Читать книгу The Fifth Season - Kerry B Collison - Страница 10

East Java – December, 1997

Lily Suryajaya

As custom required, Lily worked together with the older women in silence, their grief not evident as they washed the bodies in preparation for the funeral. Tears would flow later, when their work was done; when their minister and his wife had been laid to rest in the sacred ground within sight of the fire-gutted church.

Other non-Christian townspeople had demonstrated their deep-rooted apathy, electing to ignore the significance of the attack, silently pleased that the Chinese community had been punished for their apparent greed and commercial successes. Overwhelmingly, it seemed, even Christians not of Chinese extraction had elected not to attend their churches. They all now lived in a world filled with fear.

The church’s destruction had been the twelfth in a series of mysterious events which had, until the evening before, not claimed casualties. With the death of the two whose bodies now lay before them, these provincial Chinese had legitimate reasons to become even more deeply concerned with the escalation in violence, which they believed to be part of some concentrated campaign to further intimidate their race. Although there was no evidence to support the wide-spread rumors, the Christian community feared that the provocation had been initiated by Moslem elements, and that the orders had come from those in Jakarta who wished to create civil unrest to support their own secret agendas.

Whispered innuendo suggesting that men sporting typically military style haircuts had been seen at several of the churches before these were torched, had added to their fear. Such rumors were of great concern to the Chinese who suspected what this might mean to them, as it was common knowledge that the Indonesian army had often been deployed in the past, when the need arose to terrorize specific ethnic groups, for political gain.

But the Chinese were confused as to why suddenly churches had become the target of marauding bands of arsonists. Could it be, they asked each other, that the attacks were really the responsibility of militant Moslem groups?

After all, the Chinese communities only accounted for a small percentage of the Christian population. Surely, then, some argued, it was not the Chinese who were being specifically targeted, but Christians in general?

Although graffiti found at the scene of each desecration indicated that this sectarian violence had been instigated by Moslem raiders, the Christian communities questioned these attempts to fuel existing animosities between the rival groups. Bewildered by the escalating violence, the general consensus grew to support the belief that Jakarta elements were behind the civil unrest in the area. And now these subversive actions had resulted in the loss of the minister and his wife to the small Christian community.

* * * *

When the alarm was first given signaling that the Church and its adjoining accommodations were burning, not one from the congregation went to the scene, fearing that the gang responsible might still be present, and would confront any foolish enough to intervene. Besides, they had justified, those inside would surely have already fled to safety.

It was not until the following morning that evidence of the evening’s horrors became evident to all. The minister and his wife had perished, their remains found clutched together in scorched embrace. Too terrified to leave their premises, they had been overwhelmed by the heat and smoke and died. Their partly-charred bodies had been discovered amongst the smoldering ruins and taken to the rear section of the Apotik, the local, Chinese-owned pharmacy, until the authorities would agree to their burial. There, a number of local female parishioners had gathered, to prepare the bodies for burial.

Lily’s mother had been amongst the volunteers, and had insisted that her daughter accompany the women whilst they carried out their traditional preparations. The corpses were washed and cleaned where practical, injected and painted with formaldehyde, then dressed in cloth. When Lily first entered the chemist’s storage room she avoided looking at the bodies. The acrid smell of chemicals assailed her nostrils, but she resisted the temptation to flee. As the minutes dragged by, her stomach settled and Lily reluctantly went about assisting her mother, surprised with herself that she had found the strength to remain. Within the hour, the experienced women had managed to complete their tasks and stood by the corpses, admiring the results of their labors.

Lily wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist and, glancing across the room at her mother, she sighed. Lily desperately wished that her parents would now leave this hostile environment and travel with her to Jakarta, where she lived with her uncle while preparing for university.

Sadly, she realized, they would not leave their community, unwelcome as they might be. Generations of their family had lived in East Java since fleeing China more than two hundred years before and had developed strong ancestral ties with their new land.

