Hidden Scorpion 2nd Edition

By Warren Reed

Fresh back from a stint in Asia, Australian Secret Intelligence Service officer, Ben Johnson, is posted to Egypt to establish a spy operation. He quickly acclimatises to the sights, smells and dangers of Cairo, cultivating a local asset who almost immediately provides explosive intelligence with far-reaching ramifications for the entire Mid

• Language: English
• Publisher: For Pity Sake Publishing Pty Ltd
• Release date: Jun 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9780648758709

Warren Reed

Warren Reed is a former Australian Secret Intelligence Service (ASIS) agent who currently advises businesses on the geopolitics of globalisation with specific emphasis on Australia and the Asian region. A regular media commentator on espionage and terrorism, Reed is often sought out to comment on the human side of spying. Born in Tasmania, Reed undertook two years National Service in the Australian Army before completing a degree in Political Science and Business Administration from the University of Tasmania. In 1973, he was admitted to the Law Faculty of the University of Tokyo as an Australia-Japan Business Cooperation Committee Scholar. On his return to Australia, Reed consulted for a major Japanese trading house, before being recruited by ASIS and trained by the British Secret Intelligence Service (MI6) in London. His ten-year career in clandestine work focused on Asia and the Middle East, and he has lived and worked in Tokyo, Cairo and New Delhi. Reed left ASIS in 1987 and subsequently held the position of Chief Operating Office for CEDA. Fluent in written and spoken Japanese, Warren Reed's other language studies include Mandarin, Bahasa Indonesian and Arabic.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Gulf Grand Hotel, Kuwait City,

9.40 am, Thursday, August 2, 1990

"You’ll be put on busses to Baghdad in an hour. Only one small piece of hand luggage per person and no excuses. Leave your suitcases behind. There’ll be no waiting. If you resist, you’ll be shot."

A haughty German objected.

I’ve told you, he said, I’m on a flight out tonight.

The Iraqi cut him short. He had warned him before to shut up. In one quick move the officer grabbed an assault rifle from a soldier alongside him and fired its full clip into the chandelier above. Slivers of crystal exploded through the air and everyone ducked. It seemed an eternity before the pieces crashed onto the marble floor of the lobby.

The acrid smell of gun-smoke hung thick as the sound reverberated in the cathedral-like space. It mixed with the hysterical cries of children whose parents were desperately trying to keep them under control. A young woman behind the reception desk was screaming. Her co-workers hustled her into the office at the back.

The Iraqi reverted to his earlier stance: legs apart and hands on hips. He felt no need to say anything more. Dressed in khaki trousers and shirt, he wore a peaked cap with a shiny brass badge. Sweat around his armpits and dust on his bushy moustache hinted at the rigours of the landing that had taken place earlier. Iraq had invaded Kuwait. The Gulf War had begun.

The Iraqi had already announced that there would not be enough seating on the coaches for all of the hotel’s four hundred foreign guests. But they would need to board anyway. Each could expect a turn at standing.

Ben Johnson, a tall, well-tanned, ginger-haired Australian, was watching this from behind a wooden lacework screen on the mezzanine floor. Alongside him were fellow operatives, plus someone with a motherload of material, which, if found, could see them all shot. They were waiting for the opportunity to take the service lift down to the basement where a means of escape had been arranged. Possible freedom was close in terms of distance, but light years away in terms of the danger in getting there. Only one person could safely bridge that gap for them.

It was a day that all would remember for the rest of their lives. Soldiers in an agitated state, with rifles at the ready, milled around the entrance below. They were peering in through the glass doors, puzzled as to why a weapon had been fired.

Johnson’s thoughts jumped from what the immediate future might hold to the stunning success he and his colleagues had had. It was a coup to have brought Dr. Sidqi Halil’s family and one of his key scientific colleagues out of Iraq. But unless they could all get away, the Western intelligence world would be deprived of vital information on what Saddam really had in mind. Kuwait was only stage one. The plan was much grander and far more sinister than most could imagine.

It was in the lingering summer heat of October 1989 that Johnson had had his first contact with the Middle East. Cairo was where it all started.

