Mac closed his eyes.
CHAPTER 32
Mac had grabbed some sleep and was now watching CNN. The main story of the hour was the International Maritime Organisation security committee annual conference in Singapore. The theme was Maritime Security: Asia fi xing an Asian problem. He waited for the news fl ashes and the ticker along the base of the screen but there was nothing on Golden Serpent. It was just before eight am and he guessed the incident at Keppel Terminal might still be under wraps.
He sat in an offi ce at Halim Air Base, on the outskirts of Jakarta. The white, square two-storey building was an international cooperation zone used by foreign spooks, diplomats and military types as a forward staging area for all sorts of comings and goings. Australian law could be applied in the zone, so someone like Mac could be arrested by the AFP just as if it were happening in St Kilda. He was resigned to that.
Through the open venetians, the sun was coming up. An APS
bloke called Nigel was next door, in a secretarial area, trying to talk surreptitiously into the phone. It was the third call he’d made and Mac could guess what was being said at the other end as he listened to Nigel.
‘Well, yeah. I mean, he’s here.’
Silence.
‘Davis.’
Silence.
‘No, he’s okay. Friendly.’
Silence.
‘Okay, okay. Don’t worry, he’s not moving around.’
Silence.
‘No one else is here.’
Silence.
‘Just the cuffs.’
Silence.
‘Okay, I got that. But he’s not going anywhere, I mean -‘
Silence.
‘Only got one set. Actually, there’s more in the car …’
Silence.
‘Okay, okay. I’ll stay with him.’
Mac chuckled. The APS guy was big and built. He was straightforward too, probably recruited from a detectives’ room in Brisbane or Perth. Mac had already seen three chances to incapacitate him, get the cuff keys from the leather pouch on his belt, take his Glock and get on the run again. He could even have switched into the bloke’s blue ovies, taken his cap and his Commodore, driven out the security gates like he did this for a living.
But it wasn’t going to happen. Mac’s wrist was playing up and he’d asked Nigel to secure him at the ankles.
Nigel came into the offi ce, put a mug of tea on the fake wood-grain desk beside Mac, keeping his distance, his hand unconsciously dropping to the Glock on his right hip.
‘Cheers, mate,’ said Mac.
‘No worries.’
Mac checked out the mug he’d scored. ‘Couldn’t have got something even more appropriate, could ya?’
He turned the mug to Nigel. It said All Men Are Bastards.
Nigel laughed. ‘Sorry, mate. Secretaries!’
The CNN story churned on. They had a reporter called Stan in front of what looked like the convention centre at Raffl es City. Stan seemed excited … still no confi rmation, Betty, but insiders at this IMO security conference are telling us to expect a surprise guest speaker this morning. The military are already moving people back and it looks like we’re going to have half the downtown area shut down for this.
And I can inform our viewers that the worst-kept secret around here is that we’ll be hearing from the Chinese Army’s Xiong Ming …
The anchor, Betty, cut over, And who is Xiong Ming?
… Betty, he’s the PLA’s Supreme Marshal and as such he controls the PLA General Staff. The PLA General Staff is enormously powerful - it’s military, of course, but it’s also political, economic and social. The PLA General Staff has an infl uence over all Chinese government policy and -
So what’s he doing in Singapore for this conference? asked Betty.
Betty, we can only guess at what Xiong Ming is going to say. But the fi rst point is that Xiong is not known for public appearances, and it’s rumoured that he’s never left mainland China in a declared manner. Secondly, we know Xiong has been the loudest voice in the East Asian area for a concerted military approach to maritime security in the South China Sea and Malacca Strait. Xiong was one of the architects behind the push for the Chinese naval base on the Spratlys and he’s considered more of a hawk in maritime matters than even the Americans. So - because this is an IMO security conference - insiders are expecting him to spell out the Chinese vision for secure trade in the future. Singapore is buzzing with the rumour that Xiong is going to publicly - for the fi rst time - advocate an offi cial Chinese naval presence in Singapore. If that’s what he does, it’s worth noting that he’s also the senior voice in Beijing for a ‘Greater China’
policy. Betty …
The shot was on the anchor again, who thanked the reporter and segued into a story about a new tollway.
