Mark Abernethy - Second Strike

When Mac had some spare coin, he’d gone down to a well-known tailor in Sydney and ordered their most conservative suit: dark blue, single-breasted, with spare pants. It had cost twice as much as the next cheapest, but he was still wearing it twelve years later and it allowed him to circulate among senior bureaucrats, bankers, barristers and wealthy businessmen without giving off a whiff of the pretender.

After shooting his cuffs, he fastened his dress watch. He felt cold and on edge – he wanted a fast turnaround.

They grabbed their name plates at the desk as they entered the Shangri-La’s ballroom on level two for the opening-night reception. It was huge and noisy, perhaps two thousand people yelling above the jazz quartet. Waiters in white tunics and black pants or skirts circulated with silver trays of booze and food, navigating between the crowds of animated Malaysians, Filipinos, Indonesians, Indians, Chinese, Australians, Thais, Japanese, Americans and Koreans.

Diane and Mac kept to the edges, moving slowly, fi nding the topography of the reception, scanning faces for the Bennelong duo and perhaps the NIME principals. It was classic Asian networking, where politicians, bankers, businesspeople, bureaucrats and military came together to see who could spread infl uence, and for whom.

When guidebooks for foreign business travellers said Asia was all about protocol and formality, they were only half right. Tomorrow at the sessions there’d be a lot of bowing, card-swapping deference and people using full titles. But tonight it was about booze and making jokes, jockeying for popularity and establishing social connections. As he looked around him Mac knew there’d be an unfortunate karaoke bar in Jakarta tonight where a bunch of drunk Koreans and Chinese would insist on each doing their own version of ‘My Way’. He’d been there, sung that. It was Seoul ‘01, with bottles of Chivas Regal, a Korean Air Force grandee, a Taiwanese shipping magnate and a bunch of hangers-on. By the time it was Mac’s turn to sing the Sinatra standard he was so drunk that he sang the whole thing with a Korean accent, right down to too few to rention. His hosts had almost died laughing.

He sensed Diane beside him, not looking too hard yet seeing everything. She was very good. Eyes fell on her as they strolled even though she’d dressed to play down her looks, wearing a simple white linen dress and blue and white sandals. She wore no jewellery and held a small silk clasp that was so discreet it was almost hidden by her left hand.

Eventually they paused and two waiters converged on them at once. Mac grabbed a beer and Diane asked for a glass of champagne, which both of the blokes wanted to get for her.

‘At my ten o’clock,’ smiled Diane, grabbing Mac’s beer and taking a sip. ‘The Bennelong boys, and no wives,’ she said, giving the beer back.

Mac turned slowly, making it look like a scan of the room. They were fi fteen metres away and surrounded by yelling Malaysian and Thai men and their wives. Vitogiannis had his back to them but Mac could see he was a man who took pride in his appearance. Their conversation looked intense and Grant was pointing at his partner, poking the air.

Diane’s champagne fl ute arrived and Mac gave her a wink. ‘The pants-man cometh.’

Alex Grant looked up as Mac virtually walked into him. Mac feigned surprise. ‘Alex Grant,’ he said, as if sifting through his memory. ‘Not the Thomas Technology Alex Grant? The controls guru?’

Grant peered at him for a split second and then burst into a modest smile. ‘That’s me, although I don’t know about the guru bit, er, Mr…?’ He looked at Mac’s name plate ‘… Davis. Pleased to meet you, Richard.’

‘G’day, Alex – meet my wife, Diane,’ said Mac, bringing Diane into the circle between Vitogiannis and himself. As they greeted each other Mac sized it up. Grant was tall and lean, in an off-the-rack suit and cheap shoes. His skin was pinkish and his teeth au naturel. He had come up in the world but in his heart he was still an air force engineer.

It wasn’t hard to separate Grant from his business partner because Vitogianni had leapt straight into the Diane web. About fi ve-ten and fi t-looking, Vitogiannis was well-dressed. His silky black hair was swept back off his face and his teeth were expensively maintained.

‘So, Richard,’ asked Grant, grabbing a new beer from a waiter,

‘what does Davis Associates do?’

‘A bit of lobbying,’ said Mac. ‘Facilitation, making ends come together.’

‘Sounds like a broad brief,’ said Grant.

Mac went for modesty. ‘Well, I guess facilitation sounds a bit grand.’

‘What do you facilitate?’

‘Technology transfers, cross-border JVs,’ said Mac, swinging his beer bottle in a casual arc, ‘you know, big projects up here that need a little shoehorning from the Canberra end.’

‘Shoehorning?’

‘Well, yeah – blokes in Canberra hate that term, but you know, the Ministers are busy, the bureaucrats are busy. I just put the case for a deal, for jobs, balance of payments. You know, that shit.’

Grant looked around him and moved closer to Mac. ‘Well,’ he smiled, ‘tell me more.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, how does… What kind of background would someone like you have?’

Mac shrugged. He wanted this fi rst meeting to be a teaser, and was projecting reluctance. ‘Well, I suppose my previous lives seemed fairly boring at the time, but it seems Aussie companies need a guide through the exporting labyrinth, huh? And you know, Alex, not all exports are simple. Some are services and often they’re strategic services. It’s complex, mate, and that usually means some shoehorning.’

Mac grabbed a spring roll, keeping the napkin for wiping his fi ngers. He looked away, looked back. ‘But this is all probably boring for you -‘

‘So, you were a diplomat?’

‘No, no,’ laughed Mac. Grant was hooked – the tease had only taken ten seconds and he was about to lift his skirt. ‘Actually I used to work in a place called EFIC, heard of it?’

Grant’s eyes went wide and he nodded. Mac continued. ‘Terrible name, but interesting work. I was on the risk side and then on the deals side – due diligence, debt pricing, that sort of stuff.’

‘Really?’ asked Alex Grant, transfi xed.

‘Yeah, it was great, fascinating. But I ended up in Canberra as a specialist adviser to the Minister for Trade.’

‘Advising on what?’ asked Grant, looking Mac up and down.

‘Oh, well, you probably wouldn’t have heard of it,’ said Mac, looking away.

‘Try me.’

‘Deals that come under a system called NIA – it’s not well known but they can be really big, really complex deals.’

Grant stared at him like he’d seen a ghost.

Mac went on, ‘That’s National Interest -‘

‘Yeah, yeah. I know what it is,’ snapped Grant. He looked around him, obviously frazzled. ‘Tell me, Richard, is that what you facilitate?

NIA?’

‘Well, yeah – that’s most of it actually. If the loan guarantees are written by Sydney, then it’s all fi ne, right? You’re in.’

Grant nodded.

‘But it’s when it’s knocked back and you’re lucky enough to get a second chance with NIA – that’s when the fun starts,’ chuckled Mac,

‘because then it’s going political.’

‘Shit!’ said Grant, looking at the ceiling.

The bloke was hooked and Mac affected a chortle. ‘I perhaps shouldn’t tell you this, Alex, but once it gets into a minister’s offi ce, if you’ve got no one to walk you through it, you’re fucked, mate.’

Grant turned sullen. ‘Don’t need you to tell me that.’

‘Shit, Alex. Sorry mate,’ said Mac, feigning disappointment in himself. ‘I had no idea – I shouldn’t have said any of that. I take it back.’