Counter Attack

Chapter 14

Finishing his Operation Dragon update on the codeword-secure computer at Southern Scholastic Books, Mac hit ‘send’ and watched the intranet system issue a log number and time/date/location stamp for the filed report. Then, having made a pot of coffee at the small kitchenette at the back of the first-floor office suite, he picked up the secure desktop phone and dialled.

‘Scotty, it’s Mac,’ he said when the phone was picked up.

Intelligence officers sent reports in the Firm’s format, not unlike the way newspaper stories had a certain structure. But if it wasn’t going to endanger the operation, Mac also liaised directly with his case officer.

‘Macca, how are we doing?’

‘In place, made contact with Apricot today.’

‘Route?’

‘Into Cholon, to a nightclub that’s open during the day.’

‘The Mekong Saloon?’

‘You know it?’

‘It’s a Loh Han property. You read the file, right, Macca? They’ve got places in Vung Tau, Nha Trang and around Saigon.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Mac, distracted. ‘I read it.’

‘You all right? Drinking heaps of fluids?’

‘Yeah, mate,’ said Mac, pushing the coffee aside and reaching for the water bottle. ‘Any further intel on Quirk?’

‘No. We asked Chester and his security guy to hold off on the questions. Why, what’s up?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Mac, trying to form the thought. ‘It was just… there was this guy outside the Saloon this arvo. I didn’t like it.’

‘Surveillance?’

‘Probably, but I couldn’t be certain.’

‘Asian?’

‘Euro,’ said Mac. ‘Mediterranean Euro.’

Scotty scoffed. ‘That’s it?’

‘I didn’t like the set-up.’

‘You’re hinky,’ said Scotty.

‘Don’t start that paperback detective stuff,’ said Mac.

‘Got a pic?’ said Scotty.

‘I didn’t want to use the camera,’ said Mac. ‘The Cong An’s been hanging round the hotel and following me in the street.’

‘Okay,’ said Scotty, knowing that a camera full of surveillance photos had been the downfall of too many intelligence officers. ‘I might send up this whiz-kid from Bangers.’

‘Oh really?’ said Mac, reluctant to have someone foisted on him. ‘Who?’

‘Lance Kendrick — one of the new guard.’

‘Shit,’ said Mac. Aussie intelligence had been finding it harder to recruit youngsters from university who hadn’t used drugs, who didn’t have tattoos and who didn’t lie in interviews. ASIS was recruiting so many women because they didn’t seem to lie as much as the young blokes, and ‘new guard’ was code for men who ten years earlier would never have made it past the second interview.

‘Yeah, his thing is technology,’ said Scotty, as though it was shameful. ‘Knows about BlueBerries and Tweetering — all that shit.’

‘Can he use a telephoto?’

‘Yep.’

‘Run a concealed video? Wire a car for sound? Won’t get me light beer when he goes to the bar?’

‘Yes, yes, yes, mate,’ said Scotty. ‘He does cyber counter-measures, and he’s a whiz with getting data out of phones and making phantom chat sites or whatever they’re called. He’s done rotations with the NSA. He’s one of these modern spooks, mate — gonna put us out of business.’

‘I don’t care how modern he is,’ said Mac. ‘Don’t send me some spinner.’

‘Thought you might like to hear some post-modern theories about how the Vatican is worse than Hitler’s —’

‘Watch it, mate,’ said Mac.

‘— Third Reich, or how the White House is the same as al-Qaeda.’

‘I’ll give him a first-hand demonstration of what al-Qaeda’s internal security people do to defectors,’ Mac said. ‘And it’s a little meaner than outing some diplomat’s wife as CIA.’

Scotty turned serious. ‘Look, he’s an individual but he’s smart and he’s trained.’

‘I don’t care if he’s one of a kind,’ said Mac. ‘If he’s got a pierced tongue and he’s taking ecstasy, then he’ll come back to you in a diplomatic pouch, minus a few teeth. Got that, mate?’

Scotty laughed. ‘Sure.’

‘Deadset, Scotty,’ said Mac, looking around him. ‘Saigon is no place for a spy who wants to stand out.’

Locking up the offices, Mac skipped down the stairs and into the brightness of the street. Squinting, he reached for his sunnies and decided it was time to buy a couple of trop shirts before he started swimming in his polo.

The shop owner folded the green, black and sky-blue trop shirts on a large piece of brown paper, and then put Mac’s polo shirt on top.

‘That twenty dollar, mister,’ said the man, giving Mac a wink as he sellotaped the brown paper parcel and slipped it into a plastic bag.

Handing over two US ten-dollar notes, Mac grabbed the bag and adjusted to the loose fit of the dark blue trop shirt he was wearing. With the pre-monsoon humidity he needed something that ventilated itself, although he usually avoided wearing them: fifty years of CIA men charging around South-East Asia dressed like Ferdi Marcos had made many Asians think that a white man in a trop shirt was armed.

‘I like that colour,’ said a woman’s voice, close enough that Mac jumped slightly.

Turning to his right, Mac came almost eye to eye with a tall Vietnamese woman, her long black hair pulled back in a ponytail.

‘Guess the humidity makes our visitors dress local,’ she said, an Aussie accent evident in her English. ‘My dad always wore the ones with the silk-cotton blend this time of year.’