* * * *

Originally, Lily’s family name was Ong. They had been obliged to adopt an Indonesian name as part of the assimilation process required by the New Order regime, which had come to power in 1966. Although born more than ten years after the holocaust, Lily knew that some half a million people had died during the two years following the abortive coup. She also knew that her race had been cruelly targeted by the indigenous people, who accused the ethnic Chinese of involvement in the communists’ attempt to take control of the government.

Vicious rumors had spread claiming that her people were responsible, at least in part, for the kidnap, mutilation and murder of the nation’s leading generals. The resulting cleansing campaign spread through the archipelago, striking fear in the hearts of all who were of Chinese extraction. Eventually, once the new President had been firmly ensconced at the nation’s helm and the blood-letting ceased, many of the Chinese who had fled the horrors of the Sixties returned, bringing with them capital the new government so desperately needed.

Lily accepted that the Chinese had prospered under the New Order and, softened by time, there were occasions when stories relating to events of more than thirty years ago often seemed exaggerated; almost fabrications. Having moved from the rural community to the exciting, sprawling metropolis of Jakarta to further her studies, she could see no evidence anywhere to support such stories. There, she discovered, the Chinese were influential, and extremely successful. She was delighted to learn that even the First Family had developed close ties with her race, and Lily, as did her peers, believed that this relationship virtually guaranteed all Indonesian Chinese their ongoing safety.

In Jakarta, Lily discovered that racial discrimination, although evident, was generally ignored due to the realities of commerce, and she had eagerly assimilated to the exciting conditions, captivated by city life and the metropolis’ amazing entertainment facilities. Pleased to have left her provincial surrounds of Situbondo, and the growing ethnic tensions now prevalent throughout the countryside, she undertook to work diligently, hoping, that upon graduation, her uncle would provide the opportunity for her to remain in the capital.

Now, she regretted having returned home for the Christmas holidays.

Memories of her childhood and school, when she had been subjected to fear and humiliation at the hands of discriminatory groups came flooding back the moment she had stepped down from the train. On those all too frequent occasions, she would return home from school, her face wet with evidence of tears. It had been difficult and demeaning to follow her mother’s advice, to ignore the insults. Lily found it impossible for the hurtful racial slurs and intimidating language so often encountered in this small, isolated community in East Java, not to leave some scars.

For Lily, shocked by the minister’s death, the evidence before her only reaffirmed her belief that racial hatred for the Chinese was more than a passing phenomenon. This perilous culture of envy had spread over the centuries, its origins dating back in Indonesian history to a time when her people had been given special status over the indigenous by the Colonial Dutch. Now, that legacy had all but disappeared, displaced by deep-rooted tribal animosities which lurked dangerously close to the Indonesian society’s fragile surface. It would seem, she felt disconsolately, that contrary to what the nation’s leaders would have the international community believe, there was, in fact, no unity in diversity; at least, not in this nation of more than three hundred ethnic groups, each clamoring for recognition and autonomy from the Javanese.

* * * *

Lily glanced over once again at her mother and smiled weakly, wishing she could escape the demanding duties and stuffy conditions. Since word of the carnage had swept through the small country town, not one Chinese family dared venture more than a few steps from their homes, most of which were situated above the endless rows of shops they controlled. Even the iron-barred windows had been locked firmly shut and, for a fleeting moment, Lily feared that she might faint, struggling to control her rising fear in the hot, humid, suffocating atmosphere where the bodies now lay together, awaiting burial.

‘Lily, go outside and get some air,’ her mother demanded, and she did so, not wishing to spend any more time in the room than was necessary.

The smell of formaldehyde had permeated the room, her clothes and hair, causing her discomfort.

‘I won’t be long, mother,’ she replied, thankfully, then smiled weakly before escaping the smell of death which she knew, would require time to wash from her memory.

Once outside Lily squatted on the footpath, bent her head forward, and drew long, deep breaths filling her lungs until the giddying effects threatened to exacerbate her nausea. Slowly, with one hand against the concrete wall to secure her balance, she rose to her feet and remained still for some minutes until assured that the panic attack had passed. At that moment, a truck rumbled past, the driver blowing the horn unnecessarily just as the vehicle reached the point where Lily stood recovering her composure, choking in the wake amidst billowing clouds of dust.

