‘Shit!’ said Mac. When a project was stamped ‘US Eyes Only’, the problem became political.
‘It gets better,’ said Johnson.
‘Tell me,’ said Mac, his dream of doubling Dr Lao all but gone. There was no way they could put a Chinese spy with that sort of information back into circulation in the hope that he wouldn’t blab to his Beijing masters. It wasn’t worth the risk — not to Australian military security and certainly not to the US — Australian alliance.
‘Ray’s asked him how come the Australian outback. Why not Alaska, New Mexico?’
‘And?’ said Mac as the sound of laughter roared out of the speakers.
‘He says, “Nah — America full of Chinese spies.”’
‘Funny guy,’ said Mac, grabbing his handgun from under the sofa cushion.
Matt held up his hand. ‘He’s saying, “Aussie intel is only interested in beer and girls — we can be using the beta telemetry even before the Pentagon sees it.”’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Mac, checking his Heckler & Koch P9s for load and safety. ‘I’ll let ASIO know they have a fan club. Matt, get on the phone, tell Doug at the embassy to fast-track an extradition order for Xiang Lao. Make sure he gets the address and date of birth correct, okay?’
Johnson reached for the phone.
‘Isla, we need an AFP agent here now.’
‘We going to arrest him?’ said Dunford.
‘We need to formally arrest Lao for terrorism financing and conspiracy, and then we’ll trigger the transnational crime MOU with Singers,’ said Mac, trying to stay one step ahead of the game. ‘Don’t use Doug for that one — go straight to Tommy in legal. The Memorandum of Understanding needs to be cited and acknowledged by Singapore Police within twelve hours of the arrest, so shake a leg.’
‘Sure, boss,’ said Isla, standing and holstering her handgun.
‘This is now about containment,’ said Mac, moving towards the door as he shoved the Heckler into his waistband. ‘I don’t want that little weasel telling his secrets to some Chinese consular lawyer. If we do our job, the tests go ahead in the desert without any Chinese nosey-pokes.’
Looking back as he opened the suite’s door, Mac saw Dunford looking down through the window. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Yeah, the SingTel van’s gone. One less thing, huh?’
Mac stepped into the corridor of the fifteenth floor, approached 1502 and slowed, readying to go through that door and shut down Kava.
As he paused, he sensed movement from his right and then someone grabbed him by the hair. Knocked off balance, Mac tried to turn but his head was smashed hard against the hotel wall. Bouncing off the wallpaper, stunned, he was kicked hard in the solar plexus — so hard he doubled over. The hand grabbed his hair again and pushed him upright into the hessian-covered wall and a suppressed handgun was jammed into the back of his mouth.
Unblinking eyes stared out of a black ski-mask as a second man disarmed him and took the door card from his hand. The silencer drove further into the back of Mac’s throat, choking him and pinning him to the wall, making his eyes water. Lifting his knee reflexively, Mac thought about lashing out but his captor cocked the action on the 9mm handgun and pushed harder.
Mac watched in mute horror as the second shooter pushed the door card into 1502 and entered with the elongated handgun held down his thigh. Half a second later there were four popping sounds that Mac recognised as suppressed small-arms fire. Then the shooter was back in the corridor, walking up to Mac as he shoved a handful of casings into his left pocket.
Thinking he was about to be executed, Mac started his prayers as he panted for breath. But the second shooter didn’t level his gun — he raised it quickly and brought it down hard above Mac’s left ear.
Mac’s last thought before he blacked out was: Red overalls — red SingTel overalls.
Chapter 3
The Qantas 747’s engines changed tone as the plane banked for the final approach to Brisbane. It was a little after 6.40 am and to Mac’s left the Pacific Ocean wore a pink and purple halo, waiting for the sun to peek over the edge and turn up the heat.
He’d spent the last twelve hours reliving the scene in the hallway of the Pan Pac and berating himself. He’d seen the SingTel van on Raffles Boulevard, he’d noticed something wrong about one of the technicians, and he hadn’t acted. The old Mac would have gone into counter-measures, regardless of how unnecessary it seemed to those around him. But he’d let it slide and the price to pay was Ray Hu slumped in a hotel chair with bullet holes in the forehead and heart. Ray, who’d taught him the intricacies of banking and funds transfers in Asia; Ray, who knew exactly which corporate tax scams were being pulled by which accountants and bankers; flat-footed, desk-jockey Ray, who’d once held a gun to a bunch of thugs who’d cornered Mac in an apartment in Pandang — the chubby banker had stood tough even when he was shitting himself.
Catching his own eye in the reflection of the window, Mac turned away. His return to the Firm had been as a manager in Operations, a step up from his previous career as a field agent embedded in companies that operated across South-East Asia. As a vice-president of sales for Southern Scholastic Books, or as an executive with Gondwanda Consulting, Mac had been under constant stress, knowing that at any moment the Indonesians or Chinese might discover his real identity and whack him. But in that role he hadn’t been responsible for others. Now he was running operations and managing teams, and his first assignment had ended in a double murder.
The ice he held in a plastic bag against his left eye socket was melting and the second round of Nurofens he’d gulped down an hour earlier wasn’t doing much for the vein that throbbed against his cheekbone or the egg that was still growing above his left ear. Mac had never had a headache quite as bad as waking up in a hot tent with a rum hangover, but this was running a close second.
‘Can I take that, Mr Davis?’ asked the hostie, and Mac handed over the ice bag, which he’d wrapped in a business-class face cloth. He wasn’t just embarrassed about the shiner; people with concussion weren’t supposed to fly long distances, and he hadn’t wanted a bright-eyed hostie trying to throw the medical rule book at him. He’d have plenty of that waiting for him at home when Jen lectured him about how a father of two young daughters shouldn’t be playing dice with aneurisms.
Emerging from the customs hall with his black wheelie bag, he spotted a small ‘Davis’ sign above the crowd and headed for the casually dressed man who held it aloft.
‘Mr Davis!’ said the man. ‘Welcome back, sir — the name’s Kendall, the car’s this way.’
Mac let himself into the back seat of the white Holden Statesman standing at the apron.
Waiting in the back seat was Greg Tobin, the Firm’s immaculately groomed director of operations for Asia-Pacific. ‘Macca! Been in the wars, old man?’
‘Something like that, Greg,’ said Mac, shaking Tobin’s strong, soft hand. ‘How are things?’
Greg Tobin was only a year or two older than Mac but he’d succeeded the former director of operations, Tony Davidson, in the year he turned forty — an unprecedented elevation to run what was Australia’s most important espionage territory. Mac remembered Tobin from the University of Queensland, where he was studying law and dabbling in conservative politics. Even then there’d been something of the born-to-rule about the tall, athletic form of Greg Tobin. He was the sort of person who compelled smarter people to listen to him, then do as he said, and he did it with a combination of charm and authority. Even on the greasy pole of Canberra, Tobin had a reputation for never losing his temper.