At thirty-six and separated from his partner, Liz, and their small boy, he had been a spy with the Australian Secret Intelligence Service (ASIS) for eight years. His experience was in the capitals of Asia where his curiosity and measured manner had served him well. But the challenge that confronted him in Egypt had embodied few reference points from the past. His task was to establish a secret intelligence operation in the Middle East through which information could be gathered by classical, clandestine means. It was an assignment he had willingly accepted. With no Arabist in its ranks, ASIS had drawn from its pool of Asian expertise to come up with an officer with the resilience that the mission required. An Asian background was no bad thing because it provided a cover of sorts. Who would expect an Asian language expert to be posted as a spy to Egypt? Working under the guise of a diplomat in the Australian Embassy, it would seem like a normal Foreign Service rotation.

Johnson liked his job with ASIS and the precision and concentration that it called for. He had served with distinction in Bangkok and Hanoi and had found satisfaction in the risk inherent in the work, combining as it did instinct, sensitivity and nerve. It made him feel he was making an immediate, hands-on contribution to the national interest, which gave him a buzz like few other things could. Standing six feet tall, he was a natural sportsman, whose fitness helped him cope with the stress that came with the job.

A graduate in economics, as well as Thai and Vietnamese, Johnson had worked with an Australian mining company in South East Asia before being recruited into ASIS. He was interested in culture and history and his postings always saw him prepare for a new operational environment with dedication. Though little time was available, he had done the same for Egypt, acquiring a smattering of written and spoken Arabic as well as brushing up on his French. Johnson drew more energy than most from the people around him, and his curiosity, sense of humour and open personality inspired others to give more than usual. It was this quality that had impressed ASIS. After all, espionage had more to do with inspiring trust than it did with deception. And to earn trust, one needed to have a conscience.

El Qahira, as Egypt’s capital was known in Arabic, had long fascinated him. A dusty, raucous tumult of human activity, it was an ancient metropolis that in 1989 boasted a population of eighteen million, equal to that of Australia. Running through the centre of the city was the River Nile, which provided sustenance for most of the country’s people. Egyptians eked out an existence in the poorest of conditions, but still managed to display warmth, dignity, tolerance and a tenacity that won the hearts of most foreigners who came to live in their midst.

Struggling as it was, Egypt retained a strong sense of pride, no better manifested than in the finest of its governmental institutions. The standard of these often transcended the negative image of the country held by outside observers who knew little about it. The Egyptian Diplomatic Service was part of that elite. So too, was the Egyptian Intelligence Service, the EIS. A notably professional body, it guarded the country’s interests more effectively than some Western counterparts cared to acknowledge.

Johnson had understood that his work in Cairo would not be a pushover; nevertheless, he looked forward to the challenge. Events had developed rapidly after his arrival and he had had his successes. And now the biggest of them had landed him here. He glanced at some of his colleagues and they smiled nervously. They had all been through a great deal together.

As he looked down again on the scene below, his mind flashed back to the beginning of the road that had brought them all to Kuwait at this inauspicious moment.

Chapter 2

Cairo International Airport,

Wednesday, October 4, 1989

Though it was nearly midnight, the place was groaning from a torrent of passengers disgorged from multiple flights, including Johnson’s 747 from Athens. People jostled around the carousel, waiting for their bags. By the time Johnson’s appeared, numbers had thinned and it was easier to break free from the throng.

It was then that he spotted his Thai friend standing at another carousel anxiously scanning the luggage. He was with an older grey-haired Asian, probably a compatriot. Johnson manoeuvred his way through the crowd to come up behind them. He stuck two fingers in his friend’s back like the barrel of gun and whispered in his ear, Make one move and you’re dead.

When Mahamat swung round his face lit up.

Maina cheloi! he said: I can’t believe this!

He drew away from the older man and greeted Johnson effusively.

What the hell are you doing here? he said in Thai.

That’s what I’m asking you. Are you here on a company trip?

No, I’m living here. I’m an adviser to the Ministry of Industry. Part of a developing countries’ aid exchange. I’ve been here for four months, but still haven’t got round to letting you know.

Don’t worry, Johnson said. All the better to hear it from you in person.

Mahamat smiled, revealing his flashing white teeth.

