Alan McQueen - 02 - Second Strike by Mark Abernethy Page B

blouse was free of the dust that everyone else picked up in Kuta.
    ‘Chester needs you, Mr McQueen,’ said Julie as Mac stopped, ‘for signing the Memorandum of Understanding with the Indon National Police.’
    She didn’t wait for an answer, just turned and walked.
    Mac followed. ‘By the way, Julie …’
    She looked over her shoulder.
    ‘Call me Mac, huh? All this “Mister” stuff will just get everyone confused.’
    She smiled, got to a dark door and leaned on it. ‘Okay, Mac. The big one in the suit is from the Indonesian President’s offi ce and the one with the fruit salad is Indonesian National Police. It’s now a joint op and DFAT has carriage from the Aussie side.’
    ‘And the MOU?’ asked Mac.
    ‘Joint AFP and INP. We’re doing forensics and DVI; the Indons are doing the investigation.’
    Mac smiled. ‘Good thinking. That Chester’s not just a pretty face, huh?’
    She laughed. ‘It gets better. The MOU precludes any foreign investigations and the INP will write the fi nal report. Non-negotiable, no dissenting opinions.’
    One of Julie’s phones rang and she stepped away from the door, motioning for Mac to go through. There were fi fteen people in a small business centre. The ones with any clout sat around the oval wooden treaty table while the lawyers leaned down and pointed at documents with silver Parkers and black Montblancs.
    Chester rose and introduced Mac and the Indonesians at the table all smiled and did their little bows at him. Despite being a bit of a dick, Chester was in his element in a diplomatic forum.
    ‘Alan, just to bring you up to speed,’ he said, with genial authority,
    ‘we now have an MOU with the Republic of Indonesia to run the investigation and associated logistics as a joint operation.’
    Mac saw that one group at the table, the AFP representatives, were conspicuously not smiling and wondered what kind of arguments had erupted in the back rooms before the cops conceded it was now a DFAT show.
    ‘Mr McQueen will have overall sign-off on the public affairs side,’ said Chester, smiling like he was ingratiating a boyfriend with someone’s father. ‘I think we’re all in agreement on the need for a single interaction point with the media, yes?’
    Afterwards Mac lunched with Chester in the main restaurant. They ate quickly and moved across the basics. The AFP would do all the heavy lifting, with the support of the Australian Defence Force. The cops would build the forward command post, and Defence would organise the chow tents, sleeping quarters, toilets and showers for the two hundred Aussies expected to descend on Bali in the next few days.
    Of most signifi cance to Mac was the fact that the Indonesian National Police would write the only report. If Mac knew Indonesia even half as well as he thought he did that report would never be released to the Indonesian media and perhaps not even to their parliament. The INP answered directly to the Indonesian President’s offi ce, and that’s where the report would disappear.
    ‘Doesn’t leave much for us, mate,’ quipped Mac.
    Chester smiled with the superiority of the diplomat as he chewed on his tuna. ‘I see our role as more the project manager - thought-leadership, if you will.’
    Mac gagged slightly on his veal. If Jenny was here she’d be in the bloke’s face for that sort of comment. She had no time for men and their endless extra layers of management.
    ‘You okay, McQueen?’ asked Chester as Mac drank iced water and thumped himself in his still-tender sternum.
    ‘Good as gold, thanks,’ Mac spluttered.
    As he put his glass down Mac saw John Morris, the AFP’s senior counter-terrorism bloke, patting his chest pocket like he was going for a ciggie as he ducked out of the restaurant. Mac got up to go, but turned back to Chester. ‘By the way, mate, I’ll need an assistant.’
    ‘Sure,’ said Chester. ‘Pick anyone … except Julie.’
    Mac smiled. ‘I’ll take Julie.’
    Chester stopped