Authors: Mark Abernethy
Chapter 19
The steaming-hot taxi ride back to the Southern Scholastic offices took forever. Saigon’s traffic congestion was fast approaching that of Jakarta or Manila but motorbikes and cyclos still dominated the roads.
Popping another T3 capsule and washing it down with water, Mac thought about Captain Loan and the case she was pursuing. McHugh was pretending to be kidnapped and getting Quirk to make regular trips to the Mekong Saloon? Well, Mac was one step ahead of that story: he’d seen what Quirk was doing at the club. He’d seen the computer terminal he was being forced to work on and he’d heard a conversation about it. How did it go? Something like,
I don’t care about your passwords – we want access
.
Slugging at the water again, Mac glimpsed the Reunification Palace down a cross street on his left as they neared the destination. Relaxing, he tried to replay the conversation between Red Shirt and Quirk. It wasn’t just about passwords and access. There was another noun in there that he just couldn’t remember.
Paying the cabbie, Mac got out east of the tax department and limped towards the river, stopping like a tourist every few shops to have a look and see who was tailing him. It annoyed him that Loan had played him so well; rather than harass him or bring him down to the Cong An station, she’d gambled that a bit of curiosity would change Mac’s attitude. And she was probably going to win that bet: from the second he walked into Geraldine McHugh’s apartment, he’d been trying to work out how to stay assigned in Saigon and close to the Quirk murder. He’d technically screwed up by being in that club, but he’d done it and now he was part of it, and his next step was to find Red Shirt and this Dodo character. If they were the same person, Geraldine McHugh was in trouble.
At the top of the stairs, outside the door to Southern Scholastic, Mac heard the satellite TV news – it sounded like the CNN feed out of Honkers. Inputting his security code, Mac knew he was late for the meet and that the Quirk surveillance was technically over. But if this Kendrick was as smart as Scotty claimed, then Operation Dragon might be expanded slightly. He’d have to talk with Scotty and maybe Tobin, see how it developed.
Walking into the conference room area, Mac clocked Tranh leaning against the kitchenette counter, playing with his mobile phone. Standing up straight when he saw Mac, Tranh nodded quickly at the two sofas that faced the TV screen.
Looking over, Mac saw a shaggy-haired bloke in his twenties on one sofa and an older man on the other.
‘Hi, darling, I’m home,’ said Mac, walking around to the TV area.
Snapping out of his TV torpor, the younger bloke stood, running his palms down his jeans. He wore a loud Hawaiian shirt and an ironic goatee.
‘Lance,’ he said, offering his hand.
The TV was turned off as Mac shook. ‘Richard – Richard Davis,’ he said, tightly enough that Lance Kendrick and his guest understood Mac’s cover.
Turning, he came face to face with someone he knew well.
‘Dave,’ said Mac, shaking Dave Urquhart’s hand. ‘The fuck are you doing here?’
The phone rang in Mac’s office and Urquhart kicked at something on the floor. The moment broken, Mac moved away.
Picking up the handset as he swung the door shut, Mac gasped with pain while pushing sideways into his desk chair.
‘Yep – Davis.’
‘Mate, Paragon,’ came the strong Aussie accent. ‘The sky is blue?’
‘And the clouds are white,’ said Mac, confirming he didn’t have a gun pointed at him. ‘How are you, Scotty?’
‘I’m good, mate, but the chaps have shut down Dragon.’
Breathing out, Mac tried to stay calm. Through the glass panel of his office he could see Urquhart shoving his hands into his trouser pockets and rocking back on the balls of his feet as he spoke to Kendrick.
‘They’ve canned it?’ said Mac. ‘It’s just getting going.’
‘Dragon was surveillance,’ said Scotty, that tone from last night coming through again.
‘Yeah, I know, mate – so the surveillance now shifts to the shooters, to the Aussie connections.’
‘Aussie connections?’ said Scotty. ‘Australian
government
?’
‘Maybe.’
Scotty sighed, and Mac realised that his old mentor was being used as the reluctant messenger. In Mac’s two foreign operations since his return to the fold, three people had been executed. All on Mac’s watch, under conditions he’d designed himself. The Firm didn’t like coincidences and it didn’t like criminal investigations.
