‘The calls into those three numbers, in the time period specified, are as follows,’ said Leena, then read a list of just five numbers.
Mac thought back to Da Silva hurrying past him at the cafe in Dili and asked Leena to narrow the search to calls between seven and eight in the morning.
‘There’s one, at 7.41, to the office number in Dili,’ said Leena.
‘What’s the number?’ asked Mac, poised with his pen.
Mac jotted down a ‘361’ number – from Denpasar, on a landline.
‘Can we get an address on that number?’ asked Mac.
‘Already have it, Albion,’ said Leena. ‘It’s the Puputan Bakehouse, at -’
‘Thanks,’ Mac interrupted. ‘I know where it is.’
The Puputan Bakehouse was a coffee shop and deli just off Puputan Square, in the heart of Denpasar. It was a favourite for Anglos working in the area because of its superior coffee – and it was the main hangout of Martin Atkins.
‘Thanks, Leena,’ said Mac, feeling cornered.
‘There’s other activity on that line, close to the time of the Denpasar call,’ said Leena.
‘Yeah?’ he said, preoccupied.
‘Yes, Albion – an incoming call that lasted seventy-three seconds, six minutes after the one from the Puputan Bakehouse.’
‘Okay,’ murmured Mac, doodling on his pad. ‘What’s the number?’
As Leena read it out, Mac noticed something immediately. ‘Can you please check that prefix?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Albion – it’s an inactive satellite designation.’
‘Inactive?’ asked Mac.
‘It’s registered with the ITU, but unused. No other information,’ she said.
‘Thanks, mate,’ said Mac. ‘Great job, much appreciated.’
Hanging up, Mac checked his G-Shock – 11.12 pm, time for some fun with Harry Song, his contact at the International Telecommunications Union in Santa Clara.
‘Harry!’ yelled Mac, as his call was answered. ‘It’s Alan McQueen – how ya been?’
After a brief pause, Harry Song’s perfect diction chimed down the line. ‘I am well, thank you, Mr Mac. How are you today, sir?’
‘Any better and they’d have to lock me up,’ said Mac.
‘Glad to hear it, sir,’ said Harry.
Harry Song had gone to the United States to do a master’s degree at CalTech but he was still trapped in the Chinese system of manners and deportment. Mac liked to get him boozed and wind him up about what he should say into the listening devices the MSS kept planting in his house.
‘I need something, Harry,’ said Mac, pleasantries over.
‘Such a surprise,’ said Harry.
‘If I’m calling an 883 115 code, what am I calling?’
‘The first three numbers are a satellite phone designation, but that second series…’ Harry trailed off.
Mac listened to him walk across a room.
‘Okay, that 115 is inactive,’ said Harry.
‘Yeah, but it still works.’
‘Sure,’ said Harry.
‘Sure?’
‘Yeah, I’ve just looked it up, and that’s a calling code for Delta Telecoms Group, registered in Singapore,’ said Harry.
‘Delta? What is it?’ asked Mac.
‘It’s supposed to be confidential, Mr Mac,’ said Harry.
‘So, confide in me,’ said Mac.
‘Now you are taking a piss,’ said Harry.
‘The piss, Harry. The piss – and no, I’m not. It’s serious.’
‘I could lose my job, Mr Mac.’
‘Hey, mate – one door closes and another opens, right?’ said Mac, trying to keep him on the line. ‘Just like what I told you about that mother-in-law of yours, remember?’
‘What was it you said?’ asked Harry.
‘I said, Don’t let fear and inaction be the same thing.’
Harry laughed. ‘Yeah, and I said, You never met my mother-in-law, or you’d know that fear and inaction are the exact same thing.’
Mac changed tack. ‘Harry, I need this, okay?’
‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘Delta Telecom Group is on an inactive code because it’s government, military -’
‘Intelligence,’ said Mac.
‘Precisely,’ said Harry Song.
Mac ran the sat-phone number through his phone book and couldn’t find any matches. Most executive government, diplomatic, military and intelligence operatives used sat phones, and in Mac’s experience they were more widely used in South-East Asia than anywhere else. That number could have been Singaporean government, Korean military, Indonesian intelligence or any number of quasi-government bodies operating through corporate fronts with shady telecoms providers.
The Delta Telecoms Group did not come up with anything meaningful on Leena’s radar – it was a privately held corporation, operating in Singapore with Delaware trustees and British Virgin Islands bankers. Its postal address was the Singapore office of a global law firm. What cops called a cold trail.
Looking at his watch, Mac realised he had almost enough time to walk to the Puputan Bakehouse and have a quick chat with Dewi, the owner, before she shut at midnight.
Staying forty metres back, in the shadows, Mac felt the tail as soon as he left the Natour.
Having left his room without a firearm, Mac didn’t feel impregnable, but he didn’t feel threatened either. There was only one of them, and if his tasking was to shoot Mac, he would have done it in the grounds of the Natour, giving the shooter multiple exit routes. He wouldn’t be doing it out on the well-lit streets.
Turning left before his scheduled turn for the Bakehouse, Mac darted across the road and ducked behind a car. The tail followed around the corner without hesitation, so he obviously wasn’t a pro. He also wasn’t a he, judging by the female shape and gait under the loose jacket and jeans.
Watching the woman react to losing eyes on Mac, he stood slowly, not wanting to panic her.
‘Nice night,’ he said calmly, standing and walking between parked cars into the empty street.
The woman turned and froze, like a deer caught in the full beams.
‘It’s okay,’ said Mac, still approaching but holding his hands open. ‘But next time you want to ask me for a drink, there might be an easier way.’
Mid to late thirties, Javanese, her hair was pulled up in a chignon.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, genuinely embarrassed. ‘I’ve never done this before.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Mac. ‘It’s just that I prefer to meet people face to face rather than trying to speak through the back of my head.’
Now she laughed, and Mac could see a smart, beautiful, well-educated woman.
‘So, what’s up?’ asked Mac, looking to make sure there was no backup, no unmarked vans with mobile dental surgeries in the back.
‘My name is Chloe,’ she said. ‘I need to speak to you.’
‘Yes?’ said Mac, starting slightly as an engine revved down the road.
‘I work for the President, and -’
The revving engine screamed to a climax and Mac swivelled around to see a red Toyota Camry charging at forty-five degrees across the street.
As he dragged the woman to the ground behind a parked car, there was a loud screeching of metal as the car stopped twenty metres away. Mac peeked over the parked car and saw two men emerge from the Corolla with small machine-guns.
‘What’s happening?’ screamed Chloe, as Mac dragged her away by the hand. The sound of windows shattering and car alarms going off was punctuated by the hammering of two machine pistols blasting at full auto, as they sprinted.
Feeling a sharp knock in his left bicep, Mac increased their speed along the pavement as bullets ripped into cars, lamp-posts, trees and storefronts. About forty metres in front of them, Mac could see a side alley at ninety degrees to the street.
‘Let’s make it to the alley, okay, Chloe?’ he yelled over the gunfire.
Chloe whimpered as they turned into the alley and were plunged into the darkness of a no-nonsense Denpasar laneway. Stopping for a second, Mac tried to get his bearings. Then a bullet took a brick edge beside his shoulder and Mac raced forward, pulling the woman along through stinking puddles, slimy muck and boxes of garbage.