The Mac Ambrose Series: 1-3 (Boxed Set)

by HN Wake

  The fax had arrived.

  She took a deep breath and picked up a ten-page fax from KL addressed to Joyce Terrell Tattle. There was no sender name.

  She carried the papers over to her desk, set down the travel mug, and laid down the stack of papers like a prized lottery ticket. She pulled up her chair, settled down, pushed back her hair, and leaned over to read.

  She took her time examining the cover note although it was essentially blank. A small printout along the bottom indicated the sender’s fax number. She punched this into an internet search and came up with no results. At least Talib hadn’t used an obvious, easily identifiable number.

  She flipped the first paper over carefully to reveal the second. Across the top was the logo of Noorhadin Accountants. In the faxed copy it appeared only as a block with large letters NA. The address was typed out underneath.

  The second document was the Profit and Loss for Malay Petro Reliance from three years ago. The sums in both columns read “0.”

  This was as expected. Three years ago, the company was dormant.

  She flipped over to the third paper. This was a Profit and Loss table from two years ago. The sums read “0.”

  The company had sat on a shelf with no income and no expenditures.

  She flipped to the fourth document. Last year, according to Noorhadin Accountants, income in Malay Petro Reliance was again “0” but a loss was reported of one hundred thousand Ringatt (MYR)—the equivalent of $27,000.

  This indicated the amount paid for the shelf company. The new owner had booked the loss against his new company. Nothing seemed unusual. This was all as she expected.

  She flipped to the fifth document. This was an accounting spreadsheet from Noorhadin Accountants for the most recent twelve months. The document listed only two transactions. Both were deposits.

  MYR 50,000

  MYR 40,000

  She skimmed the dates again. Yup, only two transactions in the last twelve months.

  Wait. Except there was no information for last month. She didn’t have the most recent statement.

  25

  Outside Long Akah, Sarawak Province, Malaysia

  An hour into their return trek, they reached a two-tire track road at the bottom of the gash. Leaving the wasted landscape behind, they followed the rutted road as it ran steeply down through remaining forest. The roar of chainsaws carried across the remaining jungle, a premonition of more carnage.

  Moments later, they came upon an empty workers camp. In the middle of a large square of dusty bedrock and slimy oil spills sat a lean-to tent on a rough wooden platform the size of a shipping container. Filthy blankets were spread across rough planks. The roof line was hung with drying laundry. The smell of a latrine permeated the area. A separate, makeshift kitchen was covered with a smaller, torn tarp. A swarm of flies circled a trash heap. Next to the cooking pit, five cages held terrorized gibbons, wide-eyed in panic. They were the next meal.

  The bile rose in her throat.

  Johnson spoke to himself. “Without an axe, no tree can be cut down.”

  For the first time, his quotes didn’t annoy her. She glanced at him. “Tibetan?”

  He nodded.

  “These workers,” Azly said, “they bring them in from out of the country. Alghaba takes their passports. They owe the company debt. They never get out of debt. They never go home. They are never free.” He shook his head.

  Alghaba violated even the workers that delivered their product. It was a supply chain of exploitation.

  An enormous, hulking semi used for hauling trees—its cab encased in massive roll cage covered in mud—was parked at the juncture of a newly-paved road. The three took off down the new road. Their heavy boots slapping the warm blacktop.

  “Who is watching Alghaba?” she asked Johnson.

  “You mean, who is concerned about the extent of the corruption and devastation out here?” His voice had softened. “The Malaysian government has made it difficult for any type of local protest. They use standard repression tactics like political reprisals, financial squeezes, and intimidation. Quite a few international organizations, like us, keep an eye on the situation. We campaign when we need to.

  “This story has been told. Many times. It’s on the internet. It’s not lack of exposure. It’s lack of interest People look away because this is ugly. Nobody wants to know what’s going on. Everybody wants palm oil in their products.”