How about you, Ben? Are you just passing through?

No, I’m here for a posting at the Embassy.

What a coincidence. I’m working out of ours too, so we’ll be colleagues. Tell me, where have they got you staying first up?

At the Marriott, I believe.

Great, I’ll give you a call and we’ll catch up soon.

I look forward to it.

Mahamat returned to the older man as Johnson headed for Immigration. He found himself waiting again, this time in a diplomatic queue making annoyingly slow progress. But the burden was lightened by what had just happened. His friend was tough and like a firm anchor in life. His infectious sense of humour too, had always been reassuring.

Mahamat was an industrial chemist and a Muslim, though not a strict one. The same age as Johnson, he worked with a government-owned petrochemical company in Bangkok where they had met when Johnson was posted there under diplomatic cover. For the fun of it, Johnson had enrolled in a kickboxing course at a club where Mahamat, a top dan in karate as well, was a part-time instructor. A firm friendship had grown between them and had been maintained over the years. Because of the Thai’s nationalistic feelings, Johnson had discounted the possibility of ever cultivating him for recruitment as an agent. And as far as Mahamat was concerned, Johnson was a genuine diplomat. He knew nothing of the Australian’s intelligence status.

When Johnson stepped up to the counter he was greeted by a middle-aged Egyptian. He was a burly man with double chins and a few days’ stubble. When he reached out for Johnson’s red passport, a mangy cat – black, white, ginger and tail-less – sauntered across the counter in front of them. Johnson was surprised, and it showed. Suddenly, with a burst of guttural Arabic, the Egyptian swung a beefy arm out through the window and swept the animal away. It flew through the air and struck an elegant Scandanavian woman on the chest in the line alongside. Then it scampered away. No one said anything. The woman was speechless.

Johnson looked back at the immigration man.

Welcome to Eeezhipt, the friendly official said.

Johnson sat patiently in front of the ambassador’s desk, along with Gavin Willoughby, the deputy head of mission. On knocking and entering, they had found the ambassador reading official papers. A casual wave of the hand indicated they should sit. Long minutes of silence had already passed. A strong smell of aromatic tobacco hung in the air, mixed with a hint of aftershave.

It was a comfortable and spacious room, with minimalist furnishings. A few small figurines and a collection of photographs in silver frames decorated the sideboard behind the ambassador’s desk. Johnson recognised that in the year that fifty-eight-year-old Richard Trenchard had been Australia’s representative in Cairo he had come to feel at home in this office. Its panoramic windows took in everything that mattered, from Saladin’s Citadel at one end to the Pyramids in the distance at the other.

Johnson glanced at Willoughby who was in his early forties and a moist, nervy type. His hair had gone prematurely grey and he seemed to find silence intimidating.

Trenchard gazed out through the window, lost in thought. Leaning back in his executive chair he drew slowly on his pipe and blew smoke off to one side. He was a short, barrel-chested man with pallid features and a dark, wavy toupee. Johnson noted his neatly pressed shirt. It made him feel under-dressed in his safari suit, which he had been told was customary for diplomats in Cairo at this time of the year.

The ambassador reached for the phone and called his secretary in the room next door.

Moira, you can let that cable go as it is. I won’t be making any changes.

He put the receiver down, then turned to Johnson and examined him closely.

So you’re our James Bond, are you? he said.

His voice was soft and his diction clear.

Johnson nodded. He’d been gazing at a painting behind Trenchard’s desk of an old Italian villa with tiled roof and stonework, drenched in late afternoon sun.

So you appreciate art as well? the ambassador said, as though the two things were mutually exclusive. The comment seemed benign, even playful.

Yes, especially the realist tradition, Johnson replied. It’s very good. Is it a place you know well?

Let’s put it this way, the ambassador said, holding eye contact longer than usual, I aspire to know it better than I do. Then he looked down and removed a fleck from the sleeve of his shirt.

I suppose, Johnson said, it’s the sort of place we’d all like to retire to and write our memoirs.

How perceptive of you.

Trenchard’s response was accompanied by a wry smile that Johnson found difficult to interpret.

