Mark Abernethy - Golden Serpent

‘Thanks, General. Thanks, Don. It’s been fun. Hope you resolve this whole mess,’ said Mac.

When the two Americans had left him alone, Mac eased back in the seat. It was over. He’d taken his shot, got Judith Hannah back to the clubhouse. He’d put the loose ends together in what might become one of South-East Asia’s defi ning moments. He’d saved a British spook’s life. He’d killed a man, by mistake. Killed another for good reason. Been put in hock to Cookie B.

Had his heart broken.

The Chinook peeled away from the group. He looked to his right through the window, saw the other helos keep tramping for Singers and had a brief fl ap of fear and hope for Sawtell and his boys. He’d found Captain Sawtell a bit robotic and terse in the early days. But they’d forged a friendship of sorts. They’d been on the same side in two gunfi ghts now, and in the world Sawtell inhabited, men didn’t get much closer than that.

Mac closed his eyes.

Mac had grabbed some sleep and was now watching CNN. The main story of the hour was the International Maritime Organisation security committee annual conference in Singapore. The theme was Maritime Security: Asia fi xing an Asian problem. He waited for the news fl ashes and the ticker along the base of the screen but there was nothing on Golden Serpent. It was just before eight am and he guessed the incident at Keppel Terminal might still be under wraps.

He sat in an offi ce at Halim Air Base, on the outskirts of Jakarta. The white, square two-storey building was an international cooperation zone used by foreign spooks, diplomats and military types as a forward staging area for all sorts of comings and goings. Australian law could be applied in the zone, so someone like Mac could be arrested by the AFP just as if it were happening in St Kilda. He was resigned to that.

Through the open venetians, the sun was coming up. An APS bloke called Nigel was next door, in a secretarial area, trying to talk surreptitiously into the phone. It was the third call he’d made and Mac could guess what was being said at the other end as he listened to Nigel.

‘Well, yeah. I mean, he’s here.’

Silence.

‘Davis.’

Silence.

‘No, he’s okay. Friendly.’

Silence.

‘Okay, okay. Don’t worry, he’s not moving around.’

Silence.

‘No one else is here.’

Silence.

‘Just the cuffs.’

Silence.

‘Okay, I got that. But he’s not going anywhere, I mean -‘

Silence.

‘Only got one set. Actually, there’s more in the car…’

Silence.

‘Okay, okay. I’ll stay with him.’

Mac chuckled. The APS guy was big and built. He was straightforward too, probably recruited from a detectives’ room in Brisbane or Perth. Mac had already seen three chances to incapacitate him, get the cuff keys from the leather pouch on his belt, take his Glock and get on the run again. He could even have switched into the bloke’s blue ovies, taken his cap and his Commodore, driven out the security gates like he did this for a living.

But it wasn’t going to happen. Mac’s wrist was playing up and he’d asked Nigel to secure him at the ankles.

Nigel came into the offi ce, put a mug of tea on the fake wood-grain desk beside Mac, keeping his distance, his hand unconsciously dropping to the Glock on his right hip.

‘Cheers, mate,’ said Mac.

‘No worries.’

Mac checked out the mug he’d scored. ‘Couldn’t have got something even more appropriate, could ya?’

He turned the mug to Nigel. It said All Men Are Bastards.

Nigel laughed. ‘Sorry, mate. Secretaries!’

The CNN story churned on. They had a reporter called Stan in front of what looked like the convention centre at Raffl es City. Stan seemed excited… still no confi rmation, Betty, but insiders at this IMO security conference are telling us to expect a surprise guest speaker this morning. The military are already moving people back and it looks like we’re going to have half the downtown area shut down for this.

And I can inform our viewers that the worst-kept secret around here is that we’ll be hearing from the Chinese Army’s Xiong Ming…

The anchor, Betty, cut over, And who is Xiong Ming?

… Betty, he’s the PLA’s Supreme Marshal and as such he controls the PLA General Staff. The PLA General Staff is enormously powerful – it’s military, of course, but it’s also political, economic and social. The PLA General Staff has an infl uence over all Chinese government policy and -

So what’s he doing in Singapore for this conference? asked Betty.

Betty, we can only guess at what Xiong Ming is going to say. But the fi rst point is that Xiong is not known for public appearances, and it’s rumoured that he’s never left mainland China in a declared manner. Secondly, we know Xiong has been the loudest voice in the East Asian area for a concerted military approach to maritime security in the South China Sea and Malacca Strait. Xiong was one of the architects behind the push for the Chinese naval base on the Spratlys and he’s considered more of a hawk in maritime matters than even the Americans. So – because this is an IMO security conference – insiders are expecting him to spell out the Chinese vision for secure trade in the future. Singapore is buzzing with the rumour that Xiong is going to publicly – for the fi rst time – advocate an offi cial Chinese naval presence in Singapore. If that’s what he does, it’s worth noting that he’s also the senior voice in Beijing for a ‘Greater China’ policy. Betty…

The shot was on the anchor again, who thanked the reporter and segued into a story about a new tollway.

Mac liked hearing Stan in the mornings. The Aussie accent and everything. But the story itself worried him. Xiong was an immensely powerful fi gure in Beijing and his Greater China outlook even scared a lot of the political hard-heads of the Communist Party. Xiong speaking at an IMO conference in Singapore was symbolic and Mac hoped the speech wasn’t about naval bases. He didn’t think the Singaporean police were going to like the story either. If Xiong was fl ying in and it was already being broadcast as a rumour, the police would go to controlled airspace, a total hassle for any law enforcement or civil aviation type. They’d be doing that while also trying to deal with Golden Serpent down at Keppel.

Mac could just sense some of the outbursts and recriminations being fl ung around down at MPA operations centre right now. Hatfi eld saying, Where’s your Em-Con? Who’s in charge? The Singaporeans saying, How do you lose one hundred and eighty bombs loaded with VX nerve agent?

‘Politicians are all the same, aren’t they?’ said Nigel, snorting.

‘Doesn’t matter what language they speak, they’re always talking about what they’re not talking about. Know what I mean?’

Mac smiled. Knew what he meant.

It was 8.20 am when Garvey turned up, Nigel walking him through to where Mac was. Mac put down the new IBM mug he’d been given.

‘Garvs. ‘Zit going, champ?’

Garvey put his hands on his hips. No shake. Looked around the offi ce, nodding his head. Looked at Mac.

‘What? No broken wrists? A bullet wound, perhaps? Not losing your edge are ya, mate?’

Mac smiled. No heart in it.

‘Saw Marlon last night. Down at MMC,’ said Garvs.

MMC was the Jakarta hospital used by Americans and Australians.

‘How was he?’ asked Mac.

‘Oh, I dunno, worried about the shoulder reconstruction.

Worried that his kids might be worrying about their dad. That sort of thing.’

As Garvey moved to sit on the desk, Mac noticed a Glock on his hip, under his shirt.

‘Didn’t know you were S-2, Garvs.’