  An hour later, in the distance, they saw a dark shadow across the asphalt. Under the beating sun, it resembled a mirage. As they neared, the outlines of branches and logs emerged; it was a feeble roadblock, more symbolic than solid. The three off-road motorcycles were parked just beyond. This was their rendezvous point.

  As they rounded the roadblock, a group of Penan and the three motor bike drivers stood. Every one of them smiled and came forward to hug Azly. He took a moment to explain to them in Bahasa Malaysia about the route of their trek then introduced them to Mac and Johnson.

  One Penan, who looked like a student in jeans, a button down, and glasses asked Azly in perfect English. “So you saw the gash?”

  Azly nodded. “It’s moving up.”

  “Yes, fast,” said the student.

  “How is it here?” Azly asked.

  “They haven’t been up yet today. But a hauler went up earlier in the week. Did you see the camp?”

  Azly nodded.

  “They will have to bring them down. Then there will be trouble. We expect it today.”

  Azly brought Mac in toward the group. “This is Vivian Maier. She is a reporter from Hong Kong. She is doing an investigation.”

  The student held out his hand with a huge grin. “Pleased to meet you. I’m called Lesu. Please, please, let’s sit and we can tell you our story.”

  They arranged themselves in a circle on the asphalt in front of the blockade. The sun was high and there was no breeze. Everyone was damp with sweat.

  “The government and Alghaba,” Lesu began, “told us to stop building our blockades. They called us stupid. They say this blockade is stupid because it won’t stop them. But what else can we do but fight for our land?”

  A tiny woman said, “We are only small people against their machines, their police.”

  “So what will you do?” Mac asked.

  “There is some hope,” Lesu said. “We heard they must stop work soon, that they have run out of money. We hear they are looking for money.”

  Johnson squinted at her. She felt the weight of her complicity.

  The sound of fast moving cars approached from below.

  Azly grabbed Mac by the hand and pulled her into the underbrush. An urgent push on her head forced her into a short squat. Johnson positioned himself just to her left, peering through the thicket. He motioned with his finger for her to remain silent.

  Azly stood and ran back to the group that had formed a line in front of the blockade.

  A police car and a dark SUV thundered into view. Dust swirled up from rear tires and engines roared. Brakes slammed and the two cars squealed to a stop. The dust cloud crested forward, enveloping the small blockade group.

  When the air had cleared, the front doors of the police car opened and two uniformed officers stepped out, their silver sunglasses reflecting the sun. They caressed Glocks in hip holsters as they approached the blockade. The smaller of the two officers noticed the motorbikes and pointed his finger. He barked a question to the group.

  Mac and Johnson gasped.

  The Penan stood silent, resolute.

  The smaller officer barked his question again.

  Azly stepped forward and raised his hand. He was staking a claim for the motorbikes. Lesu stepped forward next to him. Then another. They squared off defiantly in front of the police.

  The officers began yelling and waving their hands wildly for the three to step back. Azly and his comrades stood their ground. Behind them, the blockade group began shuffling and swaying—agitated and uneasy.

  The smal
l police officer jumped forward, sweeping his arm, and slapped Azly

  Johnson threw a restraining arm across Mac.

  Azly kept his hands to his sides, staring at the police officer. Beside him, Lesu and the others stood rigid, motionless. Theirs was a non-violence movement.

  The passenger door to the darkened SUV slowly swung open.

  All eyes trained on the tinted glass.

  A black boot pressed down into the blacktop.

  Over the window, a face emerged. It was the Samoan, the head of security for Alghaba, Eddy Mudzaffar.

  Next to her, Johnson whispered, “Shit.”

  She remained mute. She recognized the Samoan. A cold sweat broke across her skin.

  Johnson whispered, “It’s Eddy Mudzaffar. He’s head of security for Alghaba.”

  26

  Outside Long Akah, Sarawak Province, Malaysia

  Eddy Mudzaffar languidly approached Azly and his two brave Penan comrades. The soles of his heavy black boots rolled ominously—heels placed slowly, silently—against the shiny new asphalt. Five of the Penan stumbled backwards into the blockade; their fear was palpable.

