Alan McQueen - 01 - Golden Serpent (31 page)

Marlon laughed and Mac winked at him. He liked that the bloke had a shoulder rig. They were about three times slower than drawing from the hip and they had the added problem of leaving the right arm straddled across the chest. That was a bonus for Mac and potential disaster for Marlon.

Boo was another story. He was getting on in years - maybe forty-seven, forty-eight - but he kept his Glock in a standard hip rig and at six-three he was still a handful on the blueing side of things. Mac had played footy with him in the ANZAC Day Aussie versus Kiwi rugby games in Jakkers. They were supposed to be special sporting events on the embassy calendar but Boo always managed to turn them into something much more. He had no problems scrapping with blokes half his age. He liked it.

Mac looked back. Dropped the funny stuff. ‘Boo, I need to make a phone call to US Army Special Forces in Zam. It’s urgent.’

Boo scoffed.

‘I’ll tell you the number. You call,’ Mac pushed.

Boo stood, walked around the table, sat on it so he was looking down on Mac. He wore grimy off-white chinos, grey plastic shoes with a zip up either side and a lemon polo shirt with the penguin on it.

‘Urgent, huh?’ said Bray. ‘Only urgent thing I’ve heard about lately is Alan McQueen, on a plane, into Canberra for a little word in the shell-like.’

Mac breathed out. ‘Mate, just get me the phone. You can sit here, listen to me. What’s the problem?’

Boo and Marlon both laughed. Then Boo pointed at Mac’s wrist and said, ‘Got a boyfriend for that?’

Mac laughed and pointed at Boo’s mossy fangs. ‘Got some Steradent for that?’

Boo iced over while Marlon pissed himself.

Mac opened his hands. ‘I mean, you do fl oss, right?’

Marlon put his hand to his mouth, trying to stop the laughter.

Boo’s big forearms fl exed. It wasn’t going to be fun getting a slap from Boo, but it might be worth it in the medium term.

Mac edged forward on his chair, getting his weight onto his right thigh. Tensed. ‘You know, Boo - it’s probably one of those tropical things, like, um,
moss
river fever.’

Marlon spluttered. Boo’s eyes fl ashed and he threw a right-hand punch. Mac slipped under it and let loose the perfect right-hand uppercut, collecting Boo on the tip of the chin and snapping his head back. Boo fell back onto the table like Mac had just felled a tree.

Mac’s wrist screamed for respite but he turned for Marlon, taking two paces to get to him. He watched Marlon reach across his body and under his left armpit for the shoulder rig. Mac planted his left foot as he watched Marlon prepare to draw, then lashed out with a right-foot snap-kick aimed at Marlon’s right elbow, right on the point that would either break the elbow or dislocate the shoulder. His snap kick connected, one hundred and six kilos of accelerating mass behind it.

The elbow snapped back against Marlon’s chest, busting the joint, his right shoulder popping out in an anterior dislocation. Marlon’s eyes went wide with fear as he cannoned backwards into the hotel room wall, air sucking straight out of him with the pain and shock. He was unconscious before he hit the fl oor, his arm mangled and twisted into a shape it shouldn’t have been in.

Mac reached into Marlon’s shoulder rig, pulled out the Glock and stood. Boo was mumbling, trying to raise his head, his hand fumbling around for the Glock on his hip. Mac stepped over, brought his Glock down hard on Boo’s right wrist, breaking something. Boo screamed and pulled his hand to his chest. ‘
Faaarrrkkk!
‘

Mac left Boo’s gun. No time. Sweeping the room, he saw a phone, couldn’t remember the numbers. He raced to Boo’s black briefcase, riffl ed through it and found his cheapo mobile phone. Shoving the Glock into the belt of his chinos, he pulled his shirt over it, put the phone in his pocket and made for the door. Bursting through it, he came face to face with another Glock 9 mm, behind it a person he knew as Sami. The driver of the blue Commodore.

‘Fuck!’ said Mac. ‘You too?’

Sami shrugged. ‘It’s a living.’

Mac put his hands up, shook his head. Behind him Marlon was moaning, Boo was gasping.

‘Mate, I need to make a call,’ said Mac, going for his pocket.

Sami started to say something.

Then his head shifted sideways so fast his hair stayed put for a split second. It looked like a Buster Keaton gag. In place of his face was a large fi st and forearm.

Male.

Maori.

A bloke in a set of grey ovies stepped in front of Mac and brought his right foot down hard on Sami’s gun wrist. Sami shrieked, moaned then passed out. The Maori turned back to Mac, raised his chin and widened his eyes.

‘G’day, Chalks.’