Her pale face in no way reflected the anger she felt inside, not just towards the inconsiderate driver, but also with having to live in constant fear simply because she and her family were of Chinese extraction. Lily had wanted to wave her fist angrily, but instead, had merely wiped her face with her hands. Remembering, suddenly, where these had been, she struggled to prevent the flow of tears which threatened and quickly wiped her face again, this time with the back of her arms.

Lily Suryajaya peered down through the provincial backwater’s commercial district. The pot-holed, dusty street, lined on both sides with aging two-story multi-purpose shops and dwellings, caused her to sigh. She counted the number of days remaining before she would return to Jakarta, wondering if she could last. She was anxious to leave, and this impatience was further fueled by the knowledge that her uncle there planned to move into new accommodations within the following weeks, where they would all enjoy access to the condominium’s private facilities. For Lily, this meant time in the swimming pool. She tried to remember when she had last been swimming, and was surprised to discover that it had been more than three years.

Depressed by her surrounds and too frightened to walk down the street alone, Lily remained sitting outside the chemist’s shop, and passed the time contemplating her future. She prayed that her education would provide the means for her to escape her humble origins, and find permanent employment away from the angst and racial discrimination evident in the provinces.

Sitting alone on the footpath she suddenly became anxious and decided that it would be best she return to her parent’s shop further down the street. Although reasonably confident that she would be safe to walk the distance alone, considering events of the past days, Lily decided not to take the risk. Reluctantly, she took one, long, last breath of fresh air and strolled back inside to see if her mother had finished and would accompany her home.

Within the hour Lily stood scrubbing her hands and body until the pale skin turned red under the fierce attention. Satisfied that nothing remained from that morning’s visit to assist in attending to the dead, she wrapped herself in a cotton towel, then wearily climbed the steep, concrete stairway to her cramped quarters. There Lily locked herself inside the window-less room and lay down, miserable with the knowledge that it would still be some time before her brief holiday was over, when she could flee these surrounds and return to the dream city of Jakarta.

* * * *

West Java

Hani Purwadira

‘Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar,’ Hani cocked her head, waiting for the third call, ‘God is Great!’ to follow. Without checking, she knew what the time would be, as one could set one’s watch to the ritualistic summons to attend prayers. She finished washing her face and hands, then went to the privacy of her bedroom to pray. She covered her head with a lightweight mukenah, permitting the cloth to fall gently over her shoulders. Hani then unfolded the colorful prayer rug, placed this on the floor, and knelt as she had been taught as a child.

Hani could hear her younger sister, Reni, in the adjacent room, and had no doubt that their mother would already be on bent knees in her own chamber. She expected that her younger brother would have accompanied their father to the Mosque, a privilege enjoyed only by males. That women were not permitted to attend the Mesjid in no way bothered Hani, having been immersed in Moslem tradition since birth. In what was still basically a polygamous society, women were relegated to a lesser position by virtue of their faith and a culture which resisted social reform at the village level.

Fortunately, President Suhapto’s doting wife had persuaded her husband to discourage government officials from their polygamous ways, the reason, Hani believed, her father had not been successfully seduced by the many offers she expected he would have received.

The Palace’s unofficial instruction had not, however, dissuaded the lower classes from continuing with the practice of filling their allocation of up to four wives, the relatively uncomplicated procedure for divorce, permitting even more. In villages across the nation, girls often produced their first child before reaching fourteen, in many cases becoming grandmothers before the age of thirty. In a country where life expectancy had climbed to above fifty years only the decade before, Hani knew that early marriage, and propagation, were encouraged. It made sense to her; the children would provide for their parents, and grandparents, once the elderly became too old to fend for themselves.

Hani’s family was well insulated from many of the daily problems which so dominated the lives of others within their community. Her father’s star had commenced its ascent, and his family now enjoyed the benefits of his position as senior police commander in the mountain city of Sukabumi. Colonel Purwadira had held this post for nigh on three years, quietly accumulating wealth and power, his wife and children clear beneficiaries of his success.

