Counter Attack

Chapter 37

Arriving at the northern outskirts of Phnom Penh, Mac pulled the van off the highway onto a dirt road that ran to a klong. Pulling the old SIM card from the tongue of his boat shoes, Mac placed it in the cyclo rider’s Nokia and powered up.

A bird squawked and tested the branch in a tree above the van as he waited. The buzz of the phone came several seconds later, signalling voicemail. Dialling in, Mac listened: one call from Scotty before Mac had told him of his new number; two from Urquhart, apologising for the misunderstanding that resulted in him being chained to a bed, and asking Mac to call him and arrange a meeting; another from Jenny, telling him not to panic if he arrived back to an empty house — she’d been called to Vietnam and Sarah was staying with Frank and Pat. She hoped things were going well in Auckland. Captain Loan had also left a message — yesterday. She reminded Mac of her number and asked that he contact her.

The last message, left three hours earlier, made Mac catch his breath. It was the unmistakable voice of Mr Red Shirt — Joel Dozsa.

Well, well, started the message, in that steady Eastern European accent. Unless the reporters have it very wrong, it seems our intrepid Mr Davis survived where an unfortunate hotel worker failed. Consider yourself lucky, Mr Davis — it’s a good time to return to the paradise of barbecues, beaches and beer before you meet the fate of your Vietnamese friend.

Staring at the battered old Nokia as the voicemail system told him he had no more messages, Mac’s head swirled with fatigue and confusion. So Tranh was dead? Or in a hospital? Missing? The message was either deliberately vague or Dozsa assumed Mac knew what had happened to Tranh.

Checking the call log he found ‘number unknown’, which meant a blocked number or a Skype call.

If Dozsa didn’t want to talk — if he didn’t want Mac to call back — what was the point of the message? Mossad agents never communicated unless there was an express purpose, even if that purpose was to spread disinformation.

Listening to the call again, Mac realised there were only two pieces of information that Dozsa had volunteered: that his crew planted the light-bulb bomb in the Cambodiana, and that Tranh was probably dead. Dozsa’s admission about the bomb was redundant, since Mac would already have worked that out. News of Tranh’s ‘fate’ was not — it was gratuitous, unverified.

Looking at the phone, Mac thought back to the times that he’d hidden a lie in the truth. He’d done it to make sure someone took a right turn when they should’ve taken a left.

Putting the old SIM back in his shoe and replacing it with his new MobiTel card, Mac turned the van to the south and put his foot down. By the time he was clear of Phnom Penh and motoring at one hundred and twenty k an hour along the west bank of the Mekong, he was sure there were no tails and he reckoned he could be in Saigon by midnight.

Settling between two line-haul trucks, Mac found a collection of Tranh’s CDs in the centre console and smiled as he put AC/DC’s Back in Black into the stereo.

As the bell tolled on the opening song of the CD, Mac resolved himself to the gig. He’d work with the Americans, but his priority was to retrieve Tranh. If Tranh was alive, Mac was going to find him.

The stocky Anglo male with a ruddy complexion emerged from Tan Son Nhat Airport’s sliding doors at 11.18 am and looked around.

Mac yelled through the lowered window, ‘Mister for Marriott?’

Moving suspiciously, Scotty carefully raised his sunglasses and peered into the van before relaxing his shoulders and shaking his head.

‘Shit, Macca, you’re a fucking worry,’ he said, throwing his bag into the back of the van and climbing into the passenger seat. ‘A bloody moustache? You gone rogue again?’

‘Nah, mate,’ said Mac, pulling away from the apron. ‘Just wanted to book into a hotel for one night without someone putting ANFO in the light bulb.’

‘I heard about that — you okay?’

‘No, but I’m better than Poh.’

‘The hotel security guy?’ said Scotty, lighting a smoke and searching for the window button.

‘That’s him.’

Scotty exhaled smoke into Saigon’s smog. ‘Get me to the Rex — I’ll have a shower and meet you in the restaurant, okay? I could eat the crotch out of a low-flying duck.’

‘Done,’ said Mac, dodging cyclos and other vans and wishing Tranh was still around.

‘You at the Rex too?’ said Scotty.

‘I’d rather not say,’ said Mac.

‘Shit, mate,’ said Scotty, sighing as he examined his phone for messages. ‘That bad?’

‘A wise old man once told me that paranoid and alive is good when you consider the alternative.’

