Читать книгу The Fifth Season - Kerry B Collison - Страница 12

Jakarta

Hamish McLoughlin

Hamish checked his watch impatiently, wondering where the hell his friend Harry Goldstein, had disappeared to. He caught the bartender’s eye, nodded, signaling for another whisky, then turned to observe the other guests sitting in the magnificently appointed bar. Located on the fourth level, O’Reiley’s Pub was patronized by Jakarta-based expatriates and locals who enjoyed the lively evening atmosphere.

He grimaced as the band’s sound check got under way, noting that less than an hour remained before the American band commenced playing. Then, he remembered, conversation would become impossible. He glanced over at the giant screen which was so popular with the lunch trade, as regulars filled the pub to catch the live CNN news and sports broadcasts. As he waited, Hamish McLoughlin observed how quickly O’Reiley’s had filled, single guests occupying most of the seats around the island-shaped bar.

The financier sighed. There was a time when one could have recognized most of their faces. Numerous waves of foreign investors inundating Indonesian cities had established pockets of Western communities across the expansive country, and it was now possible to meet other foreigners for the first time who had lived in-country for years without having once crossed paths. The booming resources and energy sectors had attracted multi-nationals, and Indonesia’s rapidly growing consumer market continued to escalate, or had, until the local currency suddenly came under pressure.

* * * *

Hamish McLoughlin was completely au fait with how precarious the monetary system had become. It had been his business to understand the mechanics of money, and how funds flowed, for more than twenty years.

Having graduated with honors from Cambridge University in England, Hamish was recruited by Morgan & Morgan as part of their British team.

Encouraged to continue his studies whilst in their employ, he forwent the many leisure opportunities and relationships which came his way, dedicating his time instead to furthering his career. Four demanding years passed and, armed with his Masters in Business Administration, Hamish McLoughlin was delighted to accept a newly created position with the international fund management group, as their Hong Kong based representative.

It was there, during his three years dealing with the financial wizards of Asia that the relatively young financier attracted the attention of the International Monetary Fund. Two years later he moved to Washington where he consolidated his position and reputation, amongst some of the world’s most powerful financiers as a skillful negotiator and lateral thinker.

It was during this time that he had met and married, the daughter of a prominent Boston banker. Unfortunately, his expertise could in no way have prepared him for the bitterness which would then occupy his life.

Eight months into their marriage, during one of Washington’s typically bleak winter mornings, black ice sent his inexperienced wife’s car skidding sideways through an intersection and to her death, when her vehicle lost control. Desolated by his loss, Hamish had struggled to recover emotionally, but found this impossible surrounded by constant reminders of his brief happiness and, quite out of character, packed his clothes one morning and left his world behind.

Eighteen months flashed by quickly. He started in Mexico, consuming excessive amounts of alcohol, his days spent sitting alone in dark bars, his nights lost wandering through an alcoholic mist. He continued in drunken stupor, often awakening in accommodations with no recollection of where he might be. Awash with tequila, he dragged himself and his self-indulgences through Panama, down to South America and through the tourist traps until copious amounts of alcohol necessitated a stint drying out in a Brazilian clinic. When he resumed his travels, Hamish found himself in Africa where again he was hospitalized with suspected alcoholic poisoning, still drowning in his own self-pity, still looking for closure over his past.

In hospital, while recovering from the abuse his liver and other vital organs had endured through two years of punishing drinking bouts, he finally accepted that he must live with his loss, recognizing that failure to come to terms with what had happened might cost him his own life. Recalling how he had enjoyed earlier years in Hong Kong, Hamish McLoughlin decided to return there and re-establish himself as a financial adviser, offering his expertise to the growing financial markets found amongst the emerging tigers of South East Asia. Emaciated by prolonged abuse, Hamish set about restoring his health, undertaking a rigorous fitness campaign. Slowly and painfully, his condition returned, as did much of his self-esteem. Several months passed and, satisfied that he had successfully exorcised his ghosts, Hamish flew to the British colony, and commenced the next chapter in his life.

Occupying one of the newly constructed condominium apartments perched among Hong Kong’s Mid-Levels, Hamish used his remaining funds to establish a finance consultancy, taking advantage of the British colony’s favorable corporate and taxation laws. Within two years, his company, Perentie Limited, had achieved considerable success, and the company’s reputation for writing deals already legendary.

