Counter Attack (39 page)

‘Nice idea, Joel, but why would an Israeli psycho let me go?’ said Mac, moving forwards to meet Dozsa. ‘And why would he tempt me to take the chip and leave the hostages? It felt like a Mossad deception.’

‘You think too much, my Aussie friend,’ said Dozsa. ‘You could have taken the chip, flown home and got a medal – we could have avoided this.’

As much as he wanted to take Dozsa to the ground and choke him out or break his neck, Mac knew it was impossible with his leg virtually useless.

‘We’d never avoid this,’ said Mac, getting to within ten feet of Dozsa’s battered body. ‘You’d fly back to Malta or the Seychelles – wherever you’re based – and count the money in your numbered accounts while the people of this region would have China kicking the shit out of anything that moved.’

Dozsa shrugged.

‘And why?’ said Mac. ‘So some passed-over general can dissolve the Central Committee and run China as a military dictatorship?’

‘Stability is what he calls it,’ said Dozsa, moving the knife to his other hand.

‘We don’t need that kind of stability in this region, Dozsa.’

Mac heard the crunch of gravel behind him. Turning, he saw Tranh and Bongo.

‘Philippines need Pao Peng stirring up the shit?’ said Mac to Bongo.

‘We got enough fighting, thanks, Dozsa,’ said Bongo.

‘What about Vietnam?’ said Mac.

‘Had our war,’ said Tranh.

‘My heart bleeds,’ said Dozsa, lunging at Mac.

Dancing back, Mac tore off his shirt and bundled it in his left hand as Dozsa regained balance and prepared for another strike. Struggling for grip on the gravel, Mac’s leg finally gave way and he hopped on his good leg, his eyes rolling back in his head.

Dozsa, seeing his opportunity, leapt at Mac’s solar plexus with the knife, slicing through soft skin. Mac hit down on the knife hand with his shirt bundle as the blade passed across his midriff, taking the Israeli off balance. Simultaneously he threw a hard punch with his right hand at the hinge of Dozsa’s exposed right jaw and then collapsed on the gravel.

Mac lay on his side, and his mouth sagged open as he tried to move. His body had taken too much punishment and he could no longer stand.

‘You fuck,’ said Dozsa, looming over him and cradling his broken jaw. ‘You moron.’

The Ka-bar’s blade glinted in the morning sun and Mac accepted his fate. He couldn’t go on – he could barely breathe. A shadow crossed his face and he looked up at Bongo.

‘So,’ Dozsa spoke from the side of his mouth as he squared off on the Filipino, ‘the Aussie hard man needs his big brother?’

‘McQueen didn’t ask,’ said Bongo, circling with the Israeli. ‘I offered.’

‘Still, it doesn’t look good,’ said Dozsa, sneering. ‘You sure he wants this?’

‘Man’s got a bullet in his leg, Dozsa,’ said Bongo, empty-handed and focused on the ex-Mossad man. ‘Not like he’s giving up.’

The Israeli crouched like a dancer, his legs and feet light on the gravel as he shifted his weight. Bongo stood upright, mouth slowly chewing on gum. As the two men circled, Mac could feel the bullet hole in his leg running with blood.

‘So, how does this work?’ said Dozsa, the busted jaw pushing a faint trickle of blood down his bottom lip. ‘I come at you, and you pull a gun?’

‘Don’t need no gun,’ said Bongo.

‘Get rid of it, Morales,’ said Dozsa, ‘and let’s finish this.’

Bongo’s face was implacable behind the dark shades but very slowly he dropped his left hand and raised the bottom hem of his black trop shirt until the grip of a Desert Eagle handgun appeared above his waistband.

‘This what you’re worried about?’ said Bongo, a picture of stillness.

‘Drop it.’

‘Don’t,’ said Mac, as his blood ran freely from the bullet wound into the gravel. ‘Don’t give him the satisfaction.’

Bongo’s right hand slowly fell to the Browning. Putting two fingers and a thumb on the butt, Bongo extracted it millimetre by millimetre until he held the weapon in front of him.

The pace of the big man’s movements was mesmerising and Mac held his breath. Then Lance sat up and looked around in a daze, catching Dozsa’s attention.

