Mark Abernethy - Second Strike

‘What?’

‘We contracted Hassan, who at this stage was a well-known handler and transporter of nukes for Dr Khan.’

‘Fuck’s sake,’ said Mac, everything becoming clearer. ‘You didn’t -‘

‘Yes, Alan – we did.’

‘Not Hassan!’

‘He was the best – he was deniable,’ said Ted.

‘He’s a psycho.’

‘Thanks for the tip.’

Pretty much the full story came out of Ted over the next hour. How a bunch of old MID stagers raided the last of their corporate fronts’ bank accounts from the old days, bought Hassan’s services with the intention of having the nukes stolen and then destroyed. There were nine nukes that the South African government laid claim to – all of the sub-5-kiloton variety – and the Israelis had declared seven of them either inoperable or unstable. So they shipped two.

Hassan’s team had swooped on the six-thousand-container Aden Lady as she steamed out of the Gulf of Suez and into the Red Sea in February 2001. They had jumped off from Al Wajh in Saudi Arabia, seized the two mini-nukes and fl own off into the dark.

The brothers never saw their nukes.

‘It sounds too easy,’ mused Mac.

‘Yeah, well,’ said Ted, with rheumy eyes. ‘You know how it goes.’

‘Do I?’ asked Mac.

Ted looked away. ‘Jesus, as soon as you sat down in the Sierra I knew you were trouble.’

‘Just saying -‘

‘Okay, Alan, but only because I’m old and ashamed, not to mention a little drunk.’

‘And you see a chance to get the bastards who killed Tony and Vi?’

‘And that too,’ he said. ‘You’re right, it was too easy: fi nding the right container, at night, on a fully laden container ship? That’s hard, mate. But turning the whole op around in eleven minutes? That’s impossible.’

‘So, insiders? The Israelis were in on it?’

‘Half right. There were security mercenaries on board, but they were all shot. Hassan sent a frogman team on fi rst to soften it up. They knew where the security was.’

‘So, why not the Israelis?’

‘Because they weren’t doing the shipping.’

‘Who was?’

‘The Israelis didn’t trust the new regime in Pretoria and Pretoria didn’t trust the Israelis. So Tel Aviv organised a neutral intelligence outfi t to broker the hand-back. I always thought it was those guys who were the insiders.’

‘Who?’ asked Mac.

‘Our friends in London,’ snorted Ted.

The RAAF Hawker Falcon corporate jet collected Mac at Marcoola airport on the Sunshine Coast at six am and brought him straight to Sydney. Easing back in the light brown leather seat, Mac looked out on the tarmac of the government annexe of the airport as a silver Ford Fairlane was driven to the stationary plane.

He’d used the trip to have another look at Freddi’s second latent from the Galaxy Hotel pad. There were a few lines, if you looked closely, and there were what looked like Hebrew or Arabic scrawls.

Perhaps not useless, but not obvious. It was disappointing.

A clanging of aluminium steps presaged the arrival of the Brass and suddenly the small cabin was fi lled with suits. Leading them was Greg Tobin, the ever-bouncy, glamour-prince of Aussie intelligence who, at the age of forty, had got the job most of his predecessors had not been offered till they’d been at least fi ve years older.

‘G’day, Macca,’ said Tobin, putting out his hand. Tobin sat in the facing seat, crossed his legs, peered out the window and shot his expensive cuffs. He was a good-looking, athletic man with a habit of speaking in short grabs, which irritated the serious thinkers of intelligence.

Mac looked up and saw a face he knew from the Nudgee dorms: Dave Urquhart. ‘Hi mate,’ said Urquhart. ‘Been in the wars, huh?’

Urquhart took the rear-facing seat on the other side of the aisle.

An APS bodyguard in a cheap blue suit walked back to the cabin door and stood lookout.

‘So, we’ve been talking with the Queensland cops – nasty business, eh?’ Tobin started.

Mac nodded.

‘So, Macca,’ said Tobin, discomfi ted. ‘What were you doing there?’

‘In Noosa?’ asked Mac.

‘Yeah – thought you were going home?’

Holding his temper in check, Mac went with it. ‘I was, but I had to check on Tony. He hadn’t answered his phone for almost three days and his voicemail was locked out, which means -‘

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Tobin. ‘So how did you fi nd him?’

‘Tony?’

‘No one at the fi rm knew his address.’

‘I found out, fi eld work… Look, Greg. We have some bigger things to talk about here.’

‘Hmm?’

‘I mean, there are circumstances around this -‘

‘Yes, mate,’ said Tobin.

Looking around him, Mac felt a sudden burst of fury. The talk he wanted to have couldn’t take place in extended company.

‘You can talk, Macca,’ said Tobin.

‘Okay. I need a guard on Jenny and Rachel.’

‘Got it.’

‘And one on… um, another girl and her grandmother -‘

‘Yes?’ asked Tobin, confused. He looked across at an ASIS employee called Sandra, who was taking the notes.

‘In Sydney…’

‘Well, sure,’ said Tobin. ‘And these people would be?’

‘Look,’ Mac began. Then turning to the wide-eyed faces of Urquhart and Sandra, suddenly lost it. ‘Guys, please – time to go, eh?

I just have to talk with Greg.’

‘Come on, Macca,’ said Urquhart, his smooth voice dripping with condescension.

‘ GET OUT! ‘ Mac screamed, lunging at Urquhart, who recoiled.

‘ NOW! ‘ shouted Mac, pointing at the cabin door.

Mac sat back, head in his hands, until the rumbling of the aluminium stairs stopped. Sitting up, his eyeballs itchy with stress and fear, he looked at Tobin.

‘Sorry, Greg.’

‘It’s okay. So let’s talk.’

‘The girl in Sydney is my daughter – Sarah.’

‘Okay,’ said Tobin, deciding not to push with the questions. ‘Got an address?’

Mac handed over the piece of paper he’d prepared on the way down. Then he told Tobin the story, from the NIME investigation through to the shootings and the fact that Mossad were looking for a second device. He left out Ted’s story. He needed more time to work out what the MI6 involvement might mean. But he ended on the point that meant the others could not be present.

‘Greg, someone has been operating from within -‘

‘Mac -‘

Mac held his hand up to stop him. ‘Mate, I’m not saying it’s anyone in the fi rm. It could be someone in a friendly agency, a friendly country. Someone with enough access -‘

‘That’s a big call, mate,’ said Tobin, his mood darkening.

‘I’m saying what I know, Greg. A simple verifi cation of an NIA has pushed all the way back to an address that not even you or I knew. It was a straight line, okay?’

Tobin thought about it. ‘There’s a whole network of old spooks around Noosa. The address was hardly a secret.’

‘Those old boys are tight,’ said Mac. ‘Few people outside the inner circle would have known where he lived, and those who found out by fl uke wouldn’t have known what he did for a living. Tony Davidson was just a Perth businessman to most civvies.’

Tobin cocked an eye, looked out the cabin window. ‘Okay, so a straight line?’

‘Yeah. A new outer circle of economic operatives is hardly a blip on a terrorist’s radar,’ said Mac. ‘Davidson’s team was new, it was our fi rst gig.’

‘So why was there a shooter ready for Tony?’

‘Precisely,’ snarled Mac, happy that Tobin at least saw what he was talking about, even if he went back to Canberra to cover everyone’s arses. ‘The Hassan crew knew there’d be due diligence, and when the enrichment code was handed over, Davidson was going down. Then, Hassan’s people got nervous that it was me doing the investigation.’