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

by HN Wake

  Johnson’s mouth was full. “We’re totally screwed if this doesn’t work, right? I mean we don’t have a backup plan, and there isn’t any time to develop one before the deal goes through. Right?”

  She spooned up the soup, nodded, was too tired to work up a plausible plan B. They needed a back up, a fail-safe, but she couldn’t think of one.

  He read her mind. “What will you do if our guys in DC, New York, London can’t deliver?”

  She shrugged.

  He shook his head. “Screwed. We’re screwed if that happens. Totally screwed.”

  They ate in silence for a moment.

  He asked, “Are you going to stay with the bank?”

  “Yeah. I’m more effective inside, than outside.”

  “And whoever your real bosses are, they are gonna keep you there, right?”

  She eyed him, said nothing.

  “Anyway. It’s good for me, for the activists, to have you there. I’m good with it. Whatever you are.”

  On the TV, they watched images of Hong Kong being battered by the typhoon: tankers rocked in the harbor, rain pelted skyscrapers, neon signs trembled in the wind. Johnson sucked loudly on his soup.

  Her irritation got the better of her. “Do you have to slurp?”

  He looked at her quizzically.

  “I mean, you are kinda loud,” she said.

  “I’m Chinese.”

  “Yeah, but are you that Chinese?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, seriously,” she said. “Do you have to slurp so loudly?”

  “I’m tired. It’s hard to have good table manners when I’m tired.”

  “You don’t see me having a hard time remembering my mother’s training.”

  He slurped loudly from his spoon, staring at her, daring her to comment.

  She glared at him.

  His eyes were bleary and his hair was a wreck. His expression turned thoughtful. “Do you have trouble sleeping?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Never?”

  “Sometimes,” she said. “But sleep is not my issue.”

  “What’s your issue?” he asked.

  She decided to give him some honesty, but kept it vague. “I don’t like authority. It’s a problem in my line of work.”

  “Because you have to follow the rules?”

  “All the time. I don’t get to make the decisions.”

  “Who makes the decisions?”

  “The bureaucracy is exactly what you would imagine it to be. For every decision, there is a weight—important, not important, minor, heavy. Each decision might have ramifications regionally, globally. The weight of the decision determines who gets to make it. So on the small shit, the small guys make the call. The bigger stuff gets approved higher up. And the big shit often doesn’t have fingerprints.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “If something is big—“

  “Like what?”

  She glanced around the apartment searching for an example. “So many examples. There are so many instances when we should have done something but we,” she finger quoted, “looked the other way.’ The person that makes those decisions is all the way up there. But their signature is never on any of the approvals.”

  He knew better than to ask if she was referring to the President of the United States. He decided he didn’t want to know. “So the bureaucracy bothers you?”

  “I’ve seen small men make bad decisions that had significant ramifications.”

  “So why are you still in?”

  She took a long time forming an answer. “I’m finding my way. But for now, I believe the good outweighs the bad more often than not.”

  “So you’re going to stay in for now—no matter what?”

  “Yes, for now.”

  “Even if it turns out they are totally not what you want them to be?”

  “Yes, even then. Better to be in and make a difference.” She cocked her head at him. “Do you sleep well?”

  “As a matter of fact, no. I worry about the future we’re handing our kids. I worry no matter how hard I try—that nothing is going to stop this collision course to an extinction event. We’re burning up the only planet we have. Fact. It’s getting hotter every day. Fact.”

  “I’m pretty sure we can come up with some solutions that are less dramatic than world apocalypse.”

  “I’ve tried.”

  “Oh my God.” To lighten the mood, she leaned back hard against the back of the armchair and shook out her whole body. “Lets focus on the here and now, why don’t we?”

  “You want me to go back to slurping?”

  “Yeah, that would be infinitely better.”

  Johnson turned silent, looked down at the scattered documents strewn across the coffee table. “What if this doesn’t work?”

  “It will work.”

  “What if it doesn’t?”

