Mark Abernethy - Golden Serpent

This Diane thing was in a totally different league. It had completely blind-sided him. Through her he had glimpsed a new life, a new way to be in the world. It wasn’t just her sexiness. She was the kind of woman you could have a laugh with and be serious with inside the space of fi ve minutes. She had an appetite and loved a drink, she was shallow and deep. When Mac was a teenager he used to fl ip through Virginia’s magazines, the ones with the sealed sections. He remembered the fresh-faced girls with their clean lines, tans and their fl ashy, confi dent smiles. He’d thought girls like that didn’t actually exist in his world, and even if they did, a boofhead from Rockie wasn’t allowed to meet them. Diane was one of those girls, and he hadn’t had to change a thing about himself.

She was the only woman in Mac’s adult life who had got him up for a dance. Even though she’d regretted it.

He’d wanted to go civvie for her.

He’d bought her a ring.

And she was screwing a rogue CIA agent.

Looking back now, there’d been lots of small clues, of course.

There were the subtle defl ections from Mac meeting Diane’s father which, in retrospect, shouldn’t have been a big deal. There were smaller things he could have picked. The fact she thought the ‘A’ in ADSL referred to ‘advanced’. Or the time he’d made a joke about IUDs – the contraceptives – and Diane, a bit drunk, continued what she thought was the joke, but punchlined with something about using Nokia phones for detonation. Mac had been confused until it clicked: she must have thought he’d said ‘IEDs’. There were only three types of people who really spoke in terms of IEDs: cops, military and spooks. Certainly, you’d have to be one of those to refl exively translate IUD to IED. You must have it in your head, on your brain, recently been at a symposium or rotated through one of the Israelis’ excellent specialist courses. The ones where they make you dress like a terrorist, show you your raw materials and then get you to make your own Improvised Explosive Device, just like they would in Syria or Malaysia.

The thing that Mac should never have overlooked with Diane was the occasion when he knew she was at a big IT trade show down at the Jakarta Convention Centre. He’d found her at the Atlas Network Security stand and surprised her. Atlas was in the same area as the stand for a computer security organisation called ASIS.

Mac had looked across, seen the ASIS – ADVANCING SECURITY

WORLDWIDE signage and quipped that the name certainly had a ring to it. Diane had touched her nose, eyes darting to the left and back again. Now why would a Pommie IT maven have even a clue what Mac had been smiling about, let alone react to it like that?

It was amazing how much information a bit of love could gloss over. But it sat there in your subconscious, waiting for the moment when you were ready. And suddenly there was the information, clear as day. A warning light you’d never miss if the agent was a hairy fella with bad breath.

It reeked of the old squirrel-grip. That and Chanel No. 5.

Sonny leaned around from his position in the front passenger seat of the LandCruiser. ‘Any big ideas, Chalks?’

Mac shook his head, ‘I’m waiting for a call from Zam. I don’t know what’s going on.’

‘That doesn’t help me, does it?’ said Sonny.

Mac shrugged, overcome with exhaustion, suffering excru ciating pain in his wrist and still in shock at the news about Diane. He was rooted.

‘Let me say that another way,’ said Sonny, getting annoyed. ‘It doesn’t help us much, right?’

‘I’ll talk to Cookie if you want, say it’s my fault,’ said Mac, looking out the window at the passing scenery.

They were on their way to Hasanuddin Air Base, the military facility that fringed the commercial airport outside of Makassar.

They’d opted for the scenic route to the Eurocopter because of certain cargo in the luggage compartment – a bound and gagged bloke Mac knew as Ray-Bans.

Sonny ignored Mac’s offer. ‘You get something out of that cunt back there and no one will have to take the blame for anything.

I mean, you’re the spook, right Chalks?’

This was the time that the military guy looked at the intel guy and said, Okay smartarse, do your thing.

But Mac had no answers. He wasn’t a torturer, didn’t get off on that kind of interaction. Hemi and Sonny had already beaten their captive to a bleeding pulp and it was amazing the bloke was still alive, let alone conscious. Mac had no insights into what the guy might know or not know. Garrison was Agency and Sabaya’s techniques were notoriously cellular, so they’d both be secretive. And Diane was starting to look like a very smart operator who would not be giving much away to the hired help. If Ray-Bans said he didn’t know what was going on then Mac was inclined to give him a fi fty per cent assumption of honesty. He didn’t think the bloke knew anything.

He was a Sabaya henchman, hired to get Mac out of the way.

‘The answer is in the Macassar Strait. Garrison and Sabaya are out there, you can bet on it,’ said Mac.

‘I don’t want to bet on anything, McQueen. Understand?’ Sonny fi red back.

Mac could see why Cookie used him.

Sonny and his team were being called back by Cookie for a mining situation – something that required a little more pressure than the local cops could exert. They’d want to know that they’d taken care of their excess baggage problems before they left.

Mac had got Boo and his boys spared on the basis that they weren’t so unlike Sonny and his boys. Mac had had to work on that, emphasising that dead APS blokes would bring POLRI’s Criminal Investigation detectives in from Jakkers. But he didn’t know about the bloke in the luggage compartment.

They drove past the turn-off to a popular family swimming hole where the waterfall emptied straight into a big pool. Mac’s mind worked overtime, struggling to work out what Garrison and Sabaya were doing, what the missing container in Manila contained and why Garrison had Diane working as a double agent months before this thing had gone down. He had to stay clear on that without the feeling of betrayal muddying everything.

His immediate goal was to create a scenario where the guy in the back didn’t have to die.

Mac leaned forward, whispered in Sonny’s ear, ‘I reckon I can get something out of this bloke if we’re alone. You guys go on, leave him with me. Whaddya reckon?’

‘I don’t care if you want to fuck him, make him your missus. All I want is something I can take to Mr B. Got that?’

Mac nodded.

Sonny’s sat phone trilled and he took the call before passing it back to Mac.

‘Hello,’ Mac rasped.

Cookie Banderjong wanted Mac to stay in touch. Reckoned there was still life in the Garrison-Sabaya thing. Said, ‘Don’t be a stranger, mate. Remember your friends.’

Cookie was really saying, The trail’s dead for now but if you come back to this island, you’re dealing with me.

Mac’s head spun and he struggled to breathe properly.

As Cookie was signing off Mac had a sudden thought. ‘Mr B, if the US military is shipping something to Johnston, what are they doing?’ he said.

Cookie chuckled. ‘They’re burying their mistakes, mate.’

Mac said nothing; he was beyond riddles.

‘Johnston Atoll is a US Army base about two hundred miles south of Hawaii. It’s a huge incinerator plant out there in the Pacifi c. Hush-hush, run by DIA,’ said Cookie.

‘What do they burn?’ asked Mac.

‘All their CBNRE stuff – diseases that don’t work, explosives that don’t meet stability specs, dogs with two heads. All that scientist shit.’

Mac was totally awake again, his heart thumping.