Mark Abernethy - Golden Serpent

Mac liked the initiative, asked the girl her name. ‘Arti,’ she said.

The boys hoed in when the omelettes arrived. One thing Mac had noticed working with military blokes was that they were incredibly focused on food. Never knowing when they’d be left hungry for days, they ate like maniacs when the eating was good. Some of this fruit would no doubt be produced tomorrow as an informal rat pack.

Mac felt better for his shower and shave. He was comfortable in his blue ovies, which he preferred to the salesman get-up. The lads hadn’t done too badly on the civvies front, wearing an assortment of chinos and polo shirts. The comms expert they called Limo – a large Latino bloke with a shaved head – wore a Metallica shirt which was a no-no in the intel world. You never wore anything that the human eye picked up subconsciously: no tattoos, no piercings, no hair colour, no jewellery and no message T-shirts. Too easy to remember. Mac made a note to get him something plainer.

Then there was Hard-on, a slow-talking black American with a boxer’s body, who had gone for the preppy look of chinos and polo shirt. He would be the athlete of the crew, the guy who could climb any wall, make any jump, beat anyone in a fi ght. His sidekick was a paler and taller black American called Spikey. He couldn’t keep his eye off the monkey on the river bank, and fi nally asked what the animal was doing.

‘Local shit – don’t worry,’ said Mac, smiling.

The four Americans had that special forces thing about them; not arrogant, but totally self-confi dent. People who liked to get a job done. Mac recognised Hard-on from the Sibuco thing four years ago.

The others were new and he hoped they were as good as the Green Berets crew were that night.

Mac spelled out the mission: go to Palopo, snatch the girl, call in the helo from Watampone, do the Harold Holt.

‘The Harold who?’ said Hard-on.

Mac smiled. ‘You know, like the ice hockey player?’

Hard-on winced with concentration, but Limo nodded slowly with a smile. Mac gave Limo a wink. Hard-on sifted the sands.

The monkey started snivelling. Then it was screaming. It was only thirty metres away and its eyes were pleading while it yanked at the chain around its neck. The air fi lled with the sounds of its terror.

Spikey shook his head, looked at Mac. ‘You gotta tell me, man.

What’s with this ape?’

Arti poured water, smiling at Mac.

‘Maybe that’ll explain itself,’ said Mac.

Spikey nodded at him slowly, not satisfi ed.

The monkey screamed again. Spikey shrugged, went back to his food.

Suddenly there was a cacophony of noises. Water splashed, something roared and a monkey screeched.

Mac looked over. A large crocodile had launched itself out of the river and had the monkey in its smiling mouth. Flipped it. Rolled it.

Disappeared back into the river. Monkey’s arm waving.

Spikey fell backwards out of his chair with fright. Fumbled for his Beretta. Which wasn’t there. Eyes wide, panting breath.

Sawtell laughed at him.

Limo slapped his leg, pointing at Spikey. ‘Look at chu, man. Like your girlfriend just told you she got the clap.’

Spikey’s mouth hung open, his eyes glued to the river bank where there was nothing left but a spike and a chain. And a collar.

‘That!’ sputtered Spikey. ‘What the fuck was that shit?’

Arti came back to the table. Smiled. ‘Croc catchee monkey. No catchee family.’

The Americans’ cover was bodyguarding the Australian forest products executive, Richard Davis. Mac had his cards ready to go:

RICHARD DAVIS

GOANNA FOREST PRODUCTS LTD.

It had a Brisbane address but the phone numbers all diverted to the Southern Scholastic offi ce in Sydney. The bodyguard cover was totally natural in South-East Asia, as were the side arms. And there would be no reason for the hired goons to know anything about the business venture, which meant four less people requiring background and cover.

Mac and Sawtell had discussed the need to avoid telling the lads that there was a rogue CIA component in the picture and keep it basic damsel-in-distress stuff for now. Sawtell’s aversion to Palopo and Sulawesi’s north was pure professionalism. He was based out of the southern Philippines and knew all about Cookie Banderjong, the strongman who ran northern Sulawesi. A former BAKIN operative who had been educated at an exclusive Melbourne boarding school, Banderjong was a rich kid with family ties to Suharto who got to play spy-versus-spy in places like Paris and DC.

When the Suharto regime fell in ‘99, Cookie had gone back to the last real asset he could put his hands on: the family’s old clove plantations and logging concessions in northern Sulawesi. He expanded his power, made millions from Japanese and Malaysian loggers, brought Western managers into the plantations, bought out small-time competitors and seeped backed into the political wheel-and-spoke structure. As it turned out, many Suharto cronies were rebirthed in the new Jakarta, and many of them were Cookie’s former BAKIN colleagues.

Cookie had built a private army to protect the foreign logging companies. He organised the pirates and bandits on operating concessions and he dealt with the jihadists with brutality. He ran the north of Sulawesi like a medieval fi efdom – so much so that Westerners who had had any dealings with the man referred to northern Sulawesi as Cookie Country. And Mac and Sawtell’s men were driving to the very edges of it.

Sawtell had told Mac: ‘Any freaky stuff up there, and I’m pulling my boys out. Got it?’ His tone had been uncompromising. Mac didn’t take it personally; he didn’t have a choice.

They hit the road before lunch. The Berets had picked up a blue Nissan Patrol from the base in Watampone. It was the big turbo diesel version.

Comfortable as a car and would go anywhere. It had no special comms gear or plating. Mac had been clear about that. He wanted to move around like a party from a logging company, not in a ‘civvie’ Hummer with comms aerials sticking out of it like a game-fi shing boat.

It was stinking hot outside, air-conned in the cabin. The boot was fi lled with guns. Limo drove like a soldier, slightly over the limit but controlled. At Mac’s behest he’d changed into a plain black shirt. All the lads wore baseball caps Mac had bought from the Pertamina. It was beyond him why the American military retained those ridiculous hairstyles that set them apart wherever they went in the world. No way was he going to have kids racing out onto the streets of Palopo pointing at the Yanks like the 101st had just landed at the wharf.

Mac took the front passenger seat but there was a tension in the air. The lads mumbled, weren’t relaxed. It built for ten minutes then Mac turned to the back seat, looked Spikey in the eye. ‘Okay, play the fucking thing. But if I hear the word “nigger” or “ho”, it’s coming off. Right?’

The lads whooped. Spikey high-fi ved Hard-on. Limo put his hand back like he was carrying a fi sh platter. The lads gave him skin and a CD appeared from somewhere; gold-coloured, black texta on it.

‘Enjoy it while you can, guys,’ said Sawtell. ‘Won’t get played on my watch.’

Mac turned back to the windscreen and heard Hard-on say, ‘That’s my Pizza Man!’ Mac laughed quietly. They were kids. Fucking kids!

Winding his seat back, he pulled his black Adidas cap down over his face to grab some Zs as the R amp;B ramped up.

There was only one dry-cleaner in Palopo and it was the Sunda Laundry. They drove past it once and came back for another sweep.

Mac saw cases of Bintang in a stack at the entrance of a roadhouse.

They stopped, bought a case.