Mark Abernethy - Second Strike

‘I not lie, Santo,’ Mac panted. ‘Merpati is alive. I found her and took her to hospital. She’s alive and she misses you, Santo.’

Tears ran off the boy’s face and for a second it was six years ago and Mac was holding the nine-year-old boy down, trying to keep them both alive, his face buried in that birthmark.

Then Santo hardened again. ‘Who send you?’

‘I followed my wife,’ he said, pointing at Jenny, ‘and we have a daughter. A beautiful daughter.’

Santo’s face now ran with tears, his head moving back and forth in denial as he gripped Jen’s throat. ‘I do this job now – I look after business.’

‘No, Santo,’ said Mac gently. ‘You were made to do this by evil men. You are a good boy, mate, and I want to take you back to Merpati and to your mum and dad, okay?’

‘Cannot go back,’ Santo bawled.

‘Yes you can, Santo! Remember I told you that if you did what I asked you, that you’d live?’

Santo’s eyes went wide and he stopped crying. Speaking like he was in a trance he said, ‘And I was quiet, Mr Mac – I did what you say.’

He pushed Jenny away and put the handgun in his mouth, Mac screaming No, Santo! as he pulled the trigger.

They froze in that position as the cop cars fi nally screeched around the corner. Cops fl ew out, radios barking.

Santo sagged to the ground, but there was no detonation – only a click.

Mac walked up to the boy, took the jammed Beretta out of his mouth.

‘You okay?’ he asked Jenny, as she moved in for a hug.

‘Doing better than him,’ she said softly, looking down.

Santo trembled like a leaf, but he was alive.

The police interviews went smoothly for Mac and Johnny, but the Broadbeach Ds weren’t buying Ari’s cover of a salesman. Jenny smoothed that over but the detectives wanted to charge Santo with something, even when Jenny insisted she didn’t want to make a complaint against the boy.

While it was being sorted at the Broadbeach station, Jenny got on the phone to get the infrastructure in place for the slaves, or what some American newspapers had tried to rebadge as involuntary labour.

The detectives had to take Santo into custody, so Mac had watched the boy go, promising him that he’d take him back to Idi.

‘I knew you’d come, Mr Mac,’ said Santo.

Mac roughed his hair and told him to cooperate with the police.

The taxi driver outside Canberra Airport looked at Mac too hard, so he walked to the next cab, asked for St John’s Church.

It was a scorching morning and the well-wishers stood in the old gardens around the colonial church on Constitution Avenue, looking out over Lake Burley Griffi n. Mac strolled to the church, clocking several APS lookouts with handguns on their hips, and then saw Scotty, fagging by the wooden gate to the main path.

‘Macca,’ said Scotty, putting out his hand.

‘How’s it going, mate?’ replied Mac.

Silence sat between them for a couple of seconds, both of them affected by the deaths of Tony and Vi, and neither very good at expressing it. The funerals would be in Perth two days before Christmas, but this was a memorial for the intelligence and diplomatic world.

‘Get the bastards?’ asked Scotty, his roundish face red in the heat.

‘Not yet, mate,’ said Mac, looking away.

The name Hassan Ali had worked deeply into his life. Now, thanks to Hassan, he was standing in a churchyard about to farewell a couple of people who had been very dear to him. In the intelligence game there were careerists and employees and all the rest of them, just like in any organisation. And then there were the brothers, the thousand-per centers – people like Davidson and Scotty and Ted, people you could develop more trust with in one hour than you could with an Atkins or an Urquhart in a lifetime.

Mac tried to calm his fury and collect himself. He wanted this to be a memorial service where he thought about Tony’s toughness and Vi’s humour and charity. Neither of them had been much into pity. But when Mac walked into the beautiful old sandstone church, he saw the garlands, saw the photographs on the easels and heard the soft organ music. And as he sat in the pew he had a momentary problem with the pollen.

The parishioners put on a tea party in the gardens of St John’s afterwards, and Mac stood under the awning talking with various wives and intel types he’d met over the years. There were British and American spooks and a Japanese diplomat. As the party wound down, Greg Tobin touched him on the elbow and led him out from under the awning and over to the graveyard.

‘So, how are we doing with Limelight?’

‘I was right about the water-purifi cation canister,’ he said, making sure no one was behind him, ‘but they lost us in the outback.’

‘They?’

‘Hassan, Shareef, a hit man called Lempo. And we might have an Indonesian in there too – intel bloke.’ Mac kicked at grass. ‘So, Greg, any progress on Tony and Vi?’

‘Not the cops, mate,’ said Tobin.

‘No, I mean, given any thought to how they were tracked down?’

‘Look, mate, we’re all a little upset -‘

‘I just want to tick it off,’ snapped Mac. ‘Call it housekeeping.’

Tobin sighed. ‘I’m waiting for the Queensland cops to do their paperwork, then – if it looks bad from the fi rm’s perspective – I’m sure the DG will want an internal inquiry.’

‘Screw the DG, Greg. I mean, really! You’re a director of operations and we look after our own. We should know who leaked Vi’s maiden name because I reckon that’s how they were found,’ he said.

Tobin looked into his iced water. ‘You’re right. By the way, I was circularised this morning. Limelight’s being joined by a bunch of Americans.’

‘Really?’ asked Mac.

‘Called the Twentieth, something something -‘

‘Twentieth Support Command,’ said Mac. ‘CBRNE experts from the US Army.’

Tobin crinkled his forehead. ‘Whole bunch of them landed at Amberley about two this morning. Chinooks, Hawks, spooks in overalls. There’s a bloke running them, calls himself Don.’

The one o’clock fl ight was late and then was delayed in Sydney, which was even hotter than Canberra – the TV said thirty-nine degrees. Mac sat in the Qantas lounge, glad to be in the air-con. The waitress cleared his table and he wandered to the bar, grabbed a beer, saw his tail as he walked back. He was a dark-haired Anglo male, medium height and build, in business clothes. He was bland and his complexion told Mac the guy spent more time indoors than out.

The Nokia sounded as he resumed his seat. It was Ari, wanting an update.

‘Mate, I could ask you the same thing,’ said Mac as he sipped on the Crown Lager. ‘Chased them from Darwin into Queensland and lost them. How’d you go with the cops?’

‘Well, my friend, I am salesman, from Russia, and my credentials are good.’

‘Don’t tell me – they rang a number in Moscow, right? All a big misunderstanding.’

Ari laughed. ‘So I am now thinking we looking at where Hassan is heading, yes?’

‘That’s the idea, mate. How about the east coast of Australia?’

‘That’s a large place.’

‘True.’

‘So,’ said Ari, a little wheedling. ‘No more intel, nothing we can work on?’

‘Not that I can think of, mate.’

‘What about this latents?’

‘BAIS took two latents from a notepad at the Galaxy hotel. The fi rst was a phone number that led them to a traitor. The second one -‘

‘I have here.’

‘What?!’

‘Well, yes, McQueen,’ he said. ‘You know how it is.’

Mac couldn’t believe Mossad had a tap on a BAIS phone line. ‘So what do you make of it?’