  Johnson’s laptop pinged with the arrival of a new email. She jumped up and sat down next to him on the couch. They both read the email together. Smiles spread across their tired faces.

  Johnson whispered, “That’s the first one.”

  His inbox began pinging with arrival of new emails. He clicked them open hurriedly.

  Mac leaned all the way back against the sofa, pulled her hands down her face. “They did it.”

  A huge grin grew on Johnson’s face. “They did it!”

  45

  Hong Kong

  She let herself into her silent apartment. Rain water dripped onto the wood floor. Standing in front of the door, she dropped her courier bag and stripped off her soaking clothes, then padded into her room and dressed in sweats.

  Back in the living room, she pulled up her laptop and checked the chat room.

  89 had left a message. “I’ve come across some intel. Josh Halloway is the sole owner of a shell company registered in Indonesia. The company is called Maluk Holdings. Last year, Maluk Holding purchased a shell company - Malay Petro Reliance - out of KL. Malay Petro Reliance received a wire transfer of USD 2 million from Legion Bank Hong Kong three weeks ago. The analyst here in HQ who uncovered this intel was fired yesterday. You are the only one with this info now. All traces of this intel are being deleted.”

  Her suspicions were confirmed. Stuart Fairbanks had paid off Josh Halloway to clean up after Alghaba. $2 million in fact.

  Both men were corrupted, but Stuart wasn’t her problem. She had no loyalty to Legion Bank. And as far as she could tell, there were no rules in banking.

  However, she felt conflicted about Josh. On the one hand, it was her duty to report her findings to Langley. On the other, despite his deceptions, in the end Josh had been honest with her and had tried to warn her. She felt an unusual sense of loyalty.

  She stood and walked to the window. Outside in the morning’s rain soaked gloom, tree limbs were leaning horizontal in the howling wind. Cracking open a window, she let gusts fill the room and droplets tickle her face. She lit a cigarette and concentrated on the act of smoking in the strong breezes.

  The Agency was all she had. She had sacrificed so much to be a NOC and it had isolated her almost completely. Her friends didn’t even know the truth about what she did. The only people who shared her secrets were sitting in offices in Langley or a few souls scattered across the globe. Without the Agency, she had nothing. That caused her fear.

  She crushed out the cigarette and closed the window.

  Her call got patched through to Odom. “Christ, Mac! Where have you been?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “We need to talk about Josh Halloway. He’s bent.”

  There was a long pause from the US.

  She continued, “He was bribed by Legion Bank to clean up after the murder of a student activist in Miri.”

  The pause lengthened. Odom finally spoke, “Mac, what are you talking about?”

  “I’m pretty sure Josh Halloway was paid off by Stuart Fairbanks to clean up
a pretty horrible situation out in Miri, Malaysia.”

  Odom’s breathing turned heavy. “What?”

  His response sounded feigned. She glanced out the window. Was that a contrived delay? The hair on her neck stood on end.

  She spoke slowly. “Josh Halloway was paid off. He did some wet work for Legion Bank out in Malaysia. That’s what is behind his disappearance.”

  Another long pause. What was going on with Odom?

  When he finally spoke, he rushed to get the words out. “No, no, that’s what I’ve been trying to get to you to tell you—Josh Halloway called in. He’s fine. He just called in.”

  His statement startled her. “What?”

  “He’s been on a vacation. Halloway just checked in.”

  “When? When did he call in?”

  Odom faltered again--the pause was too long. “Yesterday.”

  He was lying. That fact knocked the air out of her. “He called in yesterday? From where?”

  “Look, Mac. I have no idea what you’re talking about that Josh is bent, but regardless, this op is over. I’m closing the file. He’s fine. He just called in yesterday. You’re back to playing civilian. Listen, Mac, I’ve gotta go. But you’re officially off this. Thanks for your help and all that. Go get some rest.” He hung up.

  Odom had lied. Josh hadn’t checked in. She felt it. She knew it.

