The navy girl kissed Mac on the cheek when it was her stop, said,
‘You’re sweet.’
Mac realised he didn’t want to sleep with her.
That made him smile.
Mac passed through the security section of the British Embassy in Jakarta. They’d scanned the Cordura carry-all he’d grabbed at Camp Enduring Freedom but they couldn’t fi nd any crime with the contents. They showed him through to a large, open-plan waiting area in the public partition where Mac sat on a chocolate brown leather sofa.
He leaned back, easing his hangover into the day. It was early afternoon, maybe the last afternoon he’d ever spend in Jakkers, and then he was on the evening Qantas fl ight into Sydney. There’d be one stop after this, at the Aussie Embassy. Then a whole new life.
Three minutes later a middle-aged bloke came out. Pale blue cotton Oxford shirt, dark, expensive slacks and black lace-up shoes.
He introduced himself as Martin Cottleswaine.
To Mac he’d always be Beefy.
‘Told you I look better in my goldilocks, didn’t I?’ said Mac as they shook.
‘I never had a doubt,’ said the Brit, also smiling.
Mac thanked him for meeting him, gave him a vague rendition of what Paul and he had been up to with the Americans. Beefy raised his eyebrows and followed British protocol for discussing any countryman in a military or intelligence capacity. ‘Didn’t know one of ours was in that.’
Mac had tracked down Beefy from his recollection of the guy’s name-tag. Mac had given ‘cottage’ and then ‘cotton’ to the switch woman, and the trail had led them to Beefy.
Mac leaned over, unzipped the carry-all, pulled the envelope out and showed Beefy the contents. Pushing the sides of the carry-all down, he also showed Beefy the gold brick. Away from other bricks of the same size, it now looked enormous.
Beefy’s mouth dropped slightly. Years as a Customs guy, but some things still surprised. He looked at Mac. ‘How can I help?’
‘The Americans pitch in and send a fallen comrade home with what they call a pension.’
Beefy smiled. ‘Tax-free, you mean?’
Mac shrugged. ‘The tradition is that the body bag or the casket doesn’t get opened until Mum or the wife opens it. Last perk left in American life.’
Mac watched Beefy take a deep breath. He was a Customs guy, an embassy guy, a guy totally with the program.
‘Mate, this isn’t for me,’ said Mac. ‘He’s one of yours and he went down fi ghting.’
Mac looked away, the whole thing affecting him deeper than it should have. ‘Good bloke too.’
‘It’s technically income,’ said Beefy, looking at Mac, ‘but only if he declares it. Right?’
They looked at each other.
‘Ex-Army?’ asked Mac.
‘Fuck off.’
‘The way you walked…’
‘Royal Marines, squire,’ said Beefy.
Mac smiled. ‘Same here.’
‘Where’d you train?’ said Beefy, suspicious.
‘Lympstone, mainly. Did Brunei with the SBS.’
‘Ever see a feller mark a map?’ said Beefy, squinting.
Mac laughed. ‘Sure did.’
‘What’d the instructors call him?’
Mac thought for a second, suddenly remembered. ‘Cunt-hooks.’
‘That’s the one,’ said Beefy, laughing.
They talked and laughed some more, then Beefy let out a hiss of air. Shook his head, leaned on his knees, looked away. Mac thought he heard him mumble Fuck’s sake to himself.
Beefy turned back. ‘Okay. I’ll sort it.’
Mac still had valid credentials at the Aussie Embassy security section.
The place had been battened down after the bombing in ‘04. Mac didn’t have his security pass but Ollie – an APS bloke in the foyer – knew him and they had a temporary pass issued very quickly.
Mac didn’t have much to clean out. He used shared offi ce space in one of those hotel systems. He’d never been much of an offi ce guy. All his reports were backed up on a hard drive somewhere and he didn’t keep a diary, didn’t have an appointment book.
