Freddi was probably waiting for Mac to get out.
Mac faced Ari again. ‘So?’
Ari stared through the windscreen and sighed. Intel people hated giving too much away, even if it could help them in the medium term. ‘You say and then I say, yes?’ He wound down his window, fl icked an ash.
‘We had eyes on Samir, off Flores yesterday afternoon,’ said Mac, not much to hide. ‘On a JI freighter.’
‘Local eyes?’ asked Ari.
‘It’s confi rmed. It was Samir,’ replied Mac.
Both men sat pondering, getting the timeline right. It seemed like Abu Samir had left for Java on the morning of the bombing and boarded Penang Princess. If the alignment was as it seemed, they could have both Hassan and Samir for the Kuta bombing – the ‘pro’ crew Freddi Gardjito had warned Mac about.
‘Your turn,’ said Mac. ‘That look you gave me when I mentioned Samir?’
Ari stared at Mac, his face grave. ‘I have lost contact with my colleague. Not for a day have I heard from him – I am thinking he is dead,’ he said, then took a huge drag on his ciggie before fl icking it through the window. ‘I am betting this Samir has killed him, fuck his mother.’
Mac got out, watched the Camry drive away and walked to the rear passenger door of the black LandCruiser, slid across to the centre of the seat and leaned forward.
Freddi turned to look at him from the front passenger seat.
‘Getting along very well with Ari,’ he said, big round face impassive.
Mac shrugged, looked at the driver – a thin-faced twenty-eight-year-old Javanese – who stared straight back at him. The Cruiser smelled of Juicy Fruit gum and cordite. ‘Just talking,’ said Mac.
‘Just talking outside the Puri and then just talking while following Hassan to the docks? Lot of talking, McQueen,’ said Freddi. ‘But not much when the shooting started, huh?’
The luggage area at the back of the Cruiser was fi lled with guns, radio sets and Kevlar vests, and Mac saw that Freddi and his driver were still in their black combat pants. The boys from BAIS liked to roll.
‘Your guys catch Hassan?’ asked Mac, trying to make this about the Indonesians.
‘Not yet. But you are disappointing me, McQueen. You know this?’
Mac sighed. ‘Mate!’
‘Given how many Aussies died in the bombings, we were going to be in a loop, remember? Mate? ‘
‘Ari wanted a chat – I had no idea who was in the Puri. Honest,’ said Mac.
Freddi snorted.
‘Honest, Freddi,’ Mac repeated. ‘I’m down here to run the media side of the joint investigation. I’m not even armed.’
‘Joint investigation, eh McQueen?’ said Freddi. ‘Your federal police are telling everyone that it’s their – how you say it – show. Yes, it’s an AFP show.’
‘They did not, Freddi!’
Freddi gave him the old Mona Lisa, and Mac felt himself groaning.
He was hating the public affairs gig before it had even properly started.
Perceptions were such an organic thing that trying to control or alter them seemed futile.
‘By the way,’ said Freddi, changing his tone, ‘I had a call from a friend of mine thirty minutes ago. You know Sosa?’
‘Yep,’ said Mac, quite aware that Freddi already knew the answer to that question.
‘He wanted to get a message to you. Professional courtesy.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Akbar was busted out early this evening.’
Mac’s heart skipped. ‘What? Busted out?! Where did they have him?’
‘Can’t tell you that, McQueen, but I can tell you it was all over pretty quickly.’
Mac felt the bottom falling out of his week. The UN gig seemed to be slipping ever further from his grasp. ‘And don’t tell me, Freddi, it was a pro job, right?’
‘No, no, McQueen,’ said the Indonesian, sarcastic. ‘We have all these Muslim fi shermen and farmers running around who know about shaped charges and how to disable a Swiss security system -‘
Mac started to say that there were Indonesians who knew exactly how to do that, but Freddi leapt back in. ‘And have a chopper waiting for the exfi l.’
‘Fuck’s sake,’ Mac muttered, getting out of the LandCruiser. He’d heard enough.
‘Don’t be a stranger, McQueen,’ said Freddi as the motor started.
‘I think there’s something there we can work on.’
The Cruiser squealed into the darkness.