One of the reasons that intelligence organisations were so strict about agents declaring their medical consultations – especially for psychological problems – was the danger of personality disorders developing in long-term field officers. The classic symptoms were burnout, from sustained stress, or complacency, when false identities became normalised in the agent’s mind. Either disorder was a threat to the whole outfit and Mac could feel the judgment of his peers weighing on him.
‘Macca – time to pull up stumps and come home. Word’s come down,’ said Scotty.
‘It’s not over.’
‘When the deceased is an Aussie consular guy, that means the Feds will turn up,’ said Scotty. ‘And when the cops turn up, it’s over.’
Mac rubbed his temples. ‘Shit, Scotty.’
‘Let’s do it like pros, okay? Put it all in a bag, put a match to it and see if Qantas can’t find you a nice single malt in business class.’
‘I didn’t get Quirk killed,’ said Mac. ‘I’ve done a thousand recces like that without one of ours getting his head blown off.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Scotty. ‘We just get on with it, right? Like the wise man says: when it turns to shit, we start wearing brown.’
‘Ha!’ said Mac, laughing. ‘You’re a mad bastard, mate.’
‘That’s what my third wife screamed at me,’ said Scotty, ‘just before she called in the lawyers.’
Massaging his face with both hands, Mac barely heard the soft knock at the door. When he looked up, Dave Urquhart was easing into the office, a plunger of coffee in one hand and two mugs in the other.
‘Knee looks nasty,’ said Urquhart, as he took a seat. ‘Walk into a door?’
‘Wife beat me up,’ said Mac, straightening in his chair. ‘Sorry about the welcome – didn’t expect you here.’
‘No,’ said Urquhart, pouring the coffee. ‘Last minute thing, you know?’
Mac grabbed the coffee. ‘Come in from Bangers?’
‘Sure,’ said Urquhart.
‘You with Kendrick?’
‘I am now,’ said Urquhart with a smile. His suit, his shoes and his side parting were all perfect. It looked like he’d shaved in the cab from the airport and his colourless, plasticised skin refused to flush in the pre-monsoon heat – a quality that had earned him the nickname of ‘Madame Tussaud’ among certain crowds in Canberra.
‘So what can I do for you?’ said Mac, sipping the coffee.
‘Nothing much. I’ll be sharing the office for a couple of weeks.’
‘You know I’ve been recalled,’ said Mac, already annoyed by the passive slickness of his old friend. ‘So I won’t be sharing anything with you.’
‘Yes,’ said Urquhart. ‘Just didn’t think it was my place to bowl in here announcing it.’
Turning his mug, Mac decided to play Urquhart for all he was worth. ‘It’s a pity really,’ he said.
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah. I was going to call you today, bring you in on a few things I found out after our discussion in Canberra.’
Urquhart focused. ‘Really? I thought that was a brush-off?’
‘Yeah, but things change.’
‘They do?’ said Urquhart, drawing his mug across the desk but not taking his eyes off Mac.
‘That was Canberra,’ said Mac, pointing at the phone. ‘I’m on a plane tomorrow – Dragon’s over, burn the bag, the whole nine yards.’
As Urquhart’s eyes burrowed into him, Mac stood and made for the door. ‘It’s a shame, ’cos we –’
Urquhart’s arm went out, touching Mac on the stomach. ‘Steady – let’s not burn anything just yet.’
Stopping, Mac sat on the desk, looking down at Urquhart.
Urquhart cleared his throat. ‘So, what have you got?’
Mac sipped coffee. ‘Let’s start with what I get.’
‘I’m not really in a position –’
‘Well, then,’ said Mac, standing.
‘Shit, McQueen,’ Urquhart hissed. ‘You’re a difficult bastard.’
‘Who you working for?’ said Mac.
‘Executive branch,’ said Urquhart. ‘So what do you want?’
Mac tried to link what he knew about Urquhart’s movements and motives with what might bring him suddenly to Saigon. It was starting to look obvious, and as little as he trusted the man, Urquhart’s secret mission might just keep Mac in Saigon.
‘I want to be seconded to you, Davo,’ said Mac. ‘I want an attachment to the McHugh case.’
