Counter Attack (18 page)

Chapter 32

Keeping to the back streets of Phnom Penh, Mac moved south in a cyclo with the sunshade raised. Seeing a line of non-tourist convenience stores three blocks inland from the river, Mac fished eight US ten-dollar notes from his pocket and asked the driver to get him a mobile phone and as much pre-paid credit as he could buy.

Mac watched the rider dismount. ‘What company are you with?’

‘MobiTel, mister.’

‘Good, that’s what I want,’ said Mac. ‘And a ten-dollar calling card.’

The driver was back in ninety seconds and they headed south again.

‘You want a new phone?’ asked Mac, twisting in his seat and looking up at the rider in his singlet and board shorts.

‘Sure, mister,’ said the rider, who had a mouth full of snag- gled teeth.

‘Swap?’ said Mac, holding out the still-sealed Samsung box.

Pulling his battered old Nokia from his box on the handlebars, the rider handed it over and Mac switched phones, putting his new SIM into the old Nokia and transferring the rider’s SIM to the flash new phone. Happy with the new phone and its internet capability, the rider got wind of more money. ‘You need restaurant, mister? Or duty free? I take – I take now.’

‘Take me to the Olympic Stadium, and then the Russian Embassy,’ said Mac, describing a meandering trail through Phnom Penh. ‘But take it slow – I’m sightseeing.’

Loading all of the credit onto his new account via texts, Mac phoned the calling card number in Phnom Penh, selected ‘English’ and entered the PIN on his card. When the machine asked him to enter the number he wanted, Mac paused and took a few breaths. He’d be taking a risk, but if he could keep his location secret, it might be worth it. Looking at his G-Shock, he saw it was almost ten am local time – two pm on Australia’s Pacific coast.

Dialling the number from memory, he waited while the calling card connected to a network and then the number was ringing – the familiar
purr-purr
of an Australian mobile phone.

‘Yep,’ came the brusque greeting as the call was answered.

‘Scotty – on the tiles yet, you fucking lush?’

‘Jesus, mate,’ said Rod Scott. ‘Hold on, okay?’

Mac could hear a gathering receding as Scotty found a private place.

‘Christ’s sake, Macca,’ said Scotty, louder now. ‘You messing with my blood pressure again?’

‘You’ve got five kids to three wives, mate,’ said Mac with a smile. ‘Don’t blame me for the dicky ticker.’

Scotty hissed a long sigh. ‘Okay, give me the short answer, Macca – what the fuck is going on?’

‘You start,’ said Mac. ‘I need the full picture.’

‘You’re asking
me
?’ said his mentor. ‘You’re having a lend, mate.’

‘What?’

‘I got dragged out of the golf club yesterday arvo by frigging Greg Tobin.’

‘What did the crown prince want?’ said Mac.

‘He’d been called to a meeting with the DG and the Prime Minister’s chief of staff,’ said Scotty.

‘So what did he need you for?’

‘Tobin says he’s not going into the PM’s office without someone to hang out to dry.’

‘It’s nice to feel wanted.’

‘So Tobin tells me you’re running around Cambodia with some state secret, and you maimed Marlon T’avai again.’

Mac had almost forgotten Marlon. ‘They had me chained to a bed.’

‘So you attacked Marlon?’

‘He tried to stop me leaving.’

‘He had every right,’ said Scotty.

‘Yeah, well, an old mentor once told me that when the bad guys catch you, play along and stay calm, then when you see a chance, kill everything in your path,’ said Mac, the Olympic Stadium looming on his left.

‘But maybe your old mentor had a different technique when the bad guys were from the Prime Minister’s office.’

Mac gulped as Lance’s claim was confirmed. ‘That’s official?’

‘Yeah, Macca, unless Brendon Pryce is still using the royal “we” purely because he likes it,’ said Scotty.

Brendon Pryce was the much-loathed chief of staff for the Prime Minister, a former managing partner at a large law firm who spoke to Commonwealth employees as if he’d scraped them off his shoe.

