Alan McQueen - 01 - Golden Serpent (56 page)

Sawtell stood on the pavement and made sure everyone was there.

In a white polo shirt, Levis and sneakers, he looked like a guy Rocky might fi ght.

The beers went down fast and cold. The band played ZZ Top and Rolling Stones, the female singer raunching it out like Linda Ronstadt.

Sawtell ordered a bunch of pizzas. Other soldiers came over and there were thumb-shakes, chest-touches and loads of ribbing. The kind of thing Paul and Limo would have loved.

Mac noted the designated shooters. One was a large, heavily muscled Latino who looked a bit like Limo. The other was smaller but looked like a boxer. A Leb guy. The Leb stayed by the entrance, drank water. The Latino sat at Sawtell’s table. They both wore black holster bags of the type Carl had worn during Mac’s last supper with Diane.

Mac mentioned it to Spikey. ‘Yeah man.’ He pointed at the Leb.

‘That’s Arkie. A Muslim dude, so he’s cool to carry when we go out.’

Mac nodded his head at the big Latino sitting opposite and Spikey laughed. ‘That’s Cheekie. He don’t drink ‘cos his momma won’t let him!’

The table laughed. Cheekie raised his chin, put his hand out.

‘Name’s Chico.’

They shook, Mac feeling a bit silly. The biggest argument he’d ever had with Jenny had revolved around the problem of guns and grog.

There’d been a strange and revealing surveillance gig concerning a Malaysian politician and a senior Indonesian bureaucrat. It turned out the blokes weren’t swapping secrets, they were lovers. Mac and Garvs had started drinking early after they wrapped, had got on it something bad down at the Jakarta Golf Club.

By the time the evening had swung around, Mac reckoned he was ready to drop in on Jenny. Trouble was, he’d forgotten he was still carrying. He’d turned up at Jenny’s apartment with some Carlsbergs, thought it was all going well. Then she’d felt the Heckler, hit the roof, yelling. She gave him a good clip over the ear then took the piece, shoved it in a drawer and told him to get the fuck out.

When it came to alcohol and fi rearms, Jenny was a lot like his father.

Mac realised Sawtell was that way too. No one carried unless they were off the booze. Mac had this feeling that maybe it was time to grow up.

Mac danced with an American girl from the navy, talked with a local bird, laughed with Spikey, who was hilarious. He asked after Hard-on and got ten different responses, all of which had something to do with either masturbation, nurses or penises. The attitude was that Hard-on was bludging while Alpha team ran around after tangos and nerve agent.

No one talked shop till it was one-thirty and the band was between sets. Sawtell turned to Mac, brought out an envelope, handed it over.

‘Can you get this to Paul’s momma?’ he said.

All eyes looked at Mac. He had a peek inside. There must have been three thousand US in that envelope. Mac knew how much these people got paid, knew they weren’t cashed up and he felt totally humbled. A bit overwhelmed. He’d spent years under the kind of stress that would buckle most people. He had methods for burying that. But an act of simple kindness was enough to bring him undone.

Mac looked away, looked at the ceiling, tried to keep the concrete where it was but he couldn’t. He felt the bottom lip go, tasted tears.

It was the fi rst time he’d cried since he was nine years old and Frank had whacked him for mucking round with the Holden’s handbrake in the driveway. After Frank had told him not to.

He nodded. He cried. Sawtell roughed his hair. Spikey put an arm round him, play-punched him in the jaw.

Sawtell raised his beer glass, said, ‘To Paul.’

Everyone drank to Paul.

Mac pulled it together, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, raised his glass, said, ‘To Limo.’

They all drank to Limo as Spikey stood, put his hand on his hip and did a cruel mimic of Limo’s deep, ghetto accent. ‘Ain’t made for running, motherfucker!’

The soldiers whooped and laughed. Someone said, ‘Was made for eating, tho’. Got that right!’

Spikey stood again. Another mimic. ‘I can’t have thirds? What kind of army is this anyways?’

They squealed with laughter and Spikey got high-fi ves. The navy girl pouted at Spikey, said, ‘Poor Limo!’

Spikey laughed at her, said, ‘That boy could eat like a rabbit fucks!’

The evening ground on. They got boozed.

The owner kicked them out about a quarter to three, when Sawtell wanted to sing. The designated shooters left fi rst. Stood on the pavement. Eyes up and down the streets of Zam. Hands hovering over holster bags as they got into the Jeepnies.

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.’

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?’

Garvs had stopped smiling, stopped playing with the pen. He looked at a spot on the desk, his head shaking back and forth.

‘Shit, Macca.’

‘Garvs?’

‘Mate, what happened? Huh? Why couldn’t you just get old gracefully, get with the program, huh?’

Mac shrugged.

‘I mean, why am I feeling bad about this? This is what happens to old spooks, Macca! Look at me!’

Garvs threw his hands out at the desk where there were fi les, an in box, an out box, and a big appointment diary.

‘This is grown-up life, McQueen. Okay?’

Mac was silent, cold.

‘So don’t come in here with all this shit about people being
brave
as
. Fuck’s sake, Macca - you have no idea what’s been just above your head all these years. I had no idea. You think a spy agency is about
brave
?! Oh, come on, mate!’

Mac shrugged.

‘Well it’s not. It’s about politics, and that’s who we answer to. They call the tune. You’re in denial.’

‘Just doing my job,’ said Mac. ‘That’s what they pay me for.’

Garvs was through with it, and he waved a hand.

Mac got up, turning for the door.

‘You know, Macca, I told Dave that trying to delay you in Sulawesi would backfi re. Would just get your blood going,’ said Garvs.

Mac felt sadder than he’d felt for a long time. One friend was dead before he got the chance to be a friend, now his old mate was discarding him like a toothpick. For what? A chance to suck up to a professional toadie like Urquhart.

Garvs shook his head, like he couldn’t believe this whole thing.