Mac and Bongo stood to board their plane at Changi, both of them transfixed by BBC World running footage of the UN scrutineers in East Timor counting the independence votes. At every shot of a helicopter, Mac’s gut clenched.
They sat in silence for most of the night flight into Denpasar, Mac tired and stressed and feeling like a failure. The following morning, the ballot result would herald the start of Boa and there was nothing he could do about it. As the descent started, Mac cleared his throat.
‘Mate, what am I missing?’
‘You may be looking at the wrong part of the puzzle,’ said Bongo.
‘Tell me,’ said Mac, wishing there was a large packet of Percodan hiding in one of his pockets.
‘You’ve spent all your time collecting the information, which is your training,’ mused Bongo. ‘But they also trained you to educe, right?’
Mac nodded: all intelligence folks at some point had to educe information – that is, coerce it from unwilling subjects.
‘Sure, mate. So who do I torture? Benni or Amir?’
‘Forget the Sudartos,’ said Bongo. ‘Benni Sudarto is just me ten years ago, right?’
‘You were that pretty?’
‘Sure, and better teeth,’ said Bongo. ‘The key to this is Haryono, right?’
‘Okay,’ shrugged Mac. ‘What’s the deal?’
‘Deal is, we use some of those US dollars, and we buy some pictures.’
‘Of?’
‘Of Ishy Haryono, bro.’
‘Doing what?’ asked Mac. ‘Doing what he does when he thinks no one can see,’ said Bongo.
On the first drive-past of Ishy Haryono’s security compound in the lush streets where the Dutch merchants once built their mansions, Bongo threw a handful of micro listening devices in front of the guard house.
Finding a shady hide two blocks away, they parked the sedan and moved to the ‘Denpasar Cabling’ van, climbing into the back. Plugging his earphones into the receiver box, which he held between his legs, Bongo played with two knobs, trying to get the red LED read-outs to the numbers he wanted.
Satisfied, they changed into their tradie overalls and settled in, the heat and anxiety making both of them sweat. Nervously they slugged at their water bottles as they sweltered in their Kevlar vests, both of them exhausted having not slept much during the night.
Sitting in Bongo’s door pocket was a yellow manila envelope containing fourteen eight-by-five black-and-whites of Ishy Haryono in various states of loving congress with a variety of young men. Haryono may have been an evil genius, but he was also gay, and in the Javanese military community there was no room for men loving men. The Indonesian military would dump him immediately if they found out, but Haryono’s own Kopassus regiment would probably execute him for making a laughing-stock of the regiment.
‘That General Subianto,’ said Bongo as he found the right sound/noise levels on his receiver. ‘He was damned right about the Indonesian military.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Bongo, staring out the windscreen at a boy on a bicycle. ‘They can be plain embarrassing.’
‘You found this from experience?’ asked Mac.
‘Yeah,’ said Bongo, lighting a cigarette and popping a side window. ‘When I first went freelance and I took this gig up in Aceh, the job was supposed to be securing the Exxon Mobil facilities, right? They wanted me to put together a hit team and go hunting GAM scalps in the jungles and villages. It was counter-terrorism, but we were the terrorists.’
Shaking his head, Bongo smoked and continued. ‘I remember back in ’96, and one of the generals had been promised a load of cluster bombs from the Americans. Shit, brother – you’d think they’d stockpile them for a rainy day, for when the country really needs them. No way! They decide to drop them on these GAM villages, brother.’
‘What happened?’ asked Mac, after a long silence.
‘I told the Kodim commander that I hunt terrorists, not women and children.’
‘And?’ asked Mac.
‘He realised he’d be better off letting me walk away rather than trying any John Wayne… Hang on,’ said Bongo, putting a hand to his right ear can.
Jotting the security details, Bongo took the cans off his head and smiled. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready,’ said Mac.
Driving the van fast, they closed on the two soldiers at the guard house. One stood out in the sun, chatting on a mobile phone; the other could be seen through the checkpoint glass, reading a magazine.
‘Only one shot at this,’ said Bongo, sliding the bolt home in the suppressed Heckler & Koch A4. ‘Get me close enough for two head shots, then we roll.’
As the van slowed off the tarmac and onto the dirt shoulder, Bongo raised the stockless A4 and popped one shot in the first guard’s forehead, and as the van pulled to a halt in front the guard house, Bongo had the door open before the van stopped. He walked into the small office and shot the seated guard twice in the head, before racing out – throwing his rifle in the van – and dragging the first guard into the office.