But alas, we digress, the ambassador said, sitting upright. I have many important tasks to attend to today for our masters in Canberra, so I’d like to get down to business straightaway. I trust you’ve settled into the Marriott. I understand it’ll only be a matter of days before we can move you into your apartment.

Thank you. I’m happy with that.

On the business side of things, Trenchard went on, I must confess I have no idea how you and I are going to relate to each other here. Presumably, you’ll do your thing and the rest of us will get on with ours. Your superiors back home evidently believe that whatever you’re likely to achieve in Cairo it’ll be something we’re unable to get at ourselves. So perhaps we’d better wish each other luck, eh?

Johnson was disappointed that the ambassador saw things in competitive terms.

Well, at the end of the day, he said, it’s the national interest we’re all meant to be serving, isn’t it, whichever way we have to go about it?

Trenchard nodded, though Johnson couldn’t tell if it was in agreement or if the ambassador thought it was a clever answer. He tried another tack.

Of course, in my line of work, he said, we rely heavily on the forbearance of our Foreign Affairs colleagues. So I’m sure I’ll be seeking your advice along the way, if you don’t mind, on areas you might think I should be looking at.

Trenchard smiled, then tapped his pipe on the rim of a marble ashtray off to one side. He emptied the pipe’s smouldering contents studiously, as if buying time to work up a response. Johnson could sense doubt. He wondered what might be driving it. Is it some moral objection to spying or is it just because he feels uncomfortable with an intelligence officer around? I know he’s never served in an embassy with a station before. Maybe he’s freaked out by the idea of not knowing what the resident spy is up to, or what they might discover.

Rest assured, Ben, Trenchard said, I’ll be doing whatever I can to help. But I must warn you, I’ve heard that the intelligence bunch here is very much on the ball. So you’d better watch your clandestine step, if you know what I mean?

Willoughby walked with Johnson around to the ASIS station’s quarters. These consisted of two rooms on the far side of the political section, all within an area of restricted access. This occupied the upper floor of the two that comprised the Embassy, which was in a small office block on the Corniche, a boulevard alongside the Nile. Meg Heyward, Johnson’s young operational assistant from ASIS, was waiting there for her colleague’s return. They had met only briefly earlier in the morning when he’d arrived for the appointment with Trenchard. She had been in Cairo for a few weeks and was working under cover as a Foreign Affairs secretary.

The three stood chatting for a while outside the door to Johnson’s office.

I do hope things work out, Willoughby said, as though to infer that the odds were against that happening. He was not quite as edgy as he had been in Trenchard’s presence, but nothing it seemed would soften his rapid-fire speech. As you’ve probably realised, the ambassador’s never wanted to be close to the spy world.

I did get that impression, Johnson replied. But don’t worry. We don’t bite.

Willoughby smiled nervously and left. Johnson and Meg gathered their thoughts.

So, how did you get on with the old man? she asked, smiling wryly. A slender, attractive woman in her mid-twenties with short auburn hair, she was wearing a refreshing yellow summer dress. She had a cheerful disposition and a sharp wit.

Actually, I don’t quite know. I’m still trying to get a fix on him, on what sort of person he is. He clearly has reservations about intelligence, which we’re somehow going to have to dispel. Management back home seemed to think he was positively disposed towards us, so I’d assumed he’d at least be in first gear. But now it appears he’s more in neutral, if not in reverse. Maybe he just wants a quiet time here and feels intelligence might threaten that. I hear the Secretary of the Department’s promised him a three-year stint in Cairo, followed by a posting in Rome, where he’ll see his time out.

That could be it.

She pushed him back gently into a chair near the window and gave him a pat on the arm.

Listen, you stay there, she said, and I’ll go make us some coffee. OK?

Johnson smiled. He found her voice soothing.

It’ll be interesting, he thought, to hear what she knows about Trenchard.

