Mark Abernethy - Double back

Silence lingered for a moment as Jim focused on his cigarette.

‘Things are complicated right now, McQueen,’ said Jim finally. ‘I’m sorry if you feel misled in any way.’

‘You sound like a politician, Jim,’ said Mac.

‘I’m telling the truth, McQueen. Just about any vaccine program can look like a bio-weapons facility,’ he said. ‘From experience I’ve learned that you have to build a totally airtight case for it being bio-weapons, or the politicians won’t act and the bad guys scuttle away under their rocks. So yes, it’s complicated.’

‘So uncomplicate it,’ said Mac.

‘What do you want from me?’ asked the American. ‘You going to beat me to death with your bare hands? That’s your reputation, right?’

‘I’m not beating anyone, Jim,’ said Mac. ‘I’m trying to do my job, and right now my job is to resolve the intel on the Lombok facility and try to get something cogent to my government.’

‘Okay, buddy,’ said the American, suddenly looking tired. ‘Feel like a drink?’

‘Sure,’ said Mac.

‘Meet you at six – Bar Barong on Gajah Mada Street. Know it?’

‘See you then,’ said Mac.

‘And that wasn’t what you thought,’ said Jim, handing over the newspaper he’d taken from the Balinese man.

Taking the paper, Mac unfolded it and took out a filing card. The words were written in black ballpoint: Boa rumor – planned Sept. 4 or 5.

Mac handed back the newspaper and watched Jim leave. If he timed it right, he’d be able to meet with Davidson before having a drink with Jim.

‘What are these?’ asked Mac as he and Davidson grabbed an early meal in a Balinese restaurant on the edge of Puputan Square. On the table in front of him were three black-and-white eight-by-fives showing two headless corpses, without hands or feet.

‘Just in this arvo,’ said Davidson, eating a crab leg. ‘Fished out of the bay at Dili early this morning.’

‘Who?’ asked Mac, thinking he recognised one of the bodies.

‘One on the right is Adam Moerpati,’ said Davidson, wiping his fingers. ‘Executed.’

‘Any ideas?’ asked Mac.

‘Could be the Koreans,’ said Davidson. ‘Two million of their dollars go missing, so they target a couple of people they’ve vaguely suspected of spying, and whack ’em to prove a point. It’s a pity – Moerpati was a brave guy.’

‘That’s our connection to the President’s office ruined,’ said Mac, peering at the other man in the photo. ‘Who’s the other one? He looks familiar.’

‘Unidentified, according to my Polri guy.’

Shuffling to the last photo, Mac’s heart thumped. The final shot was a close-up of the unidentified man’s back, and a tattooed Conquistador cross with the legend INRI inscribed on the cross bar.

‘Fuck!’ he cried.

‘Everything okay?’ asked Davidson.

‘Bongo,’ said Mac, shaking his head. ‘I think this is Bongo Morales.’

Davidson was quiet, knowing not to talk. It was one of the comforting aspects of Australian males that they were more relaxed with silences than any other type of human being. If there was nothing to say, don’t say it.

Gulping it down, and feeling more upset with the Bongo revelation than he really wanted to feel, Mac manned up. ‘So, what do I do now, Tony? Back to Canberra? Manila?’

‘Nah, get some sleep, and I’ll keep you posted,’ said Davidson.

‘Mission totally possible,’ said Mac.

Davidson suddenly got serious and pointed his spoon at Mac. ‘Get drunk, find a girlfriend – I don’t care, right? But whatever you do, stay away from Atkins.’

‘Okay, but I’m not the leak,’ said Mac, still annoyed that his own firm might think he compromised the Blackbird debrief.

‘Of course you’re not,’ said Davidson. ‘But you go looking for a fight with Atkins and they’ll get you on a plane to Canberra or Tokyo before the last word’s out of your mouth.’

‘Okay, okay,’ sighed Mac.

‘Stay in your box for once, mate, and leave the office shenanigans to me.’

