‘No one thought to tell the Aussies?’
‘What was there to say?’ asked Jim. ‘There’s a SARS vaccine program in the East Timor hills and it’s registered with WHO. You know how warm and fuzzy that makes journalists and UN-types feel?’
‘So you used an innocent Aussie to go in there?’ said Mac.
‘Sure beats tipping the Indonesians off by having a bunch of Yanks up there.’
‘Okay,’ said Mac, annoyed about being played. ‘So this bio-weapon actually works?’
‘Possibly,’ said Jim, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘Based on the samples, we think they’ve finalised a super-pneumonia – what the scientists are calling SARS. Of course, having the disease agent is only part of the project,’ he continued. ‘Then you have to weaponise it so it endures heat and concussion. Other versions have to be light enough to float on the breeze when you spray them.’
Images from CNN flashed on the screen in front of them. The sound was down but the images showed the ballot boxes in East Timor while the island was in flames. Militiamen ran along streets with assault rifles, T-shirts wrapped around their faces – many of them Kopassus operatives, no doubt, thought Mac as his anger rose. Kijangs filled with young thugs sped through the smoke, mothers ran with their kids, uniformed soldiers and police directing the mayhem like a movie. An Anglo man in a Banana Republic safari shirt said his piece to camera, probably before dashing to the airport – the same airport Mac was flying into the following morning.
‘So the Indonesians have weaponised SARS?’ asked Mac. ‘That’s what we were looking at underground in Lombok? Those corpses were the victims of SARS? And up at the death camp too?’
‘We think so, yes,’ said Jim. ‘It’s not confirmed.’
‘The generals are hosting this for a nice fee?’ asked Mac.
‘Yeah,’ smiled Jim. ‘Heroin money from North Korea, laundered in Poi Pet, delivered in cash to the generals in East Timor.’
‘The money we found on those boys in the bush?’
‘Sure. About a million US couriered into Bobonaro every month – now we know the destination was Neptune. Wa Dae used to carry it himself from Dili, but he got spooked by your Canadian friend’s capture, and changed to a run coming from Kupang instead. That’s what you intercepted, I guess.’
‘A super-pneumonia. What does it do?’ asked Mac, still not clear.
‘People with no immunity have twelve to eighteen hours,’ said the American. ‘They drown in their own phlegm.’
CHAPTER 53
The Boeing 737 descended through the early morning cloud and lined up for Comoro airport in west Dili, revealing a panorama of smoke which, if it was Queensland, would have signalled bushfire season. Looking in the reflection of his cabin window, Mac clocked his dark hair, brown contact lenses and black moustache and felt his guts drop as the plane steepened its trajectory.
He was feeling cornered, having been woken at 5 am by Tony Davidson and informed that DIA would be playing a backup role in clearing the drop box at the Resende. Mac had argued, not wanting the Yanks charging around in what was the maelstrom of Dili. But politics had won the day: Australia had intelligence-sharing arrangements with the US, UK and Canada, and the price to pay for the high-quality product was to allow the senior partner to take any chair he wanted.
He just hoped the Americans stood off and let Mac do his job. His stomach churned with a dark fear – someone, either the Koreans or Kopassus, had got to Bongo and killed him. If someone could kill Bongo Morales, then they’d make easy work of an Aussie spy if they really wanted to.
After emerging from the panicked crowds in the concourse at Comoro, Mac grabbed a minicab from the apron. Settling in the back with a crowd of journalists and cameramen, he noticed Jim waiting in a queue surrounded by Brimob officers as the van surged away.
Driving through the official military roadblocks and the unofficial ones put there by militias and pro-independence locals, a French reporter told an Englishman in a fishing vest that the Turismo was the only Euro-friendly place in town. An American camera guy with a blue do-rag pulled a can of mace from his breast pocket and shoved it in the Frenchie’s face.
‘Don’t mess with Texas,’ he laughed, getting some sniggers from the Aussies and English.
‘One can of mace against one of the largest armies in the world,’ snarled the Frog. ‘You Yankees are so smart.’