‘Okay,’ said Mac as his rider stopped beside the stadium. ‘So, they outrank me.’

‘Dave Urquhart is saying he didn’t second you and the Quirk tail wasn’t over.’

‘I thought I had a letter sitting in a safe?’

‘You sight it?’ said Scotty, knowing Mac hadn’t.

Mac groaned. ‘So it’s the Firm’s fault, I’m rogue and you’re to blame?’

‘Hey,’ said Scotty, ‘you should work in Canberra – you have a feel for this stuff.’

‘Sorry, mate,’ said Mac.

‘No need to be sorry – Dragon never stopped, so I’m running you and my direct order is that you hand over the memory card or whatever the hell it is, to Urquhart, and then we bring you in with no funny business.’

‘This whole thing is funny business, Scotty,’ said Mac, looking around for a tail. ‘If I knew what this was about, I’d be more relaxed.’

‘No one knows what this is about,’ said Scotty. ‘Not even Tobin. We thought you were following Jim Quirk for a week or two. Suddenly, you’re seconded by the Prime Minister’s office and now they’ve turned on you.’

‘I’ll come in, but it has to be you in person, Scotty,’ said Mac, motioning to his rider to head across town to the Russian Embassy. ‘And I have to find out what’s happened to Tranh.’

‘The local asset?’ said Scotty.

‘Yeah – I think he was shot, so he’s in a hospital or he’s dead,’ said Mac. ‘There was an ambulance at the building so I’m hoping he was only injured.’

‘No promises about Tranh,’ said Scotty. ‘We’ll assess that when I get there.’

‘Get
here
?’ said Mac. ‘Thought we’d meet in Darwin or Perth.’

‘I’m sitting in Changi, about to connect for Saigon,’ said Scotty.

‘Great,’ said Mac, his heart sinking. He’d banked on a few days to find Tranh.

‘And your number isn’t showing up on my phone,’ said Scotty. ‘You using a call card or Skype?’

‘Pay phone,’ said Mac.

‘Liar,’ said Scotty. ‘Text it to me – I’ll call when I land, okay?’

They said their goodbyes, and as an afterthought Scotty sparked up. ‘Hey, Macca, I didn’t tell you why Pryce was so angry.’

‘His mouthwash still failing?’

‘The McHugh family lawyers held a press conference in Sydney yesterday, criticising the Prime Minister and DFAT for losing Geraldine in Vietnam.’

‘Not far from the truth.’

‘Pryce was going crazy about it – he poked me in the chest, Macca.’

Mac laughed. ‘He on solids yet?’

‘Just.’

‘What was he angry about?’

‘The AFP interviewed the lawyer and family. Turns out they’ve engaged a security firm to find Geraldine.’

‘That’s not unusual,’ said Mac, who knew how many kidnaps were resolved privately in South-East Asia.

‘No, but the firm is Western Solutions Inc,’ said Scotty, mischief in his voice.

‘Remind me,’ said Mac, knowing that name somehow.

‘Registered in Singapore but operating out of Manila,’ said Scotty. ‘Managing director is a man by the name of Alphonse Morales.’

Mac rubbed his chin. ‘Bongo?’

‘The one and only.’

‘And Pryce knows about Bongo?’

‘He knows that Bongo’s a friend of yours,’ said Scotty. ‘And he wasn’t saying it like it was a good thing, either.’

‘That was two weeks in Timor, a lifetime ago,’ said Mac, feeling cornered. ‘I needed protection –’

‘Settle, mate, settle,’ said Scotty. ‘I told Pryce that Bongo had been employed by the Firm for security services – and besides, for an officer’s safety we don’t divulge details of joint ventures with foreign nationals.’

‘How did that go down?’

‘Tobin backed me and Pryce didn’t push,’ said Scotty.

‘And the DG?’ said Mac, wondering where the head of Aussie SIS stood.

‘Our esteemed leader felt it better that he sit that one out,’ said Scotty.