‘Yeah,’ said Mac, trying to make light. ‘I think mine’s a —’

The shop owner interrupted, running around the counter and grabbing Mac by the collar. ‘See, it silk, it silk,’ said the owner, nodding furiously at what Mac assumed was the tag of his shirt.

Tensing as he realised the owner was scared, Mac heard the woman rattle off a Vietnamese phrase that sounded something like, It’s okay, no trouble.

‘Wow,’ said Mac, looking for her backup at the glass entry. ‘Making sure I’m not overcharged, eh? This must be the tourist police?’

‘No,’ said the woman. ‘Just the police.’

‘Okay,’ said Mac, keeping the smile on his face.

‘Let’s talk,’ she said, and led Mac to the door of the shop, her black slacks swishing.

Mac thought about running out the back door and into the alley, making a dash for it. But he knew that if he went out that door there’d be more Cong An and perhaps a long stay in the basement of some shithole.

Pushing the colonial door back on its spring hinge, the woman pulled down her sunglasses and waited for Mac. Walking past her, his heart pounded up into his chest as he emerged onto Dong Du Street and looked around, feeling like a tin duck on a sideshow rail.

‘Tea?’ said the woman, perhaps enjoying Mac’s discomfort.

‘Well…’ he said, making a show of looking at his watch.

At the kerbside the Cong An from the back of the motorbike sat in the passenger seat of a white Camry, chewing gum.

‘Come on,’ she said, flicking her head. ‘Green tea with a dose of jasmine — it’s the best cure for the heat.’

Mac followed her into a cafe. Casing the other customers and the rear exit as he sat, Mac assessed his chances of attacking the cop and using her as a shield so he could leave out the back. But he couldn’t see a gun on her — the slacks and the simple white blouse didn’t leave much room for a holster.

‘Name’s Richard,’ he said calmly.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Richard Davis, books executive, from Brisbane.’

‘Nice work,’ said Mac. ‘Have to beat that out of the night manager?’

‘No,’ she said seriously, before realising she’d missed the joke. ‘I’m Captain Loan,’ she said, pronouncing it low-arn.

‘Captain?’ said Mac, shaking the hand she’d offered. ‘That’s a pretty name.’

‘Ha!’ said Loan, her glacial demeanour cracking for a second. ‘It’s Chanthe — Chanthe Loan.’

‘That’s an Aussie accent,’ said Mac, as the tea service was placed on the table by a stooped old woman. In Vietnam the women never seemed to stop working, even the old ones.

‘Sure,’ said Loan. ‘Last two years of high school in Melbourne and then Monash for three years.’

‘What did you study?’

‘BA — philosophy major,’ said Loan, pushing her sunnies up into her hair. Mac put her at thirty-four, thirty-five. ‘Now some questions for you, Mr Richard.’

‘Sure,’ said Mac.

‘How well do you know James Quirk?’

Mac liked her craft — she built the assumption into the question, so to answer was to verify the assumption.

‘I don’t,’ said Mac, sipping the tea. ‘I know of him.’

‘How?’

‘Years ago, when I was starting in the books business, he hosted an Aussie exporters bash up in Manila. I was at the barbecue and the piss-up.’

‘You were in Manila?’

‘Sure,’ said Mac, warming to his back story. ‘And we’re in Indo- nesia, Malaysia, Singapore, Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam.’

‘I don’t care about we, Mr Richard,’ she said with a patient smile. ‘It’s you I’m interested in.’

‘Okay.’

‘This is your fourth visit to Vietnam?’

Mac shrugged. ‘That many?’

‘Sell many books?’

‘Not enough, I’m afraid,’ said Mac. ‘There’s only one buyer in Vietnam so there’s not many ways into the market. You come runner- up in the beauty parade, there’s no one else to dance with.’

The captain levelled a cold stare at him. Mac reckoned she was wondering whether his reply was an insult to communist governments or a fair depiction of doing business with them.

‘What about Mrs Geraldine?’ said Loan. ‘His wife.’

‘What?’ said Mac, genuinely surprised. ‘Quirk’s wife?’

‘Yes — Geraldine McHugh.’

‘Never met her,’ said Mac, trying to figure out what she was getting at. ‘I don’t know Jim Quirk either, except to say hi.’

‘So you do know him?’

‘Except to say Hi, remember me from that trade barbecue in Manila? I was the one who got pissed and knew all the moves to “Greased Lightning.”’

She smiled quickly and recovered. ‘Never met Mrs Geraldine?’

‘Look, Captain Loan — I met Jim once, years ago. I’ve never met Geraldine. Can you tell me what this is about?’ Mac tried to hold her gaze as she stared at him.

‘I thought you’d tell me what this is about,’ said Loan.

Standing, she downed the remaining tea and shook Mac’s hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Richard,’ she said. ‘I’ll be in touch tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’ said Mac, watching Loan move to the door. ‘Why tomorrow?’

‘That’s when you tell me why a man who doesn’t know Jim Quirk is waiting outside his house.’

As she walked away, Mac wondered if this woman was going to be a problem. His mind spinning, he became aware of the tea woman standing over him.

‘One dollar, mister,’ she said, jutting out her chin. ‘You pay now.’