Counter Attack

Chapter 38

Booking into the Rex as Brandon Collier, Mac went to his second-floor suite, removed his moustache and contact lenses and took a quick shower.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he shook his kit onto the marble bench top and selected the men’s face scrub. Squirting a palmful, he spread the N10 dye over both hands and massaged the strong-smelling goo into his wet hair for two minutes, and then picked up a wide-tooth comb and ran it through his hair to even the application. After twelve minutes, Mac had another shower to wash out the colourant.

Wandering into the living area of his suite, Mac did thirty push-ups and fifty sit-ups followed by five minutes, and then of shadow-boxing. Dressing himself in new clothes from the menswear store across the road, he returned himself to Richard Davis — textbook salesman — and checked himself in the mirror: now that his short, thin hair had returned to blond he noted a few grazes and scratches along his temples, probably caused by the bits of concrete that hadn’t found his eyes.

Dialling the Saigon number for his calling card, Mac worked his way through the prompts then keyed in the number on a tattered white card.

‘Captain Loan,’ said Mac, when a voice answered. ‘Richard Davis here.’

‘Where are you?’ said the captain.

‘In Saigon.’

‘You remember the cafe we first spoke in?’ asked Loan.

‘Sure.’

‘Meet me there in half an hour,’ said the detective, and hung up.

Walking to his window, which overlooked Nguyen Hue Boulevard, Mac sipped on his bottled water and searched for suspiciously parked vehicles or men reading tourist maps. He especially looked for phone company workers. His gut churned: he was not confident about being in this city or what was being asked of him. He’d only been a couple of years out of the field but it had dulled him slightly. He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly, but it came down to his new lack of selfishness: not so long before, Mac would have attacked Marlon without hesitation. But two days before, he’d paused as the big bloke walked in the door. In his profession a pause was as good as death, and he wondered if he had the focus to go up against Joel Dozsa. Saba’s story about the real Mossad going into northern Cambodia and being killed by Dozsa’s boys was scary. There’d always been factions inside Israel’s secret service, but ambushing and killing your former brothers? That was extreme.

The fact that his wife was in Saigon was another distraction. Whenever he looked over his shoulder, the phone taunted him. Was he going to call her, admit he was in Saigon and arrange to meet? Or was he going to revert to his professional habits, never tell anyone in a phone call where he was?

He didn’t like lying to Jenny, and not only because she usually caught him out. She’d grown up hard, the daughter of a drunken farmer in Victoria’s west who liked to beat his wife and kids. When Jenny was fifteen, she’d hit back at the old man with a crowbar; her father had picked up a rifle and shot at her as she ran through the orchard. So Jenny — as smart and as beautiful as she was — did not trust men easily, and Mac had always done his best to be an honest husband and good friend. It was part of the deal: Mac got the sweet, loving side of his wife’s quite flinty personality, and Jenny had her rock and protector.

Picking up the phone, Mac dialled the calling card then input Jenny’s mobile number. It rang and Mac hoped that she wouldn’t pick up so he could just leave a message and not have to dodge too many questions.

The greeting came immediately. ‘Toohey.’

‘Darling, it’s me,’ said Mac, massaging his temples. ‘How’re things?’

‘Tropical, hon,’ she said, in a tone that suggested she was trying to get niceties out of the way. ‘You get my message?’

‘Yep.’

He could hear Jen cover the mouthpiece and say, In the DFAT file — the blue pages.

‘How long you in Auckland for, Macca?’ she said, coming back to him. ‘I don’t want to rush you but I told Frank and Pat that you were due back on the weekend.’

Looking down at his G-Shock, Mac saw the word Wed on the screen above the time.

‘Yeah, weekend might do it,’ he said, trying to sound convincing. ‘Could be Monday, Tuesday.’

‘Okay, can you call Pat?’ said Jen, as a commotion erupted beside her. ‘Hang on, okay?’

‘Sure,’ said Mac.

He could hear his wife spelling out the record-keeping protocol for this investigation and the fact that she wouldn’t be compromising on it today or tomorrow or anytime soon, so they might as well get it right from the start.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Jen, back on the line. ‘I’ll call Pat and tell her — but can you ring too? Sarah loves getting calls from you.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ said Mac. ‘You in Saigon?’

‘Here now,’ said Jen. ‘Shit — you remember Jim Quirk, from Manila?’

‘I think so,’ said Mac. ‘Trade Commission, sportsman of some sort?’

‘Cricket,’ said Jen. ‘He was murdered up here, three days ago.’

Mac hated doing this to her. ‘I read about it. At a nightclub?’

‘Place called the Mekong Saloon, in Saigon’s Chinatown.’

‘You investigating?’ said Mac.

‘Yeah — the AFP teams from Honkers and Manila were held back for some reason.’

‘Any leads?’

‘Apparently there was a vehicle chase through Cholon after the murder, and the staff at the club say an Australian soldier was acting strangely during the incident.’

‘No wonder they called you guys,’ said Mac, his heart sinking.

Jen yawned. ‘We’re only observing — no investigation — but Saigon police are linking the Quirk murder with the disappearance of an Australian woman called Geraldine McHugh.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, Macca — and she’s Jim’s wife.’

‘Shit,’ said Mac, with no conviction.

‘So, I was going to call you anyway,’ said Jen, as if he was ninth on her to-do list. ‘Remember that creepy friend of yours from Nudgee? Urquhart?’

‘Davo,’ said Mac. ‘Sure.’

‘Chester brought him along to our breakfast meeting this morning,’ said Jen.

‘Did he elaborate on how you could aid his career?’

‘He did better than that. He warned me off the McHugh line of inquiry.’

‘What did he say?’ said Mac.

‘National interest, blah blah, regional security, wank wank — said the government would thank me to oversee the murder inquiry and then go home.’

‘And you said?’

‘I said, “Dave, there is no McHugh line of inquiry, but thanks for the tip-off.”’

‘Don’t stir him, Jen,’ said Mac, laughing reluctantly. ‘He may look like a wax dummy, but he can hurt you.’

Mac could hear more talking behind Jen. ‘I have to go, Macca. And call Sarah, okay?’

‘Sure,’ said Mac, knowing that he wouldn’t.