Johnson had heard a number of stories about him in Canberra, all of which pointed to a person of wide-ranging knowledge and charm. Some said he could be fickle, advising Johnson to tread warily. No one seemed to know him very well, and those who were acquainted didn’t say much. That Trenchard was ‘a private man’ was the most common

He turned to study the scene outside at the rear of the building. The mud-coloured sprawl of Bulaq’s buildings and alleyways nearby faded into a dusty haze of TV aerials and rooftop add-ons. Beyond, reared the ridge above Old Cairo, with the dome and pencil-like minarets of Mohammed Ali’s Mosque standing out. All up, it was a pulsating and alluring vista, one that enticed the newcomer to plunge in and explore. Though the windows were double-glazed, a cacophony of sounds rose from the street. Car horns mixed with the shouts of camel drivers guiding cartloads of produce into the city.

His thoughts drifted back to Meg. It was her first overseas posting and some of the ASIS old guard had questioned the wisdom of giving the job in Egypt to a young woman with no field experience. Johnson though, had become well acquainted with her in Main Office, ASIS headquarters in Canberra. He was impressed by her maturity and particularly the fact that she had majored in psychology as well as French, a language widely used by educated Egyptians. A few of the older women had told him she was one of the brightest they had seen. She was enthusiastic too; as soon as she’d heard there was a chance she might be posted to Cairo she had acquired an Arabic grammar book and started studying. She had an ear for languages and was engrossed in this new one in a matter of days. So he had fought for her and won. To him it was a matter of faith in his own judgement, something a spy had to trust in this precarious line of work. One slip in the Middle East and your life was on the line. Governments in this part of the world were not renowned for kindness to spooks caught with their fingers in the till.

The throb of the city outside reminded Johnson of the professional challenge before him. He was here to glean CX, secret intelligence, from a new and uncertain environment. Its appeal only highlighted the question of how and where he would get his operation under way. For him, the road to Egypt had begun six weeks before when the head of ASIS had called him in for a chat.

The chief told him that the Minister for Foreign Affairs had recently expressed disenchantment with the quality of the reporting on the Middle East that the British and Americans were providing. As minister responsible for ASIS, he was unconvinced that the customary intelligence exchange was giving Canberra sufficient information on terrorist inroads into the region.

ASIO, Australia’s domestic security organisation, had repeatedly warned that radical Islamic groups had infiltrated Australia’s burgeoning Muslim community. Such groups were using Australia as a remote and safe haven for training purposes and for the receipt, laundering and distribution of clandestine funds. Linkages between representatives of these movements and similar communities in South East Asia had also come to light, with Libya mentioned more than once. A few worrying European intelligence reports implying such involvement, had tipped the scales for the Minister and he had taken his plan to Cabinet. There he gained ready approval to place an ASIS spy in the Middle East to find out once and for all what was going on.

The Anglo intelligence club could hardly be expected, the Minister said, to tailor its activities to Australia’s distinctive requirements. Johnson identified strongly with this line of thinking and looked forward to translating it into tangible results.

By coincidence, a German report from a source in an extremist Palestinian faction, came Canberra’s way at the same time. It outlined a vague plan to target leaders of pro-Israeli governments around the world. The Australian Prime Minister was among those listed for assassination. This had frightened the Government, even though the British had quickly discounted the information as ‘speculative and in no way an indication of a decision by that group to act’. It had been enough though, to prompt Canberra to refrain from outspoken declarations of support for Israel and to revert to an earlier, even-handed policy of advocating Palestinian self-determination by peaceful means.

It was typical of the Minister, who bore no great love for his country’s intelligence apparatus, to devise this course of action without first consulting the Service. To the ASIS chief, it seemed like a new and exciting mission for his small band of spies. Here was a new operational area to exploit, as well as an opportunity to display to the Government and the bureaucracy the capacity of the Service to respond. It was too good a chance to miss, and if all went well it might stop the Minister’s taunts about ASIS having no nerve. He had therefore gladly accepted the formal request to put a spy in place as soon as possible. Cairo was settled upon as the logical regional base.

Johnson looked forward to the posting. It would give him far more freedom than he had had in his other two stints overseas.

‘Do whatever you can,’ the chief and the Minister had told him in a meeting before he left, ‘to pull in worthwhile intelligence. Go for a king hit if you can - we’ll back you all the way. Stay close to the Brits and Americans and show them how useful we can be outside our traditional bailiwick.’

