Counter Attack

by Mark Abernethy

  ‘So don’t compete,’ said Bongo.

  ‘I’m retrieving McHugh,’ said Mac. ‘That’s the gig.’

  Bongo drank. ‘We can both do it.’

  ‘I’ll deliver her back to Oz, you’ll get a big mention in my report.’

  ‘If I find the girl, no one touches her – that’s when there’s a misunderstanding.’

  Mac paused: ‘misunderstanding’, in Bongo’s world, was a euphemism for a dispute ending in at least one homicide.

  ‘I can see your position, mate,’ said Mac. ‘But if we find McHugh, the Americans must be able to debrief.’

  Bongo paused, gave Mac the evil eye. ‘You told the Yankees?’

  ‘Told them what?’

  ‘That I’m working for the McHugh lawyers?’ said Bongo, stiffening as the cafe owner came from behind the counter and walked to another table.

  ‘No,’ said Mac.

  ‘Okay – you keep it that way, and if I find the girl, they can debrief.’

  ‘It’s not only that,’ said Mac, trying to be delicate. ‘The Australian government may not want your name associated with her rescue.’

  ‘That’s their problem, brother,’ said Bongo. ‘You gotta know your friends, McQueen, and they’re not in Canberra.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Means I was late for the airport this morning ’cos I got eyes on something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘White Toyota, followed us from the hotel.’

  ‘Followed you?’

  ‘Yeah, McQueen. The driver was that one you know, with the funny skin – Eckhart?’

  ‘Urquhart,’ said Mac, the beer threatening to reflux.

  ‘Yeah, him.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Stopped at the lights – Didge got out, went back there and asked the passenger if he knows the way to Bangkok.’

  ‘And?’ said Mac.

  ‘And this guy’s sliding down in his seat – young Aussie, look like Adam Ant with that bad hair.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Pointed, said, “That way.” Just having some fun with them but I wonder why Urquhart and the lady-man following.’

  ‘They know you’ve been hired to find Geraldine McHugh,’ said Mac.

  ‘Of course,’ said Bongo, smiling. ‘So why they following me when they know you doing the gig?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Mac, looking away from Bongo’s taunting eyes.

  ‘Neither do I.’ Bongo gulped his beer. ‘Anyway, you know the Yank who was killed in Phnom Penh?’

  ‘No,’ said Mac.

  ‘He worked with Sammy. His name’s Phil Brown – Secret Service guy.’

  ‘Okay, so?’ said Mac.

  ‘So I picked up the phone, talked to my guy – see about Phil Brown.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he’s operating as a currency investigator, with the C-note Squad. You heard of it?’

  Mac recalled the US hundred-dollar bills in the back of Sam and Phil’s car. ‘No.’

  ‘You want to?’

  ‘Yeah, but –’

  ‘Here’s the deal, brother,’ said Bongo. ‘If I find the girl, I’m flying her back to Australia.’

  Staring at the Filipino, Mac wondered how he ever put his life in this man’s hands. ‘Okay – you got it.’

  ‘The Secret Service’s C-note Squad is on a sweep through Asia, clearing up any counterfeiting problems with the current US hundred-dollar bills, before they’re changed to the new format.’

  ‘Problems?’

  Bongo chewed gum. ‘There’s some illegal protocols in the wrong hands – come from Beep or BP or –’

  ‘BEP,’ said Mac. BEP was the US Bureau of Engraving and Printing – the federal agency that created US currency.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Bongo. ‘BEP protocols.’

  Mac didn’t see the news flash. ‘The fact the Yanks protect their currency isn’t entirely surprising.’

  ‘No,’ said Bongo. ‘But my guy’s been dealing with the real C-note Squad, and Phil Brown ain’t on it.’

  Back at the guest house, Mac ran up the outside stairs of the former colonial mansion as Grimshaw arrived in the car park in his green Camry. Letting himself into the second door on the left, he made a quick search of the tiny room and decided he was alone. Putting his wheelie bag on the single bed, Mac tried to remember where he’d left it or if he’d even kept it: the piece of paper he’d grabbed from the top of that box of US dollars in the back of Sammy’s car.

