Alan McQueen - 01 - Golden Serpent by Mark Abernethy Page B

barely any profi le, it was the crossroads for a lot of travel in Sulawesi. From Palopo you drove north towards the major port city of Manado, to the south was Makassar, to the immediate west was the remote highland areas with their weird architecture reminiscent of boat prows, and further west was the airport hub of Palu.
    Palopo itself had changed. There was more neon, more people on the streets after dark and some real restaurants, not just the goreng and fi sh shops that populate rural Indonesia.
    Mac moved towards the centre of town, keeping to the shadows.
    His cap was low, his ovies covering his body shape and the chunky Beretta handgun in its webbing rig.
    Sunda Laundry was down a side street off the shabby main plaza area. Mac walked past it on the opposite side of the street and then came back right in front. It was a double-wide joint and through the glass doors Mac could see a few washing machines and tubs, some dryers too, and a large folding table. A small pilot light was on in a back room.
    Mac did another circuit, sweat trickling down his back, and couldn’t see any surveillance. Ducking into the laneway running adjacent to the back of Sunda Laundry, he pulled the Beretta out from under the ovies. He hated Berettas. They had been OK’d and rejected several times by the US military in the 1980s before going into service. They were prone to jamming, the trigger was too far from the grip and, especially annoying for Mac, they had double-stack fi fteen-round magazines. That was fi ne for a soldier or cop, where simply showing a nice big gun was a bonus in itself, but no good for a spook.
    A handgun with fi fteen rounds in the handle was like carrying a small shoe box around with you. Who the hell needed fi fteen rounds?
    Mac moved down the unlit alley, smooth and slow. He held the Beretta cup-and-saucer, his body pointing two o’clock. He heard his breath rasping and his Hi-Tecs scraping on greasy soil. He moved past garbage bins and mangy cats. It smelled like an open sewer.
    He hesitated as he got to the back of the laundry, looking for that pilot light. Heart pumping, he got closer to the fence, moved along it and paused at the point where the laundry’s backyard started.
    He turned, out of habit, cased his six o’clock. Nothing, except mangy cats getting back on their piles of garbage.
    He looked back at the laundry. The pilot light wasn’t bright, but he could make out the yard. There was no car, certainly no silver Accord. He kept his eyes on the place, checked his G-Shock. Almost ten pm. Sweat ran freely down his back now.
    After an hour, nothing.
    He walked back to the guesthouse, crossed the streets a few times and backtracked. All quiet.
    He hit the mattress at 11.25 and fell asleep wondering if he could call Sydney on his mobile, whether Diane would be sweet with that.
    It was just before eight am when Mac got to the Patrol, showered, shaved and back in his salesman dickhead get-up. As he opened the front passenger door, Limo put the big 4x4 into drive. Mac held up his hand. ‘Just a tick, mate.’
    Bani came out the side door of the guesthouse and Mac signalled he get in the back seat. The kid was excited - his fi rst interpreter work.
    Sawtell shot Mac a look, then got out of the Patrol. Mac caught his eye and followed.
    They moved away from the vehicle as Bani got in the back seat.
    ‘What the fuck’s this?’ said Sawtell, far from friendly.
    ‘We need someone to do the talking. Bani’s keen.’
    ‘Spikey’s the languages guy - that’s why I picked him,’ said Sawtell.
    ‘Shit! That’s a kid! You want that on your conscience?’
    John Sawtell had the kind of eyes that could hand out slaps. He had that way of getting up in a man’s face and talking soft, just like Mac’s father used to.
    ‘Thought about Spikey,’ said Mac. ‘But you know, John, these guys are intimidating to the locals.’
    Sawtell cocked an eyebrow. Disbelief.
    ‘It’s not racist - these are big, scary guys to