Read Online Alan McQueen - 01 - Golden Serpent by Mark Abernethy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Abernethy
Tags: thriller
Ads: Link
before the receptionist could confi rm and let himself into the corridor. Shutting the door he moved to the other end of the landing area, beyond the elevator doors and behind a planter box of indoor palms. He stood still, casual and humming to himself. Just some halfwit Anglo with a game of pocket billiards going on.
Five minutes. Ten minutes.
At fi fteen minutes Mac moved back to the room. If management were in on something, they would have had a spook up the stairs within two minutes to work over his room. The hotel was clean. This shift, at least.
Mac phoned reception again, told the girl not to worry about the bed. He secured the doors, grabbed a cold Bintang from the bar fridge, opened it and put it on the writing table where he watched it sweat. Then he stripped to his briefs, did fi fty push-ups and four sets of fi fteen ab crunches. He shadow boxed up on his toes for six minutes and rewarded himself with the beer.
He pulled the curtains and got into bed. Fatigue raced up on him and his brain swam: he thought of Diane, and what it would take. He thought of the Sydney Uni job and what he’d need to do to keep it on track. The Garvey briefi ng in Jakkers gnawed at him too. Judith Hannah was last seen - or not seen, depending on the quality of the intelligence
- in Makassar, capital of south Sulawesi. With Garrison. Allegedly.
What annoyed Mac was how quickly Garrison had become the focus. Even Sawtell, the Green Beret, had assumed the mission was a hit on Garrison. Then there was Dave Urquhart. Urquhart, the political liaison guy, the fi xer of ulterior motives between the executive arm of government and Australia’s spies. Where there was Urquhart, there was politics. Which meant some poor operational bastard was going to get screwed.
One guess.
Sleep crept up on him and he got a glimpse of the time he’d been wandering around The Rocks in Sydney with Diane. They’d drunk too much at dinner and were snogging under a restaurant awning while they waited for a rain storm to pass. A couple had come past, the bloke in a suit and his woman following behind. They’d obviously been fi ghting because the suit was withholding his umbrella. Diane saw it and reacted immediately. Yelled out, ‘Give her your brollie, you selfi sh wanker!’
The bloke stopped and the woman moved under the brollie.
The woman had turned and mouthed thank you at Diane over her shoulder.
That’s what Mac had fallen for. A real piece of work.
Mac woke. It was dark. His civvie Omega on the bedside table said it was 3.11. He dressed in a polo shirt and rugby shorts. Dragged the top sheet from the bed, stuffed it under his arm. Pulled on a black baseball cap and dark sunnies and made for reception.
There was one person behind the desk. A young Indon with a bum-fl uff mo. He was sleeping.
Mac bird-whistled and the guy woke with a start.
‘Sorry to bother you, champ. Forgot to get something from my security box.’
The desk guy slapped his pockets as he stood, eyed Mac’s bare feet, cap and sunnies.
Mac winked, friendly: ‘ Maaate . The lights in this place.’
Just another crazy Skippy loose in the tropics.
The desk guy buttoned up his organ-grinder monkey suit, did a quick ID check of Mac’s passport and then led the way through a door behind the reception desk. They walked along a dimly lit corridor, down two fl ights of stairs and into the basement security box area where the desk guy unlocked a thick steel door. Fluorescent lights fl ickered to life overhead as they entered. It was about twenty metres long, fi ve metres wide and lined fl oor to ceiling with heavy brushed-steel lock boxes. There was a footstand at the far end, sitting on the taupe lino, near a table with two chairs.
The hotel was fi nanced with Singapore-Chinese money and one of the fi rst things they must have designed was the safe deposit area.
Mac could feel the surveillance camera on the back of his neck.
The bloke turned, questioning eyes. Mac held up
Five minutes. Ten minutes.
At fi fteen minutes Mac moved back to the room. If management were in on something, they would have had a spook up the stairs within two minutes to work over his room. The hotel was clean. This shift, at least.
Mac phoned reception again, told the girl not to worry about the bed. He secured the doors, grabbed a cold Bintang from the bar fridge, opened it and put it on the writing table where he watched it sweat. Then he stripped to his briefs, did fi fty push-ups and four sets of fi fteen ab crunches. He shadow boxed up on his toes for six minutes and rewarded himself with the beer.
He pulled the curtains and got into bed. Fatigue raced up on him and his brain swam: he thought of Diane, and what it would take. He thought of the Sydney Uni job and what he’d need to do to keep it on track. The Garvey briefi ng in Jakkers gnawed at him too. Judith Hannah was last seen - or not seen, depending on the quality of the intelligence
- in Makassar, capital of south Sulawesi. With Garrison. Allegedly.
What annoyed Mac was how quickly Garrison had become the focus. Even Sawtell, the Green Beret, had assumed the mission was a hit on Garrison. Then there was Dave Urquhart. Urquhart, the political liaison guy, the fi xer of ulterior motives between the executive arm of government and Australia’s spies. Where there was Urquhart, there was politics. Which meant some poor operational bastard was going to get screwed.
One guess.
Sleep crept up on him and he got a glimpse of the time he’d been wandering around The Rocks in Sydney with Diane. They’d drunk too much at dinner and were snogging under a restaurant awning while they waited for a rain storm to pass. A couple had come past, the bloke in a suit and his woman following behind. They’d obviously been fi ghting because the suit was withholding his umbrella. Diane saw it and reacted immediately. Yelled out, ‘Give her your brollie, you selfi sh wanker!’
The bloke stopped and the woman moved under the brollie.
The woman had turned and mouthed thank you at Diane over her shoulder.
That’s what Mac had fallen for. A real piece of work.
Mac woke. It was dark. His civvie Omega on the bedside table said it was 3.11. He dressed in a polo shirt and rugby shorts. Dragged the top sheet from the bed, stuffed it under his arm. Pulled on a black baseball cap and dark sunnies and made for reception.
There was one person behind the desk. A young Indon with a bum-fl uff mo. He was sleeping.
Mac bird-whistled and the guy woke with a start.
‘Sorry to bother you, champ. Forgot to get something from my security box.’
The desk guy slapped his pockets as he stood, eyed Mac’s bare feet, cap and sunnies.
Mac winked, friendly: ‘ Maaate . The lights in this place.’
Just another crazy Skippy loose in the tropics.
The desk guy buttoned up his organ-grinder monkey suit, did a quick ID check of Mac’s passport and then led the way through a door behind the reception desk. They walked along a dimly lit corridor, down two fl ights of stairs and into the basement security box area where the desk guy unlocked a thick steel door. Fluorescent lights fl ickered to life overhead as they entered. It was about twenty metres long, fi ve metres wide and lined fl oor to ceiling with heavy brushed-steel lock boxes. There was a footstand at the far end, sitting on the taupe lino, near a table with two chairs.
The hotel was fi nanced with Singapore-Chinese money and one of the fi rst things they must have designed was the safe deposit area.
Mac could feel the surveillance camera on the back of his neck.
The bloke turned, questioning eyes. Mac held up
Similar Books