Mac got out of the shower, dried off and changed into casual clothes and boat shoes. He combed his thin blond hair back from his face and stared back into his pale eyes in the mirror. Jenny said he didn’t look thirty-two, but sometimes he felt ten years older.
He wondered what he was going to do about Freddi Gardjito.
Freddi knew Mac had done the Akbar snatch and now Freddi was trying to lure him into a BAIS operation. His ears were still ringing from all the gunfi re and he’d stood far too long in the shower, trying to get the shakes out of his system. In the past two days there had been that kid he’d had to drop on Penang Princess, Ari shooting the Hassan soldier on the back of the patrol boat and Bronwyn in the hospital screaming to die. It was too much, one on top of the other, and he was jangled. It was weird how Jenny could be staunch about the very things that turned him to water. Maybe it was a character defect.
Chester wasn’t around, but his laptop was beside his bed, jammed into a briefcase. Mac thought about having a nosey-poke but fl agged it. Instead he sat on his bed, which had been made, and called Garvs. Mac had come into Kuta without his laptop and with no clean computer. He didn’t like jumping on hotel putes with public networks and dipping into the ASIS secure intranet.
‘Garvs, you old tart,’ started Mac as Garvs came on the line. ‘Mate, can I get something off the databases on Hassan Ali?’ Mac spelled the name. ‘I just need a pic and bio.’
‘What’s this for?’ asked Garvs, his gum-chewing clearly audible down the phone.
‘You know – usual shit.’
There was a pause, then Garvs said, ‘Thought you were running the media side of it?’
‘Just crossing something off the list. It’s nothing,’ said Mac, nonchalant.
‘Okay, I’ll send someone over, but just tell me you’re not being drawn into all that Indon conspiracy shit.’
‘Nah, mate. Nothing like that.’
‘Because Hassan is Dr Khan’s head-kicker,’ said Garvs, voice lowering. ‘That the Hassan Ali we’re talking about?’
‘Mate -‘
‘Just asking,’ said Garvs. ‘I mean, you’re not down here to give me grief, right Macca?’
‘I need his known associates too,’ said Mac, weary.
‘Jesus, mate!’ said Garvs, pissed off.
Mac rang off, grabbed a Tiger from the mini-bar and opened a white A4 envelope that had been slipped under the door. A post-it on the envelope from Julie asked Mac to okay the fi rst draft press releases.
He sat on the bed and fl ipped through them, impressed. She was smart and fast. The writing was tight and on-message, no cliches, no wanker jargon and very narrow in scope. One was about the historic MOU with Indonesia for a joint investigation, which was now called Operation Alliance. One concerned the forward command post, and there was a housekeeping release that covered the DVI program and details of how rellies could make inquiries and how the survivors could assist by disclosing their whereabouts on a central number. If the AFP’s database was to be comprehensive, it had to include the three hundred people unaccounted for, many of whom may have travelled back to Java, Malaysia or Australia itself.
She was good, this Julie, which made Mac’s next move all the easier.
Julie and Simon from the AFP were talking softly in the side garden when Mac came out with three cold Tigers. He also brought the one-pager he’d typed and printed in the business centre, which was a copy of the one he’d left on Chester’s bed. Mac joined them at one of the outdoor tables, th
e stench of old cigarette butts competing with the frangipani perfume of a balmy evening.
Mac got to the point. ‘Guys, I wasn’t entirely sure what the story was going to be down here when they asked me to come.’
Simon sat back in his chair, crossing his arms defensively. He was in his late twenties, a man whose looks suited his receding dark hair.
‘But now I realise that having some Foreign Affairs bloke trying to control the AFP’s public affairs program is not the best way to approach this. At the same time, there are wider Commonwealth concerns with government-to-government agreements, repatriation and fi nancial arrangements. And these are best handled by Foreign Affairs.’
Julie and Simon sipped their beers, watching Mac closely. They were both early career public servants on the verge of becoming mid-career public servants. They were looking for a break, a chance to break away from the pack.
‘A lot of the AFP stuff is highly technical,’ continued Mac, ‘and if I’m too hands-on with it the chance of error becomes high. I mean, I don’t even know what a DVI is, right? I mean, what is that – a fucking Drunken Vehicle Incident or something?’