Bongo said, ‘Catch’
and the Browning was arcing through the air at Dozsa, the Israeli hesitating between looking at the gun and focusing on Bongo.

Accelerating like a big cat, Bongo moved across the gap to the Israeli and got a Korean wrist lock on Dozsa’s knife hand while the Browning was still in the air.

Realising he was caught, Dozsa lashed out with a finger strike into Bongo’s eyes as he lost his balance and fell backwards, his right hand bent forwards onto the inside of his forearm.

Leaning his face away from the digging fingernails, Bongo used his strength to jerk upwards with the two-handed wrist lock, which almost raised Dozsa’s feet from the ground. Then, pulling down with all his weight, Bongo drove the Israeli’s right elbow towards the ground, destroying the carpal structure of the wrist, snapping the two forearm bones and dislocating the elbow.

In the still morning air it sounded like a child had been smacked and as Dozsa dropped to his knees and fell sideways – right arm now looking like a Picasso painting – his mouth opened in a scream that made the buzzards rise from the treetops.

As the Israeli roared with pain and sobbed in the gravel, Bongo picked up the Ka-bar and offered it to Mac.

‘Honours are yours, McQueen,’ said Bongo.

Sitting up in the pool of his own blood, Mac took the knife. It felt good in his hand. But trying to crawl to Dozsa, who’d passed out, Mac felt something else overwhelming him and he leaned on his hands, staring at the small dark spots as his tears dropped into the dust.

His back heaved and his face screwed up and before he could control it, Mac was weeping. His face wet, Mac shook his head.

‘Shit, Bongo,’ he said, trying to get the words out without blubbering. ‘I mean,
shit
– Ray was my friend, you know?’

‘I know, brother,’ said Bongo. ‘Ray was good people.’

‘He was,’ said Mac, sniffing. ‘He was a thousand per cent.’

Dozsa moaned and moved as he regained consciousness.

Looking down at the knife in his hand, Mac discarded it in the gravel.

‘Screw this job,’ he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘I didn’t even go to Ray’s funeral, know that, Bongo?’

Bongo looked away, probably with his own list of funerals, marriages and christenings not attended because of security concerns – every one of them a source of gnawing regret.

‘I’m not going to kill this wanker,’ said Mac, suddenly feeling very clear. ‘He’s going to stand in a courtroom, in fricking Saigon, and he’s going to answer for what he did.’

Bongo rubbed his chin. ‘This is Malaysia.’

‘Then we take the jet to Saigon,’ said Tranh, walking to Dozsa and standing over him. ‘The pilots are waiting.’

Sitting in the co-pilot’s seat of the Little Bird helicopter, Mac felt shivers of shock running through his body as he waited for Bongo and Tranh to secure Dozsa in the rear of the aircraft. Lance was concussed and had lost a lot of blood, but he was alive and talking.

Bongo finally buckled in and started the helo, and Mac realised he couldn’t stretch his le gs because of a large postal sack in the cockpit’s footwell.

‘What’s this?’ he said, putting on the ear cans as the revs built.

‘Dozsa’s boys were making off with it,’ said Bongo as the helo screamed. ‘Trying to reach the jungle.’

Mac saw blood on one side of the sack. ‘So you relieved them?’

‘Lightened their load,’ said Bongo, easing the helo skywards.

‘They were abandoning Dozsa?’

‘They had their reasons,’ said Bongo, banking the helo to the south. ‘About one point three million of them.’

‘This whole story just gets classier.’

‘So, we do the same deal, right, brother?’ said Bongo.

‘Same?’

‘Same as Dili. I’ll stash your cut,’ said Bongo.

Looking out on the lush jungle of the Cameron Highlands, Mac thought about it. He’d never joined the Firm to take money from people, but he could make an exception for Joel Dozsa.

‘Nice of you, Bongo,’ said Mac. ‘I’ll give you an address.’

Chapter 70

Mac got his second beer and a shot of Bundy and sat at the end of the bar in Tan Son Nhat’s business lounge. The television played a CNN loop out of the Asia centre and he let it wash over him as he prepped for his arrival back into family life – an emotional shock every bit as severe as the disruption of going into the field.

He’d spent a day in hospital and then four days in hotels, waiting for Scotty to pull the plug and order the team back to Canberra. Scotty had finally got the story straight, which was how he liked to run his field people before sitting in front of the brass.

