Читать книгу The Timor Man - Kerry B Collison - Страница 20

Jakarta — 1966

Somewhere in the back of his head Stephen Coleman could hear the noises. They sounded like people moaning but amplified as if sent to torment him. He believed he was dreaming but on carefully rolling over, knew he wasn’t. The waves of nausea struck, making him instantly aware that he was in danger of throwing up. The wailing continued and he slowly came to the realization that it would not go away, even if he phoned downstairs to the reception and asked them politely to turn whatever it was, off.

The nausea prevailed.

He rolled back hoping to compensate for the bilious effect of whatever he’d done the evening before. This obnoxious feeling in his head, stomach and somewhere in the lower reaches of his body, was all too familiar. The bile made an attempt to rise but he fought it back. He had been poisoned, he thought wildly but knew, in reality, that he had overindulged the night before, and was now paying the penalty for his indiscretions. Ill as he now felt, recollections of the previous night’s activities flashed through his thoughts.

He could remember being met at the Kemayoran Airport. It was a relatively cool reception which developed into a one night indoctrination attempt by the man who would soon be referred to as his predecessor. Alan someone or another. Alex, that was it! Alex Crockwell. What a nice piece of work he turned out to be.

As dead memory cells were replaced by more active and not so alcoholically influenced ones, pieces of the previous evening’s activities began to filter through to his brain and then, with a rush, everything flooded back to him.

He turned around quickly looking for the girl, and seeing no apparent sign of her, attempted to recall his last movements before returning to the Hotel Indonesia. He tried but could not remember.

Sitting on the double bed with its hand-woven embroidered bedcover still not turned down he leaned forward and placed his hands so that they would support his head. He really felt terribly sick.

The basket of welcome fruit, still wrapped in a cellophane cover, sat on the coffee table directly in front of the bed. The card stated something to the effect that the management welcomed him to the hotel and trusted that his stay would be memorable.

The phone rang shrilly, the sharp tones piercing his throbbing head.

“Selamat pagi, sir, this is your wake up call,” the tinny voice announced.

He raised his arm and peering through one bloodshot eye checked his watch. It read six-thirty. He dimly recollected booking the call for an hour earlier! Again he checked his watch, thanked the operator and pushed himself up into a sitting position.

He got up and the room swam before him. He knew he must get to the bathroom quickly, not through commitment to attend the office on time, on his first day, but more to avoid the inevitable disaster that would occur if he didn’t, as he felt that the queasiness surging through his stomach could no longer be ignored.

Coleman headed for the bathroom knowing what was to follow.

He retched.

The heaving convulsions forcing him to his knees as he clung to the chrome grip alongside the bathtub, his head cradled by one arm over the toilet bowl. Minutes passed slowly and Stephen dragged himself upright and stepped into the bathtub, turning the cold faucet on to maximum. Leaning with one arm against the ceramic wall he steadied himself.

He remained in this position, the tropical cold water stinging his body, assisting with the slow recovery process. He then altered the water flow and filled the huge American Standard bath to its brim. He lay still in the bathtub contemplating what would lie ahead on his first full working day in the capital.

He had arrived over the weekend, much to the disgust of the staff delegated to meet and escort him to his hotel. He had completed his customs and immigration checks and identified the embassy official. He was obvious. Alex Crockwell stood alone with his hands clasped behind his back, apparently oblivious to the surrounds.

“Coleman?” he called out, raising one hand, finger pointed in the air as if he was about to hail a taxi.

“Stephen,” Coleman answered, lowering both cases and extending his hand.

“Leave those there, the boy will carry them for you,” he said and turned, leaving Stephen with no other choice but to follow.

“You couldn’t have picked a more difficult time to arrive.”

“Sorry?” Coleman called to the disappearing figure, not entirely certain that he was following the right person. The young and pretentious man had not even bothered to introduce himself. Moments later he caught up as the embassy officer had stopped and turned, almost impatiently.

“Put those in the back,” Crockwell ordered the driver who had jumped from the Holden and raced around to open the door for the embassy official. Coleman watched without saying anything.

“Thanks for the reception,” Stephen offered as they drove away from the dilapidated terminal.

“My turn on duty roster, I’m afraid,” Crockwell replied. He then went on to explain that he had missed a wonderful opportunity to spend the weekend away in the mountains but, as Coleman’s arrival coincided with these plans, he had to cancel. Stephen was surprised that the embassy officer actually raised the point that personnel movements always seemed to take place on weekends, apparently spoiling some event or other; Canberra really should be more considerate and realize that Indonesia was a difficult post, and should not expect the limited resources of the Embassy staff to sacrifice their own time to meet and escort others, when they should be recharging their batteries.

