Double Back (29 page)

Davidson looked out into the crowded street. ‘I know what you’re thinking, mate, but it’s too risky. I’m not sure I want you back in Dili – I’m not sure I can go back in there either.’

‘Why don’t we confirm the drop box first?’ asked Mac, not wanting to be left out. ‘Atkins told me about two – there could be more.’

‘I know where it is,’ sighed Davidson, reading the label on the beer bottle. ‘But that’s not the point.’

‘No, boss,’ smiled Mac. ‘The point is whether you’d rather send Atkins or Garvey.’

‘Okay, Macca,’ said Davidson, staring him in the eye. ‘For the purposes of discussion, you’re in, but -’

‘I’ll be okay,’ winked Mac, wondering where lost sleep went to.

‘Don’t be cocky,’ said Davidson.

‘You know me,’ laughed Mac. ‘By the way – this drop box, which one is it if it’s not at the cemetery?’

‘It’s the Hotel Resende,’ whispered Davidson, casing the room.

‘The Resende?!’ squawked Mac. ‘I thought that was a joke!’

‘No, mate, it’s real,’ said Davidson. ‘But just be careful, okay? This girl is with the Indonesians and she’s confused. I don’t want a hunch turning into a trap.’

Cutting through the Pasar Badung markets in downtown, Mac made his way to the meeting with Jim.

He thought about his hunch that Blackbird had dumped her copy of Boa in the ASIS drop box in the Resende. It was a location known to Mac, but only as a joke. The Resende was owned by a syndicate of generals and during the occupation years had been a home-away-from-home for the Indonesian Army officers and their families. One of the distinctive features of the Resende – aside from the listening devices – was the karaoke machines in the ballroom of the hotel. One of the generals in the owners’ syndicate reputedly loved singing ‘Da Doo Ron Ron’ and had equipped the Resende with the best karaoke technology.

Just to show that Australians had a sense of humour, the original ASIS operative in Dili – back in the late 1970s – had created a drop box in the back of the largest karaoke machine, up on the small stage that the machines occupied. If this was the box that Blackbird had been talking about, then Mac was hoping the Operasi Boa documents were in there.

The Bar Barwong was half full, rocking with locals and backpackers. Mac found Jim at one end of the bar and they ordered beers after greeting each other and checking the room for eyes. A TV screen on the wall was running a CNN bulletin featuring a coiffured woman standing in front of what looked like the Texas statehouse. Across the bottom of the screen ran the banner George W. Bush avoids questions on whether he ever used illegal drugs, and above it ran a small box saying, Viewer poll: is the media too hard on George W. Bush’s past personal life?

They couldn’t hear what she was saying because ‘Living La Vida Loca ’ was blasting out over the speaker system.

‘Never trust a man who can’t hold his drink,’ said Jim, pointing his bottle of Tiger at the footage of George W. Bush on the screen.

‘Never trust a man who stands behind you at the urinal,’ said Mac, and they clinked bottles.

‘So,’ said Jim. ‘You want to know about Lombok AgriCorp?’

‘It would be nice,’ said Mac. ‘Since on the two occasions I’ve been up there someone’s tried to kill me.’

‘Might be simpler to start with Lee Wa Dae.’

‘The Korean drug guy,’ said Mac, wanting Jim to get on with it.

‘Not entirely,’ said Jim.

‘That’s what the file -’

‘That file came from us, McQueen,’ said Jim, looking exhausted. ‘We wanted him running, to be confident, so we washed his file.’

‘You mean, you fabricated intelligence that was shared with your allies?’

‘Okay,’ nodded Jim. ‘That’s what we did – after the snafu in Iraq, we became a little isolated, a bit paranoid perhaps. We didn’t want another situation where we were drawn into a joint operation like UNSCOM, only to have the bad guys reading our secret briefings word for word.’

‘That bad?’

‘Worse,’ said Jim, sipping his beer. ‘When I was tapped to join UNSCOM Four as the head of operations, Saddam’s goons vetoed me, went around UNSCOM to the UN Secretary-General’s office, which then won the support of my President. They knew everything about me and a whole lot of stuff I’d forgotten – I was deep-sixed.’

‘You punched out a guy from the State Department?’

‘It was a push that went too far,’ said Jim. ‘The jungle telegraph did the rest.’

‘So, Lee Wa Dae,’ said Mac.

