The Mac Ambrose Series: 1-3 (Boxed Set)

by HN Wake

She redirected him. “Where in China is your family from?”

  “Cheung Chua. They were pretty well off. My great grandpa owned an old theater and a soya sauce factory. My grandpa was the second son of the first wife, but for some reason, he supported the family. He couldn’t go to university and ended up being the chief of the Cheung Chau Post Office. My grandpa loved Chinese history.” He looked out the window at the marshmallow clouds. “He also loved alcohol. He had at least a glass of Chinese rice wine every night with dinner. He gave me my first sip of Baileys when I was six.”

  “Sounds like a traditional family.”

  He looked back at her. “I’ve known since I was a kid that as the only son from the eldest son of that side of the family there were a lot of expectations. I’ve always been the black sheep. I’m proud of it. After Uni, I travelled for a year. I spent a lot of time in Tibet. It’s an amazing place, amazing people. An ancient culture that is still relevant today. During that year of travel, I met some people working for Worldwide Green. When I got back to Hong Kong, I joined up as a researcher. Been there ever since.”

  “That’s quite a rise to Hong Kong Director.”

  “Yup.” His gaze was unflinching as if to say, Yes, I’m that smart and that good.

  She sensed Azly had been listening from behind, although he continued to gaze out the window. She picked up the glossy report, flipped through it again.

  “How about you?” he asked.

  She glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Where are you from?”

  She shrugged as if it were unimportant. “East Coast. Philadelphia.”

  “And?”

  “Huh?”

  He eyed her. “So now you know all about me. What about you?”

  She shrugged indifferently. “Not much to say. I went to University of Michigan. Did some time overseas after college.”

  “Indonesia, right?”

  He remembered. It unnerved her. Badly. Shadow memories flittered across her mind: the white tiles, the stifling heat of her dead asset’s apartment. She simply nodded.

  He asked, “What did you do there in the beginning?”

  Here came the twenty questions. She would have to deflect him as much as she could, reveal as little as possible. “I was a volunteer. I worked in a rural school.”

  “Huh. I didn’t expect that. Did you like it?”

  “I saw a lot of stuff. Some good. Some bad.”

  “Like what?”

  She glanced out the window, spoke to the glass, avoiding the question. “When my two years were up, I went home.”

  “And?”

  Now she was treading into the deceptions of her civilian cover. “I took the Foreign Service exam. I failed. I applied for a job with the Chamber of Commerce in Jakarta.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to get back to Indonesia.”

  “Got its hooks in you, huh?”

  Seriously? This guy never stopped. “Something like that.”

  “You have other reasons to get back?”

  She gave him another indifferent shrug but her annoyance was growing. “I liked it, I guess.” It came off sounding petty.

  “You have friends there?”

  “Of course,” she said tersely.

  “What do they do?”

  She twisted in her seat toward him and jutted out her chin. “Johnson, have you ever heard the phrase ‘curiosity killed the cat?’”

  Azly shifted behind her.

  Johnson raised an eyebrow. “A few times, actually.”

  Was that a smirk? “I bet.”

  “Never really works,” he said.

  “The phrase?”

  “Yeah. It never really works on me,” he said, his expression sincere. “I get my answers. Eventually.” He nodded to the brochure. “You’ll want to read that.”

  “I will.”

  “It’s all public knowledge,” he said. “What they’re doing out here to the rainforests. Just nobody reads it. It’s shocking how little people care about what is a huge, global calamity.”

  She sighed dramatically as she flipped the pages and questioned her decision to bring him. Maybe she should have insisted on Azly only.

  “That’s not hyperbole—Vivian. That’s a fact. It’s a calamity. We’re losing the lungs of the earth.”

  Her voice was tense. “Okay. Okay, already, Johnson. I got it.”

  “You’ll want to read that, you know, just in case you wanted to do your homework properly, not just sightseeing the rainforest.”

  His condescension struck her as harsh. Her voice pitched an octave higher. “I said I would read it.”

  “It would be a shame if you were fully briefed on what’s going on out here. The damage that is being wreaked.”