Mac liked hearing Stan in the mornings. The Aussie accent and everything. But the story itself worried him. Xiong was an immensely powerful fi gure in Beijing and his Greater China outlook even scared a lot of the political hard-heads of the Communist Party. Xiong speaking at an IMO conference in Singapore was symbolic and Mac hoped the speech wasn’t about naval bases. He didn’t think the Singaporean police were going to like the story either. If Xiong was fl ying in and it was already being broadcast as a rumour, the police would go to controlled airspace, a total hassle for any law enforcement or civil aviation type. They’d be doing that while also trying to deal with Golden Serpent down at Keppel.
Mac could just sense some of the outbursts and recriminations being fl ung around down at MPA operations centre right now. Hatfi eld saying, Where’s your Em-Con? Who’s in charge? The Singaporeans saying, How do you lose one hundred and eighty bombs loaded with VX nerve agent?
‘Politicians are all the same, aren’t they?’ said Nigel, snorting.
‘Doesn’t matter what language they speak, they’re always talking about what they’re not talking about. Know what I mean?’
Mac smiled. Knew what he meant.
It was 8.20 am when Garvey turned up, Nigel walking him through to where Mac was. Mac put down the new IBM mug he’d been given.
‘Garvs. ‘Zit going, champ?’
Garvey put his hands on his hips. No shake. Looked around the offi ce, nodding his head. Looked at Mac.
‘What? No broken wrists? A bullet wound, perhaps? Not losing your edge are ya, mate?’
Mac smiled. No heart in it.
‘Saw Marlon last night. Down at MMC,’ said Garvs.
MMC was the Jakarta hospital used by Americans and Australians.
‘How was he?’ asked Mac.
‘Oh, I dunno, worried about the shoulder reconstruction.
Worried that his kids might be worrying about their dad. That sort of thing.’
As Garvey moved to sit on the desk, Mac noticed a Glock on his hip, under his shirt.
‘Didn’t know you were S-2, Garvs.’
Garvey shrugged. The two men stared at one another as if fi fteen years of friendship had never happened.
‘Still looking for a fl ight. May be this evening, get you into Darwin,’ said Garvs.
Mac nodded.
‘Mate, just go along with the process, huh? Let’s see if we can salvage something.’
Mac looked at him, unsmiling. Garvs was the sort of person who’d hear phony Americanese like process and salvage and tell someone to get their hand off it. Times had sure changed.
‘We going to debrief?’ asked Mac.
‘Haven’t been asked to. But if you want to talk …’
Which strongly suggested that Garvs was wired.
Mac changed tack. ‘What’s Xiong doing in Singers?’
‘Maritime security. That’s the conference, isn’t it?’
‘Why would Xiong come in to talk about that? Bunch of pirates, terrorists messing with the Chinese economy? It’s a pretty old story.’
‘Could be that naval base shit again,’ said Garvs, sniffi ng and looking away.
Mac’s ears pri
cked up. Skin crawled. A sixth sense, when someone has verbally slipped and is using nonchalance to recover. Where had naval base come from?
He looked at Garvs, but the big guy was looking out the venetians.
Trying to change angles.
‘So where you been, old man?’ said Garvs, too casually.
‘Just looking into things,’ said Mac.
Garvs crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Things, huh? Where?’
Either Garvs was foxing or the Twentieth’s reputation for maintaining a fully classifi ed operation was holding true.
‘Round the archipelago. You know how it is.’
‘How it is was that you were on a plane back to Sydney, last time we spoke,’ said Garvs, forced smile.
‘Yeah,’ said Mac, like he was a teenager weighing which rock concert he would get tickets for. ‘But there were loose ends. Things didn’t add up.’
‘What’s this? Hawaii 5-0?’ said Garvs.
‘In your dreams I guess that makes me Dano.’
The two stared at each other, the years compressing.
The front doors suddenly opened and an Aussie girl in her twenties and two British girls came through, laughing about what someone did to ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ at the karaoke last night. Realising Mac and Garvs were there they blushed, shut their mouths, walked through to the admin area.
Garvs got up, shut the door behind them. ‘See, Macca, I can’t work out why you went back to Sulawesi.’
