Double Back (33 page)

Drinking from a bottle of water, Mac was vaguely aware of the early-morning traffic noises of Denpasar as Bongo finished a conversation on the phone. Mac’s throbbing arm looked worse than it really was – a graze that had been cleaned and dressed by the local hospital.

‘The hospital will hold the death notification for twelve hours,’ said Bongo, lighting a cigarette as he sat on the sofa. ‘But if this Chloe is from the President’s office, the local cops don’t want the hassle of covering it up too long. We’d better find someone to take her back to Jakarta before the Sudartos find out about her, okay?’

‘Okay,’ said Mac. ‘Twelve hours. We got that flight?’

‘Locked and loaded, bro.’

‘Give me an hour,’ said Mac, ‘and then we roll.’

Atkins picked up the whole coffee plunger and headed for his office, Mac following with two mugs and the milk. Shutting the door, Atkins gestured Mac to a seat.

‘So, mate – this another telling off?’ asked Atkins, pouring the coffees.

‘No tellings off,’ said Mac. ‘A number of people have been shot and killed around me in the past week, and as my controller, I need to bring you in on it.’

‘Sure, Macca – and I’m sorry about how things went the other day. It’s not… I mean, you get to the management side and it’s a juggle, okay?’

‘I understand,’ said Mac, sipping his coffee. ‘And normally, I’d let it slide – move to the next gig, go to the Banda Sea, spy on Dutchies.’

‘Sure,’ laughed Atkins.

‘But last night I was shot in a warehouse about three blocks from here.’

‘Shot?! Holy shit, McQueen – where?’ said Atkins, sitting forward, his face aghast.

Pushing his trop shirt down, Mac exposed the bandage on his upper left bicep.

‘It’s called a graze, but it doesn’t feel like one,’ said Mac.

‘Jesus,’ breathed Atkins, now out of his chair and peering at the wound. ‘Stiches?’

‘Nah, mate, but it’s sore.’

Atkins’ response wasn’t as Mac had expected. He seemed genuinely surprised, as demonstrated by his incomplete sentences. Liars generally rehearsed their responses, which came out more fluently.

‘Who did this?’ asked Atkins, looking up at Mac.

‘Whoever burned the copy of Operasi Boa,’ said Mac, staring Atkins full in the face.

‘It was burned?!’ spat Atkins. ‘Oh, fuck!’

‘Guess who burned it, Marty?’ asked Mac.

‘Who?’ shrugged Atkins.

‘Your friend in Dili, Augusto Da Silva.’

‘Augusto?!’ yelled Atkins. ‘Why would he burn the damn thing?’

‘What I was asking him, yesterday afternoon in Dili, about a second before he was assassinated.’

‘Assassinated? By who?’ asked Atkins, looking shaken.

‘What’s important is that you told him to do it.’

‘What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Talking. About?’ snarled Atkins. ‘What the hell drugs are you taking?’

‘Davidson was the only person who knew about the Resende drop box and he briefed you on my trip to Dili before he flew out to Auckland. You called Da Silva at about ten to eight yesterday morning, you told him the copy of Operasi Boa was in one of the three Dili drop boxes, but to start with the Santa Cruz ones first before checking the Resende. Then you asked him to burn the file – clean slate.’

‘Bullshit,’ said Atkins.

‘And to throw people like me off the trail,’ continued Mac, ‘you called from the Puputan Bakehouse – that phone in Dewi’s office, right?’

‘You know what? I did call Augusto, and I did ask him to check the boxes for a copy of this thing,’ said Atkins, calming.

‘Nice work, Marty – what did you think I was doing there?’

‘I didn’t want to tell you, mate, ’cos some of the people you’ve been hanging around during this whole debacle have been less than ideal.’

‘Such as?’ asked Mac.

‘Bongo Morales, Rahmid Ali, the Falintil guerrillas and, frankly, US intelligence.’

‘I was seconded to DIA by Davidson,’ said Mac.

‘Yeah, well Tony doesn’t spend much time up here anymore and he may not understand that we have different goals to the Yanks from time to time. Cutting a long story short, I wanted the Boa file in my hands before you could share it with the Americans – guilty as charged. When it was over, I was going to buy you a beer, no hard feelings.’

‘You went behind my back?’ asked Mac.

‘I did what I had to do – I did what you’d do. Davidson told me about the Resende drop box in front of Jim, for Christ’s sake, and I decided to get there first. I’m sorry, okay?’

Mac listened, silent.

