Second Strike

CHAPTER 58

Dave ID’d Hassan and Lempo from Mac’s fi les as the two who switched planes in Betoota, a dot on the map consisting of two gas pumps in the middle of a rock fi eld on the road to Birdsville. Dave fi ngered the photo of Gorilla, identifi ed him as the one who stayed on the plane and got into the LandCruiser in Cooladdi.

Dave tried to describe the man who travelled with Gorilla; he was a fi ner looking bloke, the pilot said, and might have been Indonesian.

Mac had a sudden fl ash of intuition – he now knew why Freddi had been so defensive at the Idi airfi eld. That fi ner-featured Indonesian would have to be Freddi’s underling, Purni. Purni, who had gone to Monash University. Purni, with his beautiful English and knowledge of Australia, was probably Hassan’s Australian scout. And if Purni was being protected in Jakarta, the whole smell of this thing went higher than Mac had fi rst suspected.

Dave and Mac got back to the local cop, who told Dave to get in the back of the Patrol.

‘What do you reckon?’ the cop asked Mac, waving fl ies from his face as if he was born doing it.

‘I’d like to be able to stay in touch with him,’ said Mac. ‘But other than that, he’s a friendly.’

The cop read out Dave’s mobile number from his notes and Mac input it into his phone.

‘Where would a fugitive go from here?’ asked Mac.

The cop smiled. ‘It’s a crossroads, mate. You could go in any direction and get yourself lost.’

Exhaling, Mac asked him to radio it out there – white LandCruiser, two Asian men – knowing, as he said it, that they could be anywhere.

They touched down at Amberley Base on the outskirts of Brisbane, Mac having spent most of the journey on the radio to John Morris in Darwin. He’d given the bloke everything, knowing that the search was about to go to a level in which live sightings by people like Mac and Robbo would become rare. Once you lost touch you relied on the public reporting strange things or you hoped the fugitives would go through an airport or a railway station or be reported by a hotel receptionist or a parking building operator. With Christmas coming up, there might even be a chance of picking up something from a random breath test.

Mac felt overwhelmed by the size of what was happening but Morris wasn’t annoyed with him, which was a nice step forward.

‘You took a shot, mate,’ said Morris, ‘and at least you’ve chased the bastards east.’

Morris had said that there was a Piper Cherokee logged in a 16.21 landing at Nebo, outside of Mackay. The fi eld wasn’t manned or under surveillance and a plane-spotter called it in.

‘We’re pretty sure this is in Queensland now,’ Morris had said. ‘It’s looking like a Christmas hit.’

The Hassan crew had split and they were well organised. And they’d managed to lose Mac, the Feds, Customs and the 4RAR Commandos.

For now. The whole purpose of JI had been to create outrages and Mac was leaning towards the John Morris view of Hassan’s crew. They were going to crop up in a place where their risk of capture was higher than in the Territory or western Queensland. There were going to be crowds and there was going to be decadence, at least as far as the jihadists saw it.

The new accommodation suites at Amberley had come way up in the world since Mac had last stayed there, but he wanted to get back to Jen and Rachel. A fl ight lieutenant from the transport pool was sent over and he grabbed his pack, thanked the 4RAR boys, wrote down his mobile number, and did the Harold.

The drive south was smooth and they listened to the ABC Radio news: Australian Federal P olice had confi rmed they were chasing several known terror suspects of Pakistani origin. They were last seen heading towards the east coast of Queensland and anyone with anything strange to report should do so on the AFP hotline. The report cut to a grab-style interview with John Morris, whose grumpiness translated perfectly for radio:

‘We’re looking for three men in their thirties and forties, of South Asian appearance.

One of these men has a noticeably heavy build. We believe they are travelling with a man, in his twenties, of Indonesian appearance. They were last sighted out of Mackay and we understand they are heading south. I make a serious request to the public: please do not approach these people, they are considered to be very dangerous and are heavily armed. Just call your local police command and please follow their instructions -‘

‘Sir, can you confi rm the rumour that these fugitives brought a bomb device into Darwin this morning?’

