Double Back by Mark Abernethy Page A

cemetery at Santa Cruz before dawn. It wasn’t a perfect way to trace Blackbird, but it was a start: get eyes on the cut-out, follow him and get him talking. For now it was the only approach he had.
    What he knew for certain was that finding the Canadian was going to have to be dropped from his unofficial task list. The entire feeling in Dili was extremely dangerous and if the priority tasking was Blackbird and Operasi Boa, then he’d have to leave the Canadian to someone else.
    Was he scared? Damned right he was.
     
    The dining room was small and only three tables had been set. Mac took the table at the far wall, wanting a better observation point over Rahmid Ali. He expected Ali to have recovered from the morning’s conversation, and be ready to try another tack.
    The specials blackboard said that ‘Baucau Chicken’ with rice was the chef’s recommendation for the evening. Chicken in East Timor was prepared in the spicy Portuguese style and was usually – for some reason – served cold. There’d be plenty of chances for cold chicken at the roadside warung that infested East Timor so Mac chose the fish of the day and asked for a beer.
    The Korean announced his presence even before entering the dining room, yelling into his phone as he walked in and looking around with studied contempt. Putting the phone to his chest, the Korean faced Mac with his bottom lip slack, eyes yellowed with hard liquor.
    ‘That it?’ he asked, pointing at the specials board with his cigarette.
    Giving him a wink and a nod, Mac decided not to engage the Korean in actual conversation. Snorting at Mac and then shaking his head in disbelief, the Korean swaggered out of the dining room leaving a fug of smoke and BO.
    Relaxing into his chair, Mac mentally prepared his next twenty-four hours, trying to forget Benni Sudarto peering through that window at the Damajat meeting. Mac reckoned there was a fifty per cent chance he’d been made and it remained to be seen what Sudarto was going to do about it. Would he assign a tail, let Mac run? Would he shut Mac down and start pulling teeth? Feed him up with bullshit and send him back to Atkins with tall tales designed to confound Canberra? Or was he just keeping an eye on who Damajat was entertaining?
    Slugging at the beer, Mac wondered how long he could keep his nerves at bay with alcohol. Catching a movement from his right Mac put his beer down. Expecting Ali, Mac found himself looking at a woman instead – early twenties, blonde and very attractive.
    ‘Is this the dining room?’ she asked in a North American accent, the set to her face making the question into a joke.
    ‘Actually, it’s the broom closet but we hide them away when we hear there’s an American coming to stay.’
    ‘Special treatment for special guests, huh?’ she smiled, open and natural.
    ‘Nah,’ drawled Mac. ‘Just means we can charge more for the room.’
    ‘Oh, thanks,’ she said, rolling her eyes.
    ‘What can I say?’ said Mac, standing. ‘You guys’ll pay anything.’
    The woman laughed and Mac took a step forward, offering his hand. ‘Richard – how do you do?’
    ‘Jessica.’ Her handshake was firm. ‘Don’t tell me – went sunbathing, fell asleep on one side?’
    Touching the scorch mark on his cheek, Mac retorted. ‘Cheeky Yanks!’
    Sitting, he gestured for her to join him. ‘No sunbathing on this trip, I’m afraid – here to buy sandalwood, of all things. And you?’
    ‘I’m Canadian, actually,’ said Jessica, turning serious as she sat, ‘and I’m looking for my father.’

CHAPTER 12
    Slipping through the tropical darkness, Mac stayed in the shadows of the trees that lined most of the avenues in Dili. It was 3.58 am according to his G-Shock and he was making good time, slipping along one of the minor streets behind the Dili Stadium, heading inland from the harbour.
    Dressed in a black sweatshirt, dark baseball cap and Levis, he blended with the background and the moonless night as he