  Rummaging through the pockets of the bag, he came up empty. Then he took his clothes from the bag and checked under the lining and in the ASIS-issued bag’s three secret hides.

  He wondered if he’d even grabbed that paper – he’d been under enormous stress that night and he may have confused his desire to take it with having actually done so.

  Standing to the side of the sash window, he looked down on the street and thought about what Bongo had said: Phil wasn’t from the Secret Service. So what was he doing?

  Looking at his clothes on the bed, he saw the cheap market-bought chinos he’d been wearing on the night Phil Brown was killed. They had an inside coin pocket on the right hip and out of it Mac pulled a folded piece of paper.

  Unfolding it, he saw a handwritten note in cursive script. Intercepted Stung Treng Province. October 12, 2009 – P, I, D, SF, SN = genuine. It still meant nothing to Mac but he decided to hang onto it anyway.

  The sound of a revving motorbike sounded and Mac left his room, walked to the rear balcony of the guest house.

  Below, in the parking area, Sammy flipped the stand of one Yamaha 250cc trail bike, while a local dismounted from another and put his hand out for the money.

  Descending, Mac had a look.

  ‘Not bad – about three years old,’ said Mac, checking the tyres and chains. ‘How does yours ride?’

  ‘Rides okay, but it’s not mine,’ said Sammy. ‘I’m running the radio from the truck.’

  ‘That leaves Didge,’ said Mac, looking at the odo.

  ‘Not Bongo?’ said Sammy.

  ‘No – Didge spent a lifetime on these things in Aussie special forces,’ said Mac. ‘Besides, you’ll feel safer with Bongo, believe me.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Sammy. ‘I met with Charles half an hour ago.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘We can’t delay this any longer.’

  ‘We start early enough, we’ll have a recce of Dozsa’s compound by lunch,’ said Mac.

  ‘I mean, no delay,’ said Sammy.

  ‘What delay?’ said Mac, not getting it.

  ‘Waiting is the delay,’ said Sammy. ‘We’re going this evening.’

  Chapter 46

  The afternoon rains eased shortly after eight o’clock and the four of them made for the pre-arranged ferry ride across the Mekong.

  The ferryman didn’t want the Chev on his small wooden ferry, but when Mac offered a further inducement, Sammy reluctantly agreed to pay it and they slipped into the dusk, the red sunset poking through the lifting black clouds as they reached the banks opposite Kratie.

  Heading north on the riverside track, Mac rode ahead with Didge, doing not much more than sixty k an hour through the mud and puddles, keeping enough distance that the motorbikes did not look to be connected with the truck. A keen observer would see an M4 carbine over the riders’ shoulders and maybe handguns on their hips, but the locals were used to UN and World Bank consultants being accompanied by armed escorts.

  It was dark as they reached the ferry head opposite Stung Treng and turned left for the interior and the wilderness of Chamkar.

  Riding like that for ten minutes past peasant farms and a small village, Mac slowed to a stop in the b
eginnings of the forest and walked back to talk with Sammy and Bongo, who sat in the front seat of the idling Silverado.

  ‘Give us thirty minutes exactly,’ said Mac, as the other men set the mission clocks on their watches. ‘There’s a fork up ahead – take the left and you’ll come to the checkpoint in three or four minutes. And come in hot. Okay?’

  Walking back to Didge with two Kevlar vests from the Silverado, Mac laid it out. They would take the right fork in the road, double around, neutralise the checkpoint, and wait for the others. If they got this part right, it would make the compound infiltration much easier.

  ‘Sure, boss,’ said Didge.

  ‘I’d like to avoid gunfire, if we can.’

  Didge winked. ‘No worries.’

  Killing their headlights as they made the fork, Mac slowed and told Didge through the radio headset, ‘It’s all yours, mate.’

  Australia’s army special forces – the 4RAR Commandos and the SAS – both trained on bikes and were experts across broken ground at night with no headlamps.

  After three minutes of running, the radio crackled in Mac’s ear. ‘Drop to first, boss,’ said Didge. ‘Stay close.’