His cover documents were mostly sitting in a make-believe offi ce downtown, at Southern Scholastic. The corporate bunting of his forestry consulting cover was in an offi ce park in north Jakarta.
He assumed it had already been cleaned out, handed over to a new pretend-businessperson. Someone else would get to do their bit, take their shot.
He walked the stairs. Got to the fi fth fl oor, turned left and made for the intelligence section.
The door was open. He paused, looked in, said, ‘Can a bloke get a cup of tea round here?’
Anton Garvey looked up from his laptop, took off his half-glasses.
He’d aged ten years since Mac saw him last, seemed to have lost his tan.
A new kind of stress. The kind that takes your fi re.
They made small talk in the kitchenette. Mac used his mug, the one with Proserpine Brahmans JRLFC and a picture of a bull. Every time Mac went back to Airlie to see his folks, Frank hit him with more Brahmans fundraising paraphernalia for the team he coached.
They got back to Garvs’ offi ce, which looked over the back of the embassy. Garvs shut the door, eased his charcoal suit into leather.
‘So, Mr Macca. How’d you know?’
Mac shrugged.
‘That Pommie bloke, Paul?’
Mac looked into his tea. ‘Paul didn’t make it.’
Garvs nodded. ‘Heard a British national had been shot. Didn’t know it was him.’
‘Yep. Bought one in the chest from Sabaya’s people. Those kevlar vests sure don’t make you bullet-proof.’
Garvs snorted. Mac eyeballed him, realising Garvs’ sole focus was his own ambitions.
‘He was a good operator, mate. Brave as,’ said Mac.
Garvs slurped tea, shrugged. ‘So if it wasn’t him, how’d you know?’
‘You were too personal about the way I slipped that phone,’ said Mac.
‘Go on,’ said Garvs, looking genuinely amused.
‘The way you looked at me at the Lagerhaus that night you wanted me out of Jakkers. It wasn’t about breaking the rules, it was someone who’d been personally inconvenienced. Maybe humiliated.’
Garvs looked at the ceiling like he was weighing something.
Looked at Mac. ‘Ah, yes. That’s a fair refl ection.’
‘There was also the Bartook Special Mint wrappers.’
Garvs laughed. ‘Damn, you’re good!’
‘Wasn’t the wrappers as such, but the way you tear the main wrapper in a long thin spiral. Found that in the Palopo hotel and in the silver Accord.’
Garvs shut his eyes, chuckled, shook his head like Macca is such a hard-case.
‘Something else,’ said Mac, adopting his interrogation poker face.
‘I found one of your wrappers up at the depot in Sabulu.’
Garvs sniggered, shrugged.
‘So I guess you knew Judith Hannah was up there, huh? Becomes clear why you didn’t want me talking to her.’
Garvs averted his eyes and made no comment. The hidden mics couldn’t record what wasn’t said.
‘You know,’ said Mac. ‘You gonna be the bag-man for Urquhart, you’ll have to decide if you’re offi ce guy or fi eld guy. Know that, don’t you?’
‘Mate, let’s not get catty,’ said Garvs, hurt.
‘That was the plan, though, wasn’t it, Garvs? It’s like, “Holy shit
– Tobin’s gone and fucked it all up. Brought Macca into this Judith Hannah shit. Right as Singapore is about to go down. Let’s make sure he stays in Sulawesi for a while. Make it almost impossible to fi nd Hannah. Keep him out of Singers.”’
Garvs picked up a Parker pen, played with it end over end. Classic tell for a man who wanted to illustrate more control than he felt.
‘Well, Macca, that’s quite a story.’
‘Yeah, silly old Tobin,’ Mac continued. ‘Labouring under this delusion that he should be getting a missing Service girl back from Sulawesi. But Dave Urquhart has a whole other political mission, doesn’t he, Garvs? And it’s really, really serious stuff. Big-boy work.
Not like Judith. And he needs his own bloke in the Service to do his dirty work, doesn’t he, Garvs?’