Offered a staggering amount he believed to be grossly excessive, McLoughlin willingly relinquished control of Perentie to a group of British investors, agreeing to remain on the board only until the transition to new management had been successfully completed. At that time, Hamish resigned his position and commenced trading currencies in his own right, achieving spectacular results. It was during this period that a run on the Thai Baht triggered a series of events creating extreme panic from Bangkok to Seoul, then down to Indonesia where Perentie had overly exposed themselves. As a result of liquidity problems, Hamish’s expertise was sought by his former company’s new directors.

Perentie’s British Chairman’s bullish approach to Indonesian investments had attracted representatives from all levels of Jakarta’s business community through the company’s doors. The chief executive of the Cendrawasih Taxi company was no exception. Once it had been revealed that this organization was, in fact, a subsidiary operation belonging to Nuri Suhapto, the Indonesian President’s oldest daughter, Perentie’s directors did not hesitate. They plunged in wildly, committing two hundred million dollars to finance the proposed fleet expansion for what they expected would become, another First Family monopoly.

Press announcements revealing that the deal had been consummated brought accolades from afar, and suddenly, within capital investment markets, Perentie Limited seemed incapable of error, resulting in a flood of new capital flowing into his company’s coffers. Then, with pressure exerted on the local currency, it became apparent that Perentie might have been overly bullish in Indonesia, causing the new directors to become concerned with the extent of their investment exposure. They retained Hamish McLoughlin to visit Jakarta, and advise what steps might be taken to reduce the company’s risk.

The wavering Rupiah was not the only inducement which had encouraged the financier to visit Jakarta. He sensed the imminent chaos collapsing money markets would surely bring. Concerned with the liquidity of Cendrawasih Taxis and Perentie’s two hundred million capital, he suspected that it would not require more than a few hours to determine whether the loans had been utilized as undertaken by the company’s board or, as he suspected, a portion simply removed by the major shareholder to be squirreled away somewhere in one of her Swiss bank accounts.

* * * *

Hamish could feel the warming, comforting effects of the whisky working, now somewhat less concerned that his friend was this late. Hamish looked around the pub, observing how it had filled almost beyond capacity, as staff hurried cocktails to tables while the bartender worked furiously to fill orders. The CNN broadcast had been displaced by a band, the noise level within O’Reiley’s now reducing conversation to inaudible levels.

A group of young expatriates, obviously out for a good time laughed loudly, attracting his attention. He looked over in their direction, and was immediately stung by envy. The young men were accompanied by beautiful Indonesian girls, whose stunning features and elegance were difficult to ignore. Someone yelled out, drunkenly, turning heads in his direction as a roar of laughter followed. Hamish returned to his drink, in quiet deliberation. Then, from nowhere, there was a rain of cashew nuts as two well-dressed groups of young, foreign businessmen flung missiles at each other, as they might do back home.

For a while, there was some semblance of order as the boisterous crowd calmed down, now preoccupied with replenishing their drinks with the overly-generous serves of alcohol staff hurried to their tables. Someone else shouted from a dark corner, and this was greeted immediately by catcalls and boisterous behavior. Hamish let his eyes roam around the bar, observing the near-inebriated bunch, wishing he too could put Indonesia’s ills behind, once the office doors were closed.

Few of those present would have any real understanding of what was happening, he knew. Fewer still would care, for the life of an expatriate was, in many cases, a generous, ego-satisfying journey through what some considered to be a subservient culture, justifiably relegated to their lesser position in the economic order of things and destined, deservedly, to fail without their generous expertise. Hamish despised the general air of superciliousness, and unfounded superiority some European foreigners carried to these, and other Asian shores, alert at all times, that he too not fall into this trap.

Deep in thought, Hamish heard the chords and, recognizing the tune, turned with others to clap in approval as the talented pianist commenced his solo. He listened, his thoughts delightfully wandering as the entertainer hit his own version of the chorus:

‘..You might be one-legged Pianola Man,

But you can sure play well when your tight,

Remind us how young we all used to be,

Never scared of a challenge nor a fight.’

Immediately, the bar burst in unison, singing the only words those in attendance could remember, and Hamish, the alcohol working, could not resist joining in:

‘…Tra la la, diddee da, tra la la diddee da, La da, ……..’

By now, the bar was pumping, everyone present singing the original words, some swaying where they sat while others, already too drunk to notice, splashed their drinks over those standing nearby as the mood lifted, erasing from their minds, what might be taking place outside.