Looking away, Urquhart lost his composure for a split second before recovering. ‘What’s the McHugh case?’
‘Geraldine McHugh – Quirk’s wife. I think that’s who you’re interested in.’
‘Really?’ said Urquhart with a fake chuckle. ‘Why would you say something like that?’
‘Because you’re hot for your traitor theory,’ said Mac. ‘And as soon as you heard about Quirk, you zap in here, have me thrown out, and I’ll bet the AFP liaison in Honkers, Manila and Singers have been deemed inadequate for this gig, right?’
‘Really?’ said Urquhart, a poor liar for one who practised so much.
‘Yeah, Davo. The AFP’ll have to fly someone in from Sydney or Perth, which gives you a day’s head start – those flights don’t land till almost four. It also means the visiting fed has no relationship with the Cong An.’
Urquhart recovered his superiority complex. ‘That’s all a wonder- ful theory, Macca, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘That’s a pity, Davo,’ said Mac, walking for the door. ‘Because when it comes to theories, that’s the one the Cong An is going with.’
‘What?’ said Urquhart, almost throwing himself at the door.
‘The Cong An – the cops.’
‘I know who the Cong An are – what do they know about Geraldine McHugh?’ said Urquhart, wide-eyed.
‘Thought you had no idea what I was –’
‘Okay, okay.’ Urquhart held his hand palm-down like Mac was the one who needed to relax. ‘The Cong An and McHugh?’
‘They’ve had her under surveillance,’ said Mac, casually.
‘How do you know this?’ He said it like an accusation.
Mac smiled. ‘I was in her apartment this morning, mate.’
‘Okay, this has gone far enough. I’m working for the Prime Minister’s office under authority of the Attorney-General,’ Urquhart said, meaning he had the right to break the law. ‘I’m invoking the Official Secrets Act
on what you’ve just told me – the lot, okay?’
‘Sure – I was about to burn the bag, remember?’
Nostrils flaring, Dave Urquhart stood his ground in front of the door, his eyes darting downwards to the right – a man trying to put something together.
‘So, the Cong An is talking to you?’
‘Sure,’ said Mac.
‘And to the consulate – to Chester?’
‘No, just me,’ said Mac.
‘I think I can find a spot for you on the team,’ said Urquhart, chewing his lip. ‘But this will be a loop of two, right? You’ll be reporting to me, not to Scotty or Tobin.’
‘Okay, Davo,’ said Mac. ‘So long as it’s in writing, it’s a loop of two.’
‘You think you can take orders from me?’ said Urquhart.
‘As long as you don’t put me in danger.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Urquhart.
‘Oh,’ said Mac, ‘and Tranh comes with the deal.’
‘The local bloke?’
‘Yeah – he was promised two weeks’ work and he shouldn’t have to scratch-and-feed with DFAT accounts just to get a cheque.’
‘I thought we’d use Lance,’ said Urquhart. ‘He can do everything whatsisname is doing, and he’s TS-PV.’
‘No one can do what Tranh does,’ said Mac. ‘And by the way, Lance probably needs some work on his craft, and that’ll be my call.’
‘Okay, Macca – that’s your call, but you report to me,’ said Urquhart, his eyes burning with resentment. ‘Got a number?’
Reading out his mobile number, Mac made to go.
‘Where will you be?’ said Urquhart.
‘Don’t know,’ said Mac. ‘But it’ll have a big screen, the Wallabies will be playing and they’ll serve Bundy without adding too much ice.’
Urquhart stood aside as he brushed past.
‘Just tell me, Macca: why were you in her apartment?’
‘Simple,’ said Mac. ‘Cong An have fitted me for the murder.’
Chapter 20
Lance was watching TV again as Mac sauntered out of his office. The corty was killing the pain in his knee but it still felt unstable. On the screen, another Australian mining negotiator was being led into a Chinese courtroom with his wrists cuffed under a jacket, the Asian media going into a frenzy of flash photography and screamed questions as the accused was marched past.
‘For such a closed society, the Chinese love a photo opportunity, eh, Lance?’ Mac eased himself onto the neighbouring sofa as Lance hit the mute.
‘Yeah, it’s a circus up there,’ said Lance, some rounded vowels creeping through his street pretensions. ‘Do they really think they’ll control Aussie ore prices by bullying our mining guys?’
