Mark Abernethy - Double back

Before Bongo could respond, they rounded a tight corner and almost ran into the rear of a blue Land Rover Discovery belonging to the UN. Pulling over into the weeds, they waited as two UNAMET police in sky-blue shirts and UN baseball caps approached and motioned for Bongo to wind down the window.

‘There’s been a militia attack a hundred metres up the road,’ said the Aussie officer. ‘We’re just clearing it for safe passage – if you could give us five minutes?’

Nodding, Mac could see a group of UNAMET police – civilian cops from Australia and Japan – walking back to the convoy. As Bongo pulled his Desert Eagle from beneath his seat and Mac touched his own Beretta for luck, the group reached their vehicles but one of them kept walking to the Camry.

‘Any Australians in here?’ asked a flushed ocker as he leaned in Bongo’s window.

Mac opened the door and followed his fellow intel operator, Grant Deavers, around the back of a truck.

‘Fuck’s sake, McQueen!’ snapped Deavers as they stopped. ‘What the fuck are you doing up here?’

‘Nice to see you too, Devo.’

‘And please tell me, please assure me – that is not Bongo Morales with the hairdo?’ said Deavers, fumbling for a smoke from his UN shirt pocket.

‘Well, you know, Devo -’

‘He still working the airlines?’ asked Deavers, referring to Bongo’s cover as a peroxide-haired first-class steward on Singapore Airlines, entrapping adulterers, homosexuals and paedophiles, then blackmailing them on behalf of Philippines intelligence.

‘He’s helping out,’ said Mac sheepishly.

‘He’s with us?!’ screeched Deavers, exhaling the smoke through his ginger moustache. ‘Bongo’s working for Aussie intel?’

‘Mate!’ said Mac, looking around. ‘Do you mind? And by the way, it’s Davis – Richard Davis, okay?’

Sucking on his smoke, Deavers shook his head. ‘Sorry, mate, but this is getting on top of me. Dead set, Macca – Richard – this whole place is out of control.’

Grant Deavers headed the civilian police component of the UNAMET scrutineers but the cops had been denied the use of firearms during their mission in East Timor. He was from the intelligence arm of the Australian Federal Police and he had a military background. So the Indonesian generals played chicken with Canberra: your spook can run UNAMET’s police, but there’ll be no firearms. Before Deavers and his lieutenants knew what was happening, they were going to the new Killing Fields without so much as a six-shooter on their belts – not a happy scenario when the militias were using M16s.

‘He was at the meet where some of our assets were snatched,’ said Mac. ‘Bongo lost a piece of his shoulder in the ambush.’

‘Okay, Macca, but keep him away from the militias, okay? Last thing I need up here is that whole macho Filipino thing.’

Nodding, Mac asked what was happening beyond the convoy.

‘Shooting,’ said Deavers. ‘Bunch of women walking to market.’

‘Militias?’ asked Mac.

‘Yep,’ snarled Deavers. ‘The ones that don’t exist, according to Canberra.’

‘So, can we go through?’ said Mac, pointing beyond the UN vehicles.

‘Waiting for the soldiers to clean it up, secure the area,’ said Deavers, his cigarette hand shaking slightly. ‘Where you off to?’

‘Maliana, Balibo – all the quieter spots,’ said Mac.

‘Do me a favour, Macca, and don’t? Please?’

‘That bad?’

‘Bobonaro is wall-to-wall shit,’ spat Deavers. ‘It’s a joke.’

‘I’ll think about it – we’re looking for a local girl who may be up there.’

Deavers shrugged.

‘Her name’s Maria Gersao, probably being held by Kopassus intel.’

Raising his eyebrows, Deavers shook his head. ‘Kopassus has a depot in Maliana but it’s a bloodhouse, mate, I’m warning you.’

‘Where?’ said Mac.

‘The Ginasio – big place in the middle of town.’

Swapping phone numbers, Mac shook with Deavers. Then, looking up, he saw an army troop truck rumbling downhill. Through the canvas sides Mac could see the soldiers sitting on the bench seats. Among the regulars were young men in T-shirts and jeans.

The second troop truck stopped and while Deavers had a quick chat with the driver, Mac got a clear look through the canvas sides.

Stunned, he stared at the departing trucks as he staggered to the Camry, sagged into his seat, almost disbelieving his own eyes.

‘Everything okay?’ asked Bongo.

‘No, mate,’ said Mac, reaching for his water. ‘There were militia in the back of those trucks.’

‘That surprise you?’

‘They were wearing army boots.’

‘So?’ asked Bongo.

‘Aussie army boots!’

They found Jessica entertaining a couple of Aussie UNAMET officials in a coffee shack on the outskirts of Aileu when they stopped for lunch.

‘It’s not safe out here, Jessica,’ murmured Mac, stopping at her table. ‘Thought I told you that.’

‘I’m okay – got Dan and Lance helping me out,’ she said, smiling towards her drivers. ‘Have a seat.’

‘Boys,’ said Mac, nodding at the blokes as Bongo came to the table, glaring at Jessica and then the Aussies.

‘Richard is a sandalwood merchant,’ Jessica told her new buddies, blue eyes flashing beneath a blonde fringe. ‘I thought he was going to help with my father, but -’

‘But I can’t help you with anything if you go off hitchhiking into militia country,’ said Mac, trying not to sound annoyed with her. ‘There are people out here who’d be happy to put you in a grave with twenty other women.’

‘I didn’t hitchhike. The boys picked me up outside the Turismo this morning,’ she said, ignoring Bongo, who was clearly seething.

Mac and Bongo’s order arrived – cold spiced chicken on warm rice.

‘You boys armed?’ asked Mac, starting his meal.

‘Nah,’ said the blood-nut called Dan. ‘Not allowed, mate.’

‘So how were you going to defend her?’ asked Bongo, eyeballing Lance. ‘Don’t you think a pretty white girl would get some attention out here?’

The blokes shrugged, embarrassed.

‘Let’s get it straight, Jessica,’ said Mac. ‘The Bobonaro regency is thirty k that way,’ he said, pointing west. ‘It’s militia country – death squad country. It’s the most dangerous eighty square kilometres in the world right now, and you’re walking around with your arse hanging out of your shorts?’

Looking down at her exposed midriff and short shorts, Jessica dropped her smile. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, looking up at Mac.

‘No wukkers,’ said Mac. ‘Let’s eat up and we’ll give you a lift back to Dili.’

The tailing vehicle followed at a professional distance as Bongo, Mac and Jessica sped down the river valley road to Ainaro. Mac assumed the black Toyota LandCruiser with game-fishing aerials was Indonesian intel. If it was soldiers or militia, they’d be in a ditch by now.

‘He’s standing off,’ mumbled Bongo, who rejected Mac’s offer to take the wheel. Like many Asian drivers he didn’t feel comfortable with the way Anglos handled a car.

‘Who is?’ asked Jessica, who had been demanding to know what Mac and Bongo would do to help her find her father, if she wasn’t allowed to do it herself.

‘Other driver,’ shrugged Bongo. ‘Thought I might let him go through.’

‘Nah,’ said Mac, looking out at the brown-grass grazing areas interspersed with stands of bush.

‘No?’ asked Bongo.

‘Nope,’ said Mac, who wasn’t happy with the ground. The Royal Marines had taught him that if you had the opportunity – if it was your call – you should always make the choice about the battleground. Mac didn’t want to stop out in the bush, on the side of the road, and allow some trigger-happy Kopassus intel hoon to approach from behind and do what he wanted. Sometimes it was easier to keep the balance by continuing to move.