Mark Abernethy - Second Strike

‘Garvs, you old tart,’ started Mac as Garvs came on the line. ‘Mate, can I get something off the databases on Hassan Ali?’ Mac spelled the name. ‘I just need a pic and bio.’

‘What’s this for?’ asked Garvs, his gum-chewing clearly audible down the phone.

‘You know – usual shit.’

There was a pause, then Garvs said, ‘Thought you were running the media side of it?’

‘Just crossing something off the list. It’s nothing,’ said Mac, nonchalant.

‘Okay, I’ll send someone over, but just tell me you’re not being drawn into all that Indon conspiracy shit.’

‘Nah, mate. Nothing like that.’

‘Because Hassan is Dr Khan’s head-kicker,’ said Garvs, voice lowering. ‘That the Hassan Ali we’re talking about?’

‘Mate -‘

‘Just asking,’ said Garvs. ‘I mean, you’re not down here to give me grief, right Macca?’

‘I need his known associates too,’ said Mac, weary.

‘Jesus, mate!’ said Garvs, pissed off.

Mac rang off, grabbed a Tiger from the mini-bar and opened a white A4 envelope that had been slipped under the door. A post-it on the envelope from Julie asked Mac to okay the fi rst draft press releases.

He sat on the bed and fl ipped through them, impressed. She was smart and fast. The writing was tight and on-message, no cliches, no wanker jargon and very narrow in scope. One was about the historic MOU with Indonesia for a joint investigation, which was now called Operation Alliance. One concerned the forward command post, and there was a housekeeping release that covered the DVI program and details of how rellies could make inquiries and how the survivors could assist by disclosing their whereabouts on a central number. If the AFP’s database was to be comprehensive, it had to include the three hundred people unaccounted for, many of whom may have travelled back to Java, Malaysia or Australia itself.

She was good, this Julie, which made Mac’s next move all the easier.

Julie and Simon from the AFP were talking softly in the side garden when Mac came out with three cold Tigers. He also brought the one-pager he’d typed and printed in the business centre, which was a copy of the one he’d left on Chester’s bed. Mac joined them at one of the outdoor tables, the stench of old cigarette butts competing with the frangipani perfume of a balmy evening.

Mac got to the point. ‘Guys, I wasn’t entirely sure what the story was going to be down here when they asked me to come.’

Simon sat back in his chair, crossing his arms defensively. He was in his late twenties, a man whose looks suited his receding dark hair.

‘But now I realise that having some Foreign Affairs bloke trying to control the AFP’s public affairs program is not the best way to approach this. At the same time, there are wider Commonwealth concerns with government-to-government agreements, repatriation and fi nancial arrangements. And these are best handled by Foreign Affairs.’

Julie and Simon sipped their beers, watching Mac closely. They were both early career public servants on the verge of becoming mid-career public servants. They were looking for a break, a chance to break away from the pack.

‘A lot of the AFP stuff is highly technical,’ continued Mac, ‘and if I’m too hands-on with it the chance of error becomes high. I mean, I don’t even know what a DVI is, right? I mean, what is that – a fucking Drunken Vehicle Incident or something?’

Simon and Julie laughed, and the tension was defused, like someone had popped a cork.

‘Shit!’ said Simon, laughing at the night sky. ‘Drunken Vehicle Incident – I love it. Can I use that?’

‘Better than that, champ, I need you and Julie to run this show, okay?’

Julie did a small victory clench with her left fi st while Simon eyed Mac.

‘Julie has fi nal veto via me, but that’s not her fault – that’s my call.

But you are now running the media for the policing and investigation side, okay?’

Simon sat forward, a little stunned. ‘Sure, that’s great.’

‘And you,’ said Mac, looking at Julie, ‘the last thing you need is another luncher trying to put his oar in, right?’

‘Well,’ she said, embarrassed, ‘I wouldn’t put it exactly like that.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Mac. ‘I deal with that every day. It never goes away, believe me.’

‘What about Chester?’ asked Julie, looking at the table but addressing Mac.

It was a fair question. Julie had a career to think of, and Chester was still technically her boss.

‘Don’t worry about Chester. Chester is my headache,’ replied Mac, suddenly feeling very hungry. ‘For now, here’s the deal: the two of you are co-directing the public affairs side of Operation Alliance. Simon’s doing the police side, Julie’s doing the rest. My one stipulation is that there be no open-mic interviews with the cops. And I mean any cops.

A reporter or producer wants answers, they put the questions through you and you write the responses with attribution, okay? – If Mick Keelty turns up and wants to do a touchy-feely session with some journos, we say no. If he wants to walk amongst his people, do the loaves and fi shes, the answer is no.’

The two media operatives laughed at that.

‘I’m serious, guys – that staged media shit feels good for a few hours but it puts too much pressure on the cops who are here day-in, day-out. They need to be working on the op, not doing security detail for the commissioner.’

Julie and Simon looked at each other and nodded.

‘I want all the cops and forensics types in a bubble,’ said Mac.

‘I want these people totally able to get on with it. They’re already feeling the weight of expectation, they don’t need the media pouncing on the smallest mis-speak and holding them to it. You guys can create the space they need. Fair enough?’

Two women with clipboards came into the garden and did a sotto voce conference, obviously strategising how to get around a dickhead with power.

Mac turned back to his new crew, signed his printed page and handed it to Julie. As she read, Mac said, ‘Have a look at point number fi ve and memorise it. These people are going to bust a gut out there and they have every right to relax on their day off, and if they want to sit around the pool and drink, that’s their good luck. So let’s get it in our heads: No Media and No Cameras Inside the Pool Area. That’s a media-free zone – got it?’

They nodded again.

‘You’re a couple of young smarties – so get out there and prove it,’ said Mac, raising his bottle at them before heading off.

An orange glow soaked through Mac’s eyelids, jerking him awake from deep REM sleep. He gasped a little at the pain in his sternum and, shaking his head, wondered where he was in the darkness. Chester must be a curtain-closer, thought Mac, looking over at his slumbering room-mate.

Mac’s Nokia glowed bright orange in the pitch black of the room.

Reaching over he looked at the screen. Scare Me.

‘Hey, champ,’ he croaked into the old Service Nokia.

‘Mac,’ came Joe Imbruglia’s voice. ‘Sorry about the time but something’s come up.’

‘Yep?’ said Mac, reaching for his G-Shock on the bedside table. It was 1.58 am.

‘The Indons want an extension on the Handmaiden project. Seems it’s not yet completed.’

‘ What?’ exclaimed Mac. ‘Fuck’s sakes, Joe!’

In the other bed, Chester mumbled to himself, out to it.

‘Not my fi rst choice either, mate,’ said Joe. ‘But there you have it.’

‘I thought Canberra wanted me in Kuta for the investigation?’ said Mac, trying for a whisper but too peeved to manage it.

Joe chuckled. ‘Well you did yourself out of that, didn’t you?’