Mark Abernethy - Second Strike

‘Look,’ he said, ‘what happened, happened, right?’

‘Right.’

‘But I don’t hate you. In fact I think we can both count ourselves lucky to have got out from under that wacko boyfriend of yours without getting killed,’ he said, smiling.

Diane laughed. ‘Christ, he was wacko, wasn’t he!’

‘Lunatic.’

‘A complete nutter,’ she giggled. ‘Thought he was the world’s greatest lover.’

‘Just ask him – he’ll tell you.’

‘He did enough of that,’ she smiled, then turned to him, getting serious. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t have to be.’

‘I know, but I am sorry,’ she said, looking him in the eye.

They were close enough to kiss and for a split second Mac thought she was going to try it on.

‘Accepted, Wilma, now let’s -‘

‘ Wilma? ‘

‘Yeah – Fred and Wilma.’

Diane was blank.

‘You know, The Flintstones? On TV? Fred and Wilma Flintstone?’

Diane shrugged.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Mac. ‘Let’s work up an approach.’

They went through the basics: Vitogiannis was the pants man and Grant the techie bloke. Mac saw it as a double action. Diane would appeal to Vitogiannis’s vanity, especially his narcissistic vision of himself as a man who could take a wife off a husband. If Mac’s knowledge of that personality type was accurate, Diane could get him big-noting himself without even having to get him into bed.

‘We’re looking for an escalation with this guy. The more you’re impressed by the small shit – like the fact he has a company doing business with NIME – the more he’ll tell you.’

‘What are we looking for?’ asked Diane.

Mac thought about that. ‘Either Vitogiannis has engineered this as a way to legitimately sell that enrichment code to a foreign consortium or he’s being gulled by NIME. I just want to know how much he knows, okay?’

‘Sounds fair,’ said Diane. ‘What about Grant? What’s his key?’

‘He’s an engineer, trained in the RAAF, did his MBA at MIT Sloan,’ said Mac. ‘He’s really thorough and I reckon he’s done some probity work on these NIME guys.’

‘Got a lure?’

‘Canberra has held up the loan guarantee,’ said Mac. ‘And by now the two of them should have got word that the NIA needs some tweaking.’

‘NIA?’

‘National Interest Account. It’s when the politicians override our bureaucrats because they have a businessman they want to look after.’

‘Okay.’

‘Well, yeah. My cover can get them that tweaking.’

‘A lobbyist, right?’

‘That’s it. I think I might persuade Mr Grant to write a bullshit end-user description, so the certifi cate on the eventual loan guarantee looks really strong.’

‘Not a real end-user?’

‘Funny thing about telling lies to governments,’ said Mac. ‘You have to establish where the truth is before you navigate around it.’

Diane smiled, put her chin in her hand. ‘That’s very manipulative for a Rockhampton footballer.’

‘I do my best.’

The plan was to get inside the Bennelong Systems cordon as fast as possible and then work out the way into NIME. Mac wanted to make this a fast gig, fi nd out who was behind the power-station consortium, write his report, get back to the Gold Coast and forget that the Fred-and-Wilma thing ever happened. He catalogued old pain as he worked the shampoo out of his hair, fi nding his injuries and telling himself he was healed now. It was a showering routine that allowed him to calm his thoughts and get his body relaxed.

There was an old problem in his right wrist, a cracked sternum, a broken nose from high school rugby and some chipped teeth on the right top from a fi ght Garvs had started in a Manila bar, which Mac had had to end.

And there was also his most recent injury. He hadn’t been as forceful as he might have with Jenny; hadn’t pointed out that being married to a female cop meant constantly having to trust her on long jobs and drinking sessions with male colleagues. All that time alone in cars – not every bloke would go along with it. But he hadn’t had the chance to say his piece because someone had tried to crush his urethra. Now it hurt to take a piss and it hurt to pull up his pants. It would probably also hurt to be aroused, which was what Jenny might have been thinking.

Through the glass sides he saw the door open and Diane walk into the steamed-up bathroom. Mac went to say something but she cut him off. ‘Sorry, just getting a fl annel,’ she said in a singsong voice, as if the real problem was his uptightness.

She was irritating him. He had let her go fi rst in the bath, gave her a good hour at it, so he could then move in and do his thing, come out to a ‘wife’ who was basically ready to go. But she was still walking around with a towel around her middle and another around her head.

Diane had done many more husband-and-wife ops than he had

– it was one of the reasons for having female spies – and she was a natural at keeping up the patter of married couples. It would really pay off when they got into public with their ease and momentum, but Mac felt she was playing with him. And playing with men was something she was very, very good at.

After Mac’s debacle with Garrison – a supposed VX nerve agent attack that had really been a massive gold heist – Joe Imbruglia had told him a story about Diane. During a stint in Thailand in the early 1990s, she’d apparently sparked a strange bit of ethnic cleansing. She’d been posing as a journalist and had joined a plutey Bangkok tennis club to get close to a general in the government. She’d done a little too well, the bloke had fallen for her and the wife had gone mental – so mad that she’d talked the tennis club into passing a by-law limiting the number of pale-eyed members. The wife had delivered the letter of expulsion to Diane personally, or so the story went. Diane had just smiled at her and said, ‘You can have him back now – I’ve had my turn.’ The members had still been trying to restrain the screaming wife as Diane drove her Audi out of the club’s car park.

Mac’s suit, dark blue and single-breasted, was draped on the sofa when he got into the living area of the suite. Diane had also polished his shoes, there was a new pair of socks that he recognised from the incredibly expensive men’s store underneath the lobby and his blue shirt was hanging off the curtain rail with the hotel’s iron cooling on the table beside the window. She’d ironed his shirt.

He felt grateful, touched; this wasn’t the service he got in Broadbeach. Then he could hear Jenny saying, She’s playing you, Macca, you great big goose!

Mac walked to the windows and watched the city lights going on outside as Jakarta fell into one of its plush tropical twilights. Moving over to the huge mirror he looked into pale blue eyes and a rugged face that was wide at the top and tapered in to a solid jaw. He still had all of his blond hair although it was thin, and he brushed it back straight off his face. His belly was still reasonably fl at and he had shoulders and arms.

He pulled on a clean pair of undies, pulled on the new socks and then slipped into the ironed shirt. He thought things through, allowing each piece of clothing to put another layer of cover on him.

When he was fully dressed, he was no longer Alan McQueen from Rockie; he was Richard Davis, professional fi xer for anyone trying to fi nd their way through the maze of EFIC and the land of taxpayer-backed export loan guarantees.

He was happy with the look and was glad for the advice that his ASIS mentor, Scotty, had given him when he fi rst started. Scotty had recommended Mac get a ‘real’ suit as soon as he could afford one. ‘In the world you’re going into,’ the intel veteran had told him, ‘you have no idea how far a good suit will take you. Trust me on this.’