Counter Attack

by Mark Abernethy

  ‘Lance,’ said Mac, as if he’d met an old friend. ‘Thought about Tic Tacs?’

  ‘Watch it, McQueen,’ said Lance, climbing into the cyclo beside Mac and nodding to the rider. ‘And shit – who did the hair and the mo?’

  ‘A lifestyle choice.’

  ‘An atrocity, more like it,’ Lance sneered. ‘I liked you more as a blond. You look better as a homo than a dickhead.’

  They travelled through the streets, heading east towards the river.

  ‘I’m back on the team, Lance,’ said Mac, trying to stay calm despite the 9mm handgun jammed in his left kidney. ‘I heard from the Firm today. You don’t want to do anything stupid.’

  ‘The team?’ said Lance. ‘What do you know about the team?’

  ‘I was doing my job,’ said Mac, trying to spin out the conversation.

  ‘Your job was to tail Quirk and write a report,’ said Lance, a waft of body odour suggesting he hadn’t slept much or changed his clothes in the past twenty-four hours. ‘Next thing we know, you’re on some wild-goose chase across Indochina with an item of crucial national security – and then you lose it?!’

  ‘I found it by mistake,’ said Mac. ‘When I asked you about it in the van you could have told me then.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Lance, revealing mossy teeth. ‘You think I was going to brief you in front of a foreign national? And I thought I was supposed to be the novice.’

  ‘You could have waited until the Cambodiana,’ said Mac.

  ‘You sent me off to be spied on by Tranh, remember? By the time I got back to the hotel, the place had been bombed. You’re a moron, McQueen.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Mac asked.

  ‘To see Urquhart – he’s got new orders.’

  ‘I know,’ said Mac, as the cyclo stopped at an intersection.

  ‘You know much less than you think,’ Lance replied. ‘That’s why you’re chasing the chick and I still have to retrieve that memory card.’

  ‘Send a boy to do a man’s job.’

  ‘Shut it, McQueen,’ said Lance.

  ‘No, you shut it,’ came a harsh American voice along with a slapping sound, and Lance was suddenly sagging into his own lap.

  Grabbing Lance’s gun, Sammy Chan pushed the groggy Australian back into the cyclo seat and beckoned for Mac to follow him. Jumping from the cyclo, Mac took back the Colt from Lance and followed Sammy to another Mazda sedan, this one red.

  ‘Think I broke his jaw,’ said Sammy, shaking out his hand.

  ‘He’d finished talking,’ said Mac. ‘You weren’t interrupting.’

  After driving across town for twenty minutes, the American turned the car north and followed the National Highway Five up the Tonle Sap. This was the road to Bangkok. The American’s legs were heavily bandaged, a fact he couldn’t hide with the military shorts he wore.

  ‘How’re the legs, Sammy?’ said Mac.

  ‘Looks a darn sight worse than it is,’ said Sammy. ‘It’s infection I worry about, given our location and all.’

  ‘I’m due in Saigon tomorrow,’ said Mac as they negotiated the late-afternoon peasant traffic on the highway. ‘So I hope we’re not going too far.’

  ‘Our conversation this morning got me thinking,’ said Sammy.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So there’s someone I want you to meet,’ said Sammy. ‘The two of you hit it off, you can make a deal. You don’t wanna dance, I’ll take you where you want to go and this meeting never took place. Deal?’

  ‘Deal,’ said Mac, watching the lush Mekong countryside rush past.

  Seven minutes later, Sammy turned right off the highway and drove under drooping trees until they hit a raised levee of the type common around the Mekong.

  As they sped along it, Mac saw thousands of acres of rice paddies extending across the old river flats to a line of trees where the dark brown Mekong River slipped down to the South China Sea. Small hamlets were evident on raised knolls amid the paddies, and Mac could see children and goats, pigs and women going about their business as the menfolk returned from the markets or from day-labourer jobs.

  Sammy drove around the corner and stopped in front of a houseboat sitting beneath some trees, on a small canal known as a klong.

  A tall black American loomed at the top of the gangplank, his right hand hovering above a handgun on his hip.