  “I said I would read it,” she balked louder. “Give it a rest.”

  He leaned back against his seat and stared out the window. “If the lake quivers, the fish too will invariably quiver. If the country is impoverished, the king will also be.”

  She gaped at him. “What? What is that?”

  Beyond him the sky was blue. He said softly, “A Tibetan proverb.”

  “Seriously?”

  “It means we all go down if the Earth burns up.”

  “Jesus, Johnson, a little less melodrama would be nice.”

  “A little seriousness would be appreciated.”

  She wanted to strangle him. “Are you actually telling me that I’m not taking this trip seriously?”

  “Yes, that’s my sense.”

  “Based on what?”

  He glanced around the plane’s interior. “I dunno, Vivian. It’s seems a lot like you’re just out here to check off some boxes for your bosses back in Hong Kong.”

  Azly shifted in his seat again. As far as he knew, Mac was a journalist from Hong Kong. Both Mac and Johnson settled down.

  Johnson wanted the last word. “I’m just saying, it would be nice if you took this seriously.”

  She wouldn’t let him get the upper hand. “Seriously? That skepticism is incredibly annoying and down right rude.” She turned her head toward the window, spoke under her breath, “And that fucking accent is killing me.”

  Behind her, Azly shifted again and coughed. She didn’t care if Azly had heard her. Johnson was annoying. She stood by that assessment.

  Thirty minutes later, Johnson spoke to his window. “We’re heading into the interior, up along the Baram River. Our local driver and car will be waiting.” He turned in his seat. “Azly, you doing alright?”

  Azly grinned. “What’s not to be alright about, Boss?”

  She liked Azly. Here was a guy who fought the good fight but didn’t proselytize, who didn’t push too much.

  The small propeller plane hit an updraft and wobbled, dipping the left wing downwards, leaning them over in their chairs, seat belts straining.

  As the plane descended, the airstrip came into view alongside the muddy curves of the Baram River. The river wound through a lush, green jungle. A single road lead from the airstrip into a small village and then out the other side. It was a small incision in the immense stretch of forest.

  They were thrown forward against their seat belts as the plane touched down. It circled at the end of the tiny runway and taxied back to a small building. The whirling propeller blades slowed then stopped. The pilot unhooked himself, stood, walked down the small aisle to the rear door, and slammed it open. The cool interior of the plane mixed with the humid, sticky, outside air. They heard the pilot talking to someone on the tarmac as a staircase banged into place.

  She followed Azly and Johnson to the rear and stepped onto the top of the metal stairs.

  The heat hit her first. Then the thick perfume of tropical plants. Fields of high weeds met the edge of the broken concrete runway and fended off encroaching vegetation. A dilapidated, yellow airport building basked in the bright sun cheerily welcoming the few arrivals to this forgotten back water.

  As she stepped down the metal stairs,
she had a brief sense of escape, of freedom. She wondered what it would be like to never make the flight back home.

  17

  Long Akah, Sarawak Province, Malaysia

  Beyond the airport building, a driver stood next to a white, four-wheel drive Land Rover. The three climbed into the truck—Azly sat up front with the driver—and settled into cool seats. The air conditioner was on full blast.

  The small outpost of Long Akah was a one-road frontier town. The western outskirts were dominated by a concrete, government hospital and a silent, ramshackle school. Battered wooden shacks sat along well-worn paths. Children watched the car speed past with cautious eyes. Everywhere the jungle crept closer.

  The Land Rover exited to the east, rumbled over a log bridge spanning the brown Baram River, and onto a recently paved, two-lane road. Rugged palm trees rose thirty feet high, forming a tunnel of impenetrable walls—thick with spiky fronds and deep shadows. Ahead of them, the road rose toward a mountain in the distance.

  Mac tapped Azly’s shoulder. “Do you mind if we turn off the AC and open the windows?”

  Azly rolled down the windows. As if opening the door to an oven, sweltering air billowed through the Land Rover.

