Counter Attack

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There were three of them in the fifteenth-floor suite of the Hotel Pan Pacific, waiting for the radio to confirm the quarry was on its way. Alan McQueen stood at the large windows of the suite, looking over the oily waters of Singapore’s Marina Bay.

Draining his coffee, Mac thought about the plan. His job was to trap a Chinese spy and persuade him to work for the Australian Secret Intelligence Service. If Mac was successful, the doubled spy would be reporting to the Firm while pretending to take his orders from Beijing.

Looking into his empty cup, Mac pondered the eternal question of why hotel crockery was so small.

‘Any real mugs back there, Matty?’ he asked Matt Johnson, his comms man.

‘That’s the biggest I could find,’ said Johnson, an operative in his early thirties who sat at a laptop computer beneath a street map of Singapore. Mac saw his younger self in Matt, an athletic field guy who was probably starting to wonder if being good at tails and infiltrations was a clever career move in Aussie intel.

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