‘He shafted me?’

‘He supported you covertly,’ said Scotty. ‘Look, whoever briefed Pryce warned him that Bongo is political poison. That’s all Pryce had to hear and he was flipping out.’

‘Shit,’ said Mac. ‘Don’t tell me what I think you’re going to tell me.’

‘It wasn’t my idea, Macca,’ said Scotty, a boarding announcement echoing. ‘And it wasn’t Tobin’s either.’

Disgust rose in Mac’s throat. ‘We’re going to beat Bongo to McHugh?’

‘Finding her can’t be that hard,’ said Scotty.

‘Finding Geraldine McHugh is the least of our worries,’ said Mac. ‘Getting in Bongo’s way is the problem.’

* * *

Using the calling card, Mac phoned a business in south Jakarta called the Bavaria Lagerhaus – a bar and restaurant in the consular precinct of Jakarta, owned by a Suharto-era intelligence bigwig named Saba.

Saba had safe-deposit boxes in his storeroom where soldiers, spies and mercenaries kept their spare passports and emergency stashes. He also acted as a general cut-out man for people in Mac’s profession; if one operator wanted to contact another but didn’t have a number then they’d call Saba. And if Saba liked them or found them useful, he’d put their request on the jungle drum. He didn’t charge for what he did – knowing the secrets was a commodity to Indonesian players like Saba.

Mac’s call was answered after one ring. ‘Who this?’

‘Richard Davis, for Saba,’ said Mac.

‘Wait,’ said the man’s voice and the line went to generic hold music.

Forty seconds later there was a click and Saba was on the line. ‘Mr Mac, such a nice surprise.’

‘Hi Saba – how’s Jakarta?’

‘Hot, dirty – always the traffic jammed,’ said the Indonesian. ‘Where are you, Mr Macca?’

‘Auckland,’ said Mac.

‘Not Singapore?’ said the ex-spy, toying with Mac.

‘Maybe – recently,’ said Mac.

‘Nice view from the Pan Pac, yeah?’ said Saba.

‘Yes, Saba,’ said Mac, admitting defeat. ‘I’m looking for Bongo. I just need to talk.’

‘Could call him at Manila office,’ said Saba, knowing very well that Mac didn’t want his calls to that number logged by whoever was spying on Bongo.

‘Informal would be better,’ said Mac, and read out the number of his new mobile phone.

Mac had always been careful to keep Saba handy but not involved. But Saba was impeccably connected in Indonesia’s military and intelligence worlds and Mac needed more from him before he got off the phone.

‘Saba, is there much Israeli action around at the moment?’

‘Depends what you mean by action,’ said Saba.

Israel had no consular presence in Indonesia and people travelling on Israeli passports could not enter Indonesian ports without a sworn affidavit from a foreign Indonesian notary. Yet the world’s only Jewish state had vital interests in monitoring the most populous Islamic nation and so the Mossad had used other means to gain intelligence in Indonesia and Malaysia.

Mac prompted him. ‘Snatches, infiltrations, assassinations, double agents. All the good stuff.’

‘No action,’ said Saba. ‘In this country the Jews still hide behind their pharmaceutical firms and finance companies.’

‘Just thought I’d ask,’ said Mac.

‘Why?’

‘I keep crossing paths with an Israeli crew – could be former IDF or ex-Mossad,’ said Mac.

‘Nothing down here, Mr Mac,’ said Saba. ‘But . . . no, that wouldn’t be it.’

‘What?’ said Mac.

‘Well, it’s probably –’

‘Try me.’

‘Well, six, seven month ago, Yossi in Bangkok get the tip about the Mossad coming to town; they do the tail and follow the two Mossad across the border into Cambodia, right?’

‘Okay,’

‘Turn out, these two Mossad are following more Jews, in north Cambodia – right up there at Anlong Kray.’

‘More Israelis?’

‘Yeah, they Mossad. But Chinese there too,’ said Saba. ‘Right up in that forest. I try to remember – it was just talking, right?’

