The doors to the gents flapped and Davidson was back in the public bar of the Victoria Hotel. Outside, tourists meandered along Smith Street mall in the tropical heat.
‘So I guess I don’t need to say this, Macca,’ said Davidson, checking his watch. ‘But when you debrief with Atkins, why don’t we leave out the Rahmid Ali involvement? For the time being, eh?’
‘You mean that the President’s office tried to speak to me direct?’
‘Yes, that,’ said Davidson, looking around the pub. ‘I’m thinking there might be another way to move on this. I’ll tell him about it later, when we’ve explored it.’
‘Another way?’ said Mac.
‘Trust me – do your meeting with Atkins in Denpasar.’
‘What if he takes it, tries to write it himself?’ said Mac.
‘Do nothing, Macca, just call me,’ growled Davidson. ‘If Atkins really wants to step up a weight division, then 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.’
‘Seem to be doing okay,’ said Mac. ‘Sounds like you can handle a gun.’
‘I’m a farm girl – trucks and tractors are no problem, either,’ she said. ‘I was just annoyed with my government for letting my dad disappear without making any attempt to find him.’
‘Maybe they were?’ asked Mac, unobtrusively clocking every set of eyes in the pedestrian traffic.
‘Well, maybe,’ she shrugged. ‘But if that American – Jim – hadn’t hooked me up with Manny, I wouldn’t have lasted long.’
‘What about your mother? Brothers or sisters?’ asked Mac. ‘They pitching in?’
‘Only child… and Mum hates Dad,’ she said, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘They divorced when I was fourteen, and even though our comfortable life ran on his money, she made it hard to know him.’
‘Handy dad for a place like UCLA,’ said Mac. ‘It’s not cheap.’
‘Actually,’ she said, fixing him with a stare, ‘Dad pays my fees and accommodation – I work for everything else.’
‘Really?’ asked Mac. ‘You work?’
Sighing at him, she crossed her tanned arms. ‘Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays at a campus bookstore, and I do telemarketing for a company in Century City. And there’s no end in sight now I’m in the School of Law.’
‘Okay,’ said Mac, surrendering.
‘Oh, and you might have noticed – I buy my own drinks.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Mac, raising his glass.
‘Dinner doesn’t count,’ said Jessica, clinking glasses and giggling. ‘I’m independent, but I don’t go Dutch.’
Jessica made a production of ordering the dishes, but without losing her sense of humour. And as she handed the menu to the bowing waitress, she fixed Mac with a grin.
‘So, Richard – how does a man trying to find sandalwood opportunities end up driving around with someone like Manny Alvarez?’
‘Same as you,’ said Mac, as light as he could. ‘You stay in hotels like the Turismo often enough, then you meet people like Manny. If you find them useful to travel with, you make a friendship, come to an arrangement.’
Sipping at the excellent New Zealand sauvignon blanc, Mac wished Jessica would get off the occupational line. He lived his work and there were times when he just wanted to enjoy the wine, appreciate the company and not have to do the dance of the seven veils.
‘You know, Jessica, I’ve been wondering about you.’
‘That’s a good start,’ she said.
‘Well, actually – you’re probably sick of talking about you,’ said Mac, smiling.
‘Oh, you bastard!’ she shrieked, but finding it funny. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘I was wondering why you don’t have a boyfriend? I mean, you’re -’
‘You mean, am I a psycho?’
‘It had occurred to me,’ said Mac.
‘Ha!’ she laughed, looking around. ‘I had a boyfriend. Wayne.’
‘Can he still chew food?’ asked Mac.
‘Very funny, Mr Richard!’
‘Social issue?’ Mac asked.
‘Like?’
‘Like at fifty-seven, why’s Wayne living with Mum?’
Jessica chuckled and then lowered her voice. ‘Actually, when men say they like a smart girl, they don’t always mean it.’
‘What happened?’
‘Undergraduate was fine – making law school was a bridge too far for a man just starting his career as a junior marketing manager.’
‘So?’ asked Mac.
‘We were dating. I got accepted. We broke up. The end,’ she said, shrugging but sad.
Sipping in silence, they avoided one another’s eyes until Jessica put her hand across the table and grasped Mac’s forearm.
Opening her mouth to speak, nothing came out.
‘Yes?’ said Mac.
‘Umm – nothing,’ said Jessica, releasing her grip and sitting back. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’
Standing beside the taxi as it idled outside the officer apartments, Mac was torn. He could get in the cab, do the Harold Holt and go to Darwin airport, or he could try to make amends with Jessica. Perhaps say a proper goodbye. The past few days had been emotional for both of them, worsened by his reticence about starting a relationship with a girl who didn’t even know his real name. If they’d met while he was visiting his folks in Rockhampton, he’d have been plain old Alan McQueen. But, short of marrying her – not on the cards at this stage of his career – Mac was not going to reveal his true identity. There was no statute of limitations on the kind of anger he’d engendered in his professional life. His only protection was hiding his identity, an advantage ruined once you revealed it to a civilian woman.
But there was one conversation he could have with her, if he could convince himself that it wouldn’t ruin his other objectives.
‘Shit!’ he said to himself finally, and asked the driver to hold for a minute.
Knocking on Jessica’s door, he was edgy, even if he hadn’t worked out what he was going to say.
‘Go away,’ came Jessica’s muffled voice from behind the door.
‘Look, Jessica,’ he whispered, not wanting half the base to come out and ask him what was up. ‘I’m sorry about the flight, okay?’
‘Oh piss off!’ came the response.
‘It was the only flight to Denpasar, and my company booked me on it – I’m sorry,’ said Mac, trying not to yell.
‘Sorry?!’ she said, the door opening with a flourish. ‘You take me to dinner, and take me to bed, and then as an afterthought you tell me you’re flying out tonight?’
‘Can we keep it down?’ asked Mac, looking around. ‘People are trying to sleep.’
‘It’s ten past nine,’ said Jessica, and Mac could see her eyes were puffy. ‘I wanted to spend time with you, Richard – I can’t do this on my own.’
‘I know,’ said Mac, putting his arms around her.
‘I’m scared,’ she sobbed into his neck. ‘Really scared.’
Over Jessica’s shoulder, Mac saw Gillian Baddely emerge from an apartment, give him a nasty look and shake her head.
‘I have a plane to catch,’ mumbled Mac, and pushing himself away he headed for the cab, trying to put Jessica’s sobs out of his mind.
The one thing he could have told her was that her father was last seen in the Kota Baru barracks in Baucau. But Mac had decided not to, and he didn’t want Jessica looking into his eyes.