Mark Abernethy - Double back

‘One can of mace against one of the largest armies in the world,’ snarled the Frog. ‘You Yankees are so smart.’

Mac looked away, lost in thought. Certain types of journalists thought themselves a breed apart if they went someplace dangerous while hiding behind the protective shroud their profession gave them. At least half of these people would be back at the airport within two days, begging for a standby seat, he reckoned.

The Resende was still a utilitarian structure that looked more like a Stalin-era office block in Warsaw than a hotel in a tropical paradise. Checking in as Doug Crawford, Mac accepted the warnings of the manager that this was no place for outsiders right now, and went to his room. Hitting the Nokia as soon as he put his bags down, Mac made loud declamations to his Southern Cross Trading associates in Sydney about the climate for organic cosmetics and synergies with the government in East Timor. Everything in the Resende was bugged and the staff were often informers, but Mac sometimes found it easier to sleep with enemies than to evade them.

After waiting ten minutes, Mac wandered down the stairs to the lobby, stopping to look at a rack of tourist brochures while he checked for suspicious types. A few minutes later a Brimob van screamed past in the street, broadcasting orders over a loudhailer. When a woman ducked into the hotel with two children, the manager at the desk tried to shoo her out.

‘Busy out there, eh?’ said Mac with a smile as he moved alongside the woman and the manager.

‘Dangerous, mister,’ said the woman as the manager walked away, tut-tutting.

Having second thoughts about being in Dili, Mac saw Jim walking towards him with an overnight bag.

‘Warren?’ asked Mac, loud enough to make it play for the manager. ‘Warren Johnson? Holiday Inn, Waikiki – what was it? A cosmetics expo or something?’

Straight into character, Jim responded warmly. ‘Doug Crawford – you’re the organic cosmetics guy.’

‘That’s the one.’

‘And everyone’s like, Organic?! I don’t want to eat it! ’

‘That’s the problem with a nation of people that thinks cheese comes out of a spray can,’ said Mac, smiling and shaking hands.

Thirty-five minutes later, Mac sat at a sidewalk cafe on the Esplanada, waiting for Jim. He’d had a chance to do a recce of the Resende’s ballroom, which had been filled with military types drinking coffee.

His stomach churning, Mac ran through the mission: he needed to be in and out quickly. And he needed to do it undercover, not with an American QRF coming to the rescue with eleven choppers.

Jim was supposed to be touching base with his Dili asset to get a driver and secure a couple of firearms, then meet Mac at the cafe. And he was late, a bad omen. As Mac checked his G-Shock, his breath caught as he glimpsed a tall bloke loping along the Esplanada. It was the cut-out.

Sliding down in his chair, wishing the big white Bintang parasol was lower, Mac made himself breathe through the nose as the man glanced to his left, but not far enough to clock Mac. Walking north and buttoning a navy blue linen sports coat, he hurried past, stress etched on his face.

Breathing returning to normal, Mac watched the local lawyer disappear towards downtown, swerving through pedestrians and looking from side to side amid the chaos on the streets. Blackbird and the Canadian were no longer around, so Mac wondered what the man was in such a panic for. His family, probably.

‘Hey, Doug,’ said Jim as he sat, Jakarta Post folded under his arm. ‘Everything okay? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘I’m fine, what have we got?’ said Mac, summoning a waiter and ordering two coffees.

‘I think we’re compromised,’ said Jim. ‘The tip-off that got Blackbird sprung may not be a one-off.’

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ said Mac, too tired for head games. ‘I infiltrated a fucking bio-weapons factory for this gig – I’ve earned immunity from that look.’

Sighing, Jim looked out to the choppy sea across the street. ‘Sorry, buddy, force of habit.’

‘So what’s up?’ asked Mac.

Lighting a smoke, Jim waved his hand. ‘Could be nothing – the SIGINT guys picked up some chatter about Boa being retrieved today, seemed too coincidental.’

‘Shit!’ said Mac, clenching his fist and trying to find the cut-out again in the crowds.

‘There was two calls with “Boa” in them, to this number,’ he said, opening the Jakarta Post and showing Mac a printed page with Da Silva, Carvalho Judice e Associados – (Augusto Da Silva e Christian Carvalho) printed on it, with an address.

‘It’s a law firm in Dili,’ said Jim.

‘Law firm,’ muttered Mac, his head snapping up as he looked for the cut-out.

Trying to maintain a disciplined walk, Mac rounded the corner and peeled away from Jim to the other side of the street as he headed towards the Resende. Jim kept a safe distance, providing support.

Getting to the Resende, Mac paused at the glass door to regain his composure, before pushing into the cool of the lobby. His head swam with the possibilities, all of them negative: he didn’t like the way Jim sprang the news of the compromised operation and he didn’t like the urgency with which Da Silva had been moving towards the Resende. Mac was at his best when he was the one creating the timetable and the panic.

‘Ah, Mr Crawford,’ said the manager cheerily, in total contrast to how he’d treated the local woman and her kids. ‘How are we today?’

‘Good thanks,’ smiled Mac as he passed, before stopping as if in afterthought. ‘Actually, perhaps you could help me.’

‘Certainly, Mr Crawford,’ he smiled.

‘My manager asked me to have a look at the function facilities at the Resende for our conferences or expos. It’s a nice distance from Australia, China, Japan and India – if you see what I mean?’

‘Certainly, Mr Crawford,’ said the manager, coming around the counter and clicking his fingers for the bellboy. ‘Ernesto, please show Mr Crawford the ballroom and conference facilities.’

Following Ernesto’s dandruff-dusted black coat through to the rear of the Resende, Mac saw a large restaurant, a bar and a family-TV nook filled with sofas and coffee tables.

As they approached two large doors that met at the middle, Ernesto pulled out his master key, only to realise that the doors were now swinging open. After pushing through, Ernesto went to hit the lights, but they were already on.

‘This is the Resende famous ballroom,’ said Ernesto, sweeping his arm around a large space with parquetry floors, high chandeliered ceilings and a stage along the far wall, dominated by two enormous karaoke machines. Walking around the space, Mac marvelled at the aesthetic, somewhere between 1960s Las Vegas and 1980s Seoul.

‘Thanks, mate,’ said Mac with a wink, palming ten US dollars into Ernesto’s hand. ‘I just need to feel my way around this space for a few minutes, okay?’

Smiling, Ernesto headed to the doors, which Mac shut gently behind him before latching them.

There were two tall karaoke stacks on the stage, leading to two consoles, two microphones and two screens in the middle. Mac had spent enough evenings on the booze in Asia to know that many a duet had been sung on that stage, by people who had no right to do what they were doing to ‘Islands in the Stream’ or ‘You Don’t Bring Me Flowers’.

Checking the karaoke machine on the left, Mac pulled down the back flap which opened into a cable-storage compartment the size of two shoe boxes. It was empty.

Moving to the other side of the stage, Mac saw it before he got there: the flap was open, the compartment empty.

‘Fuck!’ said Mac, breathing fast.