  ‘It’s okay, Brian,’ said Sammy as he started up the gangplank. ‘Old man’s expecting us.’

  Reaching the top of the gangplank, Mac was stopped by Brian and patted down. As he gave up his Colt, Mac wondered if this was the driver they called Eagle.

  Ducking his head as he descended from the deck into the houseboat, Mac saw the interior of the boat bore no relation to its rustic facade. Sammy used a swipe card to move through the security doors which closed with a whoosh behind Mac as they moved past another two guards, who patted Mac again and ran an explosives detector over his body.

  Mac and Sammy entered a room filled with comms and IT equipment; there were video monitors showing real-time footage of what looked like a UAV circling over Asian jungle; one operator was glued to a monitor, reading out locations to someone over his headset. The monitor seemed to be showing cell zones for a phone connection.

  ‘Nothing here for you, McQueen,’ said Sammy, and Mac followed him into a smoky low-ceilinged office. Against the far wall, on the other side of a dark wooden desk, a middle-aged man leaned back in a chair beneath a line of portholes, blowing cigarette smoke at the ceiling.

  ‘I didn’t say you were fucking me, Darryl,’ said the American in a superior east-coast drawl. ‘I said you were trying to fuck me. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’

  Looking up, the man – a tanned, silver-haired sixty-year-old who could pass for late forties – smiled and sucked on his smoke as he turned an expensive lighter end over end on the desk.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, sweetheart,’ he purred menacingly into the phone. ‘Retract that sentence from your report and we’re all buddies, right?’

  As he was about to put the phone down, he laughed suddenly. ‘You know me better than that, Darryl,’ he chuckled. ‘I don’t threaten people – I bury them.’

  Hanging up, the man stubbed out his cigarette and moved around the desk, not taking his eyes off Mac.

  ‘Alan?’

  ‘That’s me,’ said Mac.

  ‘The name’s Charles. How do you do?’ Charles held out his hand. ‘Hope you don’t mind first names – it keeps things simple, okay?’

  Mac took the strong, dry hand and looked into pale eyes hooded by a high, intelligent forehead. First names didn’t worry Mac and he was accustomed to the way the American intelligence community reverted to them.

  ‘Sun’s over the yardarm,’ said Charles, moving like a cat towards a large refrigerator. ‘Beer, Alan? Bud, Millers, Tiger?’

  ‘Cold and wet is good,’ said Mac. ‘Thanks.’

  Taking a seat in a leather easy chair, Mac sipped at his ice-cold Budweiser as Charles slugged at his beer and lit another smoke. For an older bloke he had a hard stomach and powerful arms.

  ‘I’m sure you have things to do,’ said Charles, in a voice that was friendly yet authoritative. ‘So I’d like to push this along.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Mac.

  ‘Some of our investigations have fallen flat in the past couple of weeks and the problem seems to come back to the Aussies,’ said Charles, smiling. ‘Sam mentioned the possibility of a joint operation, which might give both of our teams the chance to open up, to share the wealth as it were.’

  ‘That was the idea,’ said Mac. ‘It seems we have a mutual enemy.’

  ‘It seems so,’ said Charles. ‘By the way, thank you for your efforts on the docks the other night – Sam owes you his life.’

  ‘No wo
rries,’ said Mac. ‘I’m just sorry I couldn’t have stopped Phil catching one.’

  ‘Rocket-propelled grenade,’ said Charles, shaking his head softly. ‘What kind of maniac carries that around in his car?’

  ‘What I said,’ said Mac.

  ‘I suppose it’s obvious we are highly motivated about interview- ing this woman, Geraldine McHugh?’ said Charles, who seemed both old-money and diamond-hard. A strange combination.

  ‘I got that idea,’ said Mac. ‘There’s also the matter of a memory card – I had it until two days ago.’

  ‘I’m interested in that,’ said Charles.

  ‘I didn’t know what it was.’

  ‘So you weren’t briefed on the card?’ said Charles, in a way that made Mac realise it was important.

  ‘No,’ said Mac. ‘Not until it was stolen from my hotel room, and then I was accused of being a traitor.’

