Counter Attack

by Mark Abernethy

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes, Macca,’ she said, inching closer. ‘But there’s also Liesl’s phone logs.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So I’m having a general gander and then I’m seeing our phone number, Macca. At Broadbeach.’

  Mac nodded at his shoes. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Two of them – on the thirteenth.’

  ‘Look,’ said Mac, wanting to be out of that room, maybe out of the country.

  ‘And they’re within forty minutes of each other; one goes for twelve seconds, and the other for twenty-four seconds. Sounds like she left a couple of voicemails, eh, mate?’

  Mac felt like a wombat caught in the high beams.

  ‘But it gets better, Macca, ’cos on the night of the thirteenth you asked me not to call Liesl, remember?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And on the morning you leave for Auckland you left me a message about our new phone number.’

  ‘That’s a standard operating –’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Jenny.

  Mac shut his mouth.

  ‘Tell me right now,’ said Jen, raising her finger and shaking it at Mac. ‘Did my friend try to contact us the day she went missing?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure . . .’ said Mac feebly.

  ‘Did. She. Leave. A. Message?’ Jenny’s eyes were like hot coals.

  ‘Yeah, she did,’ said Mac.

  The slap came fast and hard, loud on Mac’s left cheek. She was a little punchy because of her violent father, but Mac decided this outburst might be more to do with her cycle.

  ‘I thought we had a deal,’ she said, a low cop-tone in her voice. ‘I don’t mess with your world, and you don’t mess with mine.’

  Mac nodded. ‘We did – sorry, we do.’

  ‘An Australian whose husband has just been murdered, calling us – that’s not my job? She goes missing, and you don’t tell me there were phone calls from her? Are you high? Liesl’s an Australian and I’m a fucking cop, Macca.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry,’ said Mac, the left side of his face on fire.

  ‘Okay, so what were Liesl’s messages?’ said Jenny.

  ‘She thought there was Aussie involvement in the murder,’ said Mac. ‘The impression I got was Aussie government.’

  ‘And she wanted you to do something for her?’ said Jenny, looking through him.

  ‘Actually . . .’ said Mac quietly.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She was looking for you,’ he said.

  Mac barely saw the second slap.

  It was just after two in the morning when Mac awoke to a noise. A pillow hit the coffee table beside his sofa bed, knocking over a bottle of water and a pile of loose change.

  Mac lifted his head. ‘That you?’

  ‘You going to lie there all night sulking?’ said Jenny from the bedroom.

  ‘I was sleeping.’

  ‘Sleep here,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Thought I was banned?’ said Mac.

  ‘Shut up and get in.’

  Slipping in beside her, Mac cuddled in and she recoiled. ‘I said get in – I didn’t say you could touch me.’

  Mac lay there in the dark, wanting to sleep but knowing he had to endure a lecture. He’d always known his wife had a temper, and he forgave her for it. Mac didn’t speak about her past, but when she lost it at him he was always reminded that in her heart she didn’t think highly of men.

  ‘Have you ever thought what it must have been like for Frank?’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Mac.

  ‘For your father, a senior cop in the Queensland police, having to introduce you as someone who works in a book company?’

  ‘I might have thought –’

  ‘I’m not asking has it occurred to you briefly; I mean, have you considered what it must have been like for a trusted man in the public eye to know he was telling pork pies about his own son?’

  ‘No, not really,’ said Mac.

  ‘What about your wife?’

  ‘I’ve given that some thought,’ said Mac.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I’ve tried to do things in a way that doesn’t affect what you’re doing or embarrass you in –’

  ‘No, Macca,’ said Jenny. ‘I don’t want the Firm’s mission statement for wives and other unfortunates. I’m asking you, have you put yourself in my position, asked yourself what it must be like for a federal cop having to tell her friends and colleagues that her husband sells books for a living?’

  ‘It can’t be easy,’ said Mac.

  ‘And now Sarah’s at preschool,’ said Jenny. ‘You want her standing in front of the class, helping you with your cover?’