‘He is a drug lord of sorts, but he’s also a master procurer of matériel and feedstock for chemical, biological and nuclear programs,’ said Jim. ‘Lee Wa Dae was always the bag man for the North Korean generals; he arranged joint-venture bio-weapons projects, which were essentially Korean R &D conducted in another country.’

‘How did he get in touch with Haryono?’ asked Mac.

‘Haryono had always run these highly profitable but bogus medical research projects, under the auspices of the Indonesian Army. As Soeharto’s power waned, and oversight was minimal, Lee Wa Dae approached him with a pay-to-play deal and Lombok AgriCorp was born. Haryono was a scammer, rather than a bio-weapons nutcase.’

‘No one thought to tell the Aussies?’

‘What was there to say?’ asked Jim. ‘There’s a SARS vaccine program in the East Timor hills and it’s registered with WHO. You know how warm and fuzzy that makes journalists and UN-types feel?’

‘So you used an innocent Aussie to go in there?’ said Mac.

‘Sure beats tipping the Indonesians off by having a bunch of Yanks up there.’

‘Okay,’ said Mac, annoyed about being played. ‘So this bio-weapon actually works?’

‘Possibly,’ said Jim, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘Based on the samples, we think they’ve finalised a super-pneumonia – what the scientists are calling SARS. Of course, having the disease agent is only part of the project,’ he continued. ‘Then you have to weaponise it so it endures heat and concussion. Other versions have to be light enough to float on the breeze when you spray them.’

Images from CNN flashed on the screen in front of them. The sound was down but the images showed the ballot boxes in East Timor while the island was in flames. Militiamen ran along streets with assault rifles, T-shirts wrapped around their faces – many of them Kopassus operatives, no doubt, thought Mac as his anger rose. Kijangs filled with young thugs sped through the smoke, mothers ran with their kids, uniformed soldiers and police directing the mayhem like a movie. An Anglo man in a Banana Republic safari shirt said his piece to camera, probably before dashing to the airport – the same airport Mac was flying into the following morning.

‘So the Indonesians have weaponised SARS?’ asked Mac. ‘That’s what we were looking at underground in Lombok? Those corpses were the victims of SARS? And up at the death camp too?’

‘We think so, yes,’ said Jim. ‘It’s not confirmed.’

‘The generals are hosting this for a nice fee?’ asked Mac.

‘Yeah,’ smiled Jim. ‘Heroin money from North Korea, laundered in Poi Pet, delivered in cash to the generals in East Timor.’

‘The money we found on those boys in the bush?’

‘Sure. About a million US couriered into Bobonaro every month – now we know the destination was Neptune. Wa Dae used to carry it himself from Dili, but he got spooked by your Canadian friend’s capture, and changed to a run coming from Kupang instead. That’s what you intercepted, I guess.’

‘A super-pneumonia. What does it do?’ asked Mac, still not clear.

‘People with no immunity have twelve to eighteen hours,’ said the American. ‘They drown in their own phlegm.’

The Boeing 737 descended through the early morning cloud and lined up for Comoro airport in west Dili, revealing a panorama of smoke which, if it was Queensland, would have signalled bushfire season. Looking in the reflection of his cabin window, Mac clocked his dark hair, brown contact lenses and black moustache and felt his guts drop as the plane steepened its trajectory.

He was feeling cornered, having been woken at 5 am by Tony Davidson and informed that DIA would be playing a backup role in clearing the drop box at the Resende. Mac had argued, not wanting the Yanks charging around in what was the maelstrom of Dili. But politics had won the day: Australia had intelligence-sharing arrangements with the US, UK and Canada, and the price to pay for the high-quality product was to allow the senior partner to take any chair he wanted.

He just hoped the Americans stood off and let Mac do his job. His stomach churned with a dark fear – someone, either the Koreans or Kopassus, had got to Bongo and killed him. If someone could kill Bongo Morales, then they’d make easy work of an Aussie spy if they really wanted to.

After emerging from the panicked crowds in the concourse at Comoro, Mac grabbed a minicab from the apron. Settling in the back with a crowd of journalists and cameramen, he noticed Jim waiting in a queue surrounded by Brimob officers as the van surged away.

Driving through the official military roadblocks and the unofficial ones put there by militias and pro-independence locals, a French reporter told an Englishman in a fishing vest that the Turismo was the only Euro-friendly place in town. An American camera guy with a blue do-rag pulled a can of mace from his breast pocket and shoved it in the Frenchie’s face.