  Pulling off the track, Didge rode in first gear through the trees. Following, Mac struggled to stay upright as they dipped into dry creek beds, wove between trees and vines, and ducked swinging branches. Mac had no idea how Didge could see his way across the ground – there was only a half-moon and the knots of roots and collapsed tree trunks loomed up at Mac as they picked their way through the forest, the bikes purring at low revs. Mac concentrated on Didge’s bulk as it swayed rhythmically until the brake light in front of him glowed red and Mac stopped behind it. Killing their engines, Didge dismounted and crouched beside the bike. Duck-walking up to the big Cape Yorker, Mac looked over his shoulder.

  ‘Our eleven o’clock,’ Didge said. ‘Lights.’

  Bringing up his rubber-coated Leicas, Mac stared through the trees and found two windows in a shack, glowing yellow. As the bikes pinged, Didge put up his finger, sniffed.

  ‘Frying fish,’ he said, nodding. ‘Raised voices – two males, maybe three.’

  Mac couldn’t smell or hear a thing.

  ‘You want to cut the lines, boss?’ said Didge, unhitching his M4 and checking the breech.

  ‘No,’ said Mac. ‘If there’s a junction box, I’d rather unplug it and then replace it.’

  ‘Okay, boss,’ said Didge, looking at his watch. ‘We got four minutes thirty till the truck comes through. You mind if I lead?’

  ‘You lead,’ said Mac, glad the soldier had offered.

  Checking their rifles and magazines, Didge put his left arm through the strap and flipped his elbow over it, pulling the rifle to his shoulder. It was a special forces trick to create what they called a ‘good shoulder’. If you had a good shoulder on your weapon, then you forced your shoulders and face to point where the rifle was pointed, so there needn’t be a delay between seeing the target and shooting the target. Mac hadn’t been in the Royal Marines long enough to perfect the stance, but the professionals could keep a good shoulder all day in the field and many of them swore that the habit had been the difference between a shallow grave and living to enjoy a cold beer.

  Following Didge through the high-canopy forest, Mac stayed close. Didge was easily six-three but he moved like a cat, ducking smoothly under branches, fluidly stepping over logs without losing his shoulder on the weapon and avoiding the forest debris that would make a sound if stepped on.

  When the shack loomed twenty metres away, Didge found a hide behind a short tree and called up Mac, pointing. Looking along the finger, Mac saw the grey plastic telecom box, about one metre up the side of the wooden shack.

  Didge pointed at Mac and made the shape of a gun, and Mac nodded; yes, he would cover Didge.

  Slipping out of the shadows into the dull glow from the high windows, Didge paused like a deer, listening and scenting. Moving quickly in a crouch to the telecom box, Didge had the door flap open in two seconds, his hand went in and then the door was shut. The phone line was now disconnected.

  Leaning against the wooden wall of the shack, Didge looked at Mac and put his finger to his lips, indicating they had company. Lifting his rifle, feeling the sweat run under his palms, Mac waited as plastic-sandal footsteps crushed gravel and then a figure moved from the light of the shack’s front and into the semi-darkness of the well head.

  Casting a bead on the figure, Mac put his finger on the M4’s trigger – one turn in the wrong direction, and Didge’s cover would be blown. Mac would then shoot.

  A loud beeping sound came from the checkpoint quarters, triggering male voices. As Mac tensed to make his shot, the figure turned, revealing a pretty woman’s face. Mac hesitated and he noticed a hunchback, but the hump moved.

  ‘Shit,’ said Mac. He had a woman and child in his sights.

  The woman dropped her water bucket as boots clattered inside the shack, the beeping still loud.

  ‘What’s the beeping?’ said Didge’s voice in a whisper over the radio. ‘What’s happening?’

  The woman ran for the shack as Mac burst from his hide and went after her.

  Didge beat Mac to the corner and accelerated around the side of the checkpoint quarters to the road, the woman running into the night as Didge kicked the main door open.

  ‘Get her,’ said Didge as the door came off its hinges and the air tore open with the sound of automatic rifle fire.

  Setting off after the woman, Mac wondered what he was going to do – she was within range, but he couldn’t shoot her, not with a baby on her back. The scream of a large diesel engine sounded and the Silverado arrived, its lights killed.

