Mark Abernethy - Second Strike

But the part of the story Mac fi xed on was the photo. Dr Hamish Gough was pictured standing beside a green-grey alloy cylinder which stood upright on a table beside him. It was about twenty inches tall and fi ve inches across. It was one of those things that could pass for something else.

What had Ted said? Tell them that it’s actually something else.

Calling directory assistance, Mac asked to be put through to the Skycity casino and hotel in Darwin. Reception answered and Mac asked for Dr Gough.

The call went through to a room and a small singsong voice answered on six. ‘Hello?’

‘Dr Gough, Richard Davis here, from the Department of Foreign Affairs in Canberra. Welcome to Australia. It’s a pleasure to have you, sir.’

‘Well, thank you, Mr Davis,’ said Dr Gough. ‘Perhaps you could help me?’

‘Certainly, sir, what can I help you with?’

‘My water purifi er. I brought it to the hotel this morning from the airport and now it’s gone.’

‘You’ve told the hotel?’ asked Mac, alert.

‘Oh yes, and the police are here too,’ replied the Canadian.

‘What happened?’ asked Mac, pretty sure he knew the whole scenario.

‘The Development Fund person came to my room and said he was setting up the conference for my speech, and wanted to pick up the canister. When I got down to the conference centre half an hour ago, the canister was not there,’ said Dr Gough, exasperated. ‘I only brought one from Kuala Lumpur – now what am I going to show the delegates?’

Mac breathed out, rubbed his temples and asked a question he already knew the answer to. ‘The Asia Development Fund guy, why did you trust him?’

‘He was assigned to me in Kuala Lumpur,’ said Dr Gough, annoyed.

‘He even packed the water purifi er. He was a nice young Indian fellow, very helpful.’

‘What was the purifi er packed in, sir?’ asked Mac.

‘Oh, it’s a big plastic carry case. Like a really big power-drill case, and it’s green.’

As Mac rang off he was ninety-nine per cent sure that Australia’s fi rst nuclear terror incident had started with a mini-nuke coming through Darwin Customs as a water purifi er.

As soon as Scotty answered the phone in Canberra, Mac asked him to get Tobin.

‘What’s it about, Macca? Tobin’s in a meeting.’

‘I think the device is already here,’ said Mac.

‘Shit,’ said Scotty. ‘I’ll see if I can get him out, but it may be beyond him now.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘We took it up to the PM’s offi ce, sold it, and they gave it to the AFP. They’re coordinating. We’re not starters.’

‘Fuck!’ said Mac. ‘Can I talk with Tobin for thirty seconds? Swear to God, Scotty.’

Mac’s brain raced with the possibilities as the line went into muzak limbo: Hassan, Lempo and Gorilla, loose with a mini-nuke, in Australia. Three men, one bomb and an entire continent to hide in until they handed over to Mantiqi Four.

‘McQueen?’ whispered Greg Tobin, and Mac guessed he was still in the meeting.

‘Greg, I need a tasking in Darwin.’

‘Economic?’

‘Yep. Water technologies.’

‘Can’t this wait?’ snapped Tobin.

‘It’s starting this arvo.’

‘Okay. Do it.’

‘Another thing, Greg.’

‘Thirty seconds, mate.’

‘I need the Falcon.’

There was a pause as Mac heard Tobin tell the meeting that he’d have to take this in his offi ce, but he’d be back in one minute.

Tobin started talking before his mouth was anywhere near his offi ce phone. ‘The Falcon? Fuck’s sake, McQueen – come clean right now or the answer to everything is no.’

‘Greg, I don’t take corporate jet rides for fun, okay?’

‘There’re no fl ights to Darwin? Qantas hasn’t discovered this place yet?’

‘I think the device we discussed came into Darwin this morning on a fl ight out of KL, for the conference on water.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about, McQueen?’ gasped Tobin.

‘It came through in a case that would normally hold a desalination canister, a portable water purifi er. It went missing this morning from the hotel.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just got off the phone with the engineer who brought it in. He was used as a mule. They switched his water purifi er for the mini-nuke. They’d be about the same size and weight.’

‘You just got off the phone?! Shit, McQueen, the AFP is running a code-red border-protection program and you’re sneaking around with a private investigation?’

‘Fuck’s sake, mate,’ barked Mac, pissed off that the corporate niceties were getting in the way at such a critical time. ‘I can’t manage the Federal Police from here. Even if Morris would take my calls, which he wouldn’t, can you imagine the Feds or Customs chasing up every idea I have?’

‘No – they’d tell you to get rooted, and that’s what I’m doing too, right this second,’ said Tobin.

‘I’ll also need a ready-reaction team,’ said Mac, trying to keep his temper down. ‘Four RAR Commandos are a good bunch, worked with them in Timor.’

Tobin made a sound that could have been dark laughter or crying.

‘Shit, mate, you want to take the cavalry with you? You are too much, you know that?’

‘Look, it’s not going to tread on any AFP toes because I’m economic, right? I’m also Schedule Two. I have the right to carry and use fi rearms.’

‘I don’t think fi rearm means a bunch of special forces guys.’

‘Well, you know, Greg, after the shootings in Jakarta we’re just taking precautions. It’s an OH and S issue, right? Your human resource is your most important asset, world’s best practice.’

Tobin sighed. ‘For someone who hates offi ce guys, you sure know how to think like one.’

As the Hawker Falcon sped over the outback, Mac briefed Jason Robertson on the new tasking they were heading towards, called Limelight. Robbo and the three other soldiers onboard were from 4RAR Commando, the Australian special forces unit that comprised the Tactical Assault Group (East), based out of Holsworthy barracks in outer Sydney. Their speciality was jungle warfare, demolitions and CBRNE – Chemical, Biological, Radioactive, Nuclear and enhanced Explosives. Mac had worked with the commandos in East Timor in an operation that had made his name in the intelligence community.

It had been a long, dangerous series of engagements with a ruthless enemy and Mac had drawn close to the boys. Robbo was a veteran of that confl ict. A private during the East Timor campaigns, he was now commanding the troop.

‘So, Macca,’ said Robbo, eyeballing him. ‘That’s all we have?’

Mac nodded. He’d briefed Robbo as far as he could, but it wasn’t much. ‘We’ll start in Darwin, mate, pick up the trail, take it from there.’

Robbo was silent. Soldiers developed a sixth sense for people who didn’t entirely know what they were doing, and Mac was getting that look now. ‘Okay, Macca, your call.’

Mac pulled several fi les from his backpack and handed them over.

‘Get the boys looking at those. That’s Hassan, Lempo and Shareef – a bloke they call Gorilla,’ said Mac. ‘This is who we’re dealing with. They’re very organised, very pro and they have a mini-nuclear device.’

Robbo took the fi les and eyed Mac again, with eyes an even paler blue than Mac’s. He was about six-foot, blond hair in an army cut and strongly built in the arms, legs and back. Mac had seen him in combat and seen him in a fi st fi ght, and he was glad he was on Robbo’s side in both.

‘There’s only three?’ asked Robbo.

‘That’s the core, but there’s a local JI cell out there too. Mantiqi Four.’