  Charles squinted. ‘I guess there’re different Australian organisa- tions working on this, right?’

  ‘I’d rather not comment,’ said Mac.

  ‘Just like we had no Aussie comment on the Dr Lao episode?’

  Mac stayed silent. It wasn’t his place to discuss Lao’s treason, but the Americans certainly had a right to know if their testing was compromised.

  ‘Just so we understand one another,’ said Charles, keeping it relaxed. ‘The ability to stop a Chinese ballistic missile mid-flight is something the Aussie Navy might thank us for one of these days.’

  Clearing his throat, Mac maintained steady eye contact.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Charles. ‘Sammy tells me you have a head start on us with McHugh.’

  ‘I know Captain Loan, from the Cong An in Saigon,’ said Mac, watching Charles’ eyes for a sign of recognition.

  Charles gave nothing. ‘And?’

  ‘And she’s investigating me for the murder of Jim Quirk at the Mekong Saloon.’

  ‘So?’ said Charles.

  ‘So Loan connected the death of Jim Quirk with the disappearance of Geraldine McHugh on the same night, from Cholon.’

  ‘Cholon?’ said Charles. ‘Who told you Cholon?’

  ‘Loan – she wants to work with me,’ said Mac. ‘I was going to look her up back in Saigon.’

  Charles’ left eyebrow rose and he exchanged a look with Sam.

  ‘Well, Alan,’ he said, ‘that sounds promising.’

  ‘That’s where I come in,’ said Mac. ‘What’s your end?’

  Leaning back, Charles levelled a look at Mac. They held the stare for several seconds, then Charles looked away.

  ‘My end is this,’ said Charles carefully. ‘There’s a plot by a powerful faction of the People’s Liberation Army to hurt the Chinese and American economies and throw the world’s financial system into disarray.’

  ‘The PLA?’ said Mac, wondering how the world’s largest military organisation became involved. ‘What happened to the Israelis?’

  ‘Forget all you know – this is about a power struggle in Beijing, using contractors in Cambodia and Vietnam,’ said Charles. ‘You interested?’

  ‘Shit, yeah,’ said Mac.

  ‘Good,’ said Charles. ‘So let’s talk.’

  Chapter 36

  Growing discomfort made Mac move around in his chair. The story Charles was telling him was a few levels above what he’d prepared for when he arrived in Saigon.

  ‘The Chinese government is nominally communist,’ said Charles, starting on his second beer. ‘But the communist ideology, as a means, is distinct from the system as an end. History shows us that Chinese ruling systems all come and go but the imposition of authority and order are central to the Chinese experience.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Mac, knowing some Chinese history.

  ‘So communism may have been the flavour since 1949, but the reality of Chinese government is different.’

  ‘The reality is power factions, like any system,’ said Mac.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Charles. ‘We’ve had basically thirty years of economic progressives who have opened up China’s economy and allowed the development of an aggressive, wealthy middle class.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mac.

  Charles lit a cigarette. ‘And you know what that means?’

  ‘Economic liberalism usually means social and political liberal- ism, even if only by degrees,’ said Mac, mentally dipping into some of his old history papers. ‘So if the Chinese middle classes become wealthy, successful and educated, the next thing that happens is their children want political representation.’

  ‘Australians seem to understand this instinctively,’ said Charles. ‘Americans are enjoying their cheap consumer goods so much that they don’t realise the source of these goodies is at a crossroads – a potentially shattering crossroads.’

  ‘Time to pay the piper.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Charles. ‘Either the middle classes smash the Central Committee’s control of Chinese politics, or an existing force arises from the elites and crushes political liberalism before it creates the revolution. Tiananmen Square was an illustration of what kind of forces lurk in the PLA, just waiting for an excuse.’

  ‘The nationalist right wing of the PLA?’ asked Mac, remembering the phrase from an intelligence briefing. Chinese elites had traditionally included ultranationalists of the type who gained ascendency in Japan in the 1920s – those who saw China as an expanding hegemony, enforcing its political, economic and even racial superiority.

  ‘That’s the one. Have you heard of General Xiang Pao Peng?’ said Charles.