  Mac pulled out her camera and quickly switched on the video. She held it up through the bushes and focused on the unfolding scene.

  Mudzaffar nodded to the motorbikes and asked the officers a question. The small officer jammed his finger at Azly.

  Mudzaffar stepped calmly within a foot of Azly. Next to the huge man, Azly appeared tiny and fragile. Mudzaffar leaned in without saying a word and held his face an inch from Azly’s nose.

  Azly stood his ground. Instinctively, the crowd leaned forward in solidarity.

  Mudzaffar’s chest expanded with a deep, annoyed sigh and his head tilted slowly, examining Azly.

  Azly’s chin jutted a fraction upward.

  Without a word, Mudzaffar punched Azly in the nose.

  Azly crumbled to the ground in a limp heap, unconscious.

  Mudzaffar swung his right boot and slammed it into Azly’s stomach.

  Azly’s slack body bounced on the asphalt.

  Slowly, Mudzaffar turned and strode back to the SUV and slipped inside. The two police officers turned and got in their patrol car.

  Mac kept the video on the cars as they reversed, turned, and sped off down the asphalt and around the bend.

  The crowd circled Azly’s body, touching him, talking to him.

  Next to her, Johnson leaned back on his hunches and released his breath.

  Mac sprinted across the road and wedged her way through the crowd. Blood streamed down Azly’s face. His nose was smashed sideways.

  Mac knelt and gently pulled up his eyelids. His eyes were unfocused. “He may have a concussion. We need to let him rest.”

  The Penan lifted him over to the side of the road and set him down gently. Someone pulled out a water bottle and placed a cold, wet cloth on his forehead. A few minutes later, he returned to his senses, opened his eyes, and looked around.

  Mac leaned into his ear. “I’m going to fix your nose. It will hurt. But better to do it now while you’re still dazed.”

  He blinked.

  She placed stiff hands on either side of his nose and jerked quickly to the left. The cartilage clicked into place. She took the cloth, wiped off more of the blood then shoved the ends up into his nose. “It will be okay now. You should lie down for a bit.”

  She stood, stepped beyond the crowd, and stared after the cars. Anger was coursing through her veins. Gravel crunched under footfalls behind her.

  It was Johnson. “Are you convinced about Alghaba yet?”

  She looked over to him, nodded.

  “Really?” he asked.

  “Yes. I will do what I can.”

  His eyes were wide with hope. “What can you do?”

  “I will present this—the illegality, the moral bankruptcy, the corruption, the violence, the fucking exploitation—to my boss.”

  “Is it enough?”

  “It will be.” She meant it.

  Thirty minutes later, they positioned Azly on the back of one of the motorbikes as he nodded an okay to proceed. Johnson boarded the second. Mac slipped on her helmet and stepped onto the third. The three pulled out slowly onto the road. The Penan waved and hollered farewells.

  Holding the waist of the driver as the motorbike picked up speed, the wind whistled through the helmet, and the deep green foliage flashed by. The motorbike ate up miles along the slowly descending road.

  Something moved behind her on the road.

  The SUV had pulled in from a hidden spot.

  Her driver glanced over his shoulder and stiffened. He leaned low over the handlebars and revved the throttle. The bike shot ahead. The other two motorcycle drivers heard the oncoming motorcycle, spied the SUV, and also sped up.

  Mac synced her body with the driver as the motorbikes, squealing at top speed, took the road’s curves low and tight.

  But the SUV was catching them, a deep growl growing louder--they were no match for its huge engine.

  The shiny, black bumper—littered with dust particles and bug carcasses—was closing in on their back tire. Four feet, three feet, then two.

  Her driver twisted down hard the gas, willing the bike to a faster speed. The wind shrieked through the helmet Pebbles spun out behind them, pinging the SUV’s windshield.

  She turned her helmet and began frantically flapping her arms to wave off the SUV, pleading for mercy. The bumper was now only a foot away.