Boo and Sami sat on the wicker-sided sofa, right forearms cradled in left hands, ashen-faced, tons of pain, no fi ght left. Marlon lay on the fl oor, in la-la land.

When Billy arrived with his medic’s backpack he set it down on the table, looked around and said, ‘Shit, guys, didn’t leave much of them.’

Billy unzipped the medic pack, went to Marlon who’d been vomiting, passing in and out of consciousness. Didn’t matter how big and tough you were, a dislocated shoulder was more trauma than the human body could handle. Billy gave Marlon a green stick of laughing gas, told him to breathe deep on it. Then he got him upright and tried to get his jacket off. Marlon screamed and passed out again.

Sonny spoke in a low voice with Hemi at the table, which had a pile of Glocks sitting on it, then he picked up his sat phone, hit a speed-dial and wandered out to the terrace. Hemi got up to help Billy.

Mac put his hand in his pocket, grabbed his mobile.

Boo looked up and said, ‘Gotcha phone, eh Macca? Hope it was worth it.’

Mac looked at him, thought about the situation. If he ever got out of this there’d be a lot of explaining to do to a lot of offi ce guys. ‘What can I say, Boo? I told you I just wanted the phone. It was urgent.’

Boo shook his head. ‘What is it with spooks? Think you’re above the law?’

‘What is it with I-team and straitjackets?’ said Mac, though his heart wasn’t in it. Wished he hadn’t said that.

‘Mate, ever seen what a girl looks like on ice? Scary, mate. That jacket was for her protection,’ said Boo.

Mac scoffed.

Boo shook his head. ‘And don’t give me that shit, neither. I didn’t ask her to take that junk.’

Mac weighed the phone, watching Hemi get the blazer off Marlon, dribble coming out of the Samoan’s pale lips, his head lolling. Mac looked back at Boo and his broken wing.

Mac breathed out, said, ‘Sorry ‘bout the arm, Boo.’

Boo laughed. Big, bamboo-toothed laugh. ‘Missus won’t be happy, I can tell you.’ He let his mouth fall open in a big leer. ‘Might have to play nursie to poor old Barry. Know what I mean?’

Mac shut the bathroom door, sat on the toilet lid and fi red up the phone with his left hand. His right was so far gone he couldn’t even make a fi st with it. He scrolled down ‘dialled calls’ and hit the one starting with 63.

The switchboard bloke came on and Mac asked for Captain John Sawtell. Mr Switchboard said, ‘No can do,’ like he was relishing it.

When Mac asked why not, the bloke said, ‘He’s operational.’

Mac thought back to their last conversation. Sawtell had said he was on stand-by to go into Manila. Now the CBNRE boys needed more special forces? It must have turned weird.

‘Can you patch me through?’ asked Mac. ‘It’s urgent.’

‘Sorry, sir. Can’t do that from a civilian line.’

Mac knew the rules and why they existed. If you had the right gear and a bit of luck you could pinpoint a military handset from a civilian-originated call. Not something most people would think about, but a handy tool for terrorists and spies.

‘Can I get a message to him?’ Mac pushed.

‘I can try, sir, but no guarantees.’

Mac gave him a mobile number and the Indonesian country code.

He didn’t want to do it that way, but since the I-team had found him he fi gured there wasn’t much cover left to blow.

‘Tell him I’ve got something down here that the Twentieth are going to be very interested in, okay?’

Sonny wanted to move out. He gestured at Mac. ‘Let’s go, Chalks - got something you might want to see.’

Sonny, Hemi and Billy stowed real quick and made for the door.

In their grey ovies they looked like the Beagle Boys.

Mac lingered, wanting to ask more questions. Sonny stood at the door with a Glock behind his back and fl icked his head at Mac.

Impatient.

Mac held his hand up and, turning back to Boo, asked, ‘Mate, how did you track me to Makassar?’

Boo shrugged. ‘Didn’t.’

Mac looked at Sonny, and Boo got the picture quick-smart.

‘You know, Macca, let the mountain come to Mohammad,’ said Boo.

‘What the fuck’s he talking about?’ Sonny demanded.

Mac said nothing.

‘We didn’t have to chase you, mate,’ said Boo. ‘Just sit back and wait for you to come to Garrison.’

Sonny let the door spring shut, came straight over, got in Boo’s face, fi st clenched. ‘Garrison?! What the fuck you know about Garrison, huh Chalks?’

Mac put his hand out to pull Sonny back, said, ‘Boo, why were you tailing Garrison?’

Boo shrugged. He was into territory that was now confusing him too. ‘We came in from Tokyo couple of nights ago. Jakarta put us on you; briefed us on Garrison.’

Mac still didn’t get it. ‘Yeah?’

