When Soeharto left, I wanted to serve the new presidents, be their eyes and ears -’
‘Against an organisation you know very well,’ said Mac, the truth dawning. ‘You’re Bambang Subianto –