Hani’s mother had become actively involved with the local women’s association, much of her time engaged in raising funds for charities which, unfortunately, received but a fraction of the donations extracted from the wealthy, Chinese donors. The Purwadira family were respected citizens, the children’s futures guaranteed. Ibu Purwadira had recently acquired a new Honda Accord and, although she could not drive, she managed to spend a great deal of her time in her prized possession, driven around by one of her husband’s soldiers. Life had become kind to the Purwadira family and it appeared that it might even get better.

The Indonesian economy had grown at an incredible speed, and although some said it may be slowing down, middle-class Indonesians’ pockets were still full. Local shops were crowded to capacity, shop-win-dows displayed the finest clothes, parabolic satellite dishes covered the already congested rooftops, and most homes now boasted video-recorders, refrigerators and, in some, even washing machines. It seemed that it would go on forever.

As school was taught from Monday to Saturday, Hani looked forward to her one day off from study. Usually, after their morning prayers, her mother would permit the children to go to the movies with friends, or attend the Sunday soccer matches but, on this day, she had insisted they remain at home to honor their father’s wishes. He had something he wanted to discuss. Hani knew this had to be important; the other occasions he had insisted they gather in such fashion had always resulted in announcements relating to his career. Having completed her prayers, Hani gathered her rug, removed her shawl, and placed these neatly away before wandering out to stand on their three-bedroom home’s porch.

While waiting for her father to return from the Mosque with her brother, Hani lowered herself cautiously into the hanging rattan chair, bolted to the ceiling by the servants, just days before. That day, she had tried the swinging seat within minutes of arriving home from school but, to her dismay, had lost her balance and spilled onto the hard, concrete paving under the watchful eyes of her friend, Budi. Recalling the incident, Hani’s hand went to one elbow, finding the crusty wound with her fingers.

She had been annoyed with her friend, fighting back tears as he helped her regain her feet, but Hani knew she could not remain angry with Budi for very long, except for that one time, when he brought a Chinese girl along to a mutual friend’s party.

Hani had avoided Budi for an entire week after that, not understanding how he could even consider doing such a thing. The girl looked gangly and wore no makeup, her hair was far too long and, in Hani’s opinion, she displayed very little breeding, flashing those gold bangles for everyone to see! Although a number of ethnic Chinese attended her high school, most kept to themselves. Not that this bothered Hani in any way as they had so little in common. She had overheard many of her parents’ conversations through the years, learning from their convictions, and adopting their distaste for their fellow citizens. She knew that her father often met with the local Chinese business community. What Hani did not know, was that most of the fine ornaments, and other expensive acquisitions which lay around their house, had been gifts from those soliciting the colonel’s favors. Even her mother’s Honda Accord had derived from her husband’s commissions, received from grateful Chinese traders for the police supply contract he had channeled their way.

As she waited for her father to return, a group of teenagers rolled past on their bicycles and waved, amongst them, Budi. He called out but his voice was drowned by a passing bus, and she watched as he pedaled away.

They had been friends since early childhood, but Hani had noticed that their relationship had taken a shift recently, and she was unsure of what to do. She liked Budi, but only as a friend. Along with others in their age group, Hani would often play badminton on Sundays once they had returned from the movies, or gather back home under her mother’s watchful eyes to listen to music, or catch a programme on TV. Hani had never been on a date, alone. At least, not with Budi.

Many of her friends were planning on marrying that year, having completed high school. Hani thought that was a wonderful idea, wishing she too could meet someone and fall in love, now she had so little else to do.

Sukabumi was not the most exciting place to live, but she had roots there, and wanted to have her own home and family, just like her friends. She often fantasized about being married to one of the tall officers she often saw in her father’s company. A thought crossed her mind and Hani giggled privately, imagining herself with child, her oversized stomach held between her hands for support, as she had so often seen pregnant women do when approaching term.

A horn sounded, signaling her father’s return, and Hani climbed out of the rattan seat to greet him.

‘Hi papa,’ ignoring her brother, she moved to the colonel’s side, waiting for the customary squeeze.