The TV announced the cracking of another Indochinese sex- slavery ring near the Cambodian–Vietnamese border; this time a Chinese–Cambodian gang was responsible rather than the old favourites, the Khmer Rouge. The voiceover repeated the cops’ press release –one hundred and twelve captives, seventy-two of them children, bound for places such as Bangkok, Jakarta and Dubai. The footage showed buses being filled with the rescued people and several shots featured Jenny and her long-time FBI colleague, Milinda, talking to local men who had flexi-cuffs on their wrists. CNN showed the ship the human cargo were first transported in and then the warehouse where the rescue had occurred – an address that Mac knew had been provided by Vincent Loh Han.

Mac held his breath until the report was over; he’d never be comfortable with the danger his wife put herself in.

The main story leading the CNN news at the top and bottom of the hour was the North Korean allegation that the Pentagon had infiltrated their recent Taepodong missile tests and attempted to create a diplomatic crisis with Japan. The Secretary of Defense fronted a press conference in Manila, explaining how hard the White House was negotiating for ‘workable solutions’ in North Asia and denying any US counter-measures against the Korean missile tests.

A British reporter stood up – Mac recognised him as a smart-arse from the
Financial Times
’ Hong Kong office. Talking straight over the American TV reporters, he asked if the Department of Defense’s intense electronic monitoring of the missile tests could be re-purposed to hack the North Korean control room. The question was delivered in a tone that Americans found rude, and the room went quiet.

The secretary smiled. ‘I’d better ask my experts on that one – perhaps I’ll use my shoe-phone.’

The press room laughed and the moment was gone, although Mac knew the DIA spooks in that room had their ears pricked up: that journalist was going to spend the rest of his life having his emails filtered and cell phone calls intercepted to find out who he was speaking to.

Mac went in search of a drink and heard the commotion before he saw its source. A man was arguing in a loud Australian voice, claiming that the doctor’s orders had no force outside the hospital.

‘You can’t drink on your medication, Boo,’ said Marlon T’avai, pushing a wheelchair into the business lounge.

‘Be fucked,’ said Boo Bray, who was in a body cast and stretched out in a wheelchair that lay almost flat. ‘I’ll get enough of that teetotal bullshit from the missus, this is me only chance for a drink.’

Turning away from the argument, Mac hid among the drinkers on the other side of the bar. But as he ordered a beer, Marlon found him.

‘Shit,’ said Mac, sheepish. ‘Sorry about the other day, mate – you going to arrest me?’

‘Nuh,’ said Marlon, looking down on him with a frown. ‘Get me a couple of beers and it’s forgotten.’

Taking his beers, Marlon lowered his voice. ‘Actually, something else you can give me.’

‘Yeah?’

‘What was all that shit at Khanh Hoi?’ said Marlon. He was talking about the cordoning-off of Saigon Port’s largest terminal and the lack of media coverage. ‘That was something to do with your gig, right? Wasn’t that about US currency?’

‘Don’t know,’ lied Mac. The Americans and Vietnamese had shut down the Khanh Hoi wharves as they secretly disposed of an enormous cargo in one of the warehouses. The media black-out seemed to have worked and Mac mused on what stories would have hit the airwaves had the counterfeit billions been discovered in the West.

‘Anyway, thought you’d like to know that an alert hit the wires last night. Dozsa’s mounting a defence but he says he can’t afford it.’

‘Poor Joel,’ said Mac, looking around the room.

‘Thing is, McQueen, he’s saying that he can’t pay for his lawyers because he was robbed by Aussie intel.’

Mac nodded.

‘He’s saying there was more than a million US dollars stolen from his home in Malaysia during a raid by Aussie SIS,’ said Marlon. ‘I was supposed to be following up but I had to take Boo home.’

‘So, it’s dropped?’

‘No, mate,’ said Marlon. ‘Media’s on to it. Just tell me you don’t have that money.’

Mac smiled. ‘I can tell you where half of it is.’

‘What?’ said Marlon, hissing. ‘Fuck, McQueen, you got half a
million
out of Dozsa?’

‘More like six hundred and fifty thousand,’ said Mac. ‘But it’s gone now.’

