Mark Abernethy - Double back

‘No,’ said Mac, ‘but the generals releasing their documents in English is a nice touch, Ali. On a silver platter for the Australians to go running off on a wild-goose chase.’

‘We translate them,’ said Ali. ‘And get them to your guys at the section in Jakarta.’

‘Really?’ said Mac, surprised.

‘Really.’

‘This one?’ asked Mac.

Ali paused, exhaled his smoke and finally broke his stare with Mac. ‘No, McQueen – not this one.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because your people aren’t interested,’ said Ali.

Mac blinked hard to maintain concentration. ‘You said we – who are you, Ali?’

‘I’m working for the President.’

‘Oh really?’ scoffed Mac. ‘Don’t tell me, personally working for Habibie, that it?’

Ali stared back, no comment.

‘Okay,’ said Mac, slightly intimidated by a direct approach from the President’s office. ‘What do you want?’

‘We need enough people in your DFAT and ASIS, and your armed forces, to see this. It’s genuine.’

‘Why not go direct to the Prime Minister’s office?’ asked Mac, confused now. Presidents dealt with prime ministers, not with spies crawling around in cemeteries, pretending to be sandalwood merchants.

‘No use,’ said Ali and shook his head. ‘The Australian government has been swayed by the generals’ propaganda, and the President is in no situation to stop this Operation Extermination. He wants a genuine ballot and a peaceful transition to independence if that’s what East Timor wants.’

‘He told our Prime Minister that?’

‘Sure,’ smiled Ali. ‘The ballot is being held at your government’s urging, remember?’

Mac nodded. ‘So the generals undermine the President, and -’

‘And your government sides with the generals, tells the world that the militias are not connected to the military, that it must be rogue elements, right?’ Ali said. ‘The President can’t do this alone from Jakarta – he needs Australian government help. If the Aussies will change, the Americans will also change their East Timor posture.’

‘Shit,’ said Mac, sensing a trick. ‘You’re good, mate. You’re very good.’

‘I can’t do anything more, except ask you to get this to the right people – people with open minds, if they still exist.’

‘So, you BAKIN?’ asked Mac, meaning Indonesia’s version of the CIA.

‘No,’ said Ali, lighting a new cigarette. ‘I was Kopassus intel -’

‘Oh, great,’ said Mac. ‘Now I’m feeling comfortable.’

‘But I became a military attache and then diplomat under Soeharto, and I spent a decade in France in private business.’

‘So?’

‘So, I was asked to come back by my president – he needed an untainted intelligence operation that answered only to him. An inner circle.’

‘Secret too, right?’ smiled Mac.

‘I’m still alive aren’t I?’

Mac mulled on how quickly Ali would be assassinated if the generals knew he was doing secret intel work for Habibie.

‘So why me?’

Ali laughed, and looked down at the handgun that was still steady at Mac’s heart. ‘There is a Javanese saying that you need a pure heart to be a pure warrior.’

Now Mac laughed. ‘Mate, I’m no warrior – you know exactly what I am, so spare me the Asian proverbs.’ His head swam with the possibilities: did Indonesia have a person in Canberra or at the Aussie Embassy in Jakarta? Who had fingered Mac as a man not with the pro-Jakarta program?

‘You have the papers, they are genuine,’ said Ali, looking around for an exit. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you this, but you may as well hear it. I believe, from sources on the general staff, that the document I gave you is a false flag for another campaign.’

‘False flag? Inside the general staff?’ said Mac.

‘Maybe. They get the order signed off, so they’re legal and they cover themselves,’ said Ali. ‘But there’s either sections of the orders that most of the general staff haven’t seen, or there’s ambiguous clauses that let the rogues do what they want – you know how it works, McQueen.’

‘Sure, so what operation is being hidden by this false flag?’ he said, nodding at the document.

‘Have you heard of Operasi Boa?’

Mac’s head snapped up at that. ‘Well, ah, maybe. What is that?’

Ali looked around, distracted for a split second. ‘Something happening in the Bobonaro region. From what we can gather, it’s -’

Ali’s focus changed, his gun aimed upwards and a crack sounded half a second before a piece of Rahmid Ali’s head disappeared, his immaculate linen chinos folding at the knees as he collapsed in the bushes. Trying to get to his feet, Mac was almost collected by Bongo as he landed in the leaves.

‘I was going to jump him,’ said Bongo, breathing heavily as he holstered his Desert Eagle, ‘but then he was aiming at me. You okay?’

Mac was going to say something like no worries, but his head swam, his balance deserted him and as he reached out to Bongo he swooned like he had a really bad case of jetlag.

And then he was falling into darkness.

The cacophony of bird and monkey cries roared into the room as Dili’s late afternoon turned into evening. The fragrance of blossoms mixed with the smells of the Turismo’s kitchen in the warm breeze. Slowly opening his eyes, Mac winced at the pain in his head then took in his surroundings. He was back in room 10 at the Turismo, tubes in his forearm, a dark-skinned man craning over his bed, and blond-haired Bongo leaning on the doorjamb.

‘Mr Davis,’ said the Tamil man, leaning down into Mac’s face.

‘Yeah,’ said Mac, realising the Tamil was a doctor.

The doctor shone a pen-light into each of Mac’s eyes, holding up his eyelids. A stainless-steel stand stood nearby, with two clear water bags hanging from it.

‘My name is Dr Puri,’ the man said, forcing Mac’s mouth open and poking around on the back of his tongue. ‘You fainted.’

‘I did not!’ snapped Mac, trying to sit up.

‘Aah, doc, it was more like he collapsed, okay?’ said Bongo, smothering a chuckle.

‘Okay, so you collapse,’ smiled Puri. ‘But it same anyhow – you have a bad heat exhaustion, and you must rest.’

‘I’m fine, doc,’ said Mac, dizziness swirling in his brain as he eased himself upright. ‘Just need some water and she’ll be right.’

The headache intensified, causing Mac to sag back into a lying position, gasping from the pain.

Turning away from the bed, Dr Puri addressed Bongo. ‘The drips must stay in until they’re finished – should be about four hours. I’ll come by, see how we doing tomorrow morning. Okay?’

‘Okay, boss,’ said Bongo.

‘And, Mr Alvarez, don’t let him walk around – he’ll stagger like he drunk.’

‘Situation normal, doc,’ said Bongo as Dr Puri turned and left with his medical bag.

After making sure the door was locked, Bongo came back into the room and pulled a chair to the bedside.

‘Thanks back there,’ said Mac, pissed off that Ali was dead but thankful that Bongo had his Six. ‘Ali wasn’t going to shoot, but thanks.’

‘I remembered him – no good,’ said Bongo, shaking his head, lighting a Marlboro.

‘Ali?’

‘Yeah. Kopassus – remember him from the NICA days, and Ali’s not his name.’

‘And…’

‘And I took care of it, okay, brother?’

Mac nodded. ‘Looked in his room?’

‘Affirmative.’

‘Well?’ asked Mac.

‘Shipping dockets, requisitions, invoices for – I dunno – chemicals? And some other stuff.’

‘Other stuff?’

‘I’ll show you later,’ said Bongo. ‘But I got something else.’