A black and white photo of a group of men looking serious, standing around a strategy table. It featured a younger short-back-and-sides Cookie with a man who might have been Alexander Haig.
Cookie called for tea and came over to the sofa, saw Mac checking the walls.
‘So you’re ASIS?’
Mac didn’t respond. In any other company he’d have done the old then I’d have to kill you. But he wasn’t going to say that to Cookie Banderjong. Not here. Not in front of Sonny.
‘You’ll like this one,’ said Cookie, moving to a picture on the wall.
He took it down and gave it to Mac. It showed two men of similar age talking to one another in what looked like a banquet hall. A Chinese banquet hall. Communist Party dog collars and Liberation Army fruit salad displays fi lled the background. The two men in the foreground were in suits and ties: Cookie animated, the other man sullen but intent. The unmistakable face of Vladimir Putin.
Mac smiled. ‘Where and when?’
‘Beijing, ‘93,’ said Cookie. ‘I went through our surveillance footage with the technical guys after the dinner – as you do – and there was this one. He was such a strange guy: very smart, very intense. He was nothing then, just one of those over-serious Commies with the Russian legation.’
‘You guys got a camera into a Chinese state function?’ Mac chortled. ‘Are you fucking nuts?’
‘Only when I drink.’
They shared a laugh. It was funny. But Cookie was also pulling rank, showing Mac that he was hardcore. The real thing – a bloke who could waltz into Beijing and pull counter-surveillance on the MSS, on their own patch.
Cookie warmed to the story. ‘I saw Putin on the news a few years ago when he became president, and I’m like Holy shit – I know that prick.
Went back to the old surveillance prints, pulled some strings and got that little beauty on my wall.’
Mac was being played. He handed back the picture and Cookie gave him the wink.
The tea came through with the housemaid and kids’ screams echoed through the open door.
‘Thanks, Rosie – and tell those kids if I have to come down there I’ll take the damn PlayStation and chuck it in the bin. Okay?’
Cookie eased back into the sofa. The enlistment was over, his face slackened a bit. ‘What have we got down there, Mac? And what’s in it for me?’
Mac told Cookie as much as he could about Judith Hannah and Peter Garrison. Mentioned the ambush in Makassar, but not that he thought it was Canberra-connected.
Cookie squinted at Mac. ‘This Garrison, is that the northern Pakistan Garrison? The police compound guy?’
Mac nodded. ‘Drugs for guns for gold. A clever guy, good at playing everyone off.’
‘That wasn’t a terrorist attack, was it?’ Cookie smiled but with no conviction.
‘Nah. Garrison called in an air strike far as we could see.’
Cookie looked out on the valley. ‘And Garrison’s still Agency?’
‘I was briefed three nights ago, and they were claiming him then,’ said Mac.
Cookie looked at Sonny. ‘Well this might be a nice coincidence, hey Sonny?’
Sonny had most of his mercs running cover and clearances for a Malaysian logging company in the Tokala peninsula. At the same time, Cookie seemed to want Garrison shaken down to see where the money trail led. Sonny needed a slightly larger crew for that gig and Cookie wanted Sonny to use the Americans to make up the numbers.
‘Works for me,’ said Cookie to Sonny. ‘I want a chat with this Garrison prick, and these guys want the girl. Everyone’s happy.’
Sonny didn’t like it. ‘Those Yanks aren’t happy, boss. Might have their minds on payback, not on the mission.’
‘Your call,’ said Cookie.
Sonny and the boys had been monitoring the activity up at the old mine, but now that Cookie knew who it was on his turf, he wanted them out of there.
‘I’ll have a chat to the Yanks,’ said Sonny, not convinced. ‘See if they’re up for it.’
Cookie looked at Sonny. Looked at Mac. ‘So let’s do it.’
CHAPTER 11
Sonny and Mac walked down from the house in the heat, the cicadas deafening. Sonny suddenly stopped and put a fi nger in Mac’s face.
‘Here’s the deal, Chalks. We go and talk to the special forces boys, see if their hearts are in it. Right? But whatever happens, you’re vouching for them. Got it? They’re your problem.’
Sonny ended this sentence with a poke in the chest. Mac got the point: if Sawtell fucked up, Mac got whacked.
The lock-up was still cool when they let themselves in. Moses walked out of a door, zipping himself, his SIG handgun in its webbing rig on his chest.
Sonny didn’t waste time. ‘Hey, Mosie – let ‘em out,’ he said, pulling up the chair behind the desk and sitting down. Moses opened the cell door and positioned himself in front of the confi scated weapons.
Sawtell stalked out of the cage, looking like he could kill someone with his bare hands. Sonny put his hands up, palms facing Sawtell.
‘Time to talk, eh boys?’ When Sonny said ‘boys’ it sounded like he was saying ‘boice’.
Sawtell and Sonny talked and talked. They talked about campaigns, about people they’d lost, bullets they’d taken, idiot superiors and the stresses of dealing with friendly fi re in a combat zone. They even realised they’d both been in Somalia at the same time.
When Limo’s death came up they talked about how much it hurt to tell a bloke’s mum that her boy had bought it, but how important it was to make that call yourself, not let the bureaucracy do it for you.
Sawtell welled up. Sonny didn’t blink. He said you knew you were in deep when your boys’ welfare meant more to you than your own.
‘That’s not weak, John – that’s being a professional. That’s the way it has to be.’
Sawtell sniffl ed. Wanted to say something but his lip quivered and he stared at the ground. Mac didn’t know where to look. He’d never been in the inner circle of the military when soldiers did this kind of debrief. He’d assumed they just got drunk.
‘Tell you something else, John – that boy, the big fella – he was the only one who clocked me,’ said Sonny, his voice respectful. ‘Got a shot off too. Good talent, good lad that one.’
‘His name was Alvarez, Christian Alvarez,’ said Hard-on, tears running down his cheeks. ‘We called him Limo ‘cos he was built for comfort not speed.’
‘Well he was the fastest of the lot in that clearing, eh boys?’ said Sonny. ‘Billy the fucking Kid. Scared the shit outta me – lost it so bad I almost took Chalkie’s head off!’
They all chuckled at that one.
‘And then what’d we do? One less intel fuckwit to get us in the shit.’ There were wry smiles as Sonny continued. ‘Us simple army boys wouldn’t know how to fuck it up without Chalks here to help us, eh?’
The soldiers laughed and Sonny ruffl ed Mac’s hair, pretended to try again when Mac leaned away.
Soldier psychiatry: make it all about the offi ce guy, get the team bonding.
Sawtell wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. Turned to his lads. Hard-on and Spikey looked like jocks ready to get back in the game. Something passed between the three of them.
Sawtell looked back to Sonny, said, ‘What’s up?’
The Green Berets were assigned rooms and had their showers, then ate with Sonny’s skeleton crew in the mess. They ate steaks, mashed spud and then Hemi brought over a plate of steaming corn cobs.
Sonny’s eyes went wide as hands reached from everywhere. Corn was a favoured military food if you could get it. It made you feel full and had a slow-burn energy effect.
‘Hey, McQueen. This reminds me of that time in the desert.
Remember?’ said Sonny. ‘In the Yanks’ mess? Tell ‘em the story.’
Mac had hoped Sonny wouldn’t want to relive that episode. He batted it away. ‘Some other time, eh Sonny? Let’s talk Garrison.’