‘As for telling Da Silva to burn the Boa file,’ said Atkins, ‘are you on crack? Why would I ask him to burn it? You need a vacation, Macca.’

‘Why the Bakehouse?’

‘I’ve been using the Bakehouse for months, ever since the Indonesians started increasing their surveillance measures. They’ve even worked out a way to capture email. So, for out-of-town calls, I use the Bakehouse – their spooks know I eat there, so I just visit the gents, duck into Dewi’s office and make some quick calls. Come back shaking my hands.’

‘Nice craft,’ said Mac.

‘Try to stay in practice. But honestly, mate,’ said Atkins. ‘What’s going on here? What can I do to make you happy about this?’

‘I want us to shut down their bio-weapons program,’ said Mac, straight up. ‘Operasi Boa is underway. It was always going to operate in the shadow of Operation Extermination, and Extermination has started – they have truckloads of Timorese going across into West Timor and boatloads going out to West Papua.’

‘I don’t know about the bio-weapons, but yeah, sure, the deportations seem to be starting. What do you want us to do?’

‘I want us to put a CX to Canberra that is so clear and so unequivocal that even a politician and his most brown-nosed advisers would be unable to bury it.’

‘And what would the CX say?’ asked Atkins, very calm. ‘Given we don’t have a copy of Boa, just suppositions?’

‘It would say that the Indonesians have been testing and developing bio-weapons for the North Koreans in the Bobonaro district, and intend to use them on the civilian population.’

‘Are you crazy?’ said Atkins.

‘No,’ said Mac. ‘It’s a SARS-related bio-weapon that they’ll spray from helicopters owned by the Koreans and operated by Pik Berger’s mercenaries. They’ve sold it to the UN as a mass-vaccination exercise. They’re waiting for the wind and cloud to be right, and then it starts on, or after, the day of the ballot result. September fourth.’

‘How do we know this?’ asked Atkins.

‘Augusto Da Silva told us before he was shot. Turns out he was working for Kopassus,’ said Mac. ‘Did you know he wrote Operasi Boa? For the generals?’

‘No,’ said Atkins, stunned.

‘He had his own reasons to get the document back – Blackbird had seen it in his office and copied it.’

‘Shit,’ said Atkins.

‘Yeah, so when he got the call yesterday morning, he ran to grab that thing, but he wasn’t grabbing it for you.’

‘So who for?’ asked Atkins.

Shrugging, Mac looked out the window. ‘Someone who he thought was you. I’d love to talk with the Canadian – bet he could… Marty, Da Silva left a note in the Santa Cruz drop box. It was a response from you, about Tupelo or something.’

‘I remember,’ said Atkins, walking to the door of his safe and passing Mac a plain folder.

‘All the meaningful stuff went up to Jakarta,’ said Atkins, sitting. ‘That was a random piece of gibberish. No one had an answer for it, so it’s just been sitting there.’

Mac read the note, which told of Bill Yarrow happening upon a group of senior Indonesian military brass at the Resende; they were talking about Tupelo or Deetupelo.

‘Nothing after that?’ asked Mac, already losing interest.

‘No, mate.’

Shaking his head, Mac made to stand but Atkins gestured for him to stay.

‘I know you don’t think much of the managerial guys,’ said Atkins. ‘But, just so you know, I’ve spent fourteen months filing reports on the over-capacity of Lombok, the probable existence of Operation Extermination, the fact that the East Timor militias are funded and controlled by the army and the frequent discrepancies between what the generals are claiming and what we know for a fact. It all got re-purposed and second-guessed by the Prime Minister’s guys in Canberra. It was sending Sandy Beech half-crazy – we used to go drinking down in Kuta, and he was in a bad way.’

‘So I’m not alone?’

‘Mate, remember that I brought you in to find Blackbird and get a copy of Boa,’ said Atkins. ‘We were already on this, but we work for the executive of the Commonwealth, not the people of East Timor.’

‘Maybe we could further the interests of the Commonwealth by not abandoning President Habibie right now,’ said Mac. ‘Bloke could do with some ammunition.’

‘Habibie makes all the right noises, but staying tight with the military is a basic part of good relations with Indonesia. Shit, Macca, if Canberra openly sides with a president against the generals, we can kiss goodbye to good relations with our neighbour for the next decade.’

‘I’m not talking about politics, I’m talking -’

‘I know you’re not, Macca,’ said Atkins. ‘But you serve politicians, and they are talking about politics. If the politicians have decided that the Indonesian generals making a few million with the Koreans is not something to fight over, then that’s it.’