  ‘Yeah, look,’ said Mac. ‘When we first got you pregnant, I decided to quit the Firm for just this reason. I didn’t want this burden on you.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Jenny.

  ‘But, you know, part-time lecturing wasn’t that great, we wanted to move up from that apartment to the house, we needed the money and so I went back,’ said Mac.

  ‘What happened to the office job, the nine to five?’

  ‘The Commonwealth has plenty of office guys,’ said Mac, not wanting to verbalise where his career was going. ‘It’s field guys they’re short on – people who can work their guts out for a couple of months without a day off.’

  ‘But you’ve just turned forty, mate,’ said Jenny. ‘Where’re the youngsters who want to be in the field? Don’t they watch James Bond movies?’

  ‘The youngsters don’t have jobs anymore,’ said Mac. ‘They have careers – they’re encouraged to hang around senior office guys because that’s how you get ahead.’

  ‘I thought we could at least drop the salesman act,’ said Jenny. ‘Back office at Foreign Affairs? Promotions at Austrade?’

  ‘That was Plan B,’ said Mac, not wanting to admit that Tobin had offered him that on re-entry. ‘Things happened quickly, I was straight into the old game and it seemed easier to resume an old identity.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So when this is done I might turn into a communications officer at Austrade,’ said Mac, meaning it this time. ‘It’ll be plain Alan McQueen, pumping out press releases from around Asia, writing speeches for the DG and the minister – that shit.’

  ‘That would suit us fine,’ said Jenny, snuggling in.

  ‘And by the way,’ said Mac, raising his arm so she could move in, ‘it’s no carousel ride living with a cop, either.’

  ‘Oh really?’

  ‘Yeah. I remember Mum trying to hide the newspaper from Dad on his days off – he’d be reading a story, then jumping on the phone to the detectives’ room, carrying on about some important connection, or an incorrect detail that the police prosecutor had laid down in depositions. It never ended.’

  ‘I’m not that bad,’ she said.

  ‘No, at least you don’t go through the births and deaths, and the auctions – Christ, the bloody auctions.’

  ‘Frank did?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Mac. ‘Dad would go through the auction notices, reading out the lots. If he thought some stolen machinery was coming up for sale, or a consignment had a fishy owner, he’d go take a butcher’s. He was a nutcase, and the crims hated him.’

  ‘Just as well you married me, eh, Macca?’ she said, bringing her lips closer.

  ‘Yeah, mate,’ said Mac. ‘And just as well I got that iPod player for the car.’

  ‘Why?’ said Jenny.

  ‘No more radio news,’ he said, as Jenny took a playful swipe at him. ‘So there’s no excuse to work the phone on your days off.’

  ‘It hasn’t happened that often,’ she said, getting serious again. ‘The Haneef thing doesn’t happen every day.’

  ‘Yeah, b
ut when it does . . .’

  ‘Okay, Macca,’ she said, pulling his face to hers. ‘That would be you in the dog box, remember?’

  ‘How could I forget?’ said Mac.

  ‘Watch it.’ Jenny kissed him.

  ‘Oh, I watch it all right,’ said Mac. ‘But your hands are too fast.’

  Chapter 43

  The van’s air-con made the interior either too cold or too warm – there was no middle setting. Messing with the dial while he waited for Luc to have a shower and say goodbye to his wife, Mac’s phone sounded.

  Mac hit the green button. ‘Yep.’

  ‘McQueen – Sammy,’ said the American. ‘What’s this text mean? A plane and a pilot?’

  ‘You guys good for it?’ said Mac, observing the early-morning traffic off the main boulevard of Cong Hoa. ‘We charter the plane, we get the pilot.’

  ‘Remind me,’ said Sammy.

  ‘The North Star pilot – his name’s Luc,’ said Mac. ‘He doesn’t have the coordinates but he knows how to fly us to Dozsa’s airfield.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Sammy, covering the phone and talking with someone before coming back on the line. ‘Can do, McQueen.’

  ‘Demand the Fokker Friendship and ask for Luc by name,’ said Mac. ‘Book it now and with any luck it’ll be ready by the time we’re out there.’