‘The theory was since you were associated with Garrison, if we could fi nd him then you’d be around the shop somewhere.’

Mac was incredulous. ‘
What
? I’m not associated with Garrison.

They sent me out here to kill him fi ve days ago! Jesus Christ!’

Boo shrugged.
Sorry
.

Mac pulled his temper back a notch. ‘Who briefed you, Boo?

Garvey? Urquhart?’

‘Nah. Internal, APS.’

‘Who?’

‘Steinhardt and that sheila with the bloke’s haircut.’

‘No one from the Service?’

Boo shook his head. ‘They met us as at the airport, wanted us into Makassar quick-smart.’

Mac breathed out. He’d been set up. Getting briefed at the airport or a bar was how it worked when someone didn’t want the order taped and logged. It was like a briefi ng that had never happened, a

‘tasking’ that never existed. He’d bet the Australian Protective Service had no record of Boo’s assignment and no paper trail linking it to ASIS. All that would remain was a verbal connection between Mac and Garrison. It was as good as saying that Alan McQueen was rogue.

Mac rubbed his temples with his left hand. He had to think, had to
think
.

Sonny stepped in, menacing, gave Boo that look, said, ‘Where’s Garrison? Where is he
right
now
?’

Boo shrugged.

Sonny prepped a straight right and Mac leapt in.

‘Mate, give me a chance,’ said Boo, holding his good hand in front of his face. ‘Last I saw of Garrison, he was getting on a speedboat down at Hatta.’

‘When?’ said Sonny.

‘This morning, ‘bout ten to eight.’

‘Yeah?’ said Sonny, his nostrils fl aring.

Mac saw fear in Boo’s eyes. ‘Listen, Boo, you and I - we’ve been set up against each other. Right? Me and Sonny, we’ve been
chasing
Garrison. We’re not with him, right? Had a gunfi ght with his boys three nights ago,’ said Mac.

Boo nodded.

‘So Sonny isn’t going to kill you, right?’ said Mac, turning to Sonny for assurance.

Sonny said, ‘Not if someone tells me what the fuck’s goin’ on,’

said Sonny.

‘Okay, we watched them load up the speedboat - about a forty footer - with six large gear bags. An Asian bloke seemed to be running the show. There was a girl …’

Mac was getting impatient. ‘What happened then?’

‘They got in the boat, three of them, and took off west.’

‘Out to sea?’

‘Like there was no tomorrow.’

Mac could feel Sonny getting restless. Cookie didn’t pay him to try hard, he paid him for results. The way it sounded, Garrison - the walking payday for Cookie - had just sailed off into nowhere. Mac thought about the missing piece of it all. ‘Boo, what puts Garrison together with me? Where did that come from?’ he said.

‘He’s been porking your missus - didn’t you know?’

Mac’s jaw dropped.

‘She was the one on the boat,’ continued Boo. ‘I was coming to that. On the boat with Garrison. Tall, blonde. Big sheila.’

Mac had only been gulled by a female once in his career and that was early days, in China. Part of his early training with ASIS had seen him infi ltrating the Chinese Cultural Exchange Program, which was still a big tool for the People’s Republic into the 1990s.

The cultural exchanges and scholarships had become a joke. The Commies would announce that some academic, teacher, political researcher or journalist from a Western country had won one of their friendship junkets and then bring them over to China for a couple of weeks of offi cial wining and dining. They would tour them around the countryside, get them drinking at all opportunities, and wear them down with isolation, fatigue and fl attery. Then they’d lure them into compromising situations and record the whole thing, and when those people were settled back in Melbourne or San Francisco or Auckland, contact them and have a quiet word. The Chinese liked it best when their leftie was closet gay, liked children or had a money problem, gambling debts or a secret heroin habit. Strangely, a sense of being underappreciated was often the best lever for creating an agent.

The cultural exchange program was an old Soviet trick that had already been overdone by the KGB in the 1960s and 1970s, producing a stream of Marxists in culturally infl uential positions. But the MSS

was still having fun with it when Mac joined up.

In the fi rst couple of years in an intelligence organisation, the brass would let the recruits have a shot at different things, to see where their aptitude lay, and also detect weaknesses. When Mac asked if he could infi ltrate the MSS exchange programs, his regional director said, ‘Go for your life.’

He posed as a freelance journalist, writing socially important articles for the
Courier-Mail
and the
Age
under the name of Andrew Stevens. He picked on subjects that the Commies loved: wealth distribution being appalling in the West; the education system not working for those with no money; women living in Melbourne’s suburb of Broadmeadows having fewer rights than females living in northern Pakistan; Australians and Americans were richer, but Cubans and Vietnamese were happier. All the classics.