‘He wasn’t old,’ said Scotty.

‘Wasn’t wise either,’ said Mac. ‘Didn’t stop him jawing on like Confucius.’

‘Fuck’s sake,’ said Scotty, laughing. ‘Get me to a shower, you frigging lunatic. I smell like Artie Beetson’s undies after a full eighty minutes.’

Finishing his duck, Scotty slugged at his glass of beer and made the peace sign at the waitress.

‘I was pouched something at Changi,’ said Scotty, pulling a folded piece of paper from the windbreaker hanging on the back of his chair. ‘Hope you enjoy it, since waiting for that was the reason I had to sleep at the airport.’

Mac opened it and read. It was an order from Greg Tobin for Mac to join the American taskforce ‘Orion’, effective for seven days from date of receipt.

‘You’ve already spoken with them, I gather,’ said Scotty, wiping his nicotine-stained moustache with the white linen napkin. ‘Just so you know, you’re working with the Americans, but you’re reporting to me. Tobin’s orders.’

‘No worries,’ said Mac as the beers arrived.

‘I’m going to set up here, in the Rex,’ said Scotty. ‘I’ll write the reports, keep Canberra happy, but that means you have to keep me informed, okay?’

‘Sure,’ said Mac.

‘I mean it, Macca — I can only save you from yourself if you let me.’

‘Can you save me from Urquhart?’ asked Mac, checking out a Chinese businessman as he sat down on the other side of the restaurant.

‘I’m not sure they’ll be any trouble for us,’ said Scotty. ‘The PM’s office has backed off. So what do we know about Orion?’

‘They want to find Geraldine McHugh,’ said Mac. ‘There’s a memory card — it might contain sensitive information from the US Treasury, but they haven’t come right out and said so.’

‘We know who’s chasing you? Who ran over Boo?’

‘An ex-Mossad crew run by a bloke named Joel Dozsa — they appear to be contracting for a Chinese faction headed by General Xiang Pao Peng. ’

‘Pao Peng is that PLA bloke, isn’t he?’ said Scotty. ‘Wants to be an emperor?’

‘Yeah — he wants to disable the Chinese economy so he can grab power and reverse the trend towards liberalism in China. Unfortunately, General Pao Peng’s plan also hurts the US economy, and our American friends don’t see the humour in that.’

‘The Americans think you can find McHugh — that true?’ said Scotty.

‘Correct,’ said Mac.

‘Tell me about Orion.’

‘Run by an American called Charles, his sidekick is Sammy Chan — definitely a military background, but neither are confirming who they work for.’

‘This Charles,’ said Scotty. ‘Tall, silver-haired — about my age?’

‘That’s him,’ said Mac, wondering why Scotty was scowling.

‘If it’s the same guy, his name is Charles Grimshaw the Third — old North Carolina family,’ said Scotty. ‘His father was an OSS original, who never officially became CIA but remained one of the Brothers, the true believers.’

‘You know this guy?’

‘I remember him from a gig in Iraq, in the lead-up to the first Gulf War. He was attempting to unpick the lies and bullshit around all that trade finance being written for rearming Saddam. It was before your time, but the US taxpayer was funding the credit guarantees for Iraq paying its imports — Lockheed or Hughes or Raytheon would fill an order for rockets or landmines, and the American taxpayers were underwriting Saddam’s credit risk.’

‘What was he like?’ said Mac.

‘Grimshaw? He conducted his interviews with a tractor battery and a set of crocodile clips,’ said Scotty with a chuckle. ‘He was hard core.’

‘He’s Treasury?’

‘He does a lot of work for US Treasury but he’s more like an intel consultant for the Yanks.’

‘So he’s not an accountant?’

Scotty smiled. ‘Grimshaw was a Green Beret in the Phoenix Program during Vietnam, and then he led CIA black ops teams in Laos, Burma and Cambodia.’

‘I see,’ said Mac, now understanding what he’d noticed in Charles, lurking beneath the smooth exterior. Agency black ops in those three countries, in the late 1970s, did nothing but assassinate communist leaders.

‘What’s he doing in a Cambodian houseboat?’ said Mac.

‘Something involving Oz, which is why we’re going to help them find our Aussie girl.’

‘Why haven’t I heard of him?’ said Mac, annoyed.

‘Because you might find he works for NSA,’ said Scotty, meaning the US National Security Agency. ‘He works for the President.’