Counter Attack (5 page)

Chapter 8

Packing his suitcase, Mac tried to focus only on the job ahead and the corporate cover he had worn for most of his working life. He had a routine for packing his wheelie bag and readying himself for the Richard Davis collateral that would be waiting at Brisbane International Airport.

‘Think we’ll be okay with Sarah,’ said Jenny, sitting on the bed with a towel wrapped around her chest, tied off in her cleavage. It was just past eight am but she’d already done her laps at Southport pool and would be starting work at the federal police building in Robina at ten o’clock.

‘Yeah?’ said Mac, distracted.

‘I’m sharing a nanny with Sian,’ said Jenny. ‘She’s flexible. Basically, I call her when I need the help.’

Mac felt excluded. ‘Oh, when
you
need it?’

‘Yes, when
I
need it, Macca,’ she said. ‘Like this week. I don’t see you juggling when Sarah needs to be minded.’

‘Yeah, well . . .’ said Mac, taking his own Brut 33 deodorant from the toilet bag and replacing it with Richard Davis’s Old Spice. The SPF 30 sunscreen actually contained a gel that would turn his hair dark brown, and the tube of men’s face scrub was the Schwarzkopf N10 blonding agent that would take his hair back to its natural colour when required.

‘I mean, you only told me about this Auckland trip on Friday,’ said Jenny. ‘And you say you’re going for two weeks, but that’s not set in stone.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mac, reluctant to snap out of his focused state. ‘I told you as soon as I knew.’

It was a marriage where both of them trod carefully around the subject of their work. Jenny didn’t like to feel guilty or distracted in her job any more than Mac did in his. It was made more difficult by the fact that when the juggling had to be done, it was Jen hitting the phones and calling in favours. Mac knew that, but there wasn’t a lot he could do about it.

‘You can make it up to me,’ said Jen.

‘Sure,’ said Mac, preoccupied with getting his boat shoes into exactly the placement he liked. He travelled only with cabin luggage to minimise officials touching his belongings.

‘I mean, you know,’ said Jen, lying back on the bed, the towel falling off her hips. ‘Sarah’s watching the Wiggles, and . . .’

Mac’s wife had been a high school swimming star and an Austra- lian Universities rep in basketball. She worried that her stomach was loose and her bum was sagging after having Sarah, but Mac reckoned that she looked better in a tank top and a pair of Levis than most women looked in hundreds of dollars worth of lingerie.

‘The Wiggles, eh?’ said Mac, moving to her.

Putting her hand into his thin blond hair, she gave him the smile and Mac bent down to her, smelling the apple-scented shampoo that she used to get the chlorine out of her hair.

Kissing her, Mac let his hand slide up under Jenny’s towel, feeling the muscles and curves. Jen hooked a thumb over the band of Mac’s undies, but then suddenly pulled away.

‘Door,’ she said, pushing his chest.

Leaning into the hallway, Mac heard a famous song from the kids’ TV show, and a thumping sound that indicated Sarah was trying to dance to it.

Shutting the door quietly, Mac crossed the floor to the bed, where Jen had shoved the suitcase to the floor.

‘Thank God for the Wiggles,’ she said, grabbing him by the thigh.

‘Choo choo, chugga chugga,’ said Mac, and Jen giggled as she pulled him onto her.

The Airtrain between the Gold Coast and Brisbane airport was crowded with backpackers and retirees. Summer was starting to kick in for real and the hiss of the air-conditioning in the carriage was almost louder than the rattle of the tracks as they headed north.

Sitting at the back, Mac read the
Financial Review
and avoided eye contact. Something was niggling him about the Pan Pac shootings, and he couldn’t quite get it straight. The approach from Urquhart in Canberra had been a shock. Taskforces were put together to secure outcomes that were jointly agreed; even Grant Shannon from the AFP would not dispute the consensus. So why was Urquhart flitting about, looking for a traitor in ASIS?

The scenery flashed past, made dark by the heavily tinted windows. Also annoying him were the phone calls from Liesl Hu – the tone of fear that rose above her grief. Mac didn’t feel good about his lack of contact, but it wasn’t in a spy’s DNA to soothe wives when the aim was to get out of Dodge before the crocodile clips got warmed up.

Mac was worried about how much Liesl actually knew – or had guessed – about Operation Kava. Ray Hu’s cover in Singapore was genuine: he was a fund manager who took equity positions in small defence-oriented technology companies, even if many of his leads came from Aussie intelligence. He was the real thing and he was the embodiment of the espionage cliché of hiding in plain sight. He’d been written about in the
Far Eastern Economic Review
and was a regular in the Asian
Wall Street Journal
’s tips for hot investments in the new year. He was even on a Singapore government think tank for identifying future niche industries and getting universities to support them. But aside from this public profile, Ray was a stickler for secrecy and his double life with ASIS was walled off, even from his wife.