‘So long as our mining guys have Asian faces and Chinese names, they think they can get away with it,’ said Mac.
Lance turned to look at Mac. ‘You reckon?’
‘Yeah, I reckon,’ said Mac, as Urquhart closed the office door. ‘So, Lance, you with the Firm?’
‘Currently,’ said Lance, a glint of an earring sparkling under his rock-star hair. ‘I’ve been on a series of attachments.’
‘Attachments, eh?’ said Mac.
Aussie intelligence had a mutual-attachments system between the Firm, federal police, ASIO, the defence intel departments and the executive arms of Prime Minister & Cabinet and Attorney-General’s. People were always being attached for what the HR people called ‘skills transfer’; it helped agency inter-operability when the pressure went on. But attachés always had a home tribe and Mac wanted to know who Mr Kendrick was gossiping to when he was having a few quiet beers.
‘So how’s Jase, in Bangers?’ said Mac, to see if Lance had been at the Bangkok embassy long enough to know the declared ASIS guy, Jason Tremain.
Lance shrugged. ‘It was a fast assignment in Bangers – I’ve been in Jakarta for a while, working with the Feds.’
‘Not the CI training thing?’ asked Mac, referring to the AFP’s counter-intelligence training program.
‘No. Broader issues.’
Mac decided to drop it. ‘Well, talking of broader issues, you’ve probably had some craft training, right? Learned how to make a stranger go into the street and wave a shopping bag around like a goose?’
‘Yep,’ said Lance.
‘But you haven’t done any live field work, have you?’
Lance looked away. ‘Well . . .’
‘Relax, mate – I had a first time too.’
‘Okay,’ said Kendrick. ‘What do I do?’
‘See Tranh over there?’ said Mac.
‘Yeah.’
‘What do you notice about Tranh?’
Turning down his mouth, Lance shook his head. ‘Nothing really – looks fairly typical for South-East Asia.’
‘Good answer,’ said Mac, standing and walking over to Tranh, digging out a sheaf of dong. ‘Tranh’s going to take you down to his favourite market, find you a barber, get you a shave and get you kitted in something a little less Guns N’ Roses.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ said Lance. ‘You’re not my mother.’
‘No, champion,’ said Mac, handing the cash to Tranh with a wink. ‘But if I were
my
mother, I’d be reaching for the jug cord you keep talking like that.’
‘Okay, okay,’ said Lance. ‘Let’s go shopping.’
‘Oh, by the way,’ said Mac, as Tranh pulled out his van keys, ‘you got a safe in your room, right?’
‘Yeah, I think so – why?’
‘Somewhere to leave that earring, okay?’
Ordering the ginger duck and rice, Mac sat in the rear of the tiny restaurant and watched the street traffic move along Dam Street in the lee of Sunwah Tower. He wanted to return Benny’s call but he needed time to think first.
Opening the esky on the floor beside the counter, the owner pulled out a bottle of Saigon
bia
, tore the top off it and dumped it on the table with a tiny glass. Vietnam’s beer was a similar style and temperature to Queensland’s: a cold, light drink to have with lunch.
Sipping, Mac felt the heat rolling in waves off the street and thought about what he might salvage from this operation. The only thing that could be done for Quirk’s family was catching the shooter and getting him into a courtroom. And that wouldn’t happen if Mac sat around in Canberra for a week retelling his story to a bunch of back-seat drivers.
Dave Urquhart’s hands-on involvement was strange. His old friend had made a commitment to his corporate ambitions long ago, and in Canberra the only way to the top was by staying in the office and never getting your hands dirty. The idea of Urquhart venturing into the field was about as natural as a politician standing back and letting someone else take the credit.
Urquhart was known as the silent guy sitting at the back of the interagency meetings, jotting in his notebook. When he was assigned to ONA, he seemed to spend most of his time in the PM’s office; when he was officially in the PM’s office, he was seen lunching with DGs from ASIS and ASIO. He was one of those rare operators who gave both cops and spooks the creeps, while makings politicians feel comfortable and relaxed.