‘Don’t mess with Texas,’ he laughed, getting some sniggers from the Aussies and English.

‘One can of mace against one of the largest armies in the world,’ snarled the Frog. ‘You Yankees are so smart.’

Mac looked away, lost in thought. Certain types of journalists thought themselves a breed apart if they went someplace dangerous while hiding behind the protective shroud their profession gave them. At least half of these people would be back at the airport within two days, begging for a standby seat, he reckoned.

The Resende was still a utilitarian structure that looked more like a Stalin-era office block in Warsaw than a hotel in a tropical paradise. Checking in as Doug Crawford, Mac accepted the warnings of the manager that this was no place for outsiders right now, and went to his room. Hitting the Nokia as soon as he put his bags down, Mac made loud declamations to his Southern Cross Trading associates in Sydney about the climate for organic cosmetics and synergies with the government in East Timor. Everything in the Resende was bugged and the staff were often informers, but Mac sometimes found it easier to sleep with enemies than to evade them.

After waiting ten minutes, Mac wandered down the stairs to the lobby, stopping to look at a rack of tourist brochures while he checked for suspicious types. A few minutes later a Brimob van screamed past in the street, broadcasting orders over a loudhailer. When a woman ducked into the hotel with two children, the manager at the desk tried to shoo her out.

‘Busy out there, eh?’ said Mac with a smile as he moved alongside the woman and the manager.

‘Dangerous, mister,’ said the woman as the manager walked away, tut-tutting.

Having second thoughts about being in Dili, Mac saw Jim walking towards him with an overnight bag.

‘Warren?’ asked Mac, loud enough to make it play for the manager. ‘Warren Johnson? Holiday Inn, Waikiki – what was it? A cosmetics expo or something?’

Straight into character, Jim responded warmly. ‘Doug Crawford – you’re the organic cosmetics guy.’

‘That’s the one.’

‘And everyone’s like, Organic?! I don’t want to eat it!’

‘That’s the problem with a nation of people that thinks cheese comes out of a spray can,’ said Mac, smiling and shaking hands.

Thirty-five minutes later, Mac sat at a sidewalk cafe on the Esplanada, waiting for Jim. He’d had a chance to do a recce of the Resende’s ballroom, which had been filled with military types drinking coffee.

His stomach churning, Mac ran through the mission: he needed to be in and out quickly. And he needed to do it undercover, not with an American QRF coming to the rescue with eleven choppers.

Jim was supposed to be touching base with his Dili asset to get a driver and secure a couple of firearms, then meet Mac at the cafe. And he was late, a bad omen. As Mac checked his G-Shock, his breath caught as he glimpsed a tall bloke loping along the Esplanada. It was the cut-out.

Sliding down in his chair, wishing the big white Bintang parasol was lower, Mac made himself breathe through the nose as the man glanced to his left, but not far enough to clock Mac. Walking north and buttoning a navy blue linen sports coat, he hurried past, stress etched on his face.

Breathing returning to normal, Mac watched the local lawyer disappear towards downtown, swerving through pedestrians and looking from side to side amid the chaos on the streets. Blackbird and the Canadian were no longer around, so Mac wondered what the man was in such a panic for. His family, probably.

‘Hey, Doug,’ said Jim as he sat, Jakarta Post folded under his arm. ‘Everything okay? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘I’m fine, what have we got?’ said Mac, summoning a waiter and ordering two coffees.

‘I think we’re compromised,’ said Jim. ‘The tip-off that got Blackbird sprung may not be a one-off.’

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ said Mac, too tired for head games. ‘I infiltrated a fucking bio-weapons factory for this gig – I’ve earned immunity from that look.’

Sighing, Jim looked out to the choppy sea across the street. ‘Sorry, buddy, force of habit.’

‘So what’s up?’ asked Mac.

Lighting a smoke, Jim waved his hand. ‘Could be nothing – the SIGINT guys picked up some chatter about Boa being retrieved today, seemed too coincidental.’

‘Shit!’ said Mac, clenching his fist and trying to find the cut-out again in the crowds.

‘There was two calls with “Boa” in them, to this number,’ he said, opening the Jakarta Post and showing Mac a printed page with Da Silva, Carvalho Júdice e Associados – (Augusto Da Silva e Christian Carvalho) printed on it, with an address.