  ‘This Luc okay?’

  ‘His wife will decide, but I put a sweetener in there for her.’

  ‘Sweetener?’ said Sammy.

  ‘Yeah – told him there’s five thousand US, over and above.’

  ‘Nice, McQueen. That coming out of your pocket?’

  ‘We receive unto our needs, give according to our ability, right, Sammy?’

  ‘I went to church too, tough guy,’ said Sammy. ‘Priest said nothing about giving with another man’s wallet.’

  ‘Cash works best,’ said Mac as Luc emerged from his French- colonial terrace house.

  Banking steeply over Phnom Penh, Luc straightened for the runway and eased the red and white F-27 onto the tarmac, its twin Pratt & Whitneys stirring Mac’s memory. When he was growing up in regional Queensland the Fokker Friendships had been a staple of travel between small cities and towns: Rockhampton–Townsville, Gladstone–Mackay, Barcaldine–Longreach. If you flew those routes, then you sat in those purring Friendships with the harsh light bending through the egg-shaped fuselage windows. The planes were still used across South-East Asia and India as milk-run planes that could take off and land on short runways and carry a surprisingly large payload.

  In the passenger section of Mac’s plane were three rows of seats directly behind the cockpit and the rest was a cargo bay, hidden by a dark green canvas quilt hanging off the interior fuselage.

  Bringing the F-27 to the hangar with the Aviation Services Inc. sign above the open doors, Luc shut down props, hooked his headset on the wall of the cockpit and came through to Mac while the engineer completed the logs and checks.

  ‘Okay, Mr Richard,’ said Luc, his face still suffering from Bongo’s beating. ‘Welcome to Cambodia.’

  Opening the forward door, Luc released the folded ladder. Easing himself down the narrow gangplank to the tarmac, Mac squinted and pulled down his sunnies as the tropical sun gained intensity. It was 9.38 am and felt like thirty-five degrees.

  Sammy Chan leaned against a black Chevrolet Silverado. ‘McQueen – you’re early. I like that.’

  Sammy greeted Luc and Mac gave some background as they walked to the reception area of the service hangar.

  ‘We need to talk,’ said Mac into Sammy’s ear as Luc went over to the coffee machine and poured a cup.

  ‘Just have to nip upstairs, okay, Luc?’ said Mac, grabbing a coffee.

  ‘Um, yeah, okay, Mr Richard,’ said the pilot, averting his eyes.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Mac, moving to the stairs with Sammy. ‘I’ll get you the money.’

  The first-floor area was filled with sofas and coffee tables, which looked out over Phnom Penh International through tinted floor-to-ceiling windows. At one end, Charles spoke in Vietnamese into a phone, a finger jammed in his ear as he spoke too loud. Sammy raised binoculars and scanned the airport. It was the lifelong curse of people from a military intelligence background to obsessively survey whatever ground lay in front of them. In Sammy’s case, he seemed to be focusing on the large man in grey overalls and baseball cap who was loading the black canvas duffels from the Silverado into the rear door of the F-27. The luggage man was Brian, the tall American who’d greeted Mac as he’d boarded the houseboat two days earlier.

  ‘Looks like we got some gear,’ said Mac, taking a seat. ‘I thought we might need some more cavalry.’

  ‘Because?’ said Sammy, not dropping the binos.

  ‘Because I had a bird whisper in my ear about this prick Dozsa,’ said Mac, sipping on good coffee – Sumatran or Timorese was his guess.

  ‘And?’ said Sammy.

  ‘A two-man Mossad hit team passed through Bangers a few months ago, masquerading as Australian forestry guys. Drove up to Stung Treng province – Dozsa’s turf.’

  ‘Israelis don’t like the jungle, McQueen,’ said Sammy, ‘and the jungle don’t like them. So what was going on?’

  ‘Dozsa’s operating up there with a Chinese cadre. They look private but probably PLA.’

  ‘What happened?’ said Sammy.

  ‘Dozsa waited, let them get close, then he executed them.’

  Letting the field-glasses drop, Sammy sipped the coffee. ‘Mossad on Mossad. That’s –’

  ‘Scary?’ said Mac.

