Mark Abernethy - Double back

Whatever species of Yank it was, it was a tad fucking cheeky.

It was also inconvenient. Sally had him on the 11 pm flight into Denpasar, and he’d wanted to catch a bite to eat with Jessica before heading for the airport. Cloak-and-dagger didn’t fit into the schedule.

Mac dived into a backpacker’s hostel built around an arcade and sped up, shooting through the cool alley lined with shops and tour-booking agencies, coming out the other end. Walking across the car park behind the arcade, Mac checked the tail in a van window’s reflection – he was still coming.

Crossing the Esplanade, Mac scoped plenty of joggers, mothers pushing prams and tourists strolling under the trees at Bicentennial Park. Lacking a firearm, he wanted some kind of disincentive to someone pulling a gun.

All of the park benches faced away from the street, over the Timor Sea, which was starting to chop up with the afternoon breeze. So Mac walked to the wall around the naval gun, leaned against it facing the Esplanade and waited, his hand tucked down in the small of his back to intimate that he was armed.

The American slowed but kept coming. Mac had him as six-one, late thirties, former athlete, probably tennis.

His heart beating up in his throat, Mac stiffened as the tail got to twenty metres away, stopped and put his open palms out sideways. It was the first time he’d seen the bloke without a black baseball cap.

Exhaling, Mac brought his hand out and showed his own empty palm.

‘Wouldn’t usually do this, McQueen,’ came the educated American voice.

‘Man’s gotta do,’ replied Mac. ‘How you been, Jim?’

They strolled south along the pathways of the park, then walked around Parliament and the Supreme Court building. Mac was always on edge with another intelligence outfit, even with Australia’s other intelligence agencies. When they first trained intelligence officers, the firm gave lessons on cellular information sharing, conducting exercises showing how easily those cells could be broken, secrets compromised and human lives with them. But Mac’s relationship with the Pentagon’s DIA had always been cordial.

‘Notwithstanding my charismatic personality and good looks, Jim,’ said Mac as they stopped and sat down at a park bench overlooking Frances Bay, ‘what the fuck do you want?’

Laughing, Jim pulled a soft pack from his chinos and lit a smoke. ‘Thought we might do an old-fashioned swap.’

‘Intel?’ asked Mac.

‘Sure,’ shrugged Jim, ‘’less you got the Aussie version of Cameron Diaz.’

‘Okay, wise guy,’ said Mac. ‘Shoot.’

‘Someone told me you’d infiltrated Lombok AgriCorp, had eyes in Damajat’s office?’

‘Nice story, Jim.’

‘Interesting place they got up there,’ said Jim, sucking on the smoke.

‘Lots to think about.’

‘I said to a colleague of mine that if McQueen actually got in there – if he managed to get into Damajat’s office – then I’d bet twenty to one that he came out with a little souvenir.’

‘Jim – I need you as my PR man,’ said Mac. ‘What do you want, mate?’

Pausing, Jim flicked the cigarette. ‘If you got a sample from Lombok – anything, man – then we need to take a look. It’s important – maybe urgent.’

‘And I get?’

‘You name it. I’m assuming we have the same interests in East Timor.’

‘Okay,’ said Mac, looking at his watch – he wasn’t going to miss his date with Jessica. ‘Tell me – what’s Lee Wa Dae doing in Timor? He’s from the North Korean general staff, isn’t he?’

Running his hands down his thighs, Jim looked away. ‘Well, that’s fairly advanced, McQueen.’

‘What did you think I was doing in Timor?’

‘Looking for your Canadian friend and getting to know Bongo Morales a little better.’

‘Well?’

‘Shit, McQueen – I thought you’d want to know about Yarrow.’

‘And Maria Gersao.’

‘We’ve heard that Bill Yarrow was at the Kota Baru barracks in Baucau,’ said Jim.

‘That’s a Kopassus base, isn’t it?’ said Mac, his hope of finding the Canadian fading fast.

‘Sure is, McQueen – so don’t go getting that girl’s hopes up, I don’t care how pretty she is.’

‘Me?!’ spat Mac. ‘I’m not the one giving her a bodyguard, encouraging her to go wandering around the hills of East Timor!’

‘Yeah, well, you know how it is, McQueen,’ shrugged Jim. ‘It wasn’t planned that way.’

‘And Maria?’ asked Mac.

‘The local girl you’re running?’

‘Worked at army HQ,’ said Mac.

‘I’ll let you know if I know, okay?’

‘Okay, Jim.’

Mac thought about throwing the Canadian’s ‘Tupelo’ query into the mix, but decided to clear it with Atkins first.

‘So – the samples?’ asked Jim.

‘In a consular pouch to Denpasar.’

‘To us?’

‘Yep – the Defense Department lab will do ’em faster than Sydney.’

‘Great,’ said Jim, relaxing visibly. ‘I won’t cut you out, by the way.’

‘From your reaction to my mention of Lee Wa Dae, I’m assuming there’s more to discuss,’ said Mac.

‘What do you know about him?’ asked Jim, looking out to sea.

‘Right now, probably a lot more than your mob,’ countered Mac. ‘But officially, he handles the finance side of the North Korean heroin rackets.’

Jim chewed his lip. ‘You around? Not running off?’

‘I’m around, mate,’ lied Mac.

‘Good,’ said Jim, slapping Mac on the shoulder as he stood. ‘Then maybe we’ll talk again, huh?’

Opting for an outdoor table at a modern Japanese restaurant, Mac and Jessica watched the crowds go by on Mitchell Street. Busying himself with the wine list, Mac let Jessica run the food side of the equation.

‘I’m sorry I dragged you into this, Richard,’ said Jessica after the waiter had poured her glass. ‘I had no idea what I was doing.’

‘Seem to be doing okay,’ said Mac. ‘Sounds like you can handle a gun.’

‘I’m a farm girl – trucks and tractors are no problem, either,’ she said. ‘I was just annoyed with my government for letting my dad disappear without making any attempt to find him.’

‘Maybe they were?’ asked Mac, unobtrusively clocking every set of eyes in the pedestrian traffic.

‘Well, maybe,’ she shrugged. ‘But if that American – Jim – hadn’t hooked me up with Manny, I wouldn’t have lasted long.’

‘What about your mother? Brothers or sisters?’ asked Mac. ‘They pitching in?’

‘Only child… and Mum hates Dad,’ she said, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘They divorced when I was fourteen, and even though our comfortable life ran on his money, she made it hard to know him.’

‘Handy dad for a place like UCLA,’ said Mac. ‘It’s not cheap.’

‘Actually,’ she said, fixing him with a stare, ‘Dad pays my fees and accommodation – I work for everything else.’

‘Really?’ asked Mac. ‘You work?’

Sighing at him, she crossed her tanned arms. ‘Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays at a campus bookstore, and I do telemarketing for a company in Century City. And there’s no end in sight now I’m in the School of Law.’

‘Okay,’ said Mac, surrendering.

‘Oh, and you might have noticed – I buy my own drinks.’

‘Amen to that,’ said Mac, raising his glass.

‘Dinner doesn’t count,’ said Jessica, clinking glasses and giggling. ‘I’m independent, but I don’t go Dutch.’

Jessica made a production of ordering the dishes, but without losing her sense of humour. And as she handed the menu to the bowing waitress, she fixed Mac with a grin.

‘So, Richard – how does a man trying to find sandalwood opportunities end up driving around with someone like Manny Alvarez?’