  Twenty miles outside the village, the walls of palm gave way to fields of saplings marooned in neat, parallel rows of black plastic pots. On the road’s shoulder, a decrepit panel truck imprisoned a ten-foot high pile of red fruit— spiky porcupines in a massive heap. Two workers in ripped shirts, threadbare pants, and tattered sun hats hefted the fruit into the open truck.

  Johnson’s voice was sad. “Palm plantations.”

  The rows of squat saplings raced past.

  “The palm fruit bunch produces two types of oil,” he said. “Combined, these are the most used vegetable oil in the world. Fifty percent of all packaged foods—margarine, ice cream—use it. It’s pervasive in products like soap, lipstick. Ninety percent of the world’s supply comes from here or neighboring Indonesia. Those trees produce more oil per hectare than any other crop.”

  “Surely there’s a sustainable way to farm it?” Mac asked.

  “Yeah, of course. But not when the rules and enforcement are lax.”

  “Explain that to me.”

  He raised his voice over the rushing wind. “The chief executive of the province has been in power for forty years. He approves all concessions to the forest companies. The companies rip down the primary rainforest and sell the timber mostly overseas for wood products like flooring. Then they plant these palm fields.

  “The bureaucracy is completely in his control. He determines what is protected—High Conservation Rain Forest—and what isn’t. I don’t need to tell you much about him other than as a government-appointed employee he has become one of the richest men. In the world.” He glanced at her seriously, “But surely you know about him?”

  She lied. “Of course. So why doesn’t KL interfere?”

  “Every election the chief executive delivers Sarawak to the ruling party.”

  “How many forestry companies are out here?”

  “Five big ones. Alghaba is the biggest. They are close to the government. They couldn’t operate out here if they weren’t.

  “So the chief executive draws the concession boundaries on maps and away they go. Cutting, ripping down, planting. Technically, it’s legal. So you could say much of the raping of Borneo’s rainforest has been legal. ” He nodded toward the asphalt. “The timber company builds the roads like this one so they can access deeper into pristine forest. There is no stopping them once they are up here.”

  Azly’s face was turned out the window; soft, lush wind rustled his dark hair. The smile was gone, replaced by a thoughtful stare. She recognized a kindred spirit in his observant, non-confrontational poise. You have learned this silence, my friend. You will bend before you break.

  Johnson interrupted her thoughts. “But as we know, newspapers care about environmental impact, right? I mean, newspapers care about the protection of the Earth, right?”

  She said nothing.

  He pushed, “Right?”

  “Can you give it a rest, Johnson?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “And my job is to observe. To report. I’m not sure your constant editorial is necessary.”

  He shrugged, unfazed. “It may help you change your mind.”

  “Christ.”

  “It’s worth you being annoyed.”

  She stared out the window.

  An hour later, the Land Rover veered off the asphalt road, headed up a dirt lane that gradually narrowed. Just as it looked like the jungle would squeeze in on the car, they reached a wooden sign—Protected Area—and three 450cc Yamaha off road motorcycles, each with a young driver. Beyond, the jungle loomed lush and green. A small tire-track road cut into the darkness.

  As they climbed out of the Land Rover, Johnson said, “We are going to get closer to our destination on these bikes. We’ll have to hike the last bit.”

  Azly spoke to one of the young men who nodded, slipped off the bike, and settled in behind another driver. Azly turned to her. “I will drive you, Vivian.”

  Johnson cracked a grin. “Our VIP!”

  Laughing, she donned a helmet, threw her leg over the back of the motorcycle, and reached around Azly’s tiny, solid waist. He throttled the right handlebar once and the engine revved loudly. He twisted a second time and the squeal hit a higher pitch before settling into a low purr.

  It felt odd to be this close to him and she wondered if Islam had a special dispensation for motorcycle passengers.

  Then they were roaring up the narrow tracks into the rain forest and exhilaration pumped through her veins.

  In the rush of hot, damp air, the collar of her T-shirt slapped against her neck like a new heartbeat. Low ferns slapped her shins and branches whacked her shoulders. An outstretched hand was buffeted by a sticky leaf; she rubbed the syrup between her fingertips. A bug imploded against the helmet’s visor, blurring her vision.