  ‘Your word,’ said Sammy, looking away.

  Mac saw the look on the American’s face. ‘It’s okay to feel queasy about this guy, but four of us, up there? It might be travelling light.’

  ‘It’ll be six,’ said Sammy. ‘I hired some muscle.’

  ‘Military?’ said Mac.

  Sammy nodded. ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Locals?’

  ‘Sort of – between these guys and your pilot, the US government might have change left over for lunch.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ said Mac.

  Turning to his backpack, Sammy pulled out a fat envelope and handed it over. ‘Tell Luc he can at least serve tea and biscuits for that whack.’

  ‘He might find a few beers for this.’

  ‘So,’ said Charles, joining them, ‘you two come up with a plan yet?’

  ‘Do some aerial recon with Luc while the rest come in by vehicle,’ said Sammy. ‘There’s a village north of Stung Treng. I’ve rented the second floor of the local hotel.’

  ‘Cover?’ said Charles.

  ‘Forest biodiversity project for the World Bank,’ said Sammy. ‘Verification audit for the Sam Ang forest region – it’s across the river from Stung Treng.’

  ‘We official?’ said Charles.

  Sammy smiled. ‘Got the lanyards in my bag.’

  Charles frowned, bit on the arm of his sunnies. ‘I don’t want to storm this place. The Aussie girl’s in there and I don’t want this Mossad maniac blowing the whole thing sky-high.’

  ‘It’s a stealth assignment, Chuck,’ said Sammy. ‘I’m not racing out of my trench at these bastards, and neither is McQueen.’

  Staring at Sammy and then Mac, Charles nodded slowly.

  ‘Okay, no heroics, no tough-guy scenes,’ he said, looking at Mac. ‘Remember, we answer to bureaucrats and they would rather we fail than create embarrassment.’

  Mac maintained a straight face. ‘I turned forty last week, okay, Charles?’

  ‘Maybe it’s not just you,’ said Charles. ‘Sammy, make sure these mercs get the message, okay?’

  A smashing sound came from the stairwell and then Luc was in the room, panting and scared.

 
‘What’s up?’ said Mac, standing and unhitching the Colt from the back of his waistband.

  ‘Down there,’ said Luc, trapped between a gulp and a pant.

  ‘Who?’ Mac cocked the Colt and moved to the stairwell, Sammy behind him.

  ‘Help me,’ said Luc, turning and running towards the end of the long room.

  Turning around the edge of the stairwell, Mac looked down the carpeted stairs and saw no one. Moving down one stair at a time, he listened for sounds and heard men’s voices.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Sammy whispered over his SIG.

  They got to the door at the foot of the stairwell. Mac’s temples were pounding. He didn’t know if he was ready for this after the violence he’d seen recently and his hands were swimming and his breath was shallow as Sammy moved beside him.

  Looking through the glass panel in the door, Mac couldn’t see anyone in the ground-level reception area.

  ‘Shit,’ said Mac, hissing it out. The last time he’d burst through a door, Jim Quirk had been murdered in front of him. Now he had the pilot running for his life. Who was down here? The Israelis? The Chinese?

  ‘On three,’ said Sammy.

  Counting it out, Mac opened the door, put his handgun in a cup-and-saucer grip and strode into the lounge, sweeping the Colt from ten o’clock to two. Sammy joined him as they scanned the empty reception area, wondering what had spooked Luc.

  Relaxing slightly, Mac felt his breathing normalise.

  ‘Where’s –’ Sammy stopped short.

  Turning to the American, Mac felt the gun muzzle behind his ear and dropped the Colt, put his hands in the air.

  They stood for one second before the man behind them spoke.

  ‘You don’t remember too good, McQueen,’ said the South-East Asian voice with a faint American twang. ‘I told you – you pull on me, you’d better kill me.’

  The sweat felt like ice on Mac’s forehead as the air-con turned the room into a fridge. That voice came from a decade ago – from East Timor, when Mac was being stalked by Kopassus intel and he’d needed a hired gun to protect him.