Marlon looked around for nosey-pokes and sighed. ‘Okay. Where is it?’

‘Try National Road Number One, Sangkat Chbar Ampov.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a post office, in Phnom Penh,’ said Mac.

Marlon shook his head. ‘I don’t follow.’

‘The person with the money is too poor for a letterbox,’ said Mac. ‘So her address is care of the local post office.’

‘I’m actually trying to help you, McQueen,’ said Marlon. ‘Who’s this woman?’

‘Her name’s Maly Khoy,’ said Mac, slugging at the beer. ‘Poh’s mum – I hear she bought a headstone.’

By the time the Singapore Airlines wide body was six minutes into the flight south, Mac was quietly drunk. The hostie offered him the choice of four newspapers and he selected the Asian
Journal
. Leading page three was a picture of Vincent Loh Han beneath a headline that said, loh han bank to be listed. Reading quickly, Mac got the basics from the first sentences:

Saigon financier Mr Vincent Loh Han announced his retirement from the banking sector Thursday as he presaged the public listing of his new bank – Harbour Pacific Bank – on the Hong Kong Stock Exchange
.

Mr Loh Han, who is well-known to authorities around Indochina but has never been convicted, said he was standing back from the small business-focused bank and that the chairman of the new entity would be his niece, retired police detective Ms Chanthe Loan.

Raising his eyebrows, Mac stared at the story. Vincent Loh Han was going straight and he’d placed his police officer niece in charge of his interests as a way of proving it. It was a stunning story.

A small groan escaped from the man sitting beside him in business class.

‘Beer and painkillers,’ said Mac to Lance. ‘Short of morphine, it’s the only cure for bullet wounds.’

Forcing a smile, Lance poured the can of Tiger and sipped. ‘Rum work too?’

‘Nah,’ said Mac. ‘That’s an old habit from my days in Rockie – like a security blanket.’

‘You need a security blanket?’ said Lance, his shot arm in a sling and the dressing on his neck stained. ‘You’re hardly the type.’

Looking around, Mac idly swished the single ice cube in his glass of rum. Flying to or from a gig, intelligence agents were supposed to travel independently of one another. But they’d booked late as Greg Tobin tired of the recuperation excuses extended by Rod Scott, and they’d managed to put Urquhart and Scotty in separate seats, but Mac and Lance were together.

Taking a drag at the rum, Mac thought back to his early days in the field, the mistakes and the sheer stress – the sense that he’d never make it, that everyone knew how incompetent he was. The only thing that had pulled Mac through was his stamina – if, like most intel analysts, you wanted a medal after a few fourteen-hour days, you didn’t belong in the field.

‘Look,’ said Mac, turning to face Lance, ‘it’s not easy for anyone, okay?’

Lance’s bottom lip curled and he dipped his face into his hands and gulped. For ten minutes Mac drank and said nothing as Lance Kendrick wept beside him.

As Mac found a rerun of
Friends
on the in-flight system and looked around for some earphones, Lance blew his nose. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘Don’t be sorry,’ said Mac, raising his glass and a peace sign at the stewardess. ‘Feel better?’

‘I have to admit something,’ said Lance, as the hostie came down with two glasses and a bottle of Bundaberg. ‘I was relieved when Urquhart wet himself.’

Mac thanked the hostie as she poured two drinks and placed them on airline napkins.

‘How bad is that?’ said Lance, sniffling. ‘I was so scared that the only thing that made me feel better was knowing someone was in a worse way.’

‘That’s normal,’ said Mac, raising his glass and touching it to Lance’s. ‘Gunfights are primal – they’re kill or be killed, so the animal in you takes over.’

Lance shook his head. ‘I was so scared when they were shooting at us that I thought my heart would stop. It was beating, like, on the back of my tongue.’

‘Ha,’ said Mac, recognising the reaction. ‘You know how many people would try to take a gun off Joel Dozsa?’

Lance paused, wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. ‘I was frozen stiff, actually. Couldn’t believe it when my hand was grabbing at that rifle.’

‘It happens like that,’ said Mac. ‘You get in the middle of that stuff and you’re just reacting – sometimes you save the day, other times you have some regrets to live with.’

‘Umm,’ said Lance, before thinking better of asking.