  The Agency didn’t want her chasing Josh Halloway anymore.

  The gears in her brain clicked back into rotation, meshing together the new disclosure from Odom and all that she had learned in the past few days.

  What did they not want her to find? What were they hiding from her? Was Odom involved?

  She sat down, lifted up her laptop, and quickly typed back a message to 89 in the chat room. “Who fired the analyst?”

  46

  Hong Kong

  Ten hours later, Mac arrived early to the Four Seasons. Outside the typhoon had weakened. The news was reporting that Hong Kong was in the eye of the storm. Inside the ballroom’s anteroom, preparations were underway for the gala. A smattering of high-top tables held flickering candles under an enormous, glowing chandelier. Bartenders chatted as they set out napkins and glasses on the large bar. The sweet scent of lilies hung in the warm air.

  She smoothed the dusty black evening gown around her hips. Earlier in the day she had visited Lane Crawford’s women’s evening department. In the large dressing room, she had tried on three gowns. The first had been a sleek, slinky Calvin Klein number in deep red, but it screamed of sexuality. The second had been a white Armani in flowing silk that looked far too innocent. The third had been this Zac Posen. Elegant and understated, it was perfect. She had put the $1,500 charge on her Black American Express so that Frank Odom would have to sign off.

  She passed through the anteroom and slipped into the main ballroom. In a far corner the door to the kitchen—swinging open and shut as staff hurriedly raced through—discharged a bleat from a chef. On stage, the sound man was conducting a last minute check.

  Waiters began lighting the table candles and the smell of sulfur mingled with the green grass of the centerpieces. The lights dimmed and a soft Chopin floated across the audio system. A hush took over the room. Rarefied, still air descended.

  She confirmed Stuart Fairbank’s seat at the center table.

  Everything was in order.

  Mac was in position by the window near the bar as the guests began to arrive. Laughter and muted conversations swirled as the crowd, bathed in expensive gowns and tuxedos, grew. A delicious mingling of perfumes redolently filled the air. Jewelry glittered in the light of the candles.

  She sipped on a champagne flute. Her senses were on high alert. The room was awash in gem like colors—emerald, ruby, aquamarine. A light smattering of rain on the window played as background percussion against snippets of conversations and random bursts of laughter.

  Cold air tickled her back and she squeezed her shoulder blades together, stiffened her spine. She felt apart and distant. This was not her crowd. These were not her people. She was here only because she was on the job. I am simply a tourist in their world, an observer of the pleasure seekers.

  There was movement at the main entrance as a new crowd swelled in. Through the rush of shoulders, she caught the glimpse of the US Consulate General, Heath Busby. He looked debonair in his black tuxedo and bow tie as he laughed with a banker and introduced his wife. His wife wore a stunning scarlet gown.

  His presence seemed inappropriate, disjointed. It was as if her Agency life was intruding on her Legion Bank cover. She shook off the thought. Surely Heath Busby traveled in this crowd on a regular basis. She chided herself, she was the peculiarity tonight.

  Someone jostled by the bar. Glasses wobbled. One fell over and struck another sending a clang over the din of party goers. The bartenders righted them and got back to pouring drinks for the throng.

  The crowd by the door buzzed again with the arrival of Stuart Fairbanks. She craned her neck to watch. His smile was enormous and his demeanor was victorious. He shook hands and waved to smiling admirers across the room. Someone handed him a whisky and he laughed loudly. The crowd subtly, subconsciously, swelled toward him.

  The master of the masters of the universe, she thought.

  The temperature in the room was rising as the excited crowd expanded. Waiters worked their way through the crush, pouring wine and holding out bite-sized hors d'oeuvres. Someone had turned up the music.

  Out of the corner of her eye she caught a scarlet glow. Then someone was in front of her, someone tall in a black tuxedo. The Consulate General, Heath Busby, glanced down at her. He held on to his wife as he brushed past. “Excuse me,” he said as if he didn’t know her.

  “Absolutely,” she replied.