To Johnson, this was virtually an operational carte blanche – what he had always wanted. ASIS management often left much to be desired and some mid-level officers felt hamstrung by its timidity and aversion to risk. They yearned for a charter like the one Johnson now had that would get the monkey off their backs. This freedom brought with it an extra benefit.

The challenges it involved would help fill the vacuum left by his recent split with Liz. His former partner had come to dislike his work and the demands that it made upon him, claiming he was always lost in ‘a world of his own’. Ben missed little Jim, Liz’s son to whom he had become a father, agonising over her refusal to allow him to contact the boy.

Meg returned with two mugs of coffee. After Johnson ran through the meeting with Trenchard, she took him back over the time since her arrival. She described the dozen-odd Australian staff members who worked in the political section, in trade and immigration and other areas, and the similar number of locally engaged Egyptians working with them. All got on fairly well, with humour more common than friction.

Guess what the Aussie staff call Trenchard? she asked in a mischievous tone.

Johnson shook his head.

His Grace!

Oh, really? Where did that come from?

I’m surprised someone in Canberra hasn’t told you. He’s very religious, you know.

No, no one mentioned that.

Well, he’s a devout Catholic. Apparently, his brother’s prominent in church affairs in Melbourne and runs an aid organization there. They donate medicines and equipment to overseas groups that look after the handicapped. Trenchard acts as a facilitator for them here. He’s mixed up with a couple of charities in Cairo and one up in Alexandria. It’s a wonder he didn’t tell you about it himself.

Nup, not a word. So much for being an intelligence officer if I can’t pick up things like that!

Don’t worry, Ben. You’ll improve with practice. Anyway, religion’s obviously a big part of his life, though his wife and kids don’t seem to loom very large. For whatever reason, they’ve decided not to join him here.

Devout, eh? Johnson said, rubbing his chin as he pondered this dimension of Trenchard’s character.

Meg knew what he was thinking. Would the ambassador’s humanist streak make him moralistic and hence less supportive of the ASIS station? However things panned out, they had to rely on Trenchard and Willoughby for their cover, that one thin fabric of disguise. In this part of the world it meant the difference between safe operations and possible death.

Something else they should have warned you about him, Meg said, is that he’s clearly bi-polar. I’ve been watching his behaviour closely in the time I’ve been here and I suspect he sits in an awkward spot on the autism spectrum. I don’t think it’s Asperger’s Sydnrome but it might be something similar.

Johnson was left nodding, not just because he accepted her judgement but more in contemplation of what he had to contend with in the ambassador.

A can of worms, he muttered, thinking aloud.

You could say that, Meg responded, raising her eyebrows. He’s a real firecracker, this one.

Chapter 3

Thursday, October 5, 1989

Johnson’s day so far had been sobering. He was mulling over it now as he waited for Mahamat to join him. Have I bitten off more than I can chew, he was thinking. No, that’s not the case. Give it time. For Johnson, it was a new experience being parachuted into a culture he knew little about and being expected to hit the ground running.

He was sitting on a stool in the sumptuous Arabian Bar of the Marriott Hotel, an exquisitely restored palace. The only other guests in the place were a few Saudi businessmen. Free of their flowing white robes and casually dressed, they were huddled around a table off in one corner. Fans suspended from the ornate ceiling sent draughts of cool air down, spreading the aroma of their cigars.

Earlier, Johnson and his friend had had dinner in the hotel’s coffee shop and then headed for the bar to discuss how they might cooperate on the work front, if only informally. It was Mahamat who had offered to do this, before Johnson ventured to ask. For an intelligence officer this was like gold, especially with the contacts Mahamat had. Even now he was chatting to one of them, a senior Egyptian official, whom he had seen in the lobby on the way to the bar. Johnson had excused himself and come on ahead to order cold beers. They had a lot of catching up to do and over the meal had only covered the changes in their personal lives since they last met.

During the afternoon, Johnson had paid a quick courtesy call on an MI6 colleague in the British Embassy, who had delivered to him a clear warning. If his diplomatic cover were to be blown, Egyptian Intelligence would never believe that ASIS had a legitimate reason for placing a spy in this part of the world. In light of the Australian Government’s pro-Israeli stance, Johnson would only ever be seen as a front-man for Mossad. And it was Mossad’s concerted attempt to penetrate key parts of the Egyptian system that Cairo was determined to block. They remembered only too well the destruction of their Air Force in 1967 in the first Middle East War, and then their ignominious defeat in the Yom Kippur War in 1973, with targets pinpointed by Israeli intelligence.

