Golden Serpent

EPILOGUE

One year later

A light breeze blew across Surfers Paradise beach, powder-blue skies over the Pacifi c Ocean. It was almost eleven am, late November, three weeks before the tourist season. Mac pulled on his Proserpine Brahmans rugby league polo shirt – the one he’d bought from Frank to raise money for the club.

Closing the door gently, he made his way across the park at Broadbeach, through the trees and down onto the beach. He pulled his runners off as soon as he hit the sand, pushed them off with the opposite foot. Held the pair in one hand and walked up the beach to Surfers.

He went into a shopping mall off Cavill Avenue in the heart of Surfers Paradise and walked to the post offi ce past milling Japanese tourists and Malaysian surfers. After doing the double back twice, he paused at the post offi ce door, checked for eyes, checked for tails, half-hearted.

There were seven letters in the PO box. Mac scooped them and left.

He stopped on Cavill Avenue and bought a couple of blocks of Caramello chocolate and a banana and chocolate smoothie. Asked for extra malt and extra honey. Pausing at the newsagency, a puff across the top of the Australian caught his eye and he bought the paper.

He felt eyes, kept moving.

Sitting on a public bench at the Esplanade he watched youngsters surfi ng, oldies catching the sun. He followed the newspaper’s puff to the international pages where the lead item was the talks between China and Singapore over closer military ties. Mac scanned the article, found the MSS-driven mention of a ‘security relationship’ between the two nations. It was followed – further down the story – by the opposition politician’s comment about ‘a secret deal to put Chinese warships in the Singapore Strait’. Which was a well-worn CIA talking point. He wanted to be interested, but the thought of Urquhart, Garrison and friends actually succeeding just made him feel jaded.

Tossing the paper aside, he sorted through the letters. The one from Sulawesi caught his eye. Bani was doing well at the Brothers’ school in Makassar, seeing his family fi ve or six times a year, preparing for university in Surabaya. English was going well, along with sciences, soccer and girls.

A photograph fell out and Mac picked it up. It showed a soccer team of teenage boys in red shirts, Bani one of them, kneeling on a paddock. In the front-centre was a black macaque monkey, wearing one of the red shirts and holding hands with the boys on either side.

Mac fl ipped the photo and saw a message in Bani’s hand: Do you like our mascot? We call him ‘Makka’ – ha! ha!

Mac threw his head back, laughed at the sky. ‘You cheeky bugger!

You’ll keep.’

There was a knock at the door. Mac moved from the lounge room, down the hall. He’d rigged a CCTV system above the door, connected to a screen inside. Looking at the screen, he saw a blonde woman in jeans and a polo shirt.

Mac put the Glock back in the hall table drawer, took a deep breath and opened the door.

She was still beautiful – the smile, the teeth, big tan, and fi lling out a pair of jeans like Michelangelo might have carved it.

‘How’s it going, Diane?’ he said.

There was silence, apprehension showing in her lack of gestures.

‘That is your name, right?’ said Mac.

‘Yes, it is. They used to change my surname.’

Sounds fl ooded into the long pause, ocean roaring, kids yelling in the park.

‘I miss you,’ she said, exhaling.

Mac deadpanned.

‘You have every right…’ she said, trailing off.

Mac looked at her, impassive.

‘Umm, look. Alan, right?’

Mac nodded.

‘Yeah, it was a job,’ she said, shaking her head, not looking at him.

‘I had no idea I was going to meet someone like you.’

Silence hung between them.

Mac knew how much it had cost her to come here. In the spook world, to drop the shield and be a real person for even a few hours was tantamount to defeat. And once you’d dropped the shield, the effort to go back into character was too much. Which is why you didn’t do it.

He didn’t hate her. He could have been where she was standing, still running round in circles thinking that cheap diversions and ten-second charm were all that counted.

‘I found happiness, mate. Hope you fi nd yours,’ he said fi nally.

She nodded and turned. Left before she cried.

Mac walked back into the apartment and sat down on the sofa.

Turned and smiled and then lay down and put his head on Jen’s tummy, listening for kicks.

‘Who was that?’ she asked, sipping on the smoothie and taking another piece of Caramello.

‘Some girl,’ mumbled Mac. ‘Wrong bloke. Wrong number.’