As Hamish swallowed the remainder of his single malt whisky he observed Harold Goldstein enter at the far end of the bar, and raised his arm in acknowledgment. The IMF officer spotted Hamish and strolled over, nodding to several other guests as he did so.

‘Sorry, goddamn Jakarta traffic gets worse with every visit,’ Goldstein apologized, accepting the other man’s hand. ‘Give us two more of whatever he’s drinking,’ he instructed the hovering barman.

‘How much time do we have?’ Hamish asked, his head a little hazy from the whisky, but nevertheless pleased to catch up with his former associate. They had worked together in Washington at the Nineteenth Street IMF offices, before Hamish’s life had undergone drastic change.

‘Plenty. In fact, we’re having dinner together with a charming young woman, you might just find attractive.’ McLoughlin raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

‘Business?’

‘More or less, Hamish. I had a call from Mary Jo Hunter to see if the IMF would give her an update. We’ve met before on a number of occasions and, as the choice was to bail out on you or have her tag along I thought, what the hell, and invited her to join us.’ Goldstein explained.

‘Here she comes now,’ he added.

‘Fine by me,’ Hamish shrugged, turning to meet the journalist, immediately taken aback by the physically arresting appearance of the woman.

‘Hello, Harry,’ she said, stepping forward as Goldstein bent to kiss her cheek. She turned and offered her hand. ‘Hello, I’m Mary Jo Hunter. Please call me Jo. And you’re Hamish McLoughlin?’ she announced, surprising both men. Laughing softly, she explained. ‘Your exploits are well known to the media, Mister McLoughlin. In fact, this is a most fortuitous opportunity for me. You see,’ she continued, her smile captivating those present, ‘I have you on my list for an interview as well.’ With this, she withdrew her hand from Hamish’s and placed her handbag on the barstool.

At that moment, a group in the far corner started clapping as one of their number finished swigging a half-yard of ale, most of which being spilt over his tie and shirt during an attempt to chugalug the beer. Mary Jo turned her attention back to the two men just as the pianist reluctantly sang a request for another group, the guests failing to understand how offensive some might consider ‘Hava Nagila,’ to be, in a predominantly Moslem country. The entertainer played the first few bars, threw his hands in the air, feigning loss of memory and fell back on Billy Joel’s ‘Piano Man’ again, seeing it had been so popular when he had played it before.

Hamish found himself tapping to the chorus, again, embarrassed when his eyes came into contact with the delightfully attractive woman who had joined them.

‘It’s always been one of my favorites,’ he explained, smiling at Mary Jo, who pounced on the opportunity.

‘What about that interview, then, Mr. McLoughlin?’ and he laughed, the mix of music and the beautiful woman added to alcohol, lifting his spirits.

‘Well, you may have your time cut out for you Jo,’ he explained, with practiced charm, ‘I plan to leave tomorrow.’ Jo pretended to sulk and both men laughed.

‘What about a breakfast interview?’ she suggested. Hamish considered this for a moment before replying.

‘Only if you can make it by six,’ he offered, turning to applaud the pianist as he skipped from one song to another, his audience obviously enjoying the medley as he moved from Billy Joel to Elton John, and across a range of distinctive, popular tunes.

‘Never happen,’ Goldstein interrupted good-naturedly, ‘you’d never get him out of bed.’ There was a sudden, embarrassed silence, then Mary Jo laughed softly.

‘You know what I mean,’ he chuckled, gulping the whisky and ushering the others before him. He raised his hand and scribbled in the air, calling for the check. ‘Come on, let’s get something into our stomachs. I’m as hungry as hell.’ The staff hurried to present the bill, and within minutes they were on their way, Hamish waving towards the preoccupied pianist, as if they were old friends.

They walked casually out into the magnificent foyer, pausing and moving discreetly to one side whenever Goldstein stopped briefly to chat with familiar faces.

‘He’s very popular,’ Mary Jo whispered. She stood alongside Hamish patiently waiting for their friend to rejoin them.

‘Who wouldn’t be? His presence here represents more than forty billion dollars to this economy,’ he replied, almost matter-of-factly. She examined his expressionless face, and decided there was no envy in the response. If anything, he seemed a little drunk.

‘Will he give it to them?’ she asked, with a slight tilt of her head.