  Her phone vibrated in her clutch. She quickly pulled it out and held it to her ear, turning into the window. Johnson said, “Mac, it’s Johnson.”

  She kept her voice light, unremarkable. “Hi, how are you?”

  “How’s it going?”

  “I’m in the middle of something so I can’t really talk,” she said easily in a subdued voice.

  “I just wanted to know how it’s going.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you a ring later.”

  He rushed on, ignoring her pretense. “I spoke with Azly. They have done the new estimates. Alghaba’s workers will reach the Penan village in three days. Three. Days.”

  Outside, the moon shone through the raindrops and across the harbor. The reality of the rainforest destruction seemed a world away. She wondered if anyone in this pulsing crowd even considered their host could be the source of such an atrocity.

  Johnson’s voice was anxious, emotional. “We’re counting on you. Borneo’s rainforest is counting on you”

  “Thanks for the call. Chat soon.” She hung up. In the rain streaked window, her reflection was in shadow from the glow of the room behind her.

  What if the plan fails? Christ, we don’t have a fail-safe. If she were found out, she would be fired from the bank. If she lost her cover at the bank, how long before Langley recalled her home? How long before they put her to work at some desk job?

  The window felt as if it were closing in on her.

  There was new movement at the door. Straggling latecomers had arrived. She turned in time to see Nazir Ramli—his hairline cut a sharp widow’s peak above a prominent nose—reach behind and escort in an older gentleman with black hair and a round face. It was Alghaba’s CEO Robert Kok Hiew. He wore a slight smile as if he was barely tolerating Nazir’s raucous chatter in his ear.

  Behind them, a large shadow appeared.

  The crowd by the bar surged and she was forced to take a step backwards. Pushed up against the cold window, a shiver traveled down her spine.

  The shadow stepped into the light of the anteroom. It was Eddy Mudzaffar.

  She froze. This was unexpected.

  He moved slowly, languidly like a shark in a school of fish. His dead eyes were taking
in the room, from left to right over the bar, toward the windows.

  She held her breath, assessing the new danger. Would her recognize her? Had he seen her face through the visor and the motorcycle helmet? If so, was he clever enough to put two and two together? Yes, she thought. He was. The gala had just taken a perilous turn.

  As Mudzaffar scanned the room, she turned back toward the window, raised her glass, and let her hair fall against her cheek like a curtain.

  The doors to the ballroom opened and the crowd turned. The smell of steak and garlic wafted over them. Through the doors, the stage lit up and a blues band kicked in. The music roared out into the anteroom, stifling conversation.

  The crowd swelled toward the open doors.

  47

  Hong Kong

  The ballroom was awash in colorful movement as gowns swished past on their way toward tables. Blues played lightly below the din of laughter and small talk. Candles flickered, casting warm halos on white linen.

  Mac chose a vantage point just beside the stage in the shadow of a speaker. The vibrations from the music matched the rush of adrenaline in her veins.

  She had correctly guessed that Stuart would start at the back of the room, stopping at various tables to welcome guests. The plan required that she get him alone, once everyone was seated, to borrow him from the adoring crowd for a few moments alone out in the anteroom. There could be no interruptions.

  At the first table, Stuart placed a hand on the shoulders of two gentlemen, leaned in, and said something. The table erupted in laughter at what must have been a dirty joke. The men shook their heads in whole-hearted appreciation. Stuart gave them a wave and a broad smile and moved to the next table.

  Around the room, guests were taking their seats. The anteroom was emptying.

  Nazir and Hiew passed through the doors. Trailing them, Mudzaffar stepped through.

  A chill went up her spine. The music blared from the speaker. Mac stepped further back into speaker’s shadow.

  Nazir introduced Hiew—the VIP—to their tablemates with a dramatic sweep of his arm. Hiew nodded, greeting the other guests as Nazir held out his chair. Mudzaffar waited for Hiew to sit, his blank eyes scanning the room. Then he sat next to Hiew, his back to Mac.