Mac looked away, lost in thought. Certain types of journalists thought themselves a breed apart if they went someplace dangerous while hiding behind the protective shroud their profession gave them. At least half of these people would be back at the airport within two days, begging for a standby seat, he reckoned.
The Resende was still a utilitarian structure that looked more like a Stalin-era office block in Warsaw than a hotel in a tropical paradise. Checking in as Doug Crawford, Mac accepted the warnings of the manager that this was no place for outsiders right now, and went to his room. Hitting the Nokia as soon as he put his bags down, Mac made loud declamations to his Southern Cross Trading associates in Sydney about the climate for organic cosmetics and synergies with the government in East Timor. Everything in the Resende was bugged and the staff were often informers, but Mac sometimes found it easier to sleep with enemies than to evade them.
After waiting ten minutes, Mac wandered down the stairs to the lobby, stopping to look at a rack of tourist brochures while he checked for suspicious types. A few minutes later a Brimob van screamed past in the street, broadcasting orders over a loudhailer. When a woman ducked into the hotel with two children, the manager at the desk tried to shoo her out.
‘Busy out there, eh?’ said Mac with a smile as he moved alongside the woman and the manager.
‘Dangerous, mister,’ said the woman as the manager walked away, tut-tutting.
Having second thoughts about being in Dili, Mac saw Jim walking towards him with an overnight bag.
‘Warren?’ asked Mac, loud enough to make it play for the manager. ‘Warren Johnson? Holiday Inn, Waikiki – what was it? A cosmetics expo or something?’
Straight into character, Jim responded warmly. ‘Doug Crawford – you’re the organic cosmetics guy.’
‘That’s the one.’
‘And everyone’s like, Organic?! I don’t want to eat it! ’
‘That’s the problem with a nation of people that thinks cheese comes out of a spray can,’ said Mac, smiling and shaking hands.
Thirty-five minutes later, Mac sat at a sidewalk cafe on the Esplanada, waiting for Jim. He’d had a chance to do a recce of the Resende’s ballroom, which had been filled with military types drinking coffee.
His stomach churning, Mac ran through the mission: he needed to be in and out quickly. And he needed to do it undercover, not with an American QRF coming to the rescue with eleven choppers.
Jim was supposed to be touching base with his Dili asset to get a driver and secure a couple of firearms, then meet Mac at the cafe. And he was late, a bad omen. As Mac checked his G-Shock, his breath caught as he glimpsed a tall bloke loping along the Esplanada. It was the cut-out.
Sliding down in his chair, wishing the big white Bintang parasol was lower, Mac made himself breathe through the nose as the man glanced to his left, but not far enough to clock Mac. Walking north and buttoning a navy blue linen sports coat, he hurried past, stress etched on his face.
Breathing returning to normal, Mac watched the local lawyer disappear towards downtown, swerving through pedestrians and looking from side to side amid the chaos on the streets. Blackbird and the Canadian were no longer around, so Mac wondered what the man was in such a panic for. His family, probably.
‘Hey, Doug,’ said Jim as he sat, Jakarta Post folded under his arm. ‘Everything okay? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I’m fine, what have we got?’ said Mac, summoning a waiter and ordering two coffees.
‘I think we’re compromised,’ said Jim. ‘The tip-off that got Blackbird sprung may not be a one-off.’
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ said Mac, too tired for head games. ‘I infiltrated a fucking bio-weapons factory for this gig – I’ve earned immunity from that look.’
Sighing, Jim looked out to the choppy sea across the street. ‘Sorry, buddy, force of habit.’
‘So what’s up?’ asked Mac.
Lighting a smoke, Jim waved his hand. ‘Could be nothing – the SIGINT guys picked up some chatter about Boa being retrieved today, seemed too coincidental.’
‘Shit!’ said Mac, clenching his fist and trying to find the cut-out again in the crowds.
‘There was two calls with “Boa” in them, to this number,’ he said, opening the Jakarta Post and showing Mac a printed page with Da Silva, Carvalho Judice e Associados – (Augusto Da Silva e Christian Carvalho) printed on it, with an address.
‘It’s a law firm in Dili,’ said Jim.
‘Law firm,’ muttered Mac, his head snapping up as he looked for the cut-out.