‘It’s a law firm in Dili,’ said Jim.

‘Law firm,’ muttered Mac, his head snapping up as he looked for the cut-out.

Trying to maintain a disciplined walk, Mac rounded the corner and peeled away from Jim to the other side of the street as he headed towards the Resende. Jim kept a safe distance, providing support.

Getting to the Resende, Mac paused at the glass door to regain his composure, before pushing into the cool of the lobby. His head swam with the possibilities, all of them negative: he didn’t like the way Jim sprang the news of the compromised operation and he didn’t like the urgency with which Da Silva had been moving towards the Resende. Mac was at his best when he was the one creating the timetable and the panic.

‘Ah, Mr Crawford,’ said the manager cheerily, in total contrast to how he’d treated the local woman and her kids. ‘How are we today?’

‘Good thanks,’ smiled Mac as he passed, before stopping as if in afterthought. ‘Actually, perhaps you could help me.’

‘Certainly, Mr Crawford,’ he smiled.

‘My manager asked me to have a look at the function facilities at the Resende for our conferences or expos. It’s a nice distance from Australia, China, Japan and India – if you see what I mean?’

‘Certainly, Mr Crawford,’ said the manager, coming around the counter and clicking his fingers for the bellboy. ‘Ernesto, please show Mr Crawford the ballroom and conference facilities.’

Following Ernesto’s dandruff-dusted black coat through to the rear of the Resende, Mac saw a large restaurant, a bar and a family-TV nook filled with sofas and coffee tables.

As they approached two large doors that met at the middle, Ernesto pulled out his master key, only to realise that the doors were now swinging open. After pushing through, Ernesto went to hit the lights, but they were already on.

‘This is the Resende famous ballroom,’ said Ernesto, sweeping his arm around a large space with parquetry floors, high chandeliered ceilings and a stage along the far wall, dominated by two enormous karaoke machines. Walking around the space, Mac marvelled at the aesthetic, somewhere between 1960s Las Vegas and 1980s Seoul.

‘Thanks, mate,’ said Mac with a wink, palming ten US dollars into Ernesto’s hand. ‘I just need to feel my way around this space for a few minutes, okay?’

Smiling, Ernesto headed to the doors, which Mac shut gently behind him before latching them.

There were two tall karaoke stacks on the stage, leading to two consoles, two microphones and two screens in the middle. Mac had spent enough evenings on the booze in Asia to know that many a duet had been sung on that stage, by people who had no right to do what they were doing to ‘Islands in the Stream’ or ‘You Don’t Bring Me Flowers’.

Checking the karaoke machine on the left, Mac pulled down the back flap which opened into a cable-storage compartment the size of two shoe boxes. It was empty.

Moving to the other side of the stage, Mac saw it before he got there: the flap was open, the compartment empty.

‘Fuck!’ said Mac, breathing fast.

Mac tried to think as he reached the doors. Had the cut-out been tipped off to Mac picking up a copy of Operasi Boa? He’d been in a panic when Mac saw him. Who – outside of Mac, Jim and Davidson – knew that they were looking for a copy of Operasi Boa at the Resende? It gnawed at Mac as he made for the lobby. Gesturing through the glass doors for Jim to join him at the front desk, Mac turned back to the manager.

‘Nice facilities – might get back to you on that. But tell me, I was meant to meet Augusto here ten minutes ago,’ said Mac. ‘And Christian.’

‘Augusto?’ shrugged the manager. ‘I not know any Augusto, mister.’

Mac thanked him and made for the doors.

‘Have we got it?’ hissed Jim as they spilled onto the street, Mac scanning the area for any sign of the cut-out.

‘Everything okay, mister?’ asked Ernesto, who was walking from a minivan with two suitcases.

‘Mate, I was supposed to meet Augusto and Christian here ten minutes ago – they’re our lawyers and it’s fairly important. I was wondering if they turned up, maybe I missed them?’ said Mac, looking at his watch.

‘Sure,’ said Ernesto. ‘I saw Mr Da Silva at back of hotel, after I show you ballroom.’

‘Shit,’ said Mac, looking over the crowds. ‘Did he say anything?’

‘No, mister,’ said Ernesto, eyes wide. ‘He running.’

‘I bet he was,’ growled Mac, wishing he had a weapon.