Alan McQueen - 01 - Golden Serpent by Mark Abernethy

its terror.
    Spikey shook his head, looked at Mac. ‘You gotta tell me, man.
    What’s with this ape?’
    Arti poured water, smiling at Mac.
    ‘Maybe that’ll explain itself,’ said Mac.
    Spikey nodded at him slowly, not satisfi ed.
    The monkey screamed again. Spikey shrugged, went back to his food.
    Suddenly there was a cacophony of noises. Water splashed, something roared and a monkey screeched.
    Mac looked over. A large crocodile had launched itself out of the river and had the monkey in its smiling mouth. Flipped it. Rolled it.
    Disappeared back into the river. Monkey’s arm waving.
    Spikey fell backwards out of his chair with fright. Fumbled for his Beretta. Which wasn’t there. Eyes wide, panting breath.
    Sawtell laughed at him.
    Limo slapped his leg, pointing at Spikey. ‘Look at chu, man. Like your girlfriend just told you she got the clap.’
    Spikey’s mouth hung open, his eyes glued to the river bank where there was nothing left but a spike and a chain. And a collar.
    ‘That!’ sputtered Spikey. ‘What the fuck was that shit?’
    Arti came back to the table. Smiled. ‘Croc catchee monkey. No catchee family.’
    The Americans’ cover was bodyguarding the Australian forest products executive, Richard Davis. Mac had his cards ready to go: RICHARD DAVIS
    GOANNA FOREST PRODUCTS LTD.
    It had a Brisbane address but the phone numbers all diverted to the Southern Scholastic offi ce in Sydney. The bodyguard cover was totally natural in South-East Asia, as were the side arms. And there would be no reason for the hired goons to know anything about the business venture, which meant four less people requiring background and cover.
    Mac and Sawtell had discussed the need to avoid telling the lads that there was a rogue CIA component in the picture and keep it basic damsel-in-distress stuff for now. Sawtell’s aversion to Palopo and Sulawesi’s north was pure professionalism. He was based out of the southern Philippines and knew all about Cookie Banderjong, the strongman who ran northern Sulawesi. A former BAKIN operative who had been educated at an exclusive Melbourne boarding school, Banderjong was a rich kid with family ties to Suharto who got to play spy-versus-spy in places like Paris and DC.
    When the Suharto regime fell in ‘99, Cookie had gone back to the last real asset he could put his hands on: the family’s old clove plantations and logging concessions in northern Sulawesi. He expanded his power, made millions from Japanese and Malaysian loggers, brought Western managers into the plantations, bought out small-time competitors and seeped backed into the political wheel-and-spoke structure. As it turned out, many Suharto cronies were rebirthed in the new Jakarta, and many of them were Cookie’s former BAKIN colleagues.
    Cookie had built a private army to protect the foreign logging companies. He organised the pirates and bandits on operating concessions and he dealt with the jihadists with brutality. He ran the north of Sulawesi like a medieval fi efdom - so much so that Westerners who had had any dealings with the man referred to northern Sulawesi as Cookie Country. And Mac and Sawtell’s men were driving to the very edges of it.
    Sawtell had told Mac: ‘Any freaky stuff up there, and I’m pulling my boys out. Got it?’ His tone had been uncompromising. Mac didn’t take it personally; he didn’t have a choice.

They hit the road before lunch. The Berets had picked up a blue Nissan Patrol from the base in Watampone. It was the big turbo diesel version.
    Comfortable as a car and would go anywhere. It had no special comms gear or plating. Mac had been clear about that. He wanted to move around like a party from a logging company, not in a ‘civvie’ Hummer with comms aerials sticking out of it like a game-fi shing boat.
    It was stinking hot outside, air-conned in the cabin. The boot was fi lled with guns. Limo drove like a soldier, slightly over the limit but controlled. At Mac’s behest he’d