“I suppose you will want to have a look around later after you’ve freshened up?” Crockwell asked. The tone of his voice implied that Coleman should refuse the halfhearted invitation and, having enjoyed a few drinks during the eight hour flight, he was tempted to tell the escort officer to get lost and leave him to his own devices. But he didn’t.

“Yes,” Coleman replied, “it’s still early and I would appreciate a quick tour. How about I check in, dump my gear and you show me around for a bit?”

Crockwell was visibly disappointed and sat silently for the rest of the ride to the hotel. Coleman decided he really didn’t need the other man’s company but would insist just out of bloody-mindedness. Crockwell waited impatiently in the lobby while Coleman slowly showered and changed. Visibly annoyed with having to wait, Crockwell displayed a show of childish temper by snapping at the driver as they left the hotel.

Coleman managed to restrain himself until later in the evening. He remembered enjoying himself in the bar with the women hanging around his neck, when Crockwell again made some comment as to the lateness of the hour.

“Hey!” Coleman had snapped. “Why don’t you just piss off then and leave me here?” There had been an argument and, although the temptation was there, Coleman had resisted smacking the other man around the head as he rightfully deserved.

Stephen groaned. Damn! He hadn’t even set foot in the office and already there would be at least one person gunning for him!

Slowly he towelled and waited for his body to adjust to the room temperature after the bath. He selected the pin-striped suit with a maroon tie. Conservative enough, he decided.

Venturing down to the expansive lobby Stephen immediately remembered the lingering smell he had identified when first alighting from the aircraft. It hung heavily in the air like the aroma of ageing fruit which was about to turn, and yet there was something about its scent, something exotic, which made one feel that it was a permanent part of the general ambiance.

Coleman viewed the traffic confusion from the hotel foyer. No briefing could have prepared him for the awesome spectacle of Jakarta’s traffic crawling around the Selamat Datang column located directly outside the Intercontinental Hotel Indonesia. Bedlam would be an appropriate description, Coleman mused.

Thousands of becaks, the Indonesian trishaw, congregated at the entrance. He knew that the drivers often lived in these contraptions, earning barely enough each day to purchase a meal of nasi putih before collapsing exhausted. They would curl up in the passenger seat, breathing the foul diesel fumes as they slept. Undernourished and prematurely aged, these men would be lucky to live longer than thirty-five years. When they departed, a hundred others would scramble for the opportunity to pump their legs, strain their hearts and finally die, maybe even to die harnessed to their iron monsters, as had so many before them.

Competition was fierce. The city boasted one hundred thousand of these car-scraping, traffic-congesting, back-to-front pedicabs. He would take a ride in one of these becak at the weekend, Stephen Coleman decided. Until then, the Embassy had provided him with a light blue air-conditioned Holden, complete with driver.

Driving! Coleman shuddered at the thought. Part of his briefing had been an information sheet describing action to be taken in the event of an incident when driving oneself. The instructions were basic. In the event of involvement in an accident, regardless of the condition of any third parties, the foreign driver was to return immediately to the embassy grounds and report directly to the Consul. To stop and render assistance could result in the driver’s immediate departure to a more heavenly highway at the hands of the violent crowds which, within moments, inevitably appeared at the scene of any altercation in the Far East.

Facing him across the roundabout lay the freshly gutted remains of the British Embassy. To his left, the Press Club stood as a reminder of the Asian Games held a few years earlier. The large vacant block adjacent was the site for the new Australian Embassy. A few tanks were still positioned nearby to the new city centre. Troops in battle-dress paraded around stopping vehicles, demanding cigarettes, and generally terrorizing the pedestrian traffic. Billboards once displaying socialistic slogans now featured garish artists’ impressions of cowboy and James Bond movies. The government’s Police Command had the territorial zones renumbered so that the Jakarta area could be allocated zero zero seven. Jakarta’s finest now sported belt buckles, Texas size, with the three numbers blazoned across the front.

Coleman found this desire for Western identification totally in conflict with the paranoia towards imported customs which, he had read, still persisted at senior government levels. Indonesia had severed all diplomatic ties with mainland China, accusing them of precipitating the abortive coup d’etat . Hundreds of thousands of Chinese fled the country taking with them the very funds the economy so desperately needed to continue to operate.

The Post Report and other economic data made available prior to his departure were all very negative. Inflation was out of control. The