Hamish McLoughlin admired the combination diamond and blue sap-phire earring exposed, as her soft, blonde hair drifted away from her cheek with the gesture. For the first time, he became conscious of her perfume as the delicate fragrance of Nina Ricci’s L’Air du Temps touched his senses.

‘I wouldn’t,’ was all he said, his thoughts uncomfortably elsewhere.

‘Do you think….’ she began, but Hamish shook his head, then smiled.

‘Leave it for Harry, Jo,’ he advised, then wishing he had not been so abrupt. They were rejoined by the IMF representative, who continued to smile at everyone they passed as they exited the hotel.

‘Not eating in?’ Hamish asked, surprised, as the hotel’s restaurants were all five star.

‘I doubt we would be left alone,’ Harry replied. ‘Besides, I know just the place if you still enjoy a good combination Indonesian and Chinese. It’s a bit down market, but the food’s okay. What do you say, Jo?’

‘Sounds okay to me. Where are we going?’

‘Down near Chinatown,’ he laughed, winking at the other man in conspiratorial manner. ‘There’s a place I was taken last time I was in town.

Food was great and I’m sure they’ll remember me.’

‘You’ve got to be joking!’ Hamish laughed. ‘Don’t you know we all look alike to the locals?’ Mary Jo remained out of the banter, enjoying their obvious camaraderie.

‘No, they’ll remember me,’ the American assured them, alluding to whatever had taken place during his recent visit. Content to leave it at that, they bundled into a taxi and permitted Goldstein to direct the driver to their downtown destination.

As they drove down Jalan Thamrin the traffic seemed endless. Sky-scrapers lined the boulevard, lights blazing as if staff manned their offices around the clock, and colorful bulbs strung around the upper floors presented an almost carnival atmosphere. Mary Jo remembered arriving not long after Christmas, only to discover that Indonesia’s entire Moslem community totaling more than one hundred and seventy-five million were preparing for the month of Ramadan, the ninth month in the Islamic calendar, during which fasting is undertaken during daylight hours. The Hari Raya Idulfitri celebrations following Ramadan would fall almost simultaneously with Chinese New Year. To Mary Jo, it seemed that the economies of the entire region would grind to a halt when this occurred, as more than one and a half billion people from China through Malaysia, Singapore and Indonesia, closed their businesses to join family and friends for the celebrations.

Their driver followed Jalan Gunung Sahari until reaching Ancol , then right into Martadinata. Ten minutes later, as their vehicle turned and twisted through Tanjung Priok’s narrow back-streets, both Hamish and Mary Jo felt uneasy with their surrounds. The harbor was not even considered a safe place during the day, let alone this far into the evening and, although the nature of her work often resulted in her being placed in dangerous situations, there was just something sinister about harbors which had always made her uncomfortable. She was about to suggest that perhaps they were lost, when Harold Goldstein called out.

‘Here we are,’ he announced, almost proudly, patting the driver on his shoulder. He peeled off a number of bills and passed these to the man.

‘Terima kasih,’ the driver thanked his fare. Mary Jo could not believe that Goldstein was about to send the taxi away, aware it would be impossible to find another when they were ready.

‘I wait here?’ Mary Jo was relieved to hear the driver ask, and was amazed that her co-passengers were even considering the question.

‘Yes, you wait here, terima kasih, ’ she intervened, flashing a handful of Rupiah notes. The taxi driver nodded, beamed at the three foreigners, then killed his engine. He would sleep there outside the restaurant until they returned. The small group climbed out, and to Mary Jo’s dismay, stepped directly into a shallow, muddy puddle, causing her to leap for the broken pavement, barely visible under the dimly lit doorway. She heard both the men curse loudly as they too scrambled to avoid slipping and, reaching safety, examined their shoes to see what it was they had stepped in.

‘Come on,’ Harry encouraged, advancing carefully into the single-story structure. The Cahaya Laut restaurant’s muddy entrance was, to say the least, disconcerting, and in no way reflected the fine cuisine found inside the noisy establishment. As they made their way further into the packed restaurant Mary Jo could not believe her eyes at the spectacle before her.

There were more than two hundred determined diners crammed claus-trophobically into an area suitable for half that number, all attacking the various servings covering their round tables with a gusto reminiscent of scenes she had encountered in the alleys of Shanghai. The three forged ahead through a steady stream of departing guests, stopping near the cashier’s post to wait for a table. Harry called out something but this was lost in the incredible surrounds of overwhelming chatter.