Trying to maintain a disciplined walk, Mac rounded the corner and peeled away from Jim to the other side of the street as he headed towards the Resende. Jim kept a safe distance, providing support.
Getting to the Resende, Mac paused at the glass door to regain his composure, before pushing into the cool of the lobby. His head swam with the possibilities, all of them negative: he didn’t like the way Jim sprang the news of the compromised operation and he didn’t like the urgency with which Da Silva had been moving towards the Resende. Mac was at his best when he was the one creating the timetable and the panic.
‘Ah, Mr Crawford,’ said the manager cheerily, in total contrast to how he’d treated the local woman and her kids. ‘How are we today?’
‘Good thanks,’ smiled Mac as he passed, before stopping as if in afterthought. ‘Actually, perhaps you could help me.’
‘Certainly, Mr Crawford,’ he smiled.
‘My manager asked me to have a look at the function facilities at the Resende for our conferences or expos. It’s a nice distance from Australia, China, Japan and India – if you see what I mean?’
‘Certainly, Mr Crawford,’ said the manager, coming around the counter and clicking his fingers for the bellboy. ‘Ernesto, please show Mr Crawford the ballroom and conference facilities.’
Following Ernesto’s dandruff-dusted black coat through to the rear of the Resende, Mac saw a large restaurant, a bar and a family-TV nook filled with sofas and coffee tables.
As they approached two large doors that met at the middle, Ernesto pulled out his master key, only to realise that the doors were now swinging open. After pushing through, Ernesto went to hit the lights, but they were already on.
‘This is the Resende famous ballroom,’ said Ernesto, sweeping his arm around a large space with parquetry floors, high chandeliered ceilings and a stage along the far wall, dominated by two enormous karaoke machines. Walking around the space, Mac marvelled at the aesthetic, somewhere between 1960s Las Vegas and 1980s Seoul.
‘Thanks, mate,’ said Mac with a wink, palming ten US dollars into Ernesto’s hand. ‘I just need to feel my way around this space for a few minutes, okay?’
Smiling, Ernesto headed to the doors, which Mac shut gently behind him before latching them.
There were two tall karaoke stacks on the stage, leading to two consoles, two microphones and two screens in the middle. Mac had spent enough evenings on the booze in Asia to know that many a duet had been sung on that stage, by people who had no right to do what they were doing to ‘Islands in the Stream’ or ‘You Don’t Bring Me Flowers’.
Checking the karaoke machine on the left, Mac pulled down the back flap which opened into a cable-storage compartment the size of two shoe boxes. It was empty.
Moving to the other side of the stage, Mac saw it before he got there: the flap was open, the compartment empty.
‘Fuck!’ said Mac, breathing fast.
Mac tried to think as he reached the doors. Had the cut-out been tipped off to Mac picking up a copy of Operasi Boa? He’d been in a panic when Mac saw him. Who – outside of Mac, Jim and Davidson – knew that they were looking for a copy of Operasi Boa at the Resende? It gnawed at Mac as he made for the lobby. Gesturing through the glass doors for Jim to join him at the front desk, Mac turned back to the manager.
‘Nice facilities – might get back to you on that. But tell me, I was meant to meet Augusto here ten minutes ago,’ said Mac. ‘And Christian.’
‘Augusto?’ shrugged the manager. ‘I not know any Augusto, mister.’
Mac thanked him and made for the doors.
‘Have we got it?’ hissed Jim as they spilled onto the street, Mac scanning the area for any sign of the cut-out.
‘Everything okay, mister?’ asked Ernesto, who was walking from a minivan with two suitcases.
‘Mate, I was supposed to meet Augusto and Christian here ten minutes ago – they’re our lawyers and it’s fairly important. I was wondering if they turned up, maybe I missed them?’ said Mac, looking at his watch.
‘Sure,’ said Ernesto. ‘I saw Mr Da Silva at back of hotel, after I show you ballroom.’
‘Shit,’ said Mac, looking over the crowds. ‘Did he say anything?’
‘No, mister,’ said Ernesto, eyes wide. ‘He running.’
‘I bet he was,’ growled Mac, wishing he had a weapon.
