Mark Abernethy - Double back

‘Should see the other bloke.’

‘I’m telling Mum,’ said Bongo, ordering a Tiger for Mac. ‘So you thought I was dead?’

‘Saw a photo – Moerpati and a headless corpse with the Conquistador crucifix. Thought it was you, mate.’

Laughing, Bongo slapped him on the back. ‘Lots of Catholics got the tattoo like that.’

Bongo listened to Mac recount the events of the past two days.

‘That’s bad news about Moerpati,’ said Bongo. ‘Very bad.’

‘Why?’ asked Mac.

‘Because Moerpati’s the Soeharto clique. He’s from the right family, made the right marriage, had the right connections – he’s New Order, head to toe.’

‘So, he gets killed?’

‘Yeah, it means there’s another power base in Jakarta thinks it’s strong enough to move on the New Order – and that kind of fight is no good for anyone.’

‘A bio-weapon’s no good for us, either,’ said Mac. ‘The scientists tell me it’s based on SARS – gives the victims a fatal pneumonia.’

‘Fucking Koreans,’ said Bongo, shaking his head. ‘They been chasing this shit for years. It’s like an obsession.’

‘What about the Indonesians?’ asked Mac.

‘Yeah, it’s the money behind it,’ said Bongo, collecting the new beers and handing one to Mac. ‘Money rules everything in Asia, and the Koreans know that. We were once looking into this immunisation program in Cambodia, in my NICA days,’ he said, referring to the Philippines intelligence agency. ‘But it weren’t no immunisation program, brother – least, not like we’d know it, right?’

‘What was it?’

‘It was the Cambodian army testing a disease on these mountain peasants.’

‘So it’s the same as East Timor?’ asked Mac, casing the bar.

‘All the lines worked back to North Korea, to the cash from Poi Pet and accounts at the military’s banks – it’s sick, brother, what some people do for the money.’

‘The thing I can’t work out,’ said Mac, ‘is where it goes from here.’

‘Easy,’ said Bongo. ‘The Javas take the money but then they have all this bio-weapon, right?

‘Yeah – but what do they do with it? That Lombok plant was a big facility, they were set up to make tons of the stuff.’

‘Have a look at your Operation Extermination again,’ said Bongo. ‘Remember we were reading it in the car, on the way into the hills that morning?’

‘Yeah,’ said Mac.

‘Extermination has already begun, brother, it’s on the TV every night. And it’s all about deporting Timorese to West Papua – what they call Irian Jaya, right?’

‘Sure.’

‘So, get the undesirables from Indonesia in one place, and then

…’ Bongo made a throat-slitting gesture. ‘The bio-weapon developed in East Timor can now be used on the bigger problem – the Timors and Papuans, all in one place.’

‘That’s sick,’ said Mac, discounting Bongo’s opinions as exaggeration.

‘That’s Indonesia, brother.’

Mac told Bongo he needed him for a week, and the payment would be whatever was in the casino bag from Poi Pet. Agreed, Bongo fixed Mac with a grin.

‘So, McQueen. How’d we go with Jessica?’

‘Oh, you know,’ said Mac, inspecting the Tiger label.

‘Do I?’ asked Bongo, drinking but not taking his laughing eyes off Mac.

‘What can I say, mate? She’s gorgeous and funny and – you know – can’t ask for much more, right?’

‘You gonna take it further?’

‘Mate!’ said Mac, not wanting to go into it.

‘You know, McQueen, if you gonna come out and say who you are, brother, then you gotta do it now, right? Don’t do what I did.’

‘What did you do, Bongo?’ asked Mac.

‘This girl, when I was stationed in Hong Kong, right?’

‘In the NICA days?’

‘Yep – Shari was an Indian girl, father was a big businessman, and I’m – well, you know,’ hurried Bongo, not wanting to talk about old identities. ‘I can’t tell her who I really am and she’s beautiful, brother!’

‘Yeah?’ asked Mac.

‘Oh, man! Forget it,’ smiled Bongo, shaking his head and going quiet with the memory. ‘We loved each other, bro.’

‘Bongo Morales? In love?’ laughed Mac.

Nodding and looking away, Bongo’s face changed slightly. ‘Worst decision of my life, McQueen.’

‘How did it end?’

‘Controller wanted me to work her, and I couldn’t do that. So about six weeks after I met her a new gig came up and I caught a plane,’ said Bongo, looking into his beer. ‘That was ten years ago. I was twenty-nine, thought I was hard – and now? I think about her every day.’

They were quiet again, Mac praying Bongo wouldn’t cry.

Then the Filipino bounced back. ‘Hey, how did this become about me? Jessica! She liked you, brother – I know it, man.’

‘Yeah, well I liked her too,’ said Mac, trying to smile.

‘What?’ asked Bongo, his teeth flashing against his tanned skin. ‘You give her your number?’

‘No.’

‘Your address?’

‘No.’

‘Make some plan?’

‘Nope,’ breathed Mac.

‘I can’t believe that,’ said Bongo. ‘I picked her – she really liked you, man!’

‘Well, she wrote me a letter,’ said Mac.

‘Yeah?’ laughed Bongo. ‘Tell!’

‘I can’t, mate.’

‘Come on – it’s not that embarrassing.’

‘No, I mean I can’t… I didn’t read it.’

Pausing, Bongo tried to get it. ‘So, it was the kiss-off, huh? Nice to meet you, but…’

‘No, mate,’ chuckled Mac, his face heating up like he was a kid and his mother was telling him off. ‘I didn’t read it.’

‘Okay – I’ll read it for you, McQueen, you big cat,’ he said, flicking his fingers for the letter. ‘Come on.’

‘Can’t,’ said Mac, looking out of the bar.

‘Why not?’

‘’Cos I chucked it, mate,’ admitted Mac.

‘What? In the trash?’ said Bongo, incredulous.

Nodding, Mac tried a nonchalant shrug.

‘Oh, man!’ said Bongo, slapping his palm on the table.

‘What?’ asked Mac, face burning.

‘You Anglo men are something else, brother,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘One of these days your women are gonna rise up and kill the lot of you, swear to God.’

‘Yeah, well…’ said Mac, gulping at his beer.

‘You chucked it? That’s cold, brother,’ laughed Bongo. ‘That’s cold.’

Halfway across the grassed courtyard area of the hotel, Mac’s Nokia trilled once.

‘Just getting to my room, Leena,’ said Mac, answering before it rang again. ‘Gimme a second.’

Checking the area around his bungalow, Mac let himself in, hitched a chair under the door handle and, sitting at the desk, put the Nokia on speaker phone.

‘The calls into those three numbers, in the time period specified, are as follows,’ said Leena, then read a list of just five numbers.

Mac thought back to Da Silva hurrying past him at the cafe in Dili and asked Leena to narrow the search to calls between seven and eight in the morning.

‘There’s one, at 7.41, to the office number in Dili,’ said Leena.

‘What’s the number?’ asked Mac, poised with his pen.

Mac jotted down a ‘361’ number – from Denpasar, on a landline.

‘Can we get an address on that number?’ asked Mac.

‘Already have it, Albion,’ said Leena. ‘It’s the Puputan Bakehouse, at -’

‘Thanks,’ Mac interrupted. ‘I know where it is.’

The Puputan Bakehouse was a coffee shop and deli just off Puputan Square, in the heart of Denpasar. It was a favourite for Anglos working in the area because of its superior coffee – and it was the main hangout of Martin Atkins.