  At top speed, the SUV angled closer. Its bumper pulled an inch away from their spinning back tire. She wrapped both hands around the driver and dug her helmet into his back in warning.

  The bumper tapped their spinning tire. It punched them forward and the motorcycle lost traction on the asphalt. The motorbike driver screamed inside his helmet. She squeezed her arms around his tiny waist. The bumper pulled back a foot but stayed close.

  The motorbike hit a pothole and they shot up into the air. She felt the driver tense for the landing and she squeezed him tightly.

  They slammed back down onto the road. The tires caught. The bike lurched, then hurtled forward at top speed.

  She twisted around to look into the SUV. Mudzaffar sat in the back seat, calmly watching the unfolding crisis. His stare was cold, lifeless.

  Holding the driver fast with one arm, Mac reached into her pocket, pulled out her camera, and prayed it was still in video mode. She lifted the phone and pointed it at the SUV, recording their onslaught.

  Mudzaffar said something and the SUV slowed. The distance between them instantly expanded. She sat up, twisted further, and kept the camera recording. But Mudzaffar didn’t want his actions caught on tape and the SUV disappeared behind them.

  She gave the driver a squeeze to let them know they were no longer being followed and pocketed her camera. Up ahead, the two bikes slowed and Johnson gave her a thumbs up, asking if they were alright. She waved them on, then wrapped both arms around the driver’s waist. The vibration of the bike evened out as they speed along the smooth asphalt down the mountain.

  She remembered the look of cold indifference on Mudzaffar’s face as he smashed his boot into Azly. A rage blanketed around her. Like a snapping matador’s cape, she had a target for her anger.

  Mudzaffar, I know you’re behind all this.

  And now I’m coming for you.

  Langley, VA

  In his basement office, Frank Odom was filing his notes into the database software and wondering about Mac Ambrose. She hadn’t checked in with him in over twenty four hours. He didn’t like it. She normally did what she was told.

  Odom didn’t mind Mac Ambrose. She got the job done and didn’t give him much grief. In fact, he couldn’t remember a time she gave him any problems other than a grumble here or there about delays from HQ. And she rarely, if ever, came through Langley. She was the type who stayed out for long stretches in the field.

  He heard a noise behind him and turned toward his open door. Director Dunne was
staring into the darkened office.

  “Any news?” the Director asked.

  “On Mac Ambrose and the Halloway investigation?”

  “Yes, Odom. It’s the only op you have on now that I am personally involved in.”

  “Uh, no.”

  “When did you last hear from her?”

  Odom swallowed. “Twenty four hours.”

  The Director’s voice was low, raspy, and ominous. “You lose another one in Malaysia?”

  “No, sir. I’m sure she’s fine.”

  27

  Langley, VA

  The morning after his coffee with Joyce, Isaac started digging into the Malay Petro Reliance file.

  She sure was cute, he marveled as he pulled up a search.

  Most of the other IT personnel in his office were men. There was one young female programmer who sat alone in the corner by the bosses office. They were all socially awkward: it was a shame they fit the stereotypes of computer geeks so well. Maybe he’d break the mold by dating Joyce.

  He defined his parameters and let the robot loose on the internet. It would take a few hours.

  He wondered if Joyce liked science fiction movies. He could take her to a movie on their first date. If he took her to dinner on the first date, they would end up talking about personal stuff and he wanted to break that ice once she knew him better. She needed to like him just a little before he told her his story.

  Yeah, a movie was better than a dinner.

  In high school, Isaac’s computer skills had landed him in deep shit. That was when the Agency had recruited him. In fact, he had been sitting in a cold, metal FBI room in a tall Houston office building when the Agency made their approach.

  In the middle of the night, the FBI had raided his parents house, had boomed up the carpet staircase, and had crashed his bedroom door. He had heard them coming up the stairs and had pulled all the plugs on his computer. When they entered, he was just a skinny, blond kid sitting in front of a blank, cold screen.