If Johnson were caught, he could assume that radical elements in the EIS would ensure he was subjected to brutal interrogation. It had happened to a number of Western counterparts in the region before. No diplomatic niceties would be observed. He would simply disappear off the street and never be heard of again. Not for him any fear of American wrath, which the loss of a CIA operative could inspire, though that was by no means a given. This small Australian fish would be free to be fried.

Johnson pondered this as Mahamat strode into the bar. The pair got straight down to business, with the Thai at ease using his native language.

So, what’s your boss going to have you working on? he asked.

Hard to say at the moment, Mat. He seems to be one of those types that are always preoccupied with something, so it may take days to get his attention and focus on what role he wants me to play. But he knows that I’m interested in things strategic, like Ghaddafi and what he’s up to next door. I’m told that the Embassy’s only doing patchy reporting on that at the moment.

In reality, this had been Johnson’s suggestion to Foreign Affairs in Canberra for one of his cover duties, to which no one had objected.

A conspiratorial smile swept over Mahamat’s face.

We can certainly compare notes on that, he said. Part of my standing brief from Bangkok is to exploit my access to the full in this advisory job. I’m supposed to ‘explore and involve myself’ in industrial developments across the Middle East, including whatever the Egyptians know about Libya. My firm is trying to land a deal with Ghaddafi to build a petrochemical plant, plus there are other Thai construction companies angling to get in on large-scale projects..

OK, let’s chalk that one up as our first priority.

I know the diplomatic game’s your world, Ben, but from what I’ve seen so far, if you can keep your ambassador happy with valuable snippets to send back regularly, he’ll stay out of your hair. That, plus a cut on any big deal I help get off the ground, which he can claim to have been instrumental in winning.

Mahamat grinned, then turned to the waiter, who was listening to his singsong way of speaking Thai. He ordered another bowl of chips.

I’m afraid my boss is nowhere near as straightforward as that, Johnson said. He’s pretty religious and sees things in a different way, so I don’t quite know what I’m up against with him yet.

OK, but at least you belong, Ben. You’re on the inside. You’re from your ambassador’s own department, so he has to accept you. I’m not. I’m just a blow-in. I’m only in the Embassy because the ambassador urged Bangkok not to put me on a direct secondment to the Ministry here. It’s all part of a power play he’s engaged in to build up his personal empire. In effect, it leaves me stranded halfway. On the one hand, he doesn’t regard me as a fully-fledged diplomat like you, yet on the other, he’s determined to keep me on a short leash. It’s not easy.

Johnson felt the irony of this. Betwixt and between, eh? he said, emptying his beer.

Mahamat smiled, Couldn’t put it better myself.

He never missed a chance to compliment Johnson on his knowledge of colloquial Thai phrases.

You know, the closer we stick together here, Ben, the more chance we’ll have of surviving.

I agree, Johnson said, putting his hand out to shake on it.

They chatted for a while about Iraq’s dispute with its neighbours over oil quotas and Baghdad’s claim that Kuwait was drilling into its wells. Saddam Hussein was making a big issue of that.

Anything you pick up on Iraq or Iran or the Gulf States, Mat, would be important for me. I need to show my ambassador that I can handle the strategic overview for him. After all, that’s where his dispatches earn him the biggest credits in Canberra.

I’ve got the picture. Give me a few days to get my visitor from Bangkok out of my hair and I’ll invite you home for a meal. My wife and kids are looking forward to seeing you, plus by then I’ll have thought of a few interesting people to introduce you to.

I’ll be in that, Johnson said.

He valued Mahamat’s offer because it would give him something to cling to in the event that he was exposed as a spy. At least there would be logic in his assertion that he’d been placed in Cairo by ASIS to trawl for Asian ‘third country’ targets. As a Thai working for a major government corporation, Mahamat would fit the bill perfectly.