‘I repeat: do not approach these people, please let your local police…’

The RAAF girl dropped him two blocks south of the townhouse at Broadbeach. He thanked her and walked slowly, his pack over his shoulder. The lights were on in the house and he waved to the AFP duty agents as he opened the door. There was a noise from behind and he swung away, reaching into his pack for the Heckler. As he hit the deck and aimed up, he looked into a set of eyes he knew too well.

He froze, lowered the Heckler and breathed out.

‘ Fuck’s sake, Ari!’

The Russian-Israeli had his hands up, standing in the fading light of evening, in Levis and a blue trop shirt.

‘Sorry, McQueen – there’s no easy way, yes?’

Gulping as the AFP moved in with guns raised, Mac smiled and said it was okay.

‘I know this lunatic,’ he said to the closest AFP cop. ‘He’s taking his meds.’

Decocking the Heckler, Mac let Ari help him to his feet.

‘It’s not a question of if, mate,’ he muttered at Ari as he turned the key. ‘One of these days someone will shoot you for that.’

Inside, Mac instantly sensed something different. The smell was wrong, the cooking wasn’t burnt. He raised the Heckler and signalled to Ari, who fell quietly into step behind him. Moving slowly down the hallway, Mac checked the fi rst room, then the second, where Rachel snored in her cot.

A yell came from another room. ‘Is that you, Macca?’

Recognising the voice, he breathed easy again, got the gun out of the way before she could see it.

‘Hi, Mari,’ he said as Mari Hukapa came into the hallway and gave him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. He’d totally forgotten she was going to be on the Gold Coast for Christmas. She and Jenny had become very close after he’d introduced them in ‘02. Mac extricated himself from her grasp and said, ‘Mari, do you remember Ari?’

The two looked at each other and burst out laughing.

‘It is rhyming, yes?’ said the Russian, a huge grin across his big slab-like face. ‘I think this is good omen.’

Mari vaguely remembered meeting the Russian at the Hukapa compound six years ago in Sumatra. Ari couldn’t take the smile off his face. ‘I remember I embarrass myself. The tiger, she was so much in pain.’

They moved into the lounge room where Ke was watching TV.

Mari explained she was minding the kids while Johnny and Jen looked at some warehouse.

‘They say when they’re due back?’ asked Mac.

‘Seven-thirty, I think Johnny said.’

Looking at his watch, Mac pulled his Nokia out of the pack and rang Jen’s number, which went straight to voicemail. He tried Johnny’s and it picked up on the fi rst ring.

‘Just about to call you, brother.’ Johnny sounded breathless.

‘What’s up?’

‘Jen’s missing,’ rasped Johnny.

‘Missing? Shit, Johnny!’

‘I know. We were just having a poke around and she went down one side of the building and I went down the other and I can’t fi nd her.’

‘Where are you?’ asked Mac, adrenaline pumping again.

Johnny gave the address of a warehouse only ten blocks away. Mac grabbed the car keys and fl ipped the Beretta in the hall table to Ari.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, already dialling the Queensland cops.

They screamed through one set of lights and up to the second set

– which were on red – on Gold Coast Highway. After a quick check he gunned the Commodore through the red lights and sped past Pacifi c Fair, the V6 screaming.

‘Couldn’t use those cops outside your house?’ asked Ari, made nervous by Mac’s driving style.

‘They’re there for my daughter,’ Mac said as he took the wrong side of the road going across Rio Vista and fl ashed across Bermuda before screeching into the old mixed section out the back of Broadbeach Waters, where a small warehouse estate sat amidst housing.

Decelerating, they turned a hard left into a side street and quietly slid to a halt where Johnny was sitting in his silver Falcon.

‘Where did she go?’ asked Mac, in a low tone, checking his Heckler.

‘Down here on the side,’ whispered Johnny as they stealthed down. ‘There’s no doors unlocked, there’s no handles on the doors.

It’s a freaky place – and there’s some strange sounds in there.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like – like it’s a chicken farm or something – lots of rustling like a barn.’