‘Hello, my sweet,’ he said, placing his arm around Hani’s waist, ‘Are your mother and sister inside?’

‘Waiting for you to return, papa,’ she answered, stepping in front of her brother to block his way. His hand shot out to pinch Hani’s arm, but she pulled away, just in time, poking her tongue as she did so.

‘Come on, then, I have something to tell you all,’ with which, they all filed inside, where they were joined by her mother and sister. Once they were all settled comfortably around the family dining table, the colonel made his announcement.

‘How would you like to live in Jakarta?’ he asked, his face breaking into a wide smile.

‘Jakarta?’ they shouted, in unison. Could it really be possible?

‘You received the promotion?’ Ibu Purwadira’s face was just as surprised.

Although she had been given advance warning of the pending decision, she had not dared hope that it would come true.

‘Yes, it was confirmed by General Sutjipto this morning. He rang from Jakarta.’

‘You’ve known since this morning?’ his wife asked, too overcome with excitement to be annoyed.

‘Yes,’ the colonel replied, his eyes dancing mischievously. ‘ I wanted to be sure that you would all be awake.’ Hani pouted, knowing this not to be true.

She watched her mother smile lovingly at her father, all present aware that the colonel would first have given thanks at the mosque, before discussing his appointment with the family. Her mother then reached across the table and pinched her father’s arm affectionately.

‘When?’ she asked, and Hani became even more attentive.

‘Next week,’ the colonel advised. ‘ They want me there before the fasting starts, and I agreed.’

‘Ramadan in the capital? Wonderful!’

‘Will we return to Sukabumi for the holidays?’ Hani was concerned that she would miss the celebrations with her friends. These followed the demanding month-long fast, and were the highlight of the Moslem calendar.

‘No, Hani, we will have many obligations to consider in Jakarta. Also, you will all have new friends to make, and your studies to prepare for.’

‘Studies?’ Hani looked at her father, confused.

‘Yes, Hani. You will now be required to attend university.’ This announcement surprised her even more. ‘And there will be no argument,’ he added, confident that she would obey, ‘after all, a general’s children should have the best education.’ For a moment there was silence as the import of what had been said, hung in the air. Ibu Purwadira’s eyes filled with tears, and she rose and moved around the table to embrace her husband. Her dream had come true! He had been promoted in rank, and would become the new Jakarta Garrison Police Commander. The three teenagers broke into excited chatter, overwhelmed with their father’s wonderful news.

That night, Hani lay quietly conjuring up in her mind, visions of things to come. She would attend a fine university and have even finer clothes than those now hanging in her cupboards. She would be given her own car, and who knows, she might even find the right suitor to marry, in time.

With her head resting comfortably against the soft, feather pillow, Hani fell into a deep, restful sleep, her last thoughts centering on the promise of things to come, in the national capital, Jakarta.

* * * *

East Jakarta - Cijantung

Kopassus (Special Forces) Command HQ

General Praboyo

Major General Praboyo raised the baton, touching his beret in arrogant style as the command vehicle swept past his father-in-law’s home on Jalan Cend-ana, the Presidential Guard already at attention for this morning ritual.

His driver slowed measurably, maneuvered the vehicle around the barbed-wire blockade and around the two armed personnel carriers, before accelerating away through the elite suburb of Menteng, Jakarta’s central residential district. The traffic was typically slow. Praboyo used the time to prepare for the morning’s scheduled appointments, ignoring the city’s undisciplined drivers as they angrily flashed headlights, braked unnecessarily and constantly blew their horns contributing to the early morning cacophony and suffocating pollution.

The general glanced at his wrist, and decided that he would not be late for his first appointment. The gold Piaget watch, a gift from his wife to celebrate his forty-sixth birthday, caused him to smile as he was reminded of the gift his mistress had also pleasured him with just a few hours later.

Praboyo made a mental note to ring the beautiful Menadonese girl later in the day and arrange a quick visit to the home he provided in Tebet Village.