‘Okay,’ said Mac. ‘So the Israelis and Chinese, what were they doing up there?’

‘I talk with Yossi, and then call you,’ said Saba.

‘Okay,’ said Mac. ‘I’d like to know who they are.’

‘Were,’ said Saba.

‘Were who?’

‘The Mossad who come through Bangkok?’ said Saba. ‘The other Mossad kill them.’

A silence buzzed on the phone. The revelation confirmed for Mac that Yossi’s Israelis in north Cambodia could also be the ones Mac was looking for.

Saba broke the silence. ‘Mr Mac, you there?’

‘Yeah, sure, mate,’ said Mac. ‘Let me get this straight: the Mossad that Yossi followed, they were killed by the other Israelis? In northern Cambodia?’

‘Yeah,’ said Saba. ‘Yossi tells me, “That when I know they not in Mossad no more.”’

‘Shit.’

‘These are the ones?’ said Saba.

‘I don’t know,’ said Mac, knowing he’d already given it away. He felt sick.

‘You watch it, Mr Mac,’ said Saba. ‘Jews and Chinese? That bad enough. But when Jew kill Jew – how you say it? Give him the miss?’

Chapter 33

Hanging up, Mac tried to stay calm. Saba might have mangled the Aussie saying,
Give it a miss
, but he’d nailed it in one. It was precisely the smartest option available to Mac: to meet Scotty at the airport, fudge the McHugh search, grab his wife and get the hell out of Indochina before Jenny established a link between Quirk and the Israelis and decided to raise the roof.

He needed a plan for getting where he wanted to go rather than just reacting to events. He needed the information ascendency – the main building block of all intelligence professionals – yet Mac realised he hadn’t checked the identities of the Israelis, or even if that was their nationality. He’d been tweaked to their status and background by Maggins and it had conformed with what Mac knew about some of their techniques: the box surveillance around the Mekong Saloon had been pure Mossad, right down to the man with the newspaper waiting beside the entry. The light-bulb bomb at the Cambodiana was also a good indication, as were the clothes: the Mossad had spent decades trying to coach their operators into chameleon wardrobes yet for some reason they couldn’t help but dress like someone’s great-uncle. The Sansabelt slacks, the Seiko watches, the sensible shoes and the ankle-breezing trouser hems, all worn with an intense confidence which gave it that Mossad smell.

But Mac needed more and he knew who could help. Phoning Indonesia Telekom directory, he asked for
Konstelasi Komputer
in Jakarta and waited while the line buzzed and chirped.

A young male employee answered and Mac asked to be put through to Charlie, the owner.

‘He out,’ said the lazy kid, a person Mac knew from his last visit to the shop.

‘Can you take a message?’ asked Mac, and rattled off his number and the beginnings of a long message. ‘You’re getting this, right?’

The kid issued a snide sigh. ‘Okay, okay, I get him.’

Charlie came on the line. ‘McQueen – that you?’

‘Hey, Charlie,’ said Mac.

‘What up?’ said the man who’d turned cyber counter-measures against the Chinese into an art form.

‘I need to access a website without anyone knowing where I am,’ said Mac. ‘Can do?’

‘I can route you through a bot-relay, that what you mean?’

‘It has to be secure,’ said Mac. ‘It’s sensitive.’

‘This one’s used by the MSS,’ said Charlie. ‘That secure enough?’

Paying off the cyclo rider, Mac descended to the footpath in central Phnom Penh. The streets teemed with locals and Mac felt like the last Anglo left on the planet as he moved among the throng.

Ducking into a street-front cafe, he ordered fish curry and a beer and sat with his back against the side wall, from where he could see most of the street. The clouds were building high and dark and the humidity closed in as if a heavy drape had been dropped on the city. Although his stomach was clenched with stress, he knew from experience that he had to make himself eat. You never knew when the next meal was coming so it paid to force it down when you could.

