Mark Abernethy - Golden Serpent

‘See what you mean.’

Mac felt he’d done his bit, helped out a fellow professional. But Don wasn’t fi nished with him.

‘Look, I thought we could use a Sabaya expert. Most of your calls have been correct so far,’ said Don, almost sheepish. A big change of attitude.

‘What, you want me by the phone for the next couple of days?’

‘Umm, no. I was hoping we could get you on the bird with Sawtell’s unit?’

Mac hissed air, neither body nor mind up for this. ‘I would, but I’ve got things to sort out with the embassy, and -‘

‘All done,’ said Don.

‘All done?’

‘Yeah – sorry, McQueen. I took the liberty. Forgive me, willya? I’ll buy you a beer sometime.’

Don was in a tough place, to be throwing a beer into the deal.

‘You took the liberty?’ asked Mac.

‘Umm, yeah. You’re seconded. Call it a specialist rotation.’

Mac laughed. ‘Where?’

‘Halim. Noon. Firefl y.’

It was 8.36 am. Mac had a few hours up his sleeve before he had to make for Halim on the outskirts of Jakarta. He dialled the number Paul had left and waited. It went to voicemail. He rang off and checked on the ovies to see if they were dry.

Mac’s Nokia rang as he was looking for a wayward sock in the dryer.

Jogging into the kitchen, he leaned over and grabbed the phone.

‘Davis.’

‘Hi sweetheart, get the fl owers?’ It was Paul.

‘Oh those were fl owers? Sorry, just wiped my arse with them,’ said Mac, thinking Paul was sounding alert for a guy with a gunshot wound.

‘Mate, thought you might like to come down and have a chat with a new addition to the team?’ said Paul.

‘Voluntary new addition?’ asked Mac.

‘Haven’t decided yet, mate. Come down, have a natter.’

The address was four blocks from Jenny’s. Paul had a subject in what they called a ‘cabin’. It was like a safehouse, except in a cabin you generally interrogated people. There was nothing safe about it.

Mac stretched out as he walked. He had his ovies and Hi-Tecs on but no Heckler.

The address was a duplex on a quiet, tree-lined sidestreet away from the main boulevards. Mac knocked, saw an eye fl ash over the peep hole. Someone had been standing or sitting right there.

The door opened. A burly bloke with a holster pouch around his middle stepped out and gestured for a pat-down. Mac submitted.

Bloke checked in and behind his ears too then ushered him through.

‘They’re in the living room, sir.’

Mac clocked Paul and two other men: trop shirts, hip rigs. Clean-cut, athletically built. Sitting on coffee tables and chairs, they were gathered around something of interest. Not a TV, but a blonde woman wearing jeans and a pale blue polo shirt. Very good-looking, curvy.

Big black eye. Bruised neck.

All eyes turned to Mac, his eyes on Diane.

She smiled up at him, embarrassed, then looked away. It was obvious she hadn’t had much sleep last night. He wondered if the lads had been taking turns winding her up, getting her to slip in her story.

Paul stood, hooked Mac by the arm. ‘Time for a cuppa, yeah?’

‘What’s the story?’ asked Mac after Paul closed the kitchen door.

Paul’s nose strap was new, the black eye was subsiding and he was moving freely despite the rib wound.

‘Her name’s Diane,’ said Paul. ‘Been working for us on the Garrison thing. Allegedly.’

‘What’s she doing here?’

Paul gave him the look. The don’t shit me look. ‘This is the bird you were asking me about, right?’

Mac shrugged.

‘You asked me if our side had someone infi ltrated to Garrison, remember? I said I didn’t know,’ said Paul.

‘Yeah, got ya,’ said Mac.

‘That’s her, mate,’ said Paul, jigging his thumb over his shoulder.

Paul and Mac looked at one another. At every meeting of even friendly intel types, there was a point where you had to decide if you were going to divulge, or bullshit.

Mac’s brain spun. He decided to half-divulge, see what it would fl ush out. ‘You know, I thought she was a double,’ he said.

‘For who?’ asked Paul.

Mac smiled at him. The Poms knew Mac had been sleeping with her. Must have. They had him logged going into the British compound, they had Carl to debrief, they had tapes logged of Mac’s night in the cottage. They had prints and DNA, if that’s what they wanted.

‘Well, put it this way, mate,’ said Mac. ‘She was enlisting me but actually working with Garrison.’

‘Coincidence. I mean, you’re gorgeous. Not that you’re my type.’

Mac sniggered. ‘She was enlisting me while I was being stalked by Garrison and Sabaya.’

Paul nodded. ‘She was driving that BMW, too, right?’

‘Didn’t see her struggling to escape her captors,’ said Mac.

‘And according to Wylie, she was driving the tender craft that took Garrison and Sabaya and the Canadian hostage to Brani.’

Mac had said enough, now he wanted answers. ‘So she’s working for you lot? What capacity?’

‘Then I’d have to kill ya.’

‘Where’d you pick her up?’

‘POLRI found her wandering around on the road to Bogor. She was disoriented.’

‘Beaten up you mean? You guys do that?’

‘Nah, mate. Sri – the big one with the white shirt – he reckons it’s scopolamine. Something like that.’

‘That’s what they did to Judith Hannah,’ said Mac.

Paul poured the tea. ‘Thought you might like a chat with her?’

‘Why?’

‘She might open up to you.’

‘Why? She was just playing me.’

‘Never know, mate.’

The fact Paul had even got him down to another outfi t’s cabin was a big fi rst step. The way it worked was Mac was supposed to reciprocate. Show good faith.

Mac jiggled his tea bag. ‘What are we trying to fi nd out?’

Paul shrugged. ‘Usual. Is she one of ours? Is she doubled? What does she know about Garrison and Sabaya’s plans that we should know? Just a reminder that that’s what she was sent out to do.’

‘What do we know so far?’ asked Mac.

‘You’re right about Brani Island and that ship. Something is going on there. She said they called it ‘the stuff’. She doesn’t know what they’ve taken off with. But they did take off with something from Golden Serpent, according to her. They called it the insurance policy.’

‘She’s telling the truth in one regard. The US Army has lost a VX bomb during the hostage drama.’

‘Okay. That’s one tick for her. She says she was a hostage after that.’

‘She didn’t look too scared in that BMW,’ said Mac.

‘Well this is it, mate. She reckons they injected her with the scopolamine and interrogated her on the road to Bogor. The goons wanted her dead. Garrison saved her. Had some theory about how he doesn’t kill his lovers.’

‘Man of integrity.’

‘Real gentleman.’

‘Sounds like you got it all, mate,’ said Mac.

‘It’s not adding up for us. Have a crack?’

‘Can I do it without an audience?’ asked Mac.

‘Sure. We’ll be on the patio.’

Diane curled her legs under herself and turned to Mac on the sofa beside her. ‘So, don’t tell me – you’re the good cop, right?’

Mac looked at her, stony-faced.

‘This is shit. I should be in a hospital, Richard. Not putting up with this sexist crap!’

She yelled it so the blokes on the patio could hear. The one called Sri turned, looked in through the glass and went back to his tea.

Mac realised he still liked her. ‘Sexist?’

‘They train us up, just like the blokes. They assign us, just like the blokes. They even pay us the same. But when it comes down to it, as soon as they ask you to infi ltrate a man’ – she curled her fi ngers over, making inverted commas – ‘then you’re a slut.’