His thoughts then turned to Colonel Carruthers, and the American’s terse call the day before insisting they meet. Praboyo had been concerned with the officer’s tone, conscious that Carruthers was one ally he could not afford to lose, particularly at this point in his career. The United States had been particularly supportive, and although he recognized that the origins of their relationship related directly to his marital situation, nevertheless Praboyo believed that he was deserving of the accelerated promotions he had enjoyed since marrying the President’s daughter. After all, he mused, had he not acquitted himself admirably in a number of campaigns, such as in East Timor?

Praboyo recalled his first exposure to the Americans’ involvement in training the Special Forces anti-terrorist squads, and how their ongoing relationship with the Indonesian military had survived the purge which followed President Suhapto’s successful 1966 coup d’etat. Although still in high school at the time, he had already decided to enter ABRI, the Indonesian Armed Forces, once he had graduated, and make the army his career. He had first become interested in Kopassus when it was still known as Kopassandha, the Covert Warfare Forces Command, and boasted three battalion-sized para-commando units and a support battalion specializing in covert warfare.

It was obvious to the young officer, even then, that the Special Forces enjoyed privileges not afforded to others, and he had decided to work towards achieving a position within the well-funded command. When the United States covertly organized the formation of Detachment 81, an anti-terrorist unit comprising some 350 highly trained soldiers, Praboyo was overjoyed to be posted to this Kopassus unit. Just two years later, his team was flown to Bangkok when an Indonesian domestic flight had been hijacked from Sumatra, and flown to Thailand. In the resulting confrontation, they killed all but one of the hijackers, several of the airline crew, and left a trail of blood across the international airport’s tarmac that still sent chills through officialdom, whenever the mission was mentioned.

Praboyo was most proud of his achievements during the East Timor campaign. When the former Portuguese colony was invaded on 7th December, 1975, the Special Forces were the first troops to enter Dili where they systematically annihilated most forms of resistance. Throughout the following two years, his teams were sent also into North Sumatra in operations against the Aceh Liberation Movement, utilizing the very tactics rehearsed under the watchful eyes of their American instructors during their training programs in the United States. General Praboyo appreciated the significance of that training, and the necessity for the alliance.

Ambitious to the core, he used the capture of the East Timorese Resistance leader, Xanana Gusmao, to further ingratiate himself with the Palace. Praboyo clearly understood the power he had acquired as Commander, Special Forces, and the assumption that his star would continue its accelerated ascent due to his father-in-law’s sponsorship. Although his status within military circles still necessitated frequent displays of humility, he had little doubt that his future included the strong possibility that he just might succeed the President, once he had been appointed Chief of the Armed Forces.

Even a near miss with a speeding cement truck failed to ruffle the young general on this day. Foremost on his mind was not the imminent meeting with the American officer, but the success his assassination teams had recently achieved in East Java; missions he had personally planned and directed. Praboyo cared not that responsibility for the destruction of these churches would be laid at the feet of Moslem extremists. That was part of his strategy. Now, he believed, it was time to cease the attacks and demonstrate once again how effectively he could control such outbreaks of violence and insurrection in the provinces.

He would be applauded by all. His allegiance with the powerful Mufti Muharam would be strengthened by preventing these baffling attacks, which had so inflamed anti-Moslem sentiment, and the Chinese would admire him, for having interceded on their behalf. He could not lose.

The general recognized the familiar sign as they turned onto the Cili-tan-Bogor arterial road. He examined his beret as they continued down through the Pasar Rebo intersection and turned right, arriving at the Special Forces Command Headquarters only minutes before his first visitor was expected. Praboyo barely had time to be briefed by his adjutant when the American Attaché’s arrival was announced. Colonel Carruthers was immediately ushered into Praboyo’s office.

‘General,’ the American saluted, then extended his hand. The Kopassus commander returned the salute, almost idly, then accepted Carruthers’ firm handshake as he examined the foreigner’s four rows of campaign ribbons, arranged in orderly rows above the man’s left breast pocket. Praboyo knew from earlier conversations that his visitor had served two tours in Vietnam, and wondered if this soldier had actually killed any enemy in combat, as he had during anti-guerrilla sweeps.