Simon and Julie laughed, and the tension was defused, like someone had popped a cork.
‘Shit!’ said Simon, laughing at the night sky. ‘Drunken Vehicle Incident – I love it. Can I use that?’
‘Better than that, champ, I need you and Julie to run this show, okay?’
Julie did a small victory clench with her left fi st while Simon eyed Mac.
‘Julie has fi nal veto via me, but that’s not her fault – that’s my call.
But you are now running the media for the policing and investigation side, okay?’
Simon sat forward, a little stunned. ‘Sure, that’s great.’
‘And you,’ said Mac, looking at Julie, ‘the last thing you need is another luncher trying to put his oar in, right?’
‘Well,’ she said, embarrassed, ‘I wouldn’t put it exactly like that.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Mac. ‘I deal with that every day. It never goes away, believe me.’
‘What about Chester?’ asked Julie, looking at the table but addressing Mac.
It was a fair question. Julie had a career to think of, and Chester was still technically her boss.
‘Don’t worry about Chester. Chester is my headache,’ replied Mac, suddenly feeling very hungry. ‘For now, here’s the deal: the two of you are co-directing the public affairs side of Operation Alliance. Simon’s doing the police side, Julie’s doing the rest. My one stipulation is that there be no open-mic interviews with the cops. And I mean any cops.
A reporter or producer wants answers, they put the questions through you and you write the responses with attribution, okay? – If Mick Keelty turns up and wants to do a touchy-feely session with some journos, we say no. If he wants to walk amongst his people, do the loaves and fi shes, the answer is no.’
The two media operatives laughed at that.
‘I’m serious, guys – that staged media shit feels good for a few hours but it puts too much pressure on the cops who are here day-in, day-out. They need to be working on the op, not doing security detail for the commissioner.’
Julie and Simon looked at each other and nodded.
‘I want all the cops and forensics types in a bubble,’ said Mac.
‘I want these people totally able to get on with it. They’re already feeling the weight of expectation, they don’t need the media pouncing on the smallest mis-speak and holding them to it. You guys can create the space they need. Fair enough?’
Two women with clipboards came into the garden and did a sotto voce conference, obviously strategising how to get around a dickhead with power.
Mac turned back to his new crew, signed his printed page and handed it to Julie. As she read, Mac said, ‘Have a look at point number fi ve and memorise it. These people are going to bust a gut out there and they have every right to relax on their day off, and if they want to sit around the pool and drink, that’s their good luck. So let’s get it in our heads: No Media and No Cameras Inside the Pool Area. That’s a media-free zone – got it?’
They nodded again.
‘You’re a couple of young smarties – so get out there and prove it,’ said Mac, raising his bottle at them before heading off.
CHAPTER 11
An orange glow soaked through Mac’s eyelids, jerking him awake from deep REM sleep. He gasped a little at the pain in his sternum and, shaking his head, wondered where he was in the darkness. Chester must be a curtain-closer, thought Mac, looking over at his slumbering room-mate.
Mac’s Nokia glowed bright orange in the pitch black of the room.
Reaching over he looked at the screen. Scare Me.
‘Hey, champ,’ he croaked into the old Service Nokia.
‘Mac,’ came Joe Imbruglia’s voice. ‘Sorry about the time but something’s come up.’
‘Yep?’ said Mac, reaching for his G-Shock on the bedside table. It was 1.58 am.
‘The Indons want an extension on the Handmaiden project. Seems it’s not yet completed.’
‘ What?’ exclaimed Mac. ‘Fuck’s sakes, Joe!’
In the other bed, Chester mumbled to himself, out to it.
‘Not my fi rst choice either, mate,’ said Joe. ‘But there you have it.’
‘I thought Canberra wanted me in Kuta for the investigation?’ said Mac, trying for a whisper but too peeved to manage it.
Joe chuckled. ‘Well you did yourself out of that, didn’t you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Delegated it to those youngsters. Chester’s been hitting the bloody roof.’