  She lolled her head back, stared up into the twisted canopy drifting above, a sliver of blue sky appearing and disappearing. The tires skipped then caught again, spraying a plume of dirt behind her shoulder.

  Leaving civilization in the dust, she thought with a thrill. She felt weightless. For the first time in months she didn’t have to worry about lying or about her cover. She didn’t have to read the emails from Odom or follow the instructions from Langley. She could think for herself, experience this rush of nature without filtering it through the lens of a NOC or the CIA. She let the wind take over, pushing out—if only momentarily—the shadows of Jakarta.

  Her skin tingled. The vibration of the motorcycle reverberated through her body. She was completely in the moment.

  Azly was an accomplished driver. She shifted her weight left and right as he maneuvered fallen limbs, rocks, and holes: synchronized like an old, native couple that had ridden through the jungle for a lifetime.

  Five miles in, the road narrowed and they were forced to slow. Ten miles later, the bikes were stopped by a fallen tree and they killed their engines.

  They had reached the jungle.

  18

  Hong Kong

  The retro-chic, Shanghai teahouse-styled private dining room of the Mandarin Club on the sixteenth floor of the Old Bank of China Building smelled of money, privilege, and a stunning mix of Chinese delicacies. By the window, Meredith Coldwell sat on a bright pink chair across the darkly varnished table from her gangly teen niece, Alexandra Plimpton. Alexandra—an enthusiastic, ethical and optimistic personality—had been allowed to visit Hong Kong for a summer internship and was staying with Meredith. Her upbeat nature was infectious.

  Meredith was a handsome woman with a sharp chin and grey, short hair. She wore St. John suits that never wrinkled, no nonsense two-inch heels, and perfectly subdued make-up. Her lipstick was always the perfect shade. If she made any kind of style statement, it was, ‘I’m not making a style statement.”

&nbs
p; She pinched a Shanghai dumpling with her chopsticks. “What do you think of environmental conservation?”

  Alexandra gave her a quizzical look. “It’s good?”

  “Do you and your friends talk about it in school?”

  “Sure. I have a semester on the environment in my civics class next term.”

  “Would you change your shopping behavior to protect the environment?”

  “Consumer activism is a huge subject, Aunt Meredith. Why do you ask?”

  Meredith looked at her dumpling. “Would you not eat this dumpling, for example, to reduce your consumption of palm oil? If you knew it was made with palm oil?”

  “I do whatever I can,” Alexandra said. “I don’t have a lot of power.” She gave her another quizzical look. “Aunt Meredith, palm oil is terrible. Do you know what they do to their workers? The plantations in Indonesia and Malaysia are shocking. I just watched a documentary on BBC about it this week. I mean the orangutans and the Sumatran tiger are well on their way to being extinct because it’s so rampantly overused. There are almost no controls on the big companies. I think it’s 300 football fields of forest are cleared every hour—every hour!—for palm plantations. It’s a total shocker. Those companies are the devil, if you ask me. Wait. Why are you asking me?”

  “No reason.” Meredith swallowed the dumpling. Not for the first time, she wondered why the bank wasn’t taking these issues more seriously. Was it that easy to let money blind them? Knowing her banking colleagues as she did, she knew the answer to that question. Yes, indeed. Making the buck was the only real measure of success.

  “I mean,” Alexandra sighed, “thank God banks aren’t ripping down the rainforests, right?”

  “Right.” Meredith changed the subject. “Now tell me about your internship.”

  Back at her desk an hour later, Meredith pulled up the client documents from Nazir Ramli’s team on Alghaba. The company was privately held, with the majority of shares owned by the Hiew family. The founder was the elder Charles Kok Hiew who passed away in 1995. His son, Robert Kok Hiew, fifty-five years old, had run the company since. Two of the grandsons owned property across New York and California. They had significant holdings. One document reported the younger son had stake worth a billion dollars in Southern California.