‘Jean sends her regards, and this small gift for Tuti.’ Carruthers spoke in Bahasa Indonesia, placing the delicately wrapped box of mints on the teak table. His secretary had organized the present as his wife Jean despised everything about this country, and would never have considered sending a gift to one of the Indonesian wives whom she found distasteful at the best of times, or at least stated so, in her correspondence to friends and relatives back in the States.

In reality, the Attaché’s wife was unable to compete with the obvious wealth the Indonesian officers’ wives flaunted, and was irked by their natural beauty, convinced that her husband would have no hesitation leaping into bed with any of these attractive women, should the opportunity arise.

‘Please thank your wife, Colonel. Has she recovered from her recent illness?’

Praboyo asked innocently. The woman had feigned ill health to avoid attending a function organized by ABRI wives, and was sighted the following morning by one of the Indonesian ladies, playing tennis at the Embassy compound.

‘She’s fine, thank you, General, just fine,’ Carruthers answered, then wishing he had left the damn chocolates behind.

‘Good,’ he said, ‘then I hope she remains so, and that we might soon see her at one of our Indonesian ladies gatherings.’ The American nodded, crossed his legs, and moved the conversation to the reason for his visit.

‘Speaking frankly, General, ’ he began, having rehearsed what he needed to relay to this influential officer, ‘the DIA is quite concerned with what is happening in East Java.’ For a moment, the commander expected his guest to continue, and elaborate. But when he remained silent Praboyo too decided to play this evasive game.

‘East Java?’ he asked, knowing full well what was on the American’s mind.

‘Yes, General, East Java. Washington is becoming quite agitated with these organized attacks against Christian groups and their churches. What do your intelligence sources say? Are you in a position to shed some light on what’s really happening?’

Without hesitation, anticipating that the Americans would want some sort of explanation, Praboyo offered his prepared explanation.

‘Moslem radicals,’ he lied.

‘Are you sure?’ Carruthers wanted to be convinced. He needed something concrete to take back with him, preferably evidence that the military had no involvement in the attacks. The heat had come from church lobby groups back home claiming that humanitarian agencies had reported sightings of soldiers participating in the violence. The Defence Aid agreements between the two countries would come under scrutiny again, and the Pentagon didn’t need any more pressure from civil liberty groups, nor could the senior brass afford discovery of the covert training provided to the Indonesian Special Forces. ‘Have the police been able to come up with anything yet?’

‘No, but we caught two,’ Praboyo lied again. The American raised his eyebrows in surprise.

‘And?’ he waited, observing the Indonesian for any sign which might give the man away, but there was nothing.

‘They were taken to Serang and interrogated at 12 Battalion headquarters. They didn’t have a great deal to reveal, just that they were part of a local group of dissident Moslems youths who felt that the churches in their area had encroached on what has been traditionally Moslem communities.’

Carruthers was aware that the Indonesian Government did not permit the churches to expand their congregations by attracting converts. The story was believable, and basically what he had expected to hear.

‘Any chance that we might have an opportunity to interview these two?’ he asked, expecting that this would be unlikely. General Praboyo smiled, and shook his head.

‘A D18 team conducted the interrogation.’ He paused, then crossed his arms, a gesture he would have found insulting in others. ‘Apparently, the team was a little over enthusiastic.’

‘They’re dead? ’ The Colonel queried, with incredulous surprise.

‘Yes,’ he replied, chuffed that he had handled the matter so easily . ‘We have had the local military commanders call on the Moslem religious leaders, the ulamas. All have given an undertaking that they will endeavor to prevent any further violence against the minority communities.’

Carruthers knew then it would be futile pursuing the matter unless further incidents occurred. He seemed satisfied, then steered the conversation towards other matters relating to the U.S. Defence Aid programs responsible for funding the ongoing training of Kopassus soldiers in the United States.

They remained in conference for another hour, after which the Defense Intelligence Agency Attaché returned to the United States Embassy where his written recommendations concerning General Praboyo were encoded, and electronically mailed to his Director in Washington. For the moment, the Indonesian President’s ambitious son-in-law would remain safe.