Mark Abernethy - Double back

‘So why is Lombok such a secret?’ asked Mac, genuinely interested.

‘Maybe they don’t want nosey Aussie spies finding out what they’re doing. Our own CSIRO is all security-vetted now,’ said Berquist, referring to Australia’s scientific research agency. ‘You have to go through ASIO to work there.’

‘Something’s going on up there,’ said Mac. ‘Yarrow was procuring for Lombok AgriCorp and he was associated with the bag-man for the North Korean Army’s heroin business.’

‘But you didn’t bring the procurement list?’ asked Berquist, already aware that Mac had lost it when he was caught.

‘No, Carl,’ said Mac.

‘No Blackbird? No Canadian?’ asked Berquist, his voice clear and neutral.

‘No, Carl – and no fingerprints, no confessions, no smoking gun,’ said Mac, before a sudden insight made him sit up straight. Mac remembered the vial he’d grabbed from Damajat’s office. It had gone in a consular pouch from Darwin to the US Defense Department’s lab contractors in Denpasar, and the return address was the building they were sitting in.

‘The vial,’ said Mac, clicking his fingers. ‘I grabbed a vial from Lombok AgriCorp – from Damajat’s office. It should be here.’

‘It is,’ said Atkins, producing a bubble-wrapped courier bag and sliding the vial onto the table.

‘Well?’ asked Mac.

‘Trial vaccine,’ said Atkins, pulling a letter from the bag and flipping pages over. ‘The lab says it’s a vaccine for something like a, what’s it called? Here it is – a community-acquired MRSA. A powerful pneumonia, apparently.’

‘Vaccine?’ said Mac, reaching for the letter.

‘It gets better,’ said Atkins, pointing at the pages in Mac’s hands. ‘All of these vaccine programs – if they’re legitimate – have their own ID number, a sort of registration with the World Health Organization. It’s all on a database, mate, and Lombok AgriCorp has one.’

‘Shit, Marty,’ said Mac, heart not in it. ‘We’ve got North Korean drug dealers and people like the Sudarto brothers connected with this, and we’re supposed to believe it’s a vaccine?’

‘We?’ asked Atkins, deadpan.

Mac glared at Atkins for a solid seven seconds, then broke it and looked down at the letter and spectral analysis from the American lab. Berquist and Atkins had played him perfectly. He was so tired, so upset by what he’d seen in East Timor, that he wasn’t entirely sure where the facts stopped and supposition took over.

‘I guess I should tell you why I’m here,’ said Berquist. ‘DG sent me up to retrieve you, Alan.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, there was a formal complaint lodged by the Republic of Indonesia,’ he said, pulling a black-covered dossier from his briefcase and opening it. ‘They cited a theft from their vaccine program, an attack on an army garrison at Maliana resulting in seven Indonesian deaths. They’ve implicated you in the bombing of a fuel store in which two buildings were razed and three army staff cars written off.’

‘I see,’ said Mac.

‘There was also the assassination of two Indonesian army officers and two army personnel at an unspecified location outside of Memo, and the execution of four Indonesian soldiers at a checkpoint between Balibo and Batugade.’

‘The streets aren’t safe anymore,’ quipped Mac.

‘This isn’t a joke, McQueen!’ snapped Berquist. ‘East Timor is sovereign territory – it’s Indonesia! Our friends and neighbours, mate!’

‘I know,’ sighed Mac.

‘This job isn’t a licence to go playing Rambo, okay?’ said Berquist. ‘I thought that had been spelled out after the Lok Kok debrief.’

Mac looked at his hands.

‘The frigging diplomats were running round Canberra all day yesterday trying to pin this on us, and they’ve succeeded,’ said Berquist, referring to the fact that Australia’s SIS shared the same corporate stable with the diplomatic corps from Foreign Affairs.

‘It’s what they do,’ said Mac.

‘And our thoughtful Javanese neighbours included a bill,’ said Berquist, holding up a page of figures to Mac. ‘Three hundred and eighty-seven thousand dollars – US – for one military heavy road transporter and one D6 bulldozer that they found at the bottom of a gorge on the road to Balibo.’

‘Okay.’

‘There’s a bill for the fuel and cars, a draft note to the UN, given that we’re so involved in the promotion of free and fair elections in East Timor. Oh, and you might like to see these,’ he added, pushing several black-and-whites across the conference table.

Mac saw a still of himself bending over the tray in Damajat’s locked cabinet and a time-series of Bongo, walking across an open area with a G3 in his hands, fire spewing from the barrel.

Mac shrugged. ‘Busy night.’

‘The Indonesians have identified one Alphonse Morales as the man in those pictures,’ said Berquist. ‘They say he was working with an Australian claiming to be Richard Davis, but who is known to their intelligence as an undeclared ASIS officer, previously associated with embassies in Jakarta, Manila and Singapore.’

‘I see,’ said Mac.

A knock sounded at the door and the receptionist stuck her head in, looked at Atkins and mouthed the words, Tony Davidson.

‘I’ll call him back,’ said Atkins.

‘He’s at the front desk,’ whispered the girl, with a sense of drama, before slipping back out and closing the door.

Face darkening, Atkins stood, not sure who to look at. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ he said, smiling without conviction.

‘Whatever happens here today, mate, there’s a way back, okay?’ said Berquist suddenly.

‘Really?’ said Mac.

‘And by the way, it wasn’t Beijing – it was Shanghai.’

Embarrassed at being overheard, Mac nodded. ‘Look, I -’

‘And it wasn’t lunch, ’less you count a few nights with the MSS as eating.’

‘I’m sorry,’ sighed Mac, feeling stupid. The MSS – China’s CIA – had a fearsome reputation for their interrogations.

‘It’s a funny distinction we make between the office guys and the field guys – I used to make that distinction too.’

‘What happened?’ asked Mac.

‘The Chinese took my eye,’ he smiled, pointing at his tricky peeper. ‘And I couldn’t do it anymore – nerves went, mate.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mac.

‘Talking about office guys, can you guess who my controller was for that gig?’ asked Berquist with a big smile.

‘Who?’ asked Mac.

‘Same bloke who’s out there trying to extract you from this long-drop,’ chuckled Berquist. ‘It’s just business, okay?’

Taking the offered hand, Mac sat back, humbled.

The door opened and Atkins strolled in slowly, reading a letter. Behind him, Tony Davidson filled the door, all smiles.

‘Carl!’ he said, advancing and shaking Berquist’s hand. ‘Nice to see you here.’

‘Nice to see you too, Tony,’ said Berquist. ‘What’s up?’

‘McQueen’s been seconded to the Yanks – hush-hush,’ said Davidson.

‘Nice idea but bad timing, Tony,’ said Berquist, friendly. ‘I’m here to retrieve McQueen.’

‘Oh yes?’ asked Davidson. ‘Whose authority?’

‘DG’s, I’m afraid,’ said Berquist, pulling a letter from his briefcase and slapping it on the table.

‘Better look at this, Carl,’ said Atkins, sliding his own letter across to Berquist, who had the grace to smile as he read it.

‘Congratulations, Alan,’ said Berquist, forcing a grin as he looked up. ‘You’ve been bailed out by the Minister for Foreign Affairs.’

Mac ordered the Golden Lantern’s famous duck and a couple of beers, then sat back.