Free Counter Attack by Mark Abernethy Page A

manager – Mr Skin – slept on a stretcher inside the front doors of the Hotel Dong Khoi. One night Mac had staggered back to the hotel after a big go at Apocalypse Now bar and Mr Skin had answered the door. The first thing Mac had seen was a bare-chested bloke, built like a jockey and holding a billy club at shoulder height. Right at the point when Mac thought he was going to be clobbered, Mr Skin had stopped, smiled the big Vietnam welcome, and ushered him in.
    That was the enigma of Vietnam: the friendliest violent place on earth.

Chapter 11
    Walking with the one-way traffic flow of Dong Khoi Street, Mac kept his pace to a relaxed tourist stroll. Wearing the Aussie traveller uniform of boardies and surf T-shirt, he could also be mistaken for an Aussie soldier on leave if the political police were being nosey.
    The temperature had climbed over thirty-five degrees by Mac’s estimation as he crossed Dong Khoi Street at the riverfront lights and walked into the Hotel Majestic. Maintaining his languid pace, he crossed through the vaulted foyer and into a cafe before spilling out onto the riverside boulevard on the other side of the building.
    Walking to the tourist information pillar, he grabbed a visitor’s map and positioned himself to see who or what would follow. Seven seconds later, two men on a Honda step-through accelerated around the corner with the rest of the traffic, the pillion passenger anxiously looking into the Majestic’s wide windows. When he hit the driver on the shoulder to stop and started getting off the bike, Mac walked towards them, map in hand.
    ‘Excuse me, fellers,’ he said, coming alongside the motorbike’s driver, a late-twenties Khmer wearing a Yankees cap and aviators. ‘Looking for the ANZ bank – it’s around here, right?’
    The driver shrugged and pointed to the pillion passenger, who swaggered towards Mac, the minicam in his left palm disappearing into the pocket of his windbreaker.
    ‘ Xin chao ,’ said Mac with a smile and quick bow. ‘I’m from Australia, looking for the ANZ. Name’s Richard.’
    The pillion guy waved away the hand Mac offered. ‘You want bank – go down to round ’bout, then left ,’ he said carefully, like someone who didn’t want to miss the ‘ft’ sound that so many Asians couldn’t quite reach. ‘Bank there, okay?’
    ‘Thanks, champion,’ said Mac, turning and crossing Dong Khoi Street again.
    Casing the Black Stork tailor shop in a small side street off Dong Khoi, Mac took his time. It was a little after two pm when he entered the shop. Moving into the cool darkness, he walked towards the stooped old man behind the huge cutting desk but caught sight of Tranh peering through the fitting-room curtains.
    Mac followed Tranh into the hall of mirrors of the fitting room.
    ‘Get eyes?’ said Mac, looking around the musty old space. ‘On Apricot?’
    ‘I did what you say,’ said Tranh, keeping his shades on.
    ‘Stayed back?’
    ‘Yes, Mr Richard,’ said Tranh. ‘He left the consulate at eight past twelve, I followed him along Ton Duc and he got cyclo.’
    ‘Return?’
    ‘Yes, mister – he come back one-forty.’
    ‘Same cyclo?
    ‘No – he change.’
    Mac wanted a local’s view of Quirk. ‘How’s he looking?’
    ‘He not so young no more,’ said Tranh with a shrug. ‘Maybe too much the coffee or the wine?’
    ‘Okay, let’s have a chat,’ said Mac.

    He followed Tranh up a flight of stairs and through an old door into a reminder of French-colonial Saigon. The twelve-foot ceilings and the slow fan created an eerie theatre for the tailor’s dummies and old bolts of cloth. Pushing open large wooden French doors, Mac eased into the heat of the day beneath a veranda and glanced up and down the street.
    ‘Show me the back,’ said Mac, and they moved through the storage area and onto the rear patio where a table and chair were set up on the tiled slab, overlooked by several new skyscrapers.
    ‘Good,’ said Mac, walking back