‘I want the politicians to embarrass Jakarta into shutting down this bio-weapons program,’ said Mac. ‘So you tell me, Marty – how am I going to do that?’

‘You’ve got those days off, Alan,’ winked Atkins, in an Aussie signal that would not be recorded by the listening posts. ‘I suggest you enjoy it to the best of your ability.’

The flight arrived in Singapore at nine o’clock local time and they caught a cab straight to the Cecil Street address that Leena had dug out from Rahmid Ali’s sat-phone logs. The last thing Chloe had said to Mac was for him to contact George, in Singapore. Mac was going to see where it might lead.

Atkins had basically given him a green light to do what he had to do. And after Mac had handed over the remaining bag of dollars he’d kept from Maliana, Bongo was on board. However, Mac wasn’t sure what he could do – if his own organisation was determined to stay sweet with Jakarta, then his options were limited.

Stopping a block away from the eight-storey building, they paid the driver and cased the main entrances and the rear tradies’ access points.

‘Don’t like it,’ said Bongo, pointing at the entrance. ‘Flush him out – ask him down to the Telok Ayer park on the corner. I’ll cover.’

Mac wasn’t convinced with that approach. ‘Let’s look at the tenant board first, okay?’

Shrugging, Bongo walked with Mac to the big glass-fronted entrance, and stood guard outside. Mac found the Penang Trading Company quickly. It was a first-floor location and, watching others get into the lifts, he saw no one swiping cards or using keys.

Mac walked Bongo back the street. ‘I’m going in and I’d like you along.’

‘Long as you understand that when it’s time for Mr Eagle, then that’s what’s happening,’ said Bongo, referring to the large-calibre Desert Eagle handgun he carried inside his sports jacket. ‘No one comes at me without getting some back, okay?’

Mac nodded and they moved into the building and got straight into an elevator, which deposited them on the first floor in a modern space with PENANG TRADING in silver letters over the reception desk.

Mac slipped alongside a man who was talking to the receptionist and looked down at the business-card stand on the counter. The second card in the stand was in the name of George Warfield, director of marketing and communications. A classic spook front title.

As the first man took a seat next to Bongo, Mac asked for George.

‘May I ask your name, sir?’ asked the pretty girl at the desk.

‘Alan McQueen – please tell him it’s urgent.’

‘Please take a seat, Mr McQueen,’ said the girl, hitting a button and holding her hand to her earpiece.

Sitting down, Bongo and Mac clocked the camera on the wall and listening devices under the coffee table. After a minute the girl stood and Mac saw she was athletic, could probably look after herself.

‘Follow me, please, Mr McQueen,’ she said, smiling.

They walked around the corner to a door which the girl opened with a swipe card – a copy of which was in the top right-hand drawer of her desk, hopefully.

Mac recognised the doorway as a disguised metal detector and he was happy he didn’t have his Heckler. The girl gestured for Mac to pass through into an office where a middle-aged Indonesian man, dressed in an English suit and tie, sat behind a desk.

‘George?’ said Mac, recognising the face but under a different name.

‘Mr McQueen,’ said George, a nine-millimetre handgun appearing over the level of the desk. ‘Where is Chloe?’

‘She was shot, last night,’ said Mac, gulping. ‘She asked me to speak with you.’

‘How did you find me?’ asked George, a nervous sheen of sweat appearing on his forehead.

‘Found a trail from the sat phone of a man calling himself Rahmid Ali,’ said Mac.

‘You’re a liar,’ said George. ‘You’re working for Haryono. You Australians are all in his pocket. I warned Chloe to go nowhere near you – and I was right.’

‘I didn’t shoot her,’ said Mac. ‘And thanks to Rahmid, I found out about Operasi Boa.’

‘What is it?’ asked George, shifting in his seat, a man who hadn’t been getting sleep.

‘I’ll tell you what we know, George, but I told my companion that if I wasn’t out in reception in one minute, he should feel free to shoot the place up.’

George squinted into a small video monitor he had on his desk. ‘The big one? That’s your friend?’

‘Yep – name’s Bongo Morales. Want to put down that gun, have a chat with me?’

George pressed on his intercom. ‘Ask Mr Morales to join us, please.’

Putting the gun in his drawer, George Warfield suddenly looked beaten. ‘This has been going on too long,’ he shrugged. ‘If a president doesn’t control the military then he’s not a real president.’

‘You’re trying, and I’m trying too,’ said Mac. ‘There are people who care, but right now my government isn’t one of them. The most important thing is to stop the bio-weapons spraying.’

