The gates swung inwards as Bongo climbed back in the van, and they accelerated up the gravel driveway towards the large colonial mansion.
Driving around the back, Mac pulled to a halt in the rear courtyard, between the house and stables.
‘Let’s go, said Bongo, grabbing the manila envelope. ‘Straight up, brother – no toilet stops.’
Grabbing his A4 and following Bongo up the back step and straight into the storage and kitchen area of the house, they ran into a middle-aged woman rolling pastries. Bongo gave her the ‘zipped lips’ sign and they moved through the reception area and up the wraparound stairs.
On the first-floor landing Bongo grabbed Mac’s arm and they crept down the hall, following a maid into a room. Looking around the corner they found an enormous bedroom with high ceilings and four French doors opening onto a large balcony. Bongo charmed the maid very quickly and then she was rubbing her hands down her apron and shrugging as she answered him.
Vaulting down the stairs, they turned left at the bottom and found a heavyset man standing in front of them, eyes wide. As he reached for his shoulder holster, Bongo lifted the suppressed A4 and popped him in the chest and the head.
Racing outside, they came to a large swimming pool, three white recliners along one side, two of them occupied.
Walking up to one of the sunbathers – a naked young man with a NY Yankees cap – Bongo rested the barrel of the A4 on the bloke’s throat.
‘Where’s Haryono?’ said Bongo, mouth chewing on gum.
Freezing but not letting the smile go from his face, the man raised his hands slightly as Mac pointed his own rifle at the other young sunbather, who was panicking.
‘Don’t know,’ said NY Yankee in good English.
‘Start knowing, real fast. He might like to see these before they go to Kopassus command,’ said Bongo, throwing the manila envelope on the man’s stomach.
‘Well, well,’ said NY Yankee, looking at the eight-by-fives. ‘Some blackmail. Just what I expected from Bongo Morales. Still entrapping politicians at the Lar? Or was it the Marriott?
‘Don’t worry about the questions, brother – where’s Ishy?’
‘Gone,’ said the young man, gaining confidence. ‘You enjoy your work, Bongo? Like the faggots?’
‘It’s only a cock, right?’ said Bongo, sliding the A4 muzzle down to the man’s penis.
Gulping, NY Yankee looked up at Bongo. ‘Umm…’
Cocking the A4, Bongo pushed down. ‘I mean, there’s nothing special about it, right?’ Nodding, Bongo drew Mac’s attention to a military jacket and pants draped on the third recliner. ‘You’re a Kopassus captain?’ said Bongo, as the other sunbather pulled a towel up under his chin.
‘Maybe.’
‘Might give you a new nickname – Kapten One-Ball,’ said Bongo, smiling.
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ said the captain. ‘Your life would be worth nothing.’
‘Where’s Haryono?’
‘Go to hell,’ said the captain.
After a short pause, Bongo fired the A4 and the captain leapt up, wide-eyed. The shot had gone between his legs, but he still looked to check.
‘He’s gone to Tim-Tim, this morning,’ he said quickly.
Rubbing his chin, Bongo looked at the captain’s clothes. ‘So he’s gone to run Boa, but he leaves you here to look after things?’
‘I don’t know anything,’ said the captain.
‘I bet you know the codes for Boa, right?’ insisted Bongo, A4 lowering towards the captain’s penis again.
‘I don’t know…’ said the captain, as a bullet from Bongo’s gun pinged off the concrete poolside area with a loud bang.
‘You’re his second-in-command, aren’t you, captain?’ said Bongo. ‘I bet you could call off Boa from here if you wanted?’
Feeling himself getting closer to criminal charges and ejection from ASIS, the bile came up in Mac’s throat as the stand-off continued. Bongo had a calm yet unpredictable quality to him – the situation might end in a number of ways.
‘I can’t do that,’ shrugged the captain, now openly scared.
‘Can’t or won’t?’ asked Bongo.
‘Can’t,’ said the captain. ‘We’re not running it anymore.’
‘So who is?’ asked Mac.
‘The American,’ said the captain.
‘Which American?’ asked Mac.
‘I don’t know – he call himself Champion and he from US intelligence.’
CHAPTER 63
They drove into Denpasar with a number of theories but no solid plan. Only one man could have been American intelligence’s inside guy on Operasi Boa, and that was Jim. Mac had seen some things with the American spook that didn’t always add up, such as his insistence that he travel with Mac to Dili, the incomplete briefing on Lombok AgriCorp and the washed file on Lee Wa Dae, which concealed his true role.
Mac now had to face the American, expose him and get him to stop Boa, turn the helos around.
‘Okay, so let’s run it through,’ said Mac as he drove and tried to perfect their arrival at DIA. ‘Give me four minutes, and then ring that number, ask for Champion and say -’
‘I say, “Champion, we’ve found another copy of Operasi Boa – the owner is threatening to send it to the Washington Post,”’ said Bongo, looking at the phone number Haryono’s captain had given them.
‘So you already had this number?’ asked Bongo. ‘Where from?’
‘Isolated it last night,’ said Mac, his mind racing. ‘It was the number that called Augusto Da Silva yesterday morning, right after he got the call from Atkins.’
‘So whoever called Da Silva that morning also asked him to burn the Operasi Boa file?’
‘I’m sure of it,’ said Mac. ‘I should have seen it last night – that number is an inactive satellite number and it’s linked to the classic US intelligence fronts.’
‘Which are?’ said Bongo.
‘Delaware trustee, bank in the BVI and registered company care of the Singapore branch of an international law firm, Baxter & Menzies,’ said Mac, pulling into a parking space down the street from the DIA offices.
Casing the street for eyes, they slowed their breathing as they sat in the van.
‘This office is a little piece of the Pentagon,’ said Mac as he pulled off his cable-guy overalls. ‘I don’t want you storming the ramparts, doing that Filipino macho shit, okay?’
‘Okay, boss,’ said Bongo, as Mac called Jim on his Nokia and was invited up.
Walking into Jim’s office, Mac got a friendly welcome and the offer of coffee. CNN’s footage of total anarchy in East Timor blasted on the TV in Jim’s office and they watched in silence. The ballot result had been announced and the reprisals had already begun.
‘I’m sorry we couldn’t stop Boa,’ said Jim through his teeth. ‘What a dog of thing!’
‘I need to talk to you about that,’ said Mac.
‘Yeah?’ asked Jim, watching the images on TV.
‘Yeah, mate,’ said Mac. ‘You know the Indonesian military calls you D-Dua Puluh?’
‘What’s that?’ asked Jim.
‘Translated, it’s D20,’ said Mac, ruing the opportunity lost when the Canadian reported the generals talking about Deetupelo. ‘It’s an intelligence joke.’
Taking a black texta, Mac wrote ‘XX’ on the white board. ‘Latin for twenty, right?’
‘I guess,’ said Jim.
‘The Bahasa Indonesia for twenty is dua puluh. To Anglo ears it sounds like Tupelo.’
‘So?’
‘So, it’s two crosses – a double-cross. In the Second World War, British intelligence ran double agents in Nazi-occupied Europe, and the committee running them was called the Twenty.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about, McQueen?’ snapped the American.
‘The generals, in Dili, called you D-Dua Puluh – D20. At first I thought it meant a double agent in Dili, but half an hour ago I realised it was Haryono’s double agent in Denpasar.’