So why, wondered Mac as the train pulled into the international airport station, did Liesl get on the phone to Jenny and allege Australian government involvement in her husband’s murder?

He wasn’t comfortable about Liesl being a loose end, even if he did like her and owed it to Ray to look after her. Emotional, grief-stricken women making phone calls about Australian complicity in double murders in a foreign country was bad enough; when they were on the right track, it could be disastrous.

As he stepped onto the platform, Mac turned for the bridge to the international terminal and breathed deeply as he walked. He had to establish if Liesl’s and Urquhart’s stories overlapped. And to do that, he would have to talk to Liesl Hu.

Waiting for his courier, Mac sat at a coffee shop on the upstairs deck of the terminal, eating a filled croissant. His seat gave him a view to the lower airside level of the large, naturally lit terminal, while also allowing him to see anyone approaching on the upper level.

At 12.15, the heavyset yet quick-walking gait of Rod Scott came into sight. He bought two Crown Lagers at the counter and moved to the table.

‘Cutting it fine,’ said Mac, whose Qantas flight left at 1.40. ‘And why’re you here? Bit below your pay grade, isn’t it?’

Sipping his beer, Scotty put his folded
Courier-Mail
on the table and Mac pulled it towards him and let a plain envelope slide out of it and onto his lap. Removing the Richard Davis passport, he placed it on the table with his ticket in the name of Davis.

‘I thought we should chat,’ said Scotty, removing his sunglasses and rubbing his right eye with the heel of his hand.

‘Okay,’ said Mac, not wanting the beer.

‘Mate, what was Urquhart after?’ Scotty looked around discreetly.

‘Shit, Scotty. You had someone on me?’

‘No, mate – just a routine check of the tapes in the business lounge.’

‘Bullshit,’ said Mac, catching Scotty’s guilty smirk. ‘Urquhart tried to co-opt me – reckons what happened in Singers was due to a rotten apple in the Firm.’

‘Really?’ said Scotty, brow furrowed. ‘Urquhart came out and
said
this?’

‘Sure,’ said Mac.

‘And you said?’

‘I told him to get fucked.’

Scotty looked confused. ‘And that was it?’

‘He gave me a card, in case I wanted to talk.’

‘Really?’ said Scotty, relaxing.

‘He wouldn’t tell me who he worked for,’ said Mac. ‘Just that it was the executive arm.’

‘Got the card?’

‘No, mate – I’m clean, remember? But I can tell you the stamp on it was a federal coat of arms.’

‘Okay, leave it with me,’ said Scotty. ‘And if he contacts you again, bring him along and let’s see what he’s on about.’

‘I’ll let him talk,’ said Mac. ‘But I’m not snitching on my own people.’

‘Oh, by the way, Macca,’ said Scotty, chugging at the beer, ‘the name is Operation Dragon, the contact protocol is standard, and your team is in place.’

‘Team?’ said Mac.

‘One asset. Local.’

‘What about Bailey?’ said Mac, who’d wanted the former navy spook.

‘Bailey’s heading up to Thailand for an APEC junket.’

‘So who’s up?’ said Mac, tasting the beer.

‘Name’s Tranh. English is passable. Has his own little IT consulting business in Saigon. He hires himself out to visiting reporters and film crews as a driving contractor.’

‘Good cover.’

‘Yep,’ said Scotty. ‘He’s also nicely connected with some of the old ARVN networks and the black markets. He can get stuff, make things happen.’

Mac looked around the concourse as a person with a Chinese name was paged. ‘Local, eh?’

‘Not that kind of local,’ said Scotty, clocking Mac’s face.

‘In Saigon,’ said Mac, ‘they’re all that kind of local.’

Chapter 9

Booking the express checkout option at Changi’s Crowne Plaza, Mac asked for a steak and chips to be sent up before taking the elevator to his fifth-floor room overlooking the drop-off aprons of T3.

After a quick shower, he changed into fresh clothes and ate most of the steak before walking into the humid evening air. The cabbie looked at him once too often, so Mac asked him to take a left exit off Pan Island where he stopped outside a large shopping mall. Paying the fare, he walked through the concourse of the shopping area and out the side exit, where he hailed another cab and asked to go to Holland Park, but this time via the East Coast Parkway.