‘Sorry?’ the others called back, leaning closer to hear.

‘I said, it’s great, isn’t it?’ Goldstein shouted proudly, his face beaming with anticipation as he stepped back to permit several waiters to struggle through, carrying dishes of steamed eel and barbecued turtle. A Chinese cook clad in a filthy singlet suddenly appeared, yelled at one of the waiters while brandishing a large kitchen knife threateningly, then retreated to his domain still cursing the intelligence of the other man’s ancestors. The manager appeared and directed two of his staff to clean a table vacated only moments before, as he assisted the three foreigners into their cramped space.

‘My god, it’s bedlam!’ Hamish McLoughlin complained, leaning back to permit another waiter access to their table. Chopsticks and small soup bowls added to the clatter as these were placed noisily on their table, while tired waiters rushed to comply with their employer’s and guests’ demands.

Sticky, plastic-covered menus were then dropped onto their table, along with an assortment of small dishes containing a variety of pickles and sauces. Someone appeared and splashed lukewarm tea into hurriedly-washed, miniature porcelain cups, while a more senior waiter succeeded in pushing his way to where they were seated, to take their orders.

Harry pointed to the drinks list, ordering beers all around. Wine was not available; just cognacs, whiskies, soft drinks and beer.

‘I’ll order?’ he suggested, to the relief of the others. The experienced vistor pointed to a number of dishes he believed he understood, and accompanied by confused gesticulation between the pair, the waiter finally managed to understand what it was the foreigner wished to order, and scribbled impatiently on his pad. To Hamish’s surprise, the Bintang beer arrived cold, and he grinned at the others as they touched glasses in toast.

Mary Jo was a little disappointed that their venue made it impossible to communicate. She had hoped for an opportunity to discuss the IMF’s position regarding current negotiations with the Indonesian Government.

Now, she realized, Harold Goldstein had cleverly removed that opportunity with his selection of dinner locations. She looked across the table wondering if Hamish McLoughlin’s presence had been orchestrated, to prevent an in-depth interview.

Crab and asparagus soup was served, by which time all three had given up any further attempts at talking. Soon, other dishes arrived, and Mary Jo’s resentment at the evening’s outcome all but disappeared as the first tantalizing aroma of suckling pig reminded her that she had missed taking lunch in Bandung. Having never mastered the art during her many visits to China, she struggled with the chopsticks until an observant waiter provided forks and spoons. Mary Jo watched, as both men expertly separated pieces of deep-fried, sweet-and-sour kakap then shared the fish with her.

By the time they had eaten the tender squid, steamed prawns, Cantonese rice and kai-lan leaf which had been soaked in oyster sauce, surprisingly, the restaurant had all but emptied.

‘Where have they gone?’ Hamish asked, his watch showing it was ten o’clock.

‘Same thing happened the last time I was here,’ Harry replied, accepting a warm, wet towel from the waiter. He wiped his face slowly, releasing an audible sigh of satisfaction with the moment. ‘I was brought here last visit by the Finance Minister. A couple of Chinese businessmen tagged along, probably to pay for the evening and, before I could do anything about it, I found myself drinking XO cognac as if there was no tomorrow.’

The IMF official then shook his head, remembering what followed.

‘With my experience, I should have realized that the Chinese element wouldn’t have settled for just a few social sips. Anyway, once I discovered that the government officials had surreptitiously slipped away and gone home, I decided that I’d had enough and insisted that I be taken back to the Hyatt.’ Both Mary Jo and Hamish listened attentively, somewhat bemused that someone as well-traveled, and as senior as Harry had found himself in such a predicament.

‘Anyway, the Chinese hosts were reluctant to let me go and short of causing an incident, I agreed to finish another bottle with them. There’s not much more to tell except one of them fell over that railing over there,’

Harry explained, his expression serious, ‘and we had one hell of a job pulling him back up and inside. Needless to say,’ he added, his face breaking into a smile, ‘he was covered in mud and whatever unmentionables lurk in these filthy harbor’s waters.

Mary Jo noticed that the last guests were settling their bill. She decided to delay their own departure, taking advantage of the changed ambiance. As Goldstein concluded his anecdote, she waved to the waiter and requested coffee.