Now Urquhart was in Saigon as soon as Quirk was killed. Mac had made the Quirk connection merely as a last-gasp attempt to stay assigned in Saigon. It was only a guess, but Urquhart hadn’t disputed it.
Mac decided he had to be careful: when a snake like Urquhart ventured into the light, someone was going to get hurt, and Mac wondered if he shouldn’t demand a consular passport and the legal protection of a declared position under Chester.
The phone rang and Mac hit the green button as his duck arrived. Urquhart, wanting to know where he was.
Seven minutes later, Dave Urquhart staggered into the open front of the restaurant and asked for water.
‘Shit, it’s hot,’ he said, gasping and seating himself at the table, his waxy pallor dripping.
‘Yep, and when it breaks it’ll be like someone poured a bucket out of the sky,’ said Mac.
‘You’re back in,’ said Urquhart, examining Mac’s lunch as the owner brought a bottle of European water and two glasses.
Mac paused as he raised his fork. ‘Who with?’
‘Let’s just say PMC,’ said Urquhart. The operation was for the Department of Prime Minister and Cabinet.
‘Let’s just say that’s a bit vague,’ said Mac.
‘It’s via the AG’s – there’s a letter sitting in the safe,’ said Urquhart. ‘And there’s a letter of attachment from Tobin in your secure email.’
If Urquhart was telling the truth, the legal paperwork for this operation was from the Attorney-General’s office – the legal enabler of Australia’s domestic spy agency, ASIO.
Urquhart eyed him. ‘But there’s a string attached.’
‘That’s a shock,’ said Mac, sipping his beer.
‘We have an asset in Phnom – code-named Calhoun.’
‘Yes,’ said Mac, checking the other diners.
‘He manages a bar called the Taberna. Your first job under me is to meet him, debrief and take the photos he gives you. Bring them back and we’ll talk.’
‘Debrief on what?’
Urquhart sneered slightly. ‘He’ll tell you, Macca.’
Mac focused on his lunch. ‘I’ll leave this arvo.’
‘You want to take Lance?’ said Urquhart, too casual.
Sensing a snitch being foisted upon him, Mac could think of nine excuses for not taking Lance, but he let it go. He was never going to change Urquhart’s infighting instincts and besides, a short road trip with the newcomer might be a chance to gain some insights.
‘Sure, he’s welcome,’ said Mac.
Clicking his fingers at the restaurant manager, Urquhart called her over. ‘I’ll have what he’s having.’
Opening his second bottle of water, Mac tried to stay hydrated as the Toyota van laboured to keep the air-con running against the heat.
‘This evening?’ said Mac, pointing at the thickening clouds over Cambodia in the distance.
‘Think so,’ said Tranh, nodding. ‘We’ll stay at Hawaii, if you want.’
Fiddling with the radio, Mac looked for an English-language station. ‘Okay, mate – Hawaii it is. You want to book?’
Picking up his phone, Tranh went to work.
‘Hawaii?’ said Lance, leaning between the front seats. ‘Did he say Hawaii?’
‘Yeah, it’s a hotel in Phnom,’ said Mac. ‘It has an elevated lobby, which is what you want when the monsoon strikes in Phnom Penh.’
‘Why?’
‘Because everything floods,’ said Mac.
Tranh rang off. ‘We got best rooms.’
‘For half the price,’ said Mac, knowing that locals never paid the tourist rate.
‘Yeah, but maybe extra guests?’ said Tranh.
Easing around in his seat, hiding his face behind the head rest, Mac scanned through the rear window. A steady stream of trucks, vans, cars and motorbikes were flowing north along the Trans-Asian Highway to the Cambodian border crossing of Moc Bai.
‘Which one?’ said Mac.
‘Red Patrol,’ said Tranh. ‘Just went past.’
Turning to face forwards, Mac saw the red Nissan 4x4 slipping in front of them thirty metres ahead. ‘Get a look?’
‘Two men – Chinese.’ Tranh cracked his window two inches and lit a smoke. ‘They photographed us.’
‘Camera?’ said Lance.
‘Phone, I think. Held it down here,’ said Tranh, putting his forearm on the windowsill.
‘Phone, you say?’ said Lance. ‘Modern one?’
Tranh sucked on his smoke. ‘Yes, Mr Lance – a slider.’