  ‘Read about him in the Economist,’ said Mac. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He was marketing himself as the progressive leadership of the future, because of his education at Cambridge and Sandhurst. If you recall the slogan Peace through Prosperity, that came straight out of his office.’

  ‘You said “was”?’

  ‘He was sidelined by the Central Committee ten months ago because he was considered too ambitious,’ said Charles. ‘Among the economic progressives, Pao Peng is known as the face of Chinese chauvinism – a classic totalitarian nationalist with a fantasy about Greater China that makes the Japanese economic cooperation zone look quaint.’

  ‘He was sidelined?’ said Mac.

  ‘Yes, and he didn’t take it well.’

  ‘Pao Peng is heavily connected, isn’t he?’ said Mac, wishing he had been more thorough in his reading of circularised research. ‘I mean, he’s related to the marchers but he’s also aligned with bankers and industrialists. How did he get sidelined?’

  ‘He asked for support from the wrong people, is our guess,’ said Charles. ‘He apparently had a plan for a reorganisation of Beijing, and the new blueprint didn’t include a Central Committee.’

  ‘But it probably included the new Chinese oil provinces of Vietnam and Cambodia, with PLA navy bases at Cam Ranh and Ream?’ said Mac.

  ‘Sammy told me you knew your way around here,’ said Charles. ‘So Pao Peng’s in the dog box and his wealthy friends aren’t so obvious anymore. But then we uncovered Pao Peng’s Plan B – a plot to bring the Chinese economy to its knees and, during the chaos, take political control.’

  ‘How will he do that?’ said Mac, the hairs on the back of his neck pricking up.

  ‘We believe he is working with contractors to undermine the US dollar, which in turn will undermine the Chinese economy.’

  ‘That’s a drastic way to get the job you want.’

  ‘That’s what concerns us in DC,’ said Charles. ‘It will eventually correct itself, but by then Pao Peng would have seized on the inevitable Chinese economic disaster.’

  ‘How does Australia fit into this?’

  ‘We uncovered some top-secret data taken from the US Treasury,’ said Charles. ‘It didn’t seem like
much to begin with, but when we put it all together, we believed it added up to a set of protocols that shouldn’t be in the wrong hands.’

  ‘And it’s sitting on that memory card?’ said Mac.

  ‘We don’t know, but we have to cross it off,’ said Charles. ‘And that’s where the Aussies come in.’

  ‘I don’t see –’ said Mac, but this time Sammy jumped in.

  ‘Remember I told you we weren’t necessarily on the same side, McQueen?’

  ‘Yeah, you said the Aussies were the problem not the solution . . . Oh, shit,’ said Mac as Geraldine McHugh’s name leapt to the forefront of his mind.

  ‘Let’s not jump to conclusions . . .’

  ‘Not her – she’s the thief?’ said Mac. ‘Geraldine McHugh’s a double agent?’

  ‘We can’t prove it, Alan,’ said Charles. ‘But we’re hoping you can help us clear it up.’

  * * *

  After three passes, Sammy stopped the Mazda across the road from the Holiday International. Cars and minivans glowed yellow in the car park floodlights.

  Mac’s old Nokia buzzed and he grabbed at it in a panic, his nerves at the end of their rope. It was a text from Scotty: TNS, 10.55, meaning Tan Son Nhat Airport in Saigon.

  ‘Let’s cover your room together,’ said Sammy, checking his handgun for load and safety before opening his door. ‘Then I want my bags and car keys back, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Mac. ‘But no one’s going into that room.’

  Easing out of Sammy’s car, Mac lurked in the shadows of the hotel’s car park, waiting for eyes. None came and he moved towards the hotel’s rear, climbed a cyclone gate and walked through the service area of the hotel and into the laundry.

  Handing his room card to a hotel porter named Nhean, Mac slipped a US ten-dollar note into the equation and asked the fellow to pick up his bags and bring them to the Mitsubishi van in the car park. Mac showed Nhean, who was about sixteen years old and friendly, another ten-dollar note but held it back. ‘This is for you if you can go into that room and get my stuff without turning on a light. You do it in the dark, okay?’