‘Why don’t we finish up at the hotel instead?’ Hamish suggested, spoiling her plan. She decided to be blunt and plunged in hoping for at least some time to probe Goldstein for information regarding the current crisis.

‘How about ten minutes, here?’ she asked, smiling sweetly. Hamish McLoughlin shrugged.

‘Okay by me, but I don’t think I could stomach their coffee. Harry?’

Goldstein’s eyes flicked unnoticeably. ‘Okay, Jo. But I’m not sure there’s a great deal to tell you yet,’ he fenced. He knew that by agreeing to meet with Mary Jo, she would aggressively pursue her questions. He had hoped that Hamish’s presence would provide sufficient distraction.

‘I don’t want to put you on the spot, Harry, but New York expects an in depth submission from me, and I thought the information would be far more reliable coming from you, than those bastards over at the Indonesian Ministry of Information. God, Harry, it’s incredibly frustrating trying to extract real facts from these people,’ she pleaded.

‘All I can suggest, Jo, is that the IMF is hoping that something more concrete will eventuate out of next month’s meetings. For now, there really is nothing much I can say. I’ll tell you what, though. I’ll give you whatever I can after the next round of talks. How’s that?’ he suggested, hoping that this would suffice. He really could not divulge that, as they spoke, Washington was in the process of preparing new guidelines for the Indonesians which, he expected, would result in the most severe ramifications should these not be adhered to by the Indonesian government.

Realizing that she had hit a brick wall, Mary Jo retreated graciously, smiling at the rebuff.

‘Exclusive?’ she asked hopefully, knowing that this would be unlikely.

‘Sure, sure,’ Goldstein laughed, pleased that she had reacted this well.

He raised his hand and called for their check. ‘Anyway, you could always pick Hamish’s brains for your story,’ he teased, grinning widely now.

‘Now that’s a possibility,’ McLoughlin joined in, pleasantly surprisedwith Jo’s behavior. She seemed to lack the aggression he associated with media types. ‘Why don’t we go back to the Hyatt and talk over coffee there?’ he suggested again.

They agreed, and Harry paid the bill, leading the way outside where their driver remained, sound asleep. Within minutes they were speeding back towards the city, the traffic around the Selamat Datang statue noticeably lighter as they arrived at the Grand Hyatt.

‘I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you two to it,’ Goldstein said, stifling a yawn.

‘Not even a nightcap?’ Hamish offered, surprised as it was only eleven o’clock.

‘Sorry,’ he apologized, reaching over to squeeze Mary Jo’s hand. ‘We’ll catch up next month,’ he promised, and winked at McLoughlin. ‘See you at breakfast, Hamish. Goodnight,’ with which, he walked away towards reception. They watched as Goldstein collected his room keys and messages, and waved as he stepped into the lavishly decorated lift.

‘Still want that coffee?’ Hamish McLoughlin asked, hoping she would not stay.

‘Perhaps something a little stronger. It’s been a long day,’ she replied, placing her arm through his. They returned to O’Reiley’s and found a table hidden in a softly-lit corner of the bar. They selected their drinks, then settled back to talk, enjoying each other’s company. The atmosphere was more subdued, the number of guests reduced to a few.

Sitting across the dark onyx table, Mary Jo decided that she approved of the Scot, wondering how, as a banker, he managed to maintain the deep suntanned features which complimented the man’s obvious athletic form.

He was certain to work out, she guessed correctly, at ease with Hamish’s warm and convincing smile.

‘Do you know why Harry was so reluctant to reveal what’s happening?’

Jo asked. Hamish looked past Mary Jo, distracted by the flickers of light at the other end of the bar as a couple there lit their cigarettes. Suddenly, something triggered a distant memory and he could taste the warm, comforting tobacco smoke as it entered his lungs. He returned his gaze to the attractive woman sitting opposite, pleased that he had given up smoking more than fifteen years before. He addressed her question.

‘Jo, this country’s in one hell of a mess. The surprising thing is, no one here seems to care. Corruption has permeated all levels of society, and the First Family, along with their cronies and relatives, continue to rip the guts out of the country. My guess is, they’re bankrupt; or at least, on the verge of financial collapse.’

‘Why doesn’t the World Bank or the IMF just bail them out?’ she asked, not displeased with the opportunity to hold some discussion which might, in some way, contribute to her overdue story.