Mac wondered if he’d ever forgive himself for those kids on Sumatra in 2002.

‘I was thinking of giving up,’ said Lance. ‘I mean the field stuff.’

‘But then?’

Lance suddenly smiled. The shootings had wiped the smart alec away and left a more mature face, one with a genuine smile rather than a poseur’s smirk. ‘But then I wondered what would happen if I maybe – I don’t know – got my hair cut more conservatively or dropped the earrings.’

‘What about respecting your seniors?’ said Mac.

‘Don’t know about that one,’ said Lance, and they both laughed. ‘Anyway,’ Lance drained the rum and washed it down with beer, ‘I’m going to stick with it for a while at least.’

‘So we haven’t scared you off on your first gig?’

‘Actually, I learned something,’ said Lance.

‘What?’ said Mac.

‘Never, ever give up.’

Mac followed the cackling sounds coming from under Frank and Pat’s Rockhampton house. Carrying a bottle of white wine he limped across the lawn past the barbecue and saw Pat and Jen sneaking a fag in the rumpus room where Mac used to play table tennis and listen to Bruce Springsteen records.

‘Busted,’ he said, pouring wine for his wife and mother.

‘That’s what wedding anniversaries are for, my dear,’ said his mum, tipsy and dragging on her smoke. ‘You get to knock off the goody-two-shoes act.’

‘Yeah, leave her alone, Macca,’ said Jenny, making a face at the paucity of wine he’d just administered. ‘And anyway, Pat was just telling me about this missing ribbon.’

Following her finger, Mac saw the display of his old sports trophies and carnival ribbons. The player-of-the-day statues from rugby league were at the front and the swimming trophies were at the back, along with rep jumpers for rugby league and union. Sitting on a cork board on the wall were his blue swimming ribbons, ranging from when he was eight years old until his last year of high school. Pat had pulled them out of their boxes once he went to uni, and put them in order, tacking them up with small pins.

‘Nineteen eighty-five,’ said Jenny, squinting at the regimented lines of blue. ‘Nudgee College swim carnival. One’s missing – look, there’s a gap and a darker area where it was.’

‘Must have fallen off,’ said Mac, turning for the door. His brother-in-law had been demonstrating how a slightly tweaked grip could improve his golf and he wanted to get back before Virginia made him change the subject.

‘Oh, stop it,’ said Pat. ‘Tell her.’

‘Can’t remember,’ said Mac, blushing slightly.

‘He gave it away.’ Pat blinked slowly in the way women do when they’re saying,
Can you believe it?

‘Gave it away?’ said Jenny, exhaling smoke. ‘Why?’

Mac shrugged. ‘Another bloke deserved it.’

‘He came second?’ said Jenny.

‘No,’ said Mac. ‘I really have to get back upstairs.’

‘What’s the secret?’ said Jenny.

‘He gave it to the boy who came last,’ said Pat.

Mac’s face flushed hot. ‘Mum!’

Pat grabbed Jenny by the forearm. ‘There was an old school friend in the hospital dying, this is about ten years ago. Alan went down to see him and a few days later I realised his ribbon for the fifty metres freestyle was missing.’

‘You gave it to someone who’d come last?’ said Jen, a little aggressive from the wine. ‘Why?’

Mac thought back to that afternoon in 1985, when Len Cromie swam the fifty metres freestyle at the swimming carnival – a mangle of limbs that didn’t work properly due to the ravages of cerebral palsy. Standing in his lane, having won the event, Mac waited for a boy who flirted with drowning rather than gave up. It was the end of an era – probably the last time any school allowed someone like Len Cromie to swim in a carnival, lest the school be set upon by lawyers and insurance companies or overprotective parents. Len had conned his way into the heat and was in the water before anyone could eject him. Mac remembered the teachers covering their eyes, unable to look as Len repeatedly slipped under the water only to bob up again for air. He remembered going down to see Len as a twenty-eight-year-old, when he was dying in hospital, and having nothing to give his old classmate but his best wishes and the blue ribbon. He’d left the hospital, embarrassed, when Len started crying.

‘I realised there were two kinds of winner,’ said Mac finally, staring at the floor. ‘The one who comes first . . .’

‘And?’ said Jen.

‘And the one who’s never beaten.’