Mac shrugged. ‘Told you, things didn’t add up.’
‘What things?’ Garvs was making swirls with his fi nger on the desk.
Mac fi xed him with a look. ‘I realised Garrison had to be working with one of our guys. I decided to fi nd out who.’
Mac thought he saw an eye tremor, wondered if Garvs was dissembling.
If he was, Garvs rescued it quick with a laugh. ‘Don’t tell me, Macca - a mole, right?’
Mac didn’t let the stare go, even though Garvs was laughing at him. ‘Mole sounds very Cold War, doesn’t it, Garvs?’ he said. ‘Let’s say there’s another kind of black operator who’s no mole, not a double and maybe isn’t even behaving illegally?’
‘Okay.’
‘Might be a good man, asked to do something. Something he’s not completely comfortable about, but which gets him into the Big Boys’ Club.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Might not know the whole picture. Only be told the outcome or only told about the benefi ts.’
Garvs shot his eyebrows up too quick. ‘How would someone work that?’
‘It’s an old move. If blackmail and threats don’t work, try some reverse fl attery.’
‘Really?’
Mac was taking Garvs into areas he hadn’t been into. Truth was, Garvs wasn’t very good at the things Mac excelled at. Thought he’d give a glimpse of himself in operational mode.
He altered his voice, got into character. Did what he’d done a thousand times, all over Asia. ‘You know, “Garvs, it so amazes me that you’re still only an IO after so many years. You’re so smart. So much smarter than these smarmy pricks who are getting paid twice as much as you and deciding your future. Don’t know who the halfwit is who’s been passing you over, but you know, I see you as director material. Fair dinkum, Anton, you’re the type of person we need for these new taskings. No one else knows what the fuck’s going on.
But hey! Here’s an idea! I’m having lunch with the DG next week in Tokyo, it’d be great to know I had your permission to put your name forward … ”’
Garvs was embarrassed. Had broken the stare. Put his hand up.
‘Okay, okay.’
Mac pushed on. ‘How it works, mate. Only, as an afterthought, I’d say something like, “You know, Anton, we’ve been having this little problem. Been working on it with the American side. Hush-hush, classifi ed, of course, but thought you’d like to sit in, lend us a hand while we get you in front of the DG, huh?” ‘
Mac didn’t know if he’d hurt Garvs. Or if he’d struck something else. The big guy exhaled, looked through the venetians at the heat shimmers now coming off the concrete of Halim. He shoved a hand in his pocket, brought something out, popped it in his mouth. It was chewing gum.
The front doors fl ew inward and a bloke Mac knew entered the building, bandage across his nose, black eye - one of those ones with an egg yolk in it. A black cap on his head, he was dressed in grey ovies. He had a man and a woman in his wake as he stormed along the entry corridor.
The party went down the hallway and the MI6 guy called Paul suddenly reappeared. He’d reversed up, didn’t miss anything. Paused at the door, smiled at Mac and entered the room.
‘You’re up early. You shit the bed?’
Mac laughed. ‘Nah, that was your missus. You can have her back now.’
Paul came forward, shook Mac’s left hand. Mac did intro ductions with Garvs.
Paul turned back, kept the musical Pommie accent going. ‘You could be the man we’re looking for, McQueen.’
Mac looked at Paul, looked at Garvs. ‘Yeah?’
‘Got a small thing in Singers this morning. Need a bloke who’s all over it.’
‘Short-staffed?’ asked Mac.
‘All at a conference. They pulled me out of MMC.’
Mac thought about the IMO security bash at Raffl es City and realised that that’s where the Service would always have deployed him.
Natural fi t: his turf, his specialty. The penny dropped. They wanted him out of Singers too.
Garvs cleared his throat. He seemed nervous around Paul.
‘Mate, you didn’t see the ankle bracelet. Makes him look like a tart, if you ask me,’ said Garvs to Paul.
Paul looked down. ‘He’s right, McQueen. It’s tarty. Lose it and let’s get going.’
Garvs stood, looked at Paul, chewing furiously. ‘He’s in custody, mate. Understand?’