Mac moved to the bathroom, shut the door quietly and sat on the closed toilet seat in the dark, his heart thumping in his temples. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘Chester called me, about eleven o’clock. Said you’d taken his best girl and then reassigned her to a joint public affairs effort with the AFP without consulting him. He’s ropeable.’
‘Mate, I just put the best team in there. They still answer to me, unless you want me riding a keyboard all day.’
‘I told him yours was always meant to be an oversight role, that you were never going to actually write the cops’ press releases for them.’
‘Am I in the shit?’
‘Nah,’ said Joe. ‘It’s just Chester going off. I mean, you ever heard him swear?’
‘No. Why?’
‘I asked him if he’d taken his complaints up with you yet, and he said, “No, Joe.” And when I asked him why not, he said, “Because he’s lying on his back snoring like a fucking bear!”’
Mac laughed weakly and rubbed his face, trying to wake up. His brain buzzed with fatigue. ‘Okay, mate, so Handmaiden, what’s the drum?’
‘Same secondment to the Indons, through BAIS. Same op.’
Mac felt the UN dream receding. ‘New York’s not going to happen, is it, Joe? I mean, Handmaiden is one of those things that could drag on for years.’
‘So get out there, mate, do your thing,’ said Joe, sounding genuinely conciliatory. ‘If anyone can bring in that little Akbar weasel, it’s you.’
Mac sulked in the back seat of the black LandCruiser, mulling over his career as they sped for the military air base behind Bali International.
Freddi and his driver, Purni, were silent in front and were probably knackered too.
Mac felt like writing a memo to someone saying it wasn’t fair, that he’d already planned Operation Handmaiden and successfully executed the fi rst and most diffi cult stage: acquiring Ahmed al Akbar without signs of a struggle and exfi ltrating him covertly. That was the Australian end, a daring and dangerous snatch that had been carried out almost perfectly by Team 4 and ASIS. It wasn’t right that the Indons had lost the bloke and were now calling him back to fi nd him again. Mac would love to see how Maddo and his boys at Team 4 would react if they were copied in on this latest development. Mac was also annoyed with himself
that he hadn’t followed up on the face he’d seen in the pantry when he was doing the snatch. It now looked as though the person had been Samir. And if Samir was working with Hassan, it would explain why Akbar had been sprung so fast.
Freddi turned in his seat. ‘Okay for food, McQueen? Water?’
Mac shrugged, petulant. Couldn’t help it.
‘If I was you, McQueen, I’d be annoyed too.’
‘Oh yeah?’ said Mac.
‘Yeah. I’d be thinking that I went out, caught that little bomber, now the army gone and lost him.’ Freddi shook his head, like it was the most serious thing in the world.
‘Freddi, I’m here so I’m already enlisted, okay?’ said Mac, annoyed.
‘You can stop with the charm offensive.’
Freddi turned back to the windscreen. ‘Breakfast at the base, then we’ll move. Gonna be a long day, okay?’
Mac rubbed his hands down the legs of his overalls, turning it into a stretch. ‘Sure, Freddi – let’s roll.’
They pulled in behind the commercial airport buildings six minutes later, drove down a cleared driveway lined with weeds, and slowed for the base police checkpoint. Purni snapped something at Freddi while looking in his side mirror and they stopped thirty metres short of the pillbox.
‘Your boyfriend’s here,’ said Freddi, leaning down to look at his own side mirror, his hand reaching for the black SIG Sauer on his right hip.
Ari walked along the passenger side of the LandCruiser, hands up, keeping a good distance from Freddi’s door. The Russian lifted his trop shirt to show a bare belly and no holster-bag. Smart guy, thought Mac. Been in South-East Asia long enough to learn some manners.
Freddi released his gun and smiled out of his open window. ‘Ari!
What can I do for you?’
‘I am needing to speak with McQueen, please,’ he said, pointing at Mac’s door.
Freddi turned to Mac. ‘Want to speak? Don’t have to.’
Mac lifted the door latch and joined Ari. They shook and the Russian moved further from the Cruiser.
‘You ever sleep, Ari?’ asked Mac.
‘Only when I am with woman,’ Ari chuckled. ‘Timing no good.’
Second Strike am-2 Page 8