The curry was excellent and the beer cold, and as he waited for Charlie to call back, Mac pondered the Bongo Morales complication. Bongo was about eight years older than Mac, a former Philippines intel operator who’d also been trained by American outfits such as US Marines force-recon and made a name for himself in Mindanao, chasing and killing terrorists. He didn’t just outgun the bad guys – he could out-think them as well. One of the stories that had created the legend of Bongo was the time his cover as a first-class steward on Garuda Airlines had been exaggerated and he’d ended up sitting at the flight deck, flying a 737 to Denpasar. Bongo was the original chameleon spy who could switch from a peroxide-haired gay hustler working out of the Shangri-La to a jungle-stalking hit man – and make the transition faster than most people could tie their laces.

He’d gone freelance in the mid-1990s and become a consultant to the Indonesian Kopassus regiment as they tried to subdue the GAM separatists in Aceh, at the north end of Sumatra. When the Indonesians wanted to test their new American-supplied cluster bombs on civilian villages, Bongo had not reacted well. The result was the Kopassus colonel decided not to push his luck, and Bongo walked away.

Mac had worked with him in East Timor during the independence ballot of 1999. In a very ugly finale to a flawed gig, Mac had been left on an airfield in East Timor to face the Indonesian Army, while Bongo had flown away in a borrowed helo. In the soldier world, Bongo owed Mac – owed him big. On the other hand, Bongo had saved Mac during a shootout in a Dili warehouse. Regardless of what Mac thought of the IOU equation, he knew Bongo would decide for himself. Which was the main problem with Bongo Morales: whether you worked with him, for him or against him, he was never confused about what he was going to do next, and he sure as hell didn’t need anyone’s input on the matter.

Now, the Prime Minister’s chief of staff had decided that in order to save the PM from political embarrassment, Scotty and Mac were going to get to Geraldine McHugh before Bongo Morales. That sort of challenge could only have come from a whiteboard in Canberra. Bongo Morales might enjoy the rivalry or he might not. But if he resented the intrusion, there was a high likelihood that he’d remove the threat. Just like that. You’d be pig food before you had a chance to utter a single
fuck you, Morales
.

Sipping on his beer, Mac remembered the last call he’d wanted to make.

He dialled the number in Singapore and was put through to two intermediaries before a switch clicked over and Benny Haskell was on the line.

‘Macca,’ he barked. ‘You ducking me?’

‘No, mate. Changed phones.’

‘Secure?’

‘Sure,’ said Mac. ‘What’s up?’

‘Thought you might like an update, courtesy of my mate at the ministry,’ said Benny, who had a friend in Singapore’s internal intelligence agency.

‘What’s he got?’

‘The investigation took a strange turn when the Americans turned up,’ Benny told him.

‘Americans?’ said Mac, massaging his temples.

‘Yeah, these men in black have been running around, going through all of Ray’s books for the funds.’

‘The investment business?’ said Mac.

‘Yeah. So someone asks one of these Yanks what they’re looking for. They can’t see what it has to do with Chinese spies and ballistic missiles and Ray’s execution.’

Mac was lost. ‘Yeah?’

‘Two hours later, my mate is officially warned off by the Singaporean Prime Minister’s office.’ Benny laughed. ‘Told him to let the Yanks have what they want and back off.’

‘Who are the Yanks?’ said Mac.

‘This is the good part,’ said Benny. ‘The senior bloke’s from US Treasury intel, and the underlings are Secret Service.’

Mac reached for his beer. ‘The Secret Service guys guard the President, don’t they? What do they want with Ray’s fund?’

‘Guarding POTUS isn’t their only job,’ said Benny.

‘Remind me,’ said Mac.

‘They also have a big intel and investigation unit for protecting the US currency.’

‘Currency?’ said Mac. ‘You mean they catch counterfeiters?’

‘That’s right,’ said Benny. ‘Look, I have to go now but I’m having a drink with my mate tomorrow – I’ll call you if there’s anything more.’

‘Okay, Benny.’

‘And Macca – be careful.’