They checked the doors and Ari shone a small Maglite on the entrances. ‘No entry here. Maybe none from inside too, yes?’

Stepping back, Mac saw a long ventilation roof running along the roofl ine.

‘You two,’ he gestured, pointing upwards. They pushed an industrial dumpster over and stood on the lid of it. Mac put the Heckler in the band of his pants and put a hand on either of their shoulders.

Then, stepping into the platform of their hands, he muttered Three, two, one, go! and they catapulted him up. Mac just managed to catch the lip of the building, and he swung there for a couple of seconds on the heavy-duty guttering. Then he got a good swing happening, higher and higher, until he swung his left leg up and grabbed the guttering with his foot and rolled onto the gentle slope of the iron roof.

Mac was panting hard as he leaned back over the guttering.

Johnny catapulted off Ari’s hands and then shoulder and grabbed Mac’s forearm with one hand and the guttering with the other. He swung himself up and joined Mac on the roof.

Staying silent, they moved up the sloped iron to the ventilation roof which stood three feet over the real apex and was clad in glass slat windows. Looking down, they saw a dimly lit warehouse space crowded with children and young women pushed together like battery hens, with sewing machines, tables and overhead spindles forming virtual cages. It looked like a United Nations of Asian women and kids: Cambodians, Thais, Indonesians, Malays and Laotians. There were at least two thousand of them, and by the look of the set-up they all slept and ate there too.

‘Holy shit,’ Johnny mouthed beside him. ‘What the fuck?’

‘Sweatshop,’ said Mac.

‘That’s a sweatshop?’ whispered Johnny.

Mac nodded. ‘When you buy these cheap pants? Comes from a place like this, courtesy of the Khmer Rouge.’

As Johnny muttered homicidal solutions, Mac’s heart leapt up in his throat as he watched an Indo-Chinese thug pushing Jenny along in front of him on the shop fl oor below. The pulse raced in his temples as Mac clocked the thug’s face: it was George Bartolo’s Cambodian mate. The thug had a handgun jammed into the back of Jen’s T-shirt and his right forearm was in a cast from elbow to knuckles.

Grabbing the glass slats in front of them, Johnny pulled back and the whole thing swivelled upwards on a horizontal axle. Pushing their heads through, they looked down at a drop of two storeys to the concrete fl oor, or what you had to do to get your wings in the Regiment and the Royal Marines Commandos.

Johnny crawled through and quietly got his feet over the axle and onto a tiny inside ledge beside the window. Then, as the Cambodian walked past below with Jenny in front of him, Johnny muttered a countdown and simply dropped like a stone, accelerating through the air until his feet connected with the back of the Cambodian’s neck. Both men hit the ground and Johnny rolled away. Mac watched Jenny pick up the Cambodian’s handgun and then check on the fallen thug. Dead.

Johnny pointed to the ventilation roof and Jenny quickly looked up to Mac.

The children who had been sleeping under desks and chairs were waking up while other kids and young women were standing, wondering what was happening. The sound started and grew into a crescendo as the crowded sea of humanity, in appalling states of dress and health, started to ask what the hell was going on.

Mac kept his eyes on a mezzanine offi ce that looked over the sweatshop fl oor. He didn’t want a crossfi re set up that endangered the kids and he trained the Heckler on the window. But he was looking in the wrong direction. A shooter came out of a side door and instantly reached for a gun under his shirt. Mac shot twice, missing on the fi rst then hitting him in the left thigh. The shooter went down as Jen and Johnny ducked in behind a huge box of white fi nished shirts.

Two shooters came to the mezzanine offi ce window, slid it back and started shooting. The children screamed and threw themselves down as Mac tried to even it up. His Heckler was too small to get the range but it forced the shooters back from the window.

In the distance Mac could hear sirens but they were going to be too late, so he stuck his head out and yelled, ‘Ari!’

Mac had two shots left. The shooters came back to the offi ce window and this time Johnny was ready and put one of the blokes on the ground. The other shooter took fl ight down the stairs. At the foot of the offi ce stairs the thug with a bullet in his leg fi red at Jenny, and when she fi red back the thug was joined by a shooter from the offi ce and another from the side entrance. As bullets fl ew through the shirt boxes, Jenny popped up and dropped the shooter still in the offi ce as a thumping sound came from one of the sealed doors until it caved in.