CHAPTER 54
The offices of Da Silva, Carvalho Judice e Associados were exactly where Ernesto had sent Mac and Jim – over the road from the government engineer’s offices, upstairs in a swank professional suite, a block back from the ocean.
In an alley between buildings, they cased Da Silva’s offices while shots rang out from several blocks away and diesel engines screamed.
‘Kopassus intel front?’ asked Jim, looking up and down the street.
‘He told me he did their paperwork, gave the military’s extra-judicial trials some legitimacy,’ shrugged Mac, trying to get a look past the sun blinds into the law offices. ‘The best lies are actually the truth, eh Jim?’
Jim ducked that one. US intelligence used a network of law firms to make things work smoothly. One of the world’s largest law firms got rich from a list of clients that were CIA fronts.
‘I don’t think we can wait,’ said Jim, opening the large courier box he’d received on arrival at the Resende, and passing Mac one of two Colt Defender handguns.
‘I agree,’ said Mac. ‘Any ideas for a dignified entry?’
‘None,’ said Jim, checking the mag and the spout.
‘Okay,’ said Mac, feeling the nerves starting. ‘I’ll take Da Silva direct – you want to deal with the ancillary targets?’
‘Sure,’ said Jim, pulling back into the shadows as a Brimob armoured vehicle flew past. ‘Let’s go.’
Pushing out into the street, they jogged in their chinos and polo shirts, guns tucked into waistbands, and moved up onto the pavement, where they pushed through swinging glass doors.
Ignoring the elevators, Mac and Jim raced up the stairs two at a time, Mac coming to a standstill behind Jim as the American opened the fire door and peeked down the hall.
‘One receptionist, glass walls… wait, wait,’ he whispered. ‘Shit! The entry has an electronic lock on it. We have to get the receptionist to open it from inside.’
A door slammed and the sound of feet slapping on concrete echoed up to them. Moving away from the door, Mac gave Jim a wink as a signal to get in character.
‘So I’m not comfortable with that kind of dilution, champion. I need a sign-off on the tax position before we carve up the equity,’ said Mac, in as self-important a tone as he could muster, as a courier appeared behind them, a large package in hand.
Pretending to try to get out of the bloke’s way, Mac looked down and saw the package was addressed to Carvalho and Da Silva.
‘We can give you that buddy,’ said Jim. ‘But if my guys can’t get over twelve per cent equity at your NPV, they don’t even want to talk about the tax position. I told you – our d
eal is accretive, apples for apples.’
‘Twelve per cent?!’ snapped Mac as they followed the courier into the hallway. ‘You gotta stop drinking before lunch, speedy.’
The courier walked down the corridor without looking at Mac and Jim, obviously accustomed to lawyers snarling at each other in stairwells.
‘Okay, buddy,’ said Jim, keeping it going as they got closer to the courier and neared the entry door to the law firm. ‘But know this before we go in there – they got a full dance card, man.’
‘Doesn’t mean I don’t want to be kissed before I lift my skirts,’ said Mac.
‘Do us all a favour, buddy,’ said Jim, as the entry door opened to the courier and they walked in behind him. ‘Don’t be the plain girl playing hard-to-get, okay?’
Leaving Jim with the receptionist and courier, Mac walked straight down mahogany row. The first door was open and Mac smiled at a lawyer at his desk as he walked past. The second open door revealed an empty office. Mac opened the third door and leaned in. A man lay asleep on the floor – probably a first-time father, thought Mac, shutting the door silently.
Mac had about thirty seconds before the receptionist got away from Jim and came looking for him. There were two doors at the end of the hallway, both of which would open onto larger corner spaces overlooking the bay – the partners’ offices.
Slipping the Colt from his waistband, Mac took a deep breath as he reached for the door handle on the left. It was then he smelled it, faintly at first. But after a deeper whiff, it was unmistakable. Someone was burning paper.
Pushing into the left-hand office, Mac kept his hand behind his back and smiled as he saw Carvalho behind his desk.
‘Sorry – looking for Augusto,’ said Mac.
Mac breathed out long and deep, brought the Colt up to his navel, and pushed into the next room.
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