Double Back by Mark Abernethy Read Free Book Online Page A

meet happened,’ said Atkins, gulping his tea. ‘It’s probably best if you start from scratch rather than guessing at what Boa might be.’
    Smiling, Mac decided to let it go, though taking craft advice from a man who did management courses at Melbourne Business School was a little rich. ‘You weren’t running the Canadian?’
    ‘I was,’ said Atkins. ‘But a week before we lost him, our higher-ups got a hard-on for this Boa, so I became a conduit. You know how it is.’
    Nodding, Mac knew how it was. ‘So who is he, this Canadian?’
    ‘Bill Yarrow – wanted by Canadian Customs for import fraud. Owes them millions in unpaid excise. It’s in your package.’
    ‘But I’m not looking for him?’
    ‘If he turns up, bring him in,’ said Atkins. ‘He’s of interest, sure, but the priority is Blackbird.’
    ‘Who’s my contact?’ said Mac.
    ‘Blackbird,’ said Atkins, his face grim.
    ‘She still around?’ asked Mac.
    ‘We have to establish that one way or the other,’ said Atkins.
    ‘How do I get to her?’
    ‘We use a cut-out – but I can’t send you to him,’ said Atkins. ‘He’s in a sensitive position and we’ve guaranteed his anonymity.’
    Mac nodded, thinking. A cut-out was an unidentified person who communicated via drop boxes. The theory was that using cut-outs protected the local asset from being compromised, and left the intelligence officer as an unknown person who just left and received notes in a pre-arranged place: the drop box. But while the theory of cut-outs worked well on a whiteboard in Canberra, they were merely a professional challenge to Mac and people like him.
    ‘What’s the cycle?’ asked Mac.
    ‘Santa Cruz cemetery, twenty-one left, seven right, Mondays and Fridays.’
    It was currently Wednesday.
    ‘And what’s our status with the Indons in Timor?’ asked Mac, knowing that although the Indonesia-backed militias were clearing villages in the lead-up to the independence ballot, the Australian government was holding off on sending in a presence.
    ‘Our status is a friendly neighbour, giving moral support at this difficult time,’ said Atkins.
    They both chuckled. The Australian government had Royal Australian Navy surveillance vessels – declared and covert – steaming the Timor Sea, right across the underbelly of East Timor; there were RAN clearance divers not only in Dili’s harbour, but in Atambua and Kupang – the heart of Indonesian Timor. There was nothing friendly about the Timor Gap gas fields off the south coast of East Timor, gas fields that Australia felt it was better placed to control than Indonesia.
    ‘By the way,’ said Atkins, ‘the phone lines are compromised out of Dili, and that includes cellular. There’s a radio for emergencies at Santa Cruz thirty-five right, seven left. Otherwise, you collect the intel and walk it out. To me, okay?’
    Accepting Atkins’ handshake, Mac stood to go before noticing his colleague’s discomfort and pausing.
    ‘Anything else?’ said Mac, scoping the crowded market for eyes.
    ‘Look, mate, after the Lok Kok thing, they want me to ensure… I mean, it’s not my -’
    ‘No firearm – that it?’ said Mac, breathing out.
    ‘Wasn’t my call,’ said Atkins. ‘I’d never search you, but just so we’re clear.’
     
    Walking up Veteran Street in the heat of late morning, Mac paused by a juice bar near Puputan Square. His hotel, the Natour Bali, was just around the corner in downtown, but he didn’t want to head there just yet. He was tired and needed sleep, but he wasn’t going to nap until he worked out who his tail was and what he wanted.
    After buying a watermelon juice in a flimsy plastic cup he strolled into Puputan Square, glancing sideways behind his sunnies as he put the straw in the hole. His tail was a mid-twenties local in black slacks and white trop shirt pretending to browse at a newsstand thirty metres away. The tail’s eyes flicked up momentarily as Mac looked away and kept