‘Their case is different to that, say, of Mexico, Jo.’ He looked around for the waiter and, having gained his attention, indicated that they would have another round. ‘How much do you understand about the workings of the IMF?’ he inquired.

‘Not as much as I should, considering my profession,’ she admitted.

Hamish instantly admired her for her honesty. He had struck few journalists who would have suggested anything but the contrary.

‘A quick lesson, then?’ he asked, not patronizingly.

‘Providing you promise not to bore me to death,’ she smiled, and for a moment Hamish acknowledged that Mary Jo certainly had a refreshing directness about her manner.

‘Okay, here goes,’ he started, pausing only to sip the remaining whisky.

‘Firstly, the IMF is charged with the responsibility for safeguarding the stability of the international monetary system.’ He moved slightly, making himself more comfortable before continuing.

‘I have found that, with the exception of a small circle of financiers and economists, the IMF’s activities are considered to be shrouded in mystery.

More often than not, it is confused with the World Bank but, in fact, it is something of a cooperative institution with almost two hundred members.

These are countries which have joined voluntarily, believing that the IMF is perhaps the best forum for buying and selling their currencies, thereby stabilizing the flow of capital around the world. The IMF maintains, although some would argue that this is not the case, that it has no effective authority over the domestic policies of its member nations.’ Mary Jo raised an eyebrow at this.

‘I’ll explain a little later,’ he said, accepting the fresh whisky and taking a quick mouthful. ‘The IMF offers its members rational advice to assist whenever this is believed beneficial. For instance, some nations splurge a considerable proportion of their foreign exchange on military purchases. When the IMF identifies such problems or activities, it offers friendly advice, and rational argument to dissuade the nation in question from continuing on this course. The IMF can’t force any of its members to adopt any specific policy except, of course, the requirement that contributing nations disclose information relating to their monetary and fiscal policies. The members agree that the IMF should maintain some authority over their payment policies as history has proven time and time again, that without a global monitoring body, today’s system of payments in foreign exchange would fail.’

Hamish rested momentarily, observing Mary Jo to determine if she followed. Satisfied that she understood, he continued.

‘Each currency has a value in terms of other currencies, whether this be the Baht, the Franc or even the crumbling Rupiah. Whether it’s a government or a multinational company, business depends on the effective flow of capital which is controlled through the exchange of each countries currency. The genesis for the need for an organization such as the IMF can be found back in the events of the Great Depression of the 1930’s, when banks failed by the thousands and world trade virtually collapsed. Those who could still afford to do so changed whatever money they had into gold. This later created another problem when national treasuries, as was the case in the United Kingdom, failed to meet the demand for gold. This eventuated in the U.K. leading the way for the abandonment of the gold standard. Confusion reigned.

Some countries, mainly gold producers, maintained their currencies tied to gold, while others could not, creating uncertainty in the value of their money. This, in turn, caused complex problems whenever these nations attempted to exchange their currencies with those still tied to the precious metal. The old-fashioned method of payment was reintroduced by some nations, using the barter system instead of money. World commerce became very confused as it was almost impossible to determine the value of one currency, in relation to another.’

‘There were a number of unsuccessful conferences called to resolve the problems associated with currency exchange but these failed to address the real issues. It was not until a joint British-American proposal resulted in the formation of the IMF in 1944, that the world had some semblance of order applied to the international exchange systems.’

‘I thought Indonesia once withdrew from the IMF?’ she interrupted.

‘Yes, that’s true,’ he agreed, ‘as did Cuba and a number of Eastern Bloc countries at that time. But,’ he added, ‘all of these rejoined with the exception of Fidel.’

‘And the IMF does not have the power to just lay down the law, say, to Indonesia and direct them to toe the line or they won’t receive any assistance?’ she asked, uncertain that she had heard correctly before.

‘That’s what they claim, sure,’ he answered. ‘Each member country deposits whatever funds they consider appropriate. The more they sub-scribe, the greater the say they have in IMF affairs, and the more they may borrow in times of need. The largest depositor is the United States, giving it some twenty percent control over all votes. Obviously, this then gives the American Government the strongest voice in determining policies.’

‘The members may borrow up to three times their own deposits with the IMF, which has its own line of credit of twenty-five billion dollars for such emergencies. This, together with its cash reserves, would normally cover any of its members immediate needs. However, Indonesia requires considerably more than it is really entitled to receive, and certainly well in excess of earlier bail-out packages such as that provided to Mexico.’ He looked to see if she still followed his explanation.