‘We figured Boa might be bio-weapons, but spraying?’ asked George, confused.

‘They’re going to spray East Timor with a disease that behaves like SARS,’ said Mac. ‘It delivers a super-pneumonia to an entire population.’

‘So Operasi Boa is a pneumonia?!’ he said, face screwed up. ‘Oh my God!’

A beeping sounded from the metal detector and then Bongo walked into the room silently, took a seat on the sofa on the back wall.

‘By the way,’ said Mac, ‘didn’t I know you before you were George Warfield?’

‘I could no longer serve my country as an officer,’ said George quietly. ‘Not after Ambon. When Soeharto left, I wanted to serve the new presidents, be their eyes and ears -’

‘Against an organisation you know very well,’ said Mac, the truth dawning. ‘You’re Bambang Subianto – General Subianto.’

‘Technically, yes,’ he replied flatly. ‘And I want you to know, Mr McQueen, that despite what people may say, not all Javanese think that the East Timorese are non-human, okay?’

‘I understand, General,’ said Mac.

‘We can’t allow the army to depopulate an entire province,’ said the general. ‘The president wants a ballot for independence and that should be what happens.’

‘Agreed,’ said Mac. ‘We can count on yourselves, a couple of Aussies and, of course, the Yanks.’

‘Americans?’ asked the general, suspicious.

‘Yeah – DIA,’ said Mac. ‘They’re with us on this.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said the general, shaking his head. ‘DIA are involved with Operasi Boa.’

‘Involved?’ Mac stammered, sitting up.

‘Yes,’ said the general. ‘Know Lee Wa Dae?’

‘Sure,’ said Mac. ‘He’s dead now.’

‘I know,’ said the general. ‘He was working for DIA. He was an American agent.’

Mac finally overcame his stunned surprise.

‘Defense Intelligence Agency was running Lee Wa Dae? As an asset, double agent, informer? What are we talking about, General?’

‘Double agent is my guess,’ said the general. ‘And perhaps not official. Let’s say there are elements of DIA who are not to be trusted.’

‘You’ve been surveilling them?’ asked Mac.

‘We uncovered Boa by following Wa Dae, and that led to DIA. The Americans tried to wash his file, to accentuate his drug dealings. But as soon as anyone from the President’s office made a bio-weapons connection, the pressure to drop it was immense.’

Mac suddenly realised that Atkins was more advanced than he’d given him credit for.

‘I’m going to try to stop them,’ said Mac suddenly. ‘Can I count you in?’

‘Ha!’ said the general. ‘It may have gone too far. We’re on the verge of a coup and the world doesn’t care so long as the generals win. Just keep the shipping lanes stable, keep China and Japan happy – right, McQueen?’

‘What does Habibie want to do?’ asked Mac.

‘When the world finds out that the Indonesian Army dropped biological weapons on its civilians, Habibie and his administration are ruined – not the generals. We have to find a copy of Operasi Boa, to have something real to put in front of the world community.’

‘We still have time -’ started Mac, but the general lifted his hand, not hearing it.

‘It begins tomorrow morning, McQueen.’

‘We could ring the papers, CNN -’ said Mac.

‘That would sink Habibie even faster,’ the general cut in.

‘Is Habibie safe?’ asked Mac.

‘Physically, yes,’ said the general. ‘But his supporters in the military can’t be open about it. A small group of us run an inner circle that the President can trust, but people have been assassinated, fired, smeared, demoted – you know how it works.’

‘I guess Chloe was the latest?’ said Mac, mind on something else.

‘Yes, she was a patriot,’ said the general sadly.

‘She didn’t have much field experience?’

‘No, of course not,’ sighed the general, swinging in his chair to look out the window. ‘She was my secretary. She was trying to make a difference.’

‘She was a lioness,’ said Mac, feeling emptied.

‘Thank you, McQueen, she’d laugh to hear that,’ said the general.

Deciding it was now or never, Mac pushed his luck. ‘General, when the time comes, would you consider dusting off the fruit salad and pulling rank?’

‘When the time comes?’ said Subianto, shaking his head. ‘If Boa starts when the ballot result is announced, then we’re talking about less than twenty-four hours. What do you want from me?’

‘It might be that only Indonesians can stop an Indonesian crime,’ said Mac. ‘Can we rely on you if it comes down to enforcing the army’s own legal code?’

‘No promises, McQueen,’ said the general after a pause. ‘I have nine grandchildren, and I love them all.’