Mark Abernethy - Golden Serpent

After fi nding a rundown Dutch Colonial guesthouse near the southern approaches to the small fi shing town, they hunkered down for the evening and ordered in food.

Mac went through a long tale with the guesthouse owner about not sourcing the meal from a place that would make his friends sick.

Though Mac had grown used to the food in South-East Asia, the Americans ate steaks from Texas and corn from Iowa, all fl own into Camp Enduring Freedom in Zam. The last thing Mac needed was an extended case of the trots from these elite special forces. It didn’t mean the owner would listen to a single word. Indonesians nodded and smiled at every request. Whether they did anything about it depended on if they could. Or wanted to.

Mac realised there were a few kids around the place. Kids were expensive and demanding in any part of the world, so he tipped the bloke large. Gave him the wink and a slap on the bicep. He seemed to get that Mac wanted some privacy from the bloke and his family.

The owner’s teenage son delivered the food. Mac looked him in the eye. Couldn’t see fear. Asked him his name.

Kid said, ‘Bani.’ Quite tall, good-looking, athletic and cocky in that globally fi fteen-year-old way. He wore a white singlet and Mac clocked a crucifi x through the fabric. Mac walked with Bani down to where the Patrol was parked. The boy was still at school, learning English and science, playing soccer. He wanted to stay in school but by the way he shrugged and looked around him Mac could tell that education wasn’t part of his future.

Mac dragged the Bintangs out of the boot, hauled them up to the room. They ate and drank. The food tasted good, clean.

Forty-fi ve minutes later, when they’d all kept it down, Mac knew for sure. Hunger satisfi ed, they sat around, dished out guns and loads from the Cordura bags. Sawtell let Mac have his own Beretta M9, but not before he made Mac spill on how and why he was without a gun.

Mac told the lads most of the truth but stopped short of the Minky details. He didn’t want to admit that he’d panicked and shot the intel source – the only intel source.

Sawtell eyed him. Flexed through his wide neck. ‘Just so you know

– that piece ain’t goin’ nowhere near no garbage can. Reading me?’

‘Crystal,’ said Mac.

They fi red up their mobiles and programmed each other’s numbers into their address books.

At nine-thirty pm local, Mac slipped out into the night to have a butcher’s. It had been a year since he was last in Palopo. For a small town with barely any profi le, it was the crossroads for a lot of travel in Sulawesi. From Palopo you drove north towards the major port city of Manado, to the south was Makassar, to the immediate west was the remote highland areas with their weird architecture reminiscent of boat prows, and further west was the airport hub of Palu.

Palopo itself had changed. There was more neon, more people on the streets after dark and some real restaurants, not just the goreng and fi sh shops that populate rural Indonesia.

Mac moved towards the centre of town, keeping to the shadows.

His cap was low, his ovies covering his body shape and the chunky Beretta handgun in its webbing rig.

Sunda Laundry was down a side street off the shabby main plaza area. Mac walked past it on the opposite side of the street and then came back right in front. It was a double-wide joint and through the glass doors Mac could see a few washing machines and tubs, some dryers too, and a large folding table. A small pilot light was on in a back room.

Mac did another circuit, sweat trickling down his back, and couldn’t see any surveillance. Ducking into the laneway running adjacent to the back of Sunda Laundry, he pulled the Beretta out from under the ovies. He hated Berettas. They had been OK’d and rejected several times by the US military in the 1980s before going into service. They were prone to jamming, the trigger was too far from the grip and, especially annoying for Mac, they had double-stack fi fteen-round magazines. That was fi ne for a soldier or cop, where simply showing a nice big gun was a bonus in itself, but no good for a spook.

A handgun with fi fteen rounds in the handle was like carrying a small shoe box around with you. Who the hell needed fi fteen rounds?

Mac moved down the unlit alley, smooth and slow. He held the Beretta cup-and-saucer, his body pointing two o’clock. He heard his breath rasping and his Hi-Tecs scraping on greasy soil. He moved past garbage bins and mangy cats. It smelled like an open sewer.

He hesitated as he got to the back of the laundry, looking for that pilot light. Heart pumping, he got closer to the fence, moved along it and paused at the point where the laundry’s backyard started.

He turned, out of habit, cased his six o’clock. Nothing, except mangy cats getting back on their piles of garbage.

He looked back at the laundry. The pilot light wasn’t bright, but he could make out the yard. There was no car, certainly no silver Accord. He kept his eyes on the place, checked his G-Shock. Almost ten pm. Sweat ran freely down his back now.

After an hour, nothing.

He walked back to the guesthouse, crossed the streets a few times and backtracked. All quiet.

He hit the mattress at 11.25 and fell asleep wondering if he could call Sydney on his mobile, whether Diane would be sweet with that.

It was just before eight am when Mac got to the Patrol, showered, shaved and back in his salesman dickhead get-up. As he opened the front passenger door, Limo put the big 4x4 into drive. Mac held up his hand. ‘Just a tick, mate.’

Bani came out the side door of the guesthouse and Mac signalled he get in the back seat. The kid was excited – his fi rst interpreter work.

Sawtell shot Mac a look, then got out of the Patrol. Mac caught his eye and followed.

They moved away from the vehicle as Bani got in the back seat.

‘What the fuck’s this?’ said Sawtell, far from friendly.

‘We need someone to do the talking. Bani’s keen.’

‘Spikey’s the languages guy – that’s why I picked him,’ said Sawtell.

‘Shit! That’s a kid! You want that on your conscience?’

John Sawtell had the kind of eyes that could hand out slaps. He had that way of getting up in a man’s face and talking soft, just like Mac’s father used to.

‘Thought about Spikey,’ said Mac. ‘But you know, John, these guys are intimidating to the locals.’

Sawtell cocked an eyebrow. Disbelief.

‘It’s not racist – these are big, scary guys to the Indons.’

Sawtell gave him a you’re so full of shit look. ‘McQueen, he’s a kid.’

Mac could smell the Ipana on Sawtell’s breath.

‘You’re not going to drag a kid into this shit,’ said Sawtell, lifting a fi nger.

‘It’ll be fi ne,’ said Mac.

Sawtell shook his head. ‘The look on your face when you arrived at Ralla? That wasn’t fi ne, my man – that was fear.’

Mac looked back at the Patrol, where all eyes were on them. He looked back at Sawtell. ‘John, if I take Spikey into that laundry, and it turns serious, chances are the dry-cleaning guy makes a call. It goes to shit. Spikey doesn’t do what I do, John. He can’t keep it light.’

Sawtell laughed. Big laugh. ‘Light?! Oh, that’s good. That’s so intel-guy.’

‘Back to that, are we?’

‘Do we ever leave it?’

Sawtell was right. That part of things never stopped.

The American wasn’t letting this go. ‘First time I worked with you, in Sibuco – call that light? My boys talked about nothing but you for days.’

‘Sure,’ said Mac. ‘But it was the pizza delivery part that we had to fi nesse. It took months – not everything’s about kicking in doors and killing bad guys.’