‘It’s okay, I’m keeping up,’ Mary Jo advised.

‘Good. It’s important to understand that IMF members are expected to follow a basic set of economic guidelines, pursuing policies that will benefit the country, and the IMF as a whole. Although the IMF has no means of coercing delinquent members, it can apply considerable moral pressure to ensure that they abide by the rules.’ Hamish could see from her look of disdain that she correctly interpreted the situation.

‘In other words, toe the line or you won’t receive any funds?’ she suggested.

‘Or worse,’ he replied. ‘The offending nation could have its membership terminated.’

‘And where does that leave Indonesia?’ she asked, confident that she knew already what his reply would be.

‘In the proverbial,’ he answered. ‘Unless the Indonesian Government accepts that they must initiate radical reform, it’s my guess the IMF will refuse to provide any further funding. One would have to agree, Jo, that under the current circumstances it would be futile to give these people more money when it’s obvious that so much is just siphoned off by those in power.’ Mary Jo nodded in agreement. She intended writing more about the corruption she had already evidenced during her brief stay.

‘Just how bad is it here?’ she persisted.

‘My guess is that we might see a major meltdown if the IMF and World Bank dig their toes in and insist on the reforms necessary for Indonesia’s long-term survival. Let’s just say, I’m not recommending further investments here for the time being. Hell, it’s less than a month since I last visited and the rapid deterioration evident over those few weeks is, to say the least, startling.’ Mary Jo guessed that his current visit was not going too well. Curious, she steered the conversation towards his own activities.

‘How is Perentie Limited faring here?’ she asked, taking Hamish by surprise. He collected his thoughts, lifted his whiskey and swallowed the remaining Chivas before responding. He knew he must be circumspect, more so as this attractive woman survived off information she extracted from casual conversations such as theirs.

‘I’m now merely a consultant,’ he answered, smilingly. ‘My visit is purely to determine how Perentie’s investments here are stacking up under the current conditions.’

‘How do you think they will stack up?’ she insisted, observing his reaction closely.

‘Oh, I guess they are probably going to experience some tough times until the economy recovers from its slump,’ he replied, not at all happy with the change in the conversation’s direction. ‘I have a few meetings in the morning before returning to Hong Kong. How about I check with Perentie first to see if they would be happy with an interview?’ Mary Jo understood the rebuff and accepted this, wishing to leave the door open for a later opportunity.

‘Wow,’ she said, light-heartedly, ‘brushed off twice in the same evening!’

With this, they both laughed, and she could see that he was relieved to be off the hook. She made a mental note to do some digging into the Perentie group’s activities in Indonesia. Mary Jo looked around the bar, and the staff took this as a signal that they required service. By now, O’Reiley’s was all but deserted, the band had packed up and disappeared, the bartender struggling to contain a yawn as he went about cleaning his station.

A waiter approached to refill their glasses but Hamish raised his hands and politely refused.

‘Enough for now,’ he said, recognizing that he was tired.

‘Perhaps we can get together again sometime,’ Jo suggested sincerely, having enjoyed their brief encounter.

‘You can count on it, Jo,’ he promised, pleased that they had met.

It was getting late, and they agreed to part company. Hamish escorted Mary Jo out through the lobby, waiting until she climbed into her taxi before he too retired, in preparation for what he anticipated would be a most difficult day.

As he lay in bed, tiredness gently flowing from his body, it was not matters relating to Perentie’s exposure in Indonesia which occupied his thoughts. Instead, images of Mary Jo flowed through his mind and, as his breathing slowed with the promise of sleep, he imagined that he could smell the delicate perfume he had detected earlier in the evening, and his lips curved slightly as he smiled.

The following morning Hamish McLoughlin rose, refreshed, and in high spirits. But his demeanor soon changed as the day wore on, once he discovered Cendrawasih Taxis’ true financial situation and the resulting effect this would most surely have on the Hong Kong financiers.

At first, he refused to believe the incredible change in fortunes his former company would undoubtedly undergo as a result of this one failed investment in Indonesia, until one of the Taxi company’s directors alluded to where the money had gone. Only then did he accept for certain that the situation would be unrecoverable.

The Indonesian President’s daughter had issued the instructions, and the directors had obeyed, leaving their company short by almost two hundred million American dollars.