  ‘Stop,’ said Mac at the woman’s back. ‘Stop or I shoot.’

  Turning as she stopped almost in front of the approaching Chev, she showed her face and Mac lowered his rifle. Heaving for breath, he turned back to help Didge and a shot sounded. Mac left his feet and headed for the dirt, feeling like a horse had kicked him in the ribs under his right armpit.

  Gunfire roared and men’s voices raged, and then there was silence except for the ticking of an idling diesel.

  Staggering to his knees, Mac heard boots on dirt and then he was being hauled to his feet.

  ‘You okay, McQueen?’ said Bongo, as Mac found his balance.

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Mac, barely able to breathe and reeling with confusion. ‘Was I hit?’

  Lifting Mac’s arm slightly, Bongo licked his fingertips and pulled a flattened slug from the Kevlar vest, flicking it away as the heat proved too much.

  ‘Girl shot you, McQueen,’ said Bongo, emotionless. ‘Handgun under her shawl.’

  ‘The girl?’ said Mac, bending to pick up his rifle and seeing Sammy standing over a prone form on the road. ‘Where’s her baby?’

  Bongo shook his head. ‘No baby.’

  ‘On her back – there was a baby on her back,’ said Mac, the smell of cordite and blood making him nauseous.

  ‘This your baby?’ asked Sammy, an AK-47 in his hand as he approached them. ‘It was slung under her shawl.’

  ‘Clear?’ said Bongo, as Didge emerged from the shack and scanned the road.

  ‘Clear,’ said Didge. ‘Maybe one got away.’

  Embarrassed, Mac shook his head. A mistake like that could get your buddies killed, and once you’d made the mistake, it altered the power dynamic in the group.

  ‘You Anglos are funny.’ Bongo flipped a cigarette into his mouth and offered one to Sammy. ‘You think ’cos she the woman, she can’t use no gun?’

  Bongo was laughing about it – Sammy and Didge joined in.

  ‘Sorry, guys,’ said Mac, realising he was the odd man out in a spectrum that included a Filipino, Chinese-American and Cape York Aboriginal.

 
‘I know you are, brother,’ said Bongo, exhaling smoke as his eyes made long arcs over Mac’s shoulders. ‘But now you in my world, right? And in my world, ain’t no damsel in the tower and no knight on the white horse neither, okay?’

  ‘Look, I thought she had a baby on her back,’ said Mac.

  ‘I know what you were thinking, McQueen,’ said Bongo. ‘But just ’cos they pretty, don’t mean they won’t kill you.’

  While Didge and Sammy removed the three bodies and hid them in the bush, Mac ratted the checkpoint building for anything useful. It was a bunkhouse with a small stove and sink in the corner. A desk built into the rough wooden wall housed a plastic electronics box with a list of red lights and beside each one a scrawl of Khmer: the top light was still flashing.

  ‘Bongo,’ said Mac, ‘can you translate this?’

  Bongo ran his finger down the red lights and looked at the Khmer designations.

  ‘They’re locations,’ said Bongo. ‘The flashing one says something like Guard house approach, and the others say, like, Camp 25, Camp 20 and so on.’

  ‘I heard a beeping before we stormed this place,’ said Mac. ‘I guess that would be the flashing light – the guard house approach?’

  ‘They’ve got the road on optical trips,’ said Bongo, meaning light beams that triggered when people or vehicles passed certain points. ‘Wonder what else they got?’

  ‘I don’t want to wonder,’ said Mac.

  A scuffle sounded outside, a loud screaming and male grunts. Bursting out of the cabin, Mac and Bongo ran into Didge, who was holding a young girl by the scruff of the neck.

  ‘Found her beside the long-drop,’ said Didge. ‘Trying to get on a bicycle.’

  Rattling off some Khmer at her, Bongo nodded and turned to Mac. ‘She lives with her family, between here and the river. She rides down once a day on her bike to deliver eggs and vegetables, sometimes fish.’

  Talking with her again, Bongo translated. ‘She had a cup of tea with the guards and then the guns started. She escaped out the back window.’

  ‘The one I missed,’ said Didge, spitting.

  ‘Does she want to make fifty US dollars?’ said Mac.