The humidity of pre-monsoon South-East Asia created a smell of dirt and leaves as they hooked north out of the traffic and gradually got into the quieter and leafier streets. Asking to be dropped beside a pay phone, Mac alighted and stood in the booth, pretending to talk but watching the almost-dark streets for silhouettes in parked cars or headlights being switched off.

Venturing out, he walked for eight minutes, passing Singaporeans as they took their evening walks, eventually stopping outside a plain white home. It was set back from the road, guarded by a stand of bamboo and a few palm trees. Walking past Liesl’s BMW and Ray’s Toyota, Mac chuckled at the different cultures of Hong Kong and Singapore: if Ray had lived in Honkers, he’d have worn garish gold watches and driven a Bentley. In Singers, he drove a Camry and owned a house that looked almost modest from the street.

Walking softly across the paving stones, he stepped up onto the porch and rang the bell, shifting to the side of the door as he did so. Standing still, Mac rehearsed what he was going to say to Liesl, but nothing cute and insincere came to mind. He was going to wing it, look into her eyes and decide on the fastest way to the answers. If that meant getting on the turps and talking about Ray all night, he’d do it. If he had to scare her, take her immediately to the worst case, he’d do that too.

Looking through the glass side-panel beside the wooden door, Mac squinted to see if there was movement, and then pressed the doorbell again. Glancing back, he walked to Liesl’s blue BMW, put his hand on the bonnet. Cold. The Toyota too.

Walking around the side of the house, he winced as the security lights came on, revealing a double camera which looked either way down the alley. A thick, deadlocked gate blocked his passage and he grabbed the top of it, pulling himself up until he could see over. Through the kitchen window of the house next door a maid washed pots and pans while a couple of young kids in pyjamas chased each other around.

Easing over the gate to the other side, Mac caught his breath from the exertion and became aware of a new sound. Someone crying? Moving slowly down the side alley, he wished he was armed. Poking his head around the corner to a poolside area where he had cooked many barbecues and finished a few beers, Mac saw the source of the crying. The black cocker spaniel stopped his whining and stared at Mac, posing a challenge.

‘Woody!’ said Mac under his breath and the animal came to life in a squeal of joy and greeting. He released the slobbering dog from his leash and the beast sprinted down the side of the pool and darted under a tree to relieve himself.

Opening the patio ranch sliders, Mac peered into the dark house. ‘Hello!’ he said, the silence ringing in his head. ‘Liesl? You home?’

Easing into the living area, Mac listened and sniffed the air for alien aftershave or stale cigarette smoke – something to tweak him. But the front part of the house seemed empty.

As he moved across the expensive carpet, the Chagall and a Basquiat glimmered out of darkness along one wall and the huge Whiteley hung over the Santa Fe fireplace. The massive Middle Ages chess board dominated an alcove like a challenge to anyone who entered this house; Ray was an excellent chess player and the chess set he called ‘the Dominican’ was one of his most cherished possessions.

In the kitchen, a stack of
Straits Times
lay on the bench, the top one opened to page five, where the ongoing murder investigation from the Pan Pac was being followed.

The place seemed untouched yet not like someone had gone on holiday. Woody came into the kitchen and Mac found a bag of chicken wings in the refrigerator, threw a few on the tiled floor and poured a bowl of water for the animal.

He wandered into the bedroom area of the house. Was she out with a friend? But left the back door unlocked? Had to leave suddenly? But tied up Woody without a water bowl?

In the master bedroom a dark green dress lay on the bed. Liesl had been getting ready to go out, but was surprised?

In the walk-in wardrobe, he noticed the full-length mirror at the end of the room was slightly off its hinges. Taking a closer look, he swung back the mirror and saw the large safe set into the concrete wall, door ajar. Using a pen, Mac pushed the door fully open and looked inside: a file box with the label
Shares
, another which said
Bonds
and three four-hundred-ounce gold ingots stamped with
Tanaka Kikinzoku Kogyo
. If Ray’s spy collateral had been in the safe, it was now gone, as was the tape in the surveillance machine housed under the safe.

‘Shit,’ muttered Mac, crouching to look at the black machine that looked much like a stereo tuner but had a small screen embedded in it.

‘Not enough for you?’ came the voice, and Mac spun, throwing himself sideways, as the light came on.

‘Easy, champ,’ said the tall man, who carried a bunch of flowers and a bottle of wine. ‘You’ll blow a fuse.’

‘Shit, Benny,’ said Mac, slumping on the carpet, his chest heaving with adrenaline. ‘You’ve got a timing problem, mate. Swear to God.’

