Mark Abernethy: Second Strike

Garvs brought two Tigers back from the bar, boogying slightly to Powderfi nger’s ‘My Happiness’, and went straight back into his theories about why the Roosters had got over the Warriors in the rugby league grand fi nal.

Early in their careers Garvs and Mac had become a sort of Laurel and Hardy of the Australian intelligence community: Anton Garvey, the bull-like corporate guy who was lairish on the booze yet very much a man with an offi cial career path; Alan McQueen, more of a solo act and the buddy who made the peace when Garvs got into a blue. Which was often. They’d both been boarders at St Joseph’s schools – Garvs in Sydney and Mac at Nudgee in Brisbane – and talking footy was a highly clinical exercise, like politics or religion was to others.

‘Just goes to show you, Macca,’ said Garvs, his big tanned face serious, ‘that an organised defence beats enthusiastic attack every time.’ Relaxing a bit, he looked around the virtually empty room of an Aussie bar called Tubes, and pondered on where all the sorts had gone.

‘They heard you were coming, Garvs,’ said Mac.

Garvs yeah, yeah ed and wandered over to the bar, looking for nuts.

They’d already had their debrief chat: Mac had told Garvs about Ari and Freddi, the Indon and the Russian viewpoints. Garvs had been more circumspect about what he was working on. The declared ASIS crew down from Jakkers had an image problem: they should have caught the chatter about a bombing and they’d even staged a simulated terror attack in Kuta a year earlier – with AFP and Australian Defence Force involvement – such was the likelihood of an attack on Bali. Mac had been in Afghanistan at the time of the Bali simulation, so Garvs was indoctrinated to the defensiveness and Mac wasn’t.

Garvs shared Mac’s discomfort with the Sari Club’s crater. ‘When I was doing my IED rotation at Holsworthy, we could make a crater with anfo but Christ, we needed a shitload of the stuff,’ said Garvs, shaking his head at the thought of how much of the terrorists’ favoured bomb fuel would be required. ‘And mate, we’d tamp it – it was fl ush with the ground. So these bombers needed, what, a container of anfo and it had to be sitting fl at on Legian Street? Without anyone noticing?’

Legian was a busy street in October. It ran north-south parallel to Kuta Beach, its shops, restaurants and cafes coming right up to the footpaths, which were narrow. Humanity crowded onto and along Legian and neither Mac nor Garvs could imagine how such a large blast would have been managed, let alone clandestinely.

The sunset fl ooded through the windows and Mac fi elded a call from Julie, who was setting up the media centre. Then he got a call from Joe on his new pre-paid Nokia. Still in Manila, Joe wanted to know if there were any dramas. Mac joked that the Prime Minister had turned up for a surprise visit and everyone was drunk. Then he said, ‘Gotcha, Joe,’ and hung up.

He was still waiting for Garvs to return when he suddenly became aware of a shape he knew well. Jenny Toohey was standing on the street outside, her dark brown hair pinned at the sides and pulled into a French plait at the back. She had her clipboard, two mobile phones on one hip and her weight on her other hip, and was using a pen to make a point to a couple of AFP blokes.

Mac groaned. He’d tried to tell Jen that some males took exception to a woman standing like that, telling them how it had to be. She’d assumed he was joking at fi rst, couldn’t understand what he was talking about. In her line of work you had to move quickly and make all the right decisions, and some people just needed to be directed.

What to her was a comfortable posture to many men looked bossy.

The shorter of the federal cops Jen was talking to had averted his eyes from her. Within a week there’d be groups of male cops on the booze, with conversation openers like, That Jenny Toohey is such a piece of work.

Mac toyed with the idea of skipping out the back way and pretending not to have seen his girlfriend. But Garvs came back to the table and did one of his lair’s wolf-whistles. Jenny looked over her shoulder, irritated. Seeing them, she got rid of the blokes and came into the bar. ‘Well, Garvs – how could a girl say no to an opening like that?’

Garvs laughed and they hugged.

‘You’re such a charmer, mate. I’m always amazed you don’t have a string of girls on your arm,’ said Jen, disentangling herself.

Then, moving over to the table, she put her hand on Mac’s shoulder and gave him a dry kiss on the cheek. ‘Hello, you.’

Garvs asked her if she wanted a beer, to which Jenny patted the black Glock on her right hip and said, ‘No thanks, I’m carrying.’

‘So what brings you down, Jen?’ asked Garvs, all smiles and blushing.

He’d had a crush on Jenny for as long as Mac could remember.

‘Situations like this bring out the scumbags. They snatch the kids who can’t fi nd their families. Thought I’d come down, ruin their day.’

Jen had barely taken her eyes off Mac and he sensed he was in trouble. Garvs cottoned on and said he had to use the gents.

As Garvs left, Jenny put the clipboard on the table, put her hands on her hips. ‘See you’ve been making yourself popular with the troops.’

‘Jen!’

‘What, Macca? There’s a problem?’

‘Mate, it’s a job. I didn’t ask for it.’

‘Not what they’re saying.’

Mac sniggered. Bad move.

‘Something funny, McQueen?’

Mac hated it when cops used a surname to put a person in their place.

‘Look, I was getting ready for New York and the next thing I’m being fl own into Kuta. Into this mess – I mean, Jesus!’

Jenny crossed her arms, her ring fi ngers running up her biceps.

‘Well I only got in ninety minutes ago and all I’ve heard is that Delaney and McQueen are running the show. So a couple of DFAT boys are calling the shots for a hundred or so federal cops.’

Mac went to grab his beer, but didn’t drink – he’d lost his thirst.

‘We’re not calling the shots, it’s more like -‘

‘Don’t tell me, Macca. Project management, right?’ she said sneering as she made quote marks with her fi ngers.

‘No! Not at all. Umm, it’s more like a coordination role.’

Jenny did a three-second blink – female for you are so full of shit.

‘You and Chester know anything about the work that you’re managing ? Sorry, coordinating?’

‘Jen…’ said Mac appeasingly, wanting to be out of that gaze.

‘Well, do you? Know what a DVI is, Macca?’

Mac tried to recall. ‘I dunno. Something, something, Investigation?’

‘No, Macca, it’s a Deceased Victim Identifi cation program. Rotating crews are going to be working twenty-four hours a day for as long as it takes, and they’re going to be bagging and tagging bits of human body, storing them and adding them to a massive database. And they’re going to double-check and triple-check every bit of person they add to the database so that when they’re one hundred per cent certain of the ID, they can notify the next of kin. That’s when they get to hand over a plastic bag of body parts. And that’ll be considered a good day.’

Mac looked out the window, exhaling.

‘And you know what, Macca? Our guys are going to be upset and the families are going to be upset and it’s going to be a very emotional experience for everyone involved. And around all this is going to be a criminal investigation and a CT project and a logistics program to repatriate injured people. There’s even going to be a crew to round up the orphaned kids before the slavers get to them. And all my guys want to know is that they can do their jobs without a bunch of smartarses from Foreign Affairs trying to predetermine the conclusions. They can’t work like that Macca, understand?’