‘That could be convenient,’ said Lance, rummaging in his backpack. He drew out a black box and flipped an aerial on it.
‘Hold that,’ he said to Mac. Pulling an Apple laptop from the pack, he passed forwards a power lead. ‘Can we get some juice?’
Pushing the power plug into the cigarette lighter, Tranh swapped a look with Mac.
‘So, technology’s your thing?’ said Mac, looking back at Lance.
‘It’s my training,’ said Lance. ‘They graded me as an intelligence officer, but I specialise in ICT – counter-measures, surveillance, infiltrations.’
‘What ICT?’ said Tranh.
‘It’s a wank,’ said Lance, connecting the black box to the laptop. ‘It just means anything that transmits or receives electronic signals.’
‘So what’s this?’ Mac nodded at the black box.
Lance turned the laptop screen for Mac to see. There was a small graphic box with a listing of two items. The first line said
Saigon Services
, and the second line said
Nokia 6250i
.
‘What is it?’ asked Mac.
‘Watch.’ Lance clicked the cursor on
Saigon Services
. ‘Let’s see the address book.’
The screen showed a bigger box with a listing of about seventy names, mostly in Vietnamese. Glancing down the list, Mac saw ‘Richard’ and, looking further, he saw something else.
‘So,
Chanthe
, is it?’ he said to Tranh. ‘Pretty cosy, mate.’
‘What are you looking at?’ said Tranh.
‘I think it’s your address book,’ said Mac.
Going back to the original box, Lance clicked on something else and Tranh’s picture files came up.
‘What is there?’ asked Tranh, trying to twist around.
‘Nothing, mate,’ said Mac. ‘Just those pics of you, the monkey and the Cool Whip. Try that one,’ Mac said to Lance.
A picture came up: Lance clicked forwards. It was a series of the same two people on the step-through motorbike who had followed Mac when he first landed in Saigon.
‘You knew those Cong An on the bike were following me?’ said Mac.
‘Yep,’ said Tranh.
‘And you didn’t tell me?’
‘Told Captain Loan,’ said Tranh. ‘Told her if she want to talk with the Uc, just go talk – he won’t bite.’
Mac let it drop. ‘So what are we doing here, Lance?’
‘I’m using the Bluetooth transceivers in your phones to clone them.’
‘Clone?’
‘It means I stream all the data on your phone with a Bluetooth connection, then re-create your phone’s operating system on my laptop. Every file stored in the phone can be accessed here, and if I wanted to, I could make a call, send a text, change the address book, even change your wallpaper.’
Mac thought about it: how much surveillance had Lance and Urquhart already done on Mac and Tranh? He and Tranh swapped a quick look.
Lance tapped his secret device. ‘This box tricks Bluetooth into thinking the acceptance and password has been given.’
‘So why can’t we tap into Mr Nosey-Poke’s phone?’ said Mac, gesturing to the red Patrol.
‘We could be too far away – Bluetooth is optimum to ten metres, then it fades.’
‘Okay, then,’ said Mac. ‘You want to do this?’
‘Sure,’ said Lance. ‘But turn off your phones first. They could have the same technology.’
Moving up alongside the red Patrol, Mac and Tranh kept their eyes straight ahead as Lance tapped away in the back seat, adjusting his black box. After thirty seconds, Lance told Tranh to move on.
Settling into the space in front of the Nissan, Tranh set a course for Moc Bai as Lance fiddled.
‘So, what did we get?’ asked Mac.
‘We got nothing and something,’ said Lance.
‘Sounds like Marxist economics,’ said Mac.
‘There’re no devices to pick up in that four-wheel drive,’ said Lance. ‘Yet the phone Tranh saw was the latest – and they all have Bluetooth.’
‘Which means?’ said Mac.
‘It means they’ve switched their phones off, or, more likely . . .’
‘Yeah?’
‘They have naked phones – which is not particularly good news.’
‘Why not?’ asked Tranh, trying to see Lance in his mirror.
‘Because naked phones are used by intelligence services,’ said Lance.
‘Like the MSS?’ said Mac, turning slightly to look over his shoulder.
‘The MSS invented these boxes,’ said Lance. ‘They wrote the book.’