The sounds of Benny Haskell barking orders into his mobile phone echoed around the large kitchen as Mac watched the head form on the beer in his glass. Benny had a team from his professional services firm working on Liesl’s possible disappearance; Mac was holding off on informing ASIS.

‘And when you speak with Max – and it has to be Max – you tell him this comes from me, right?’ said Benny into his phone, pausing to suck on his smoke. ‘And this is off the air, okay? We’re all buddies here, we’re not sending out the cavalry.’

Signing off, Benny poured a bottle of beer into his glass. Benny Haskell was at least twenty years older than Mac and a veteran of Aussie intelligence. A chartered accountant by profession, he’d worked in ASIS, held overseas posts as a trade commissioner, and had been one of the designers of the AUSTRAC system that tracked all banking transactions inside Australia and between Australia and the world. He now ran a firm in Singapore with a former legal executive from the Australian Taxation Office, facilitating banking options for people not officially residing on the island.

‘Got a line into SID,’ said Benny. The Security and Intelligence Division was Singapore’s ASIS. ‘We’ll see what comes back, but are you sure you don’t want the Firm to know about this?’

‘For now,’ said Mac, his mind spinning.

‘Why? ’Cos you’re not supposed to be here?’

‘Maybe,’ said Mac. ‘I’d like to start with the security.’

‘Like, there is none?’ said Benny, shifting his ashtray closer.

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, there’s no reason to put security on the wife of a random shooting victim.’ Benny shrugged skinny shoulders under a red polo shirt. ‘It was a hit on Lao, wasn’t it? Ray was wrong time, wrong place?’

‘Yeah,’ said Mac. ‘So what are you doing here?’

‘We spoke yesterday, when I was up in KL. She was going to get the barbecue going – there was something she needed to discuss.’

‘So you turn up with wine and flowers.’

‘She hates a drink,’ said Benny.

‘And . . .’

‘And I’m about to ring the bell when I see the front door’s open – but no lights on. A bloke gets curious.’

‘Fuck!’ said Mac, not liking the bit about the door being open. ‘There was someone in here?’

Benny ducked that. ‘I’m here for dinner. What’s your excuse?’

‘Liesl called me – thought I’d drop in on the way.’

‘To?’

‘Colombo,’ said Mac.

Benny lit another smoke. ‘What did she say?’

‘I don’t know if it’s relevant,’ said Mac.

‘If you’re crawling around in your friend’s safe, it’s relevant,’ said Benny.

Mac poured the remains of the beer into his glass. ‘Well, it was two voicemails, and in the second she said there might be Aussie involvement in Ray’s death.’

‘Was there?’ said Benny.

‘Mate!’ said Mac, in the long, drawn-out way that means
do you mind
?

‘So, either Liesl has found some evidence that Ray was working with the Firm when he was hit . . .’

‘Okay,’ said Mac, following the logic.

‘Or . . .’ said Benny.

‘Don’t make me say that,’ said Mac.

‘Been known to happen. McLean, Philby, Burgess . . .’

‘Fuck’s sake, Benny.’

The mobile phone on the marble bench top rang. Standing, Benny took the call, lowering his voice as he turned away.

‘Yeah, yeah, okay, mate – thanks,’ said Benny. ‘And you got that memo from Sally, about the earlier flight to Bangers?’

There was a pause while someone spoke.

‘Yeah, mate, I know five’s a little rude, but try to doze on the flight, okay?’

Folding the phone as he sat, Benny crushed his cigarette. ‘ISD’s involved,’ he said, referring to Singapore’s internal intelligence organisation. ‘So the Singaporeans think there’s a foreign government in this.’

‘Jesus,’ said Mac.

Benny looked into Mac’s eyes. ‘You telling me everything? I can’t help Liesl unless we’re a loop, okay, Macca?’

‘Yeah, Benny.’

‘Because it just occurred to me.’

‘What?’ said Mac.

‘Liesl didn’t know you were a spook – she thought you were a publishing executive doing deals with Ray’s fund.’

‘Yeah, well . . .’ said Mac, thinking.

‘So why was she calling you? What was a book salesman going to do for her?’

‘It wasn’t – look, Benny,’ said Mac, but Benny caught something.

He laughed. ‘Oh, fuck!’

‘What?’ said Mac, face burning red.

‘Don’t tell me you intercepted a call that was supposed to go to a certain federal cop?’ said Benny, slapping the bench top. ‘A certain cop who lives in your house? Oh, brother! You’re a brave man, mate.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Mac.

‘Or fucking stupid,’ said Benny, his laughter bouncing around the house.