Ari moved into the warehouse, tiptoeing over prone children without looking down with a perfect cup-and-saucer stance and keeping his sight line down the barrel of the Beretta. When the last of the standing shooters saw him and aimed up, Ari dropped him with two shots to the throat. The injured thug on the ground threw down the gun and put his hands up as Jen moved forward, shouting, ‘Hold your fi re! Police!’

As she did, a boy of about thirteen or fourteen, in a black T-shirt and yellow boardies, leapt from behind a stack of cloth bolts, grabbed Jenny around the throat and put a gun to her head. Johnny and Ari moved in slowly but stopped when they saw the youngster was upset.

Teenagers could do anything when they were excited. Mac’s mind raced, wondering how he could distract the kid and let Johnny or Ari drop him, but Jenny took the initiative, dropping her gun and letting herself be taken out the side entrance. As the boy turned his face momentarily, Mac noticed a triangular birthmark that moved from the left shoulder and up into the boy’s hair.

Sprinting across the iron roofi ng, Mac slid the last few metres, off the roof, through the air and onto the ground, where he rolled and came to his feet.

The teenager stopped on the clay and grass siding and pushed his gun further into Jenny’s head. Her lips were white, though she looked determined rather than scared.

‘I kill her!’ screamed the kid.

Mac dropped the Heckler and put his hands out to the side, showing the boy his wrists.

‘You the boss now, Santo.’

‘How you know my name?’ challenged the boy.

‘I know Merpati too,’ said Mac, short of breath.

‘You lie! You lie!’ the boy screamed, and shot at Mac’s feet. ‘Merpati is dead! I see!’

‘I not lie, Santo,’ Mac panted. ‘Merpati is alive. I found her and took her to hospital. She’s alive and she misses you, Santo.’

Tears ran off the boy’s face and for a second it was six years ago and Mac was holding the nine-year-old boy down, trying to keep them both alive, his face buried in that birthmark.

Then Santo hardened again. ‘Who send you?’

‘I followed my wife,’ he said, pointing at Jenny, ‘and we have a daughter. A beautiful daughter.’

Santo’s face now ran with tears, his head moving back and forth in denial as he gripped Jen’s throat. ‘I do this job now – I look after business.’

‘No, Santo,’ said Mac gently. ‘You were made to do this by evil men. You are a good boy, mate, and I want to take you back to Merpati and to your mum and dad, okay?’

‘Cannot go back,’ Santo bawled.

‘Yes you can, Santo! Remember I told you that if you did what I asked you, that you’d live?’

Santo’s eyes went wide and he stopped crying. Speaking like he was in a trance he said, ‘And I was quiet, Mr Mac – I did what you say.’

He pushed Jenny away and put the handgun in his mouth, Mac screaming No, Santo! as he pulled the trigger.

They froze in that position as the cop cars fi nally screeched around the corner. Cops fl ew out, radios barking.

Santo sagged to the ground, but there was no detonation – only a click.

Mac walked up to the boy, took the jammed Beretta out of his mouth.

‘You okay?’ he asked Jenny, as she moved in for a hug.

‘Doing better than him,’ she said softly, looking down.

Santo trembled like a leaf, but he was alive.

The police interviews went smoothly for Mac and Johnny, but the Broadbeach Ds weren’t buying Ari’s cover of a salesman. Jenny smoothed that over but the detectives wanted to charge Santo with something, even when Jenny insisted she didn’t want to make a complaint against the boy.

While it was being sorted at the Broadbeach station, Jenny got on the phone to get the infrastructure in place for the slaves, or what some American newspapers had tried to rebadge as involuntary labour.

The detectives had to take Santo into custody, so Mac had watched the boy go, promising him that he’d take him back to Idi.

‘I knew you’d come, Mr Mac,’ said Santo.

Mac roughed his hair and told him to cooperate with the police.