Mac’s heart hammered as he watched Bongo imitate the guards into the microphone, using the security passwords he’d heard over the micro devices.
The gates swung inwards as Bongo climbed back in the van, and they accelerated up the gravel driveway towards the large colonial mansion.
Driving around the back, Mac pulled to a halt in the rear courtyard, between the house and stables.
‘Let’s go, said Bongo, grabbing the manila envelope. ‘Straight up, brother – no toilet stops.’
Grabbing his A4 and following Bongo up the back step and straight into the storage and kitchen area of the house, they ran into a middle-aged woman rolling pastries. Bongo gave her the ‘zipped lips’ sign and they moved through the reception area and up the wraparound stairs.
On the first-floor landing Bongo grabbed Mac’s arm and they crept down the hall, following a maid into a room. Looking around the corner they found an enormous bedroom with high ceilings and four French doors opening onto a large balcony. Bongo charmed the maid very quickly and then she was rubbing her hands down her apron and shrugging as she answered him.
Vaulting down the stairs, they turned left at the bottom and found a heavyset man standing in front of them, eyes wide. As he reached for his shoulder holster, Bongo lifted the suppressed A4 and popped him in the chest and the head.
Racing outside, they came to a large swimming pool, three white recliners along one side, two of them occupied.
Walking up to one of the sunbathers – a naked young man with a NY Yankees cap – Bongo rested the barrel of the A4 on the bloke’s throat.
‘Where’s Haryono?’ said Bongo, mouth chewing on gum.
Freezing but not letting the smile go from his face, the man raised his hands slightly as Mac pointed his own rifle at the other young sunbather, who was panicking.
‘Don’t know,’ said NY Yankee in good English.
‘Start knowing, real fast. He might like to see these before they go to Kopassus command,’ said Bongo, throwing the manila envelope on the man’s stomach.
‘Well, well,’ said NY Yankee, looking at the eight-by-fives. ‘Some blackmail. Just what I expected from Bongo Morales. Still entrapping politicians at the Lar? Or was it the Marriott?
‘Don’t worry about the questions, brother – where’s Ishy?’
‘Gone,’ said the young man, gaining confidence. ‘You enjoy your work, Bongo? Like the faggots?’
‘It’s only a cock, right?’ said Bongo, sliding the A4 muzzle down to the man’s penis.
Gulping, NY Yankee looked up at Bongo. ‘Umm…’
Cocking the A4, Bongo pushed down. ‘I mean, there’s nothing special about it, right?’ Nodding, Bongo drew Mac’s attention to a military jacket and pants draped on the third recliner. ‘You’re a Kopassus captain?’ said Bongo, as the other sunbather pulled a towel up under his chin.
‘Maybe.’
‘Might give you a new nickname – Kapten One-Ball,’ said Bongo, smiling.
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ said the captain. ‘Your life would be worth nothing.’
‘Where’s Haryono?’
‘Go to hell,’ said the captain.
After a short pause, Bongo fired the A4 and the captain leapt up, wide-eyed. The shot had gone between his legs, but he still looked to check.
‘He’s gone to Tim-Tim, this morning,’ he said quickly.
Rubbing his chin, Bongo looked at the captain’s clothes. ‘So he’s gone to run Boa, but he leaves you here to look after things?’
‘I don’t know anything,’ said the captain.
‘I bet you know the codes for Boa, right?’ insisted Bongo, A4 lowering towards the captain’s penis again.
‘I don’t know…’ said the captain, as a bullet from Bongo’s gun pinged off the concrete poolside area with a loud bang.
‘You’re his second-in-command, aren’t you, captain?’ said Bongo. ‘I bet you could call off Boa from here if you wanted?’
Feeling himself getting closer to criminal charges and ejection from ASIS, the bile came up in Mac’s throat as the stand-off continued. Bongo had a calm yet unpredictable quality to him – the situation might end in a number of ways.
‘I can’t do that,’ shrugged the captain, now openly scared.
‘Can’t or won’t?’ asked Bongo.
‘Can’t,’ said the captain. ‘We’re not running it anymore.’
‘So who is?’ asked Mac.
‘The American,’ said the captain.
‘Which American?’ asked Mac.
‘I don’t know – he call himself Champion and he from US intelligence.’