Read Online Alan McQueen - 02 - Second Strike by Mark Abernethy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Abernethy
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community: Anton Garvey, the bull-like corporate guy who was lairish on the booze yet very much a man with an offi cial career path; Alan McQueen, more of a solo act and the buddy who made the peace when Garvs got into a blue. Which was often. They’d both been boarders at St Joseph’s schools - Garvs in Sydney and Mac at Nudgee in Brisbane - and talking footy was a highly clinical exercise, like politics or religion was to others.
‘Just goes to show you, Macca,’ said Garvs, his big tanned face serious, ‘that an organised defence beats enthusiastic attack every time.’ Relaxing a bit, he looked around the virtually empty room of an Aussie bar called Tubes, and pondered on where all the sorts had gone.
‘They heard you were coming, Garvs,’ said Mac.
Garvs yeah, yeah ed and wandered over to the bar, looking for nuts.
They’d already had their debrief chat: Mac had told Garvs about Ari and Freddi, the Indon and the Russian viewpoints. Garvs had been more circumspect about what he was working on. The declared ASIS crew down from Jakkers had an image problem: they should have caught the chatter about a bombing and they’d even staged a simulated terror attack in Kuta a year earlier - with AFP and Australian Defence Force involvement - such was the likelihood of an attack on Bali. Mac had been in Afghanistan at the time of the Bali simulation, so Garvs was indoctrinated to the defensiveness and Mac wasn’t.
Garvs shared Mac’s discomfort with the Sari Club’s crater. ‘When I was doing my IED rotation at Holsworthy, we could make a crater with anfo but Christ, we needed a shitload of the stuff,’ said Garvs, shaking his head at the thought of how much of the terrorists’ favoured bomb fuel would be required. ‘And mate, we’d tamp it - it was fl ush with the ground. So these bombers needed, what, a container of anfo and it had to be sitting fl at on Legian Street? Without anyone noticing?’
Legian was a busy street in October. It ran north-south parallel to Kuta Beach, its shops, restaurants and cafes coming right up to the footpaths, which were narrow. Humanity crowded onto and along Legian and neither Mac nor Garvs could imagine how such a large blast would have been managed, let alone clandestinely.
The sunset fl ooded through the windows and Mac fi elded a call from Julie, who was setting up the media centre. Then he got a call from Joe on his new pre-paid Nokia. Still in Manila, Joe wanted to know if there were any dramas. Mac joked that the Prime Minister had turned up for a surprise visit and everyone was drunk. Then he said, ‘Gotcha, Joe,’ and hung up.
He was still waiting for Garvs to return when he suddenly became aware of a shape he knew well. Jenny Toohey was standing on the street outside, her dark brown hair pinned at the sides and pulled into a French plait at the back. She had her clipboard, two mobile phones on one hip and her weight on her other hip, and was using a pen to make a point to a couple of AFP blokes.
Mac groaned. He’d tried to tell Jen that some males took exception to a woman standing like that, telling them how it had to be. She’d assumed he was joking at fi rst, couldn’t understand what he was talking about. In her line of work you had to move quickly and make all the right decisions, and some people just needed to be directed.
What to her was a comfortable posture to many men looked bossy.
The shorter of the federal cops Jen was talking to had averted his eyes from her. Within a week there’d be groups of male cops on the booze, with conversation openers like, That Jenny Toohey is such a piece of work .
Mac toyed with the idea of skipping out the back way and pretending not to have seen his girlfriend. But Garvs came back to the table and did one of his lair’s wolf-whistles. Jenny looked over her shoulder, irritated. Seeing them, she got rid of the blokes and came into the bar. ‘Well, Garvs - how could a girl say no to an opening like that?’
Garvs
‘Just goes to show you, Macca,’ said Garvs, his big tanned face serious, ‘that an organised defence beats enthusiastic attack every time.’ Relaxing a bit, he looked around the virtually empty room of an Aussie bar called Tubes, and pondered on where all the sorts had gone.
‘They heard you were coming, Garvs,’ said Mac.
Garvs yeah, yeah ed and wandered over to the bar, looking for nuts.
They’d already had their debrief chat: Mac had told Garvs about Ari and Freddi, the Indon and the Russian viewpoints. Garvs had been more circumspect about what he was working on. The declared ASIS crew down from Jakkers had an image problem: they should have caught the chatter about a bombing and they’d even staged a simulated terror attack in Kuta a year earlier - with AFP and Australian Defence Force involvement - such was the likelihood of an attack on Bali. Mac had been in Afghanistan at the time of the Bali simulation, so Garvs was indoctrinated to the defensiveness and Mac wasn’t.
Garvs shared Mac’s discomfort with the Sari Club’s crater. ‘When I was doing my IED rotation at Holsworthy, we could make a crater with anfo but Christ, we needed a shitload of the stuff,’ said Garvs, shaking his head at the thought of how much of the terrorists’ favoured bomb fuel would be required. ‘And mate, we’d tamp it - it was fl ush with the ground. So these bombers needed, what, a container of anfo and it had to be sitting fl at on Legian Street? Without anyone noticing?’
Legian was a busy street in October. It ran north-south parallel to Kuta Beach, its shops, restaurants and cafes coming right up to the footpaths, which were narrow. Humanity crowded onto and along Legian and neither Mac nor Garvs could imagine how such a large blast would have been managed, let alone clandestinely.
The sunset fl ooded through the windows and Mac fi elded a call from Julie, who was setting up the media centre. Then he got a call from Joe on his new pre-paid Nokia. Still in Manila, Joe wanted to know if there were any dramas. Mac joked that the Prime Minister had turned up for a surprise visit and everyone was drunk. Then he said, ‘Gotcha, Joe,’ and hung up.
He was still waiting for Garvs to return when he suddenly became aware of a shape he knew well. Jenny Toohey was standing on the street outside, her dark brown hair pinned at the sides and pulled into a French plait at the back. She had her clipboard, two mobile phones on one hip and her weight on her other hip, and was using a pen to make a point to a couple of AFP blokes.
Mac groaned. He’d tried to tell Jen that some males took exception to a woman standing like that, telling them how it had to be. She’d assumed he was joking at fi rst, couldn’t understand what he was talking about. In her line of work you had to move quickly and make all the right decisions, and some people just needed to be directed.
What to her was a comfortable posture to many men looked bossy.
The shorter of the federal cops Jen was talking to had averted his eyes from her. Within a week there’d be groups of male cops on the booze, with conversation openers like, That Jenny Toohey is such a piece of work .
Mac toyed with the idea of skipping out the back way and pretending not to have seen his girlfriend. But Garvs came back to the table and did one of his lair’s wolf-whistles. Jenny looked over her shoulder, irritated. Seeing them, she got rid of the blokes and came into the bar. ‘Well, Garvs - how could a girl say no to an opening like that?’
Garvs
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