‘Sure,’ said Paul. ‘But we’ll be needing him.’ He walked to the door.
Turned back to Garvs. ‘Have him ready in two, thanks mate.’
Garvs shook his head, like this Pommie was going to get a word in the shell-like. Paul put up his hand. Yelled ‘Anthea’ over his shoulder.
Garvs and Paul eyed off for eight seconds. Something colder than hate.
A medium-height brunette came through, a clipboard in her hand. Paul said, ‘Can we get a copy of that executive order? And bring a requisition for Mr McQueen to sign, okay? It’s McQueen, Alan.’
Anthea dashed out of the room. Paul stood his ground and Garvs straightened up, a bead of sweat on his top lip.
‘ Davis is going nowhere, ‘cept on a plane into Darwin. Townie, if he’s lucky,’ said Garvs.
‘Ten days ago your government resourced us to requisition from all coalition partners as part of our joint CT sweep. So I’m requisitioning,’ said Paul.
Garvs tried to stare him down. But Paul didn’t seem to mind. He stared straight back.
Anthea came back, gave Paul a piece of green paper, the last or second-last sheet on a triplicate form. The whites, reds and blues were sitting somewhere else, probably in Canberra and the British Embassy.
The green paper had a man’s handwriting in the tasking section. Some boxes were ticked, N/A was written in other places. The signature was looping but you could read the name: the Australian Minister for Foreign Affairs.
Mac had never seen an EO before, but he remembered the low-level circular that had accompanied the agreement between the UK, Australia and the US to share intelligence and assets in the latest CT operations.
Mac handed the order to Garvs, whose breathing was stiff as he went all out on the chewing gum.
‘We’ll see about this,’ said Garvs, heading for the other side of the room, where he grabbed at a phone and hunched over it.
‘What made you cotton?’ said Mac to Paul, keeping his voice soft.
Paul looked over at Garvs remonstrating into the phone, whispered
‘I was walking around the lon
g way to get to Hasanuddin Airport, and I realised something. In all the years I’d been observing you, writing fi eld reports on you, I’d never seen you anything except cool.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So when I fi nally got to speak with you in that van, and you’re a wreck, I thought I should assume something was genuinely up and try to work it through.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Realised that the CL-20 that Sabaya had -‘
‘You knew about that?’
‘Came from a US Army bunker in Guam. I’d been trying to get a handle on what it was for. So I’m walking along with a bleeding face and remembering that Sabaya had spent a week in Manila. I put that with the VX heist. Realised why you looked so stressed.’
Garvs turned with the phone at his ear and the order in his hand, said, ‘Hang on just a minute, you two.’
Garvs rabbited on to whoever was listening in Canberra. But nothing trumped an executive order. Garvs put the phone down, sullen, handed the sheet to Anthea and shrugged. Then he called Nigel through.
As Nigel loosed the irons, Mac signed a British government form, freshly printed out with his name on it.
Mac checked his backpack. The Heckler was still there, so were the passports, cash and visa.
As they left, Mac couldn’t work out what saddened him more; Anton Garvey’s dejected state, or the chewing gum wrapper that lay on the desk.
Special Mint. Bartook.
CHAPTER 33
Mac sat in the back of a civilian-marked Gazelle helo as it fl ew in to Singapore at one hundred and eighty miles per hour. It was 9.16 am.
Clear skies, medium humidity.
Next to him was an MI6 contractor called Weenie. Despite the crap name, Weenie was the comms version of a safe-cracker. Between them sat two cases with the capacity to lock on to restricted or scrambled frequencies such as those used by the Port Authority, the Singaporean Police or the armed forces. Weenie couldn’t promise he’d be able to jam into the Americans’ bandwidths, but he’d try.
The other, smaller case - the size of a laptop bag - allowed Weenie to fi nd the location of cell phones.
Mac told Paul all he could remember about where the VX might be and what, precisely, had been in Sabaya’s message to Hatfi eld. However, his mind was so exhausted he was having trouble focusing. Paul wasn’t in great shape either. When they pulled him out of MMC, he’d had a shot of morphine just an hour earlier. They were a right pair.
Alan McQueen - 01 - Golden Serpent Page 30