Staring at Davidson, Mac felt some pieces come together. ‘Box? Did you say box?’

Going back to his nasi goreng, Davidson looked puzzled. ‘That’s what I said, mate.’

‘Okay,’ said Mac, his mind buzzing.

‘What’s up?’ asked Davidson, wiping his mouth with a napkin and looking around the room.

‘There was no reason for Blackbird to know about the drop boxes at Santa Cruz cemetery, right?’ asked Mac, grabbing at his beer as he looked out onto the streets of Denpasar, where the street vendors were starting to pack up.

‘None that I can think of.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Mac. ‘So we can check with Atkins and Tobin about this, but those drop boxes at the cemetery were for the cut-out we used – that lawyer in Dili. They weren’t used by Blackbird, right?’

‘Of course not,’ said Davidson. ‘Otherwise, what’s the point of a cut-out?’

‘Precisely,’ said Mac, leaning in. ‘So I’m out in the bush with Blackbird and she’s losing it at me about being caught between Aussie and Indon intelligence, and she’s telling me that she’s done everything asked of her, she’s taken the files and done the drop box.’

‘Why would she do a drop?’ asked Davidson, confused. ‘She’s meeting direct with the Canadian.’

‘What I thought,’ smiled Mac.

‘So she was using a drop box in Dili…’ said Davidson.

‘Maybe for emergencies, maybe for files that were too hot to carry around Dili…’

‘Files about post-ballot contingencies…’

‘Files like Operasi Boa…’

‘Especially if you’re under surveillance by the Indonesians, by Kopassus,’ said Davidson.

‘By a person who’s threatened to kill your family,’ said Mac.

‘Maybe,’ said Davidson, slugging at his beer. ‘And maybe not.’

‘It’s worth a look, right, boss?’ said Mac. ‘I mean, Blackbird and this damn Boa file were important enough that we went into Bobonaro, invaded a Kopassus compound and then exfiltrated the girl to Darwin, but what if the file is sitting somewhere in Dili? There could a hundred reasons why she would try to park a dangerous document until the heat is off.’

Davidson looked out into the crowded street. ‘I know what you’re thinking, mate, but it’s too risky. I’m not sure I want you back in Dili – I’m not sure I can go back in there either.’

‘Why don’t we confirm the drop box first?’ asked Mac, not wanting to be left out. ‘Atkins told me about two – there could be more.’

‘I know where it is,’ sighed Davidson, reading the label on the beer bottle. ‘But that’s not the point.’

‘No, boss,’ smiled Mac. ‘The point is whether you’d rather send Atkins or Garvey.’

‘Okay, Macca,’ said Davidson, staring him in the eye. ‘For the purposes of discussion, you’re in, but -’

‘I’ll be okay,’ winked Mac, wondering where lost sleep went to.

‘Don’t be cocky,’ said Davidson.

‘You know me,’ laughed Mac. ‘By the way – this drop box, which one is it if it’s not at the cemetery?’

‘It’s the Hotel Resende,’ whispered Davidson, casing the room.

‘The Resende?!’ squawked Mac. ‘I thought that was a joke!’

‘No, mate, it’s real,’ said Davidson. ‘But just be careful, okay? This girl is with the Indonesians and she’s confused. I don’t want a hunch turning into a trap.’

Cutting through the Pasar Badung markets in downtown, Mac made his way to the meeting with Jim.

He thought about his hunch that Blackbird had dumped her copy of Boa in the ASIS drop box in the Resende. It was a location known to Mac, but only as a joke. The Resende was owned by a syndicate of generals and during the occupation years had been a home-away-from-home for the Indonesian Army officers and their families. One of the distinctive features of the Resende – aside from the listening devices – was the karaoke machines in the ballroom of the hotel. One of the generals in the owners’ syndicate reputedly loved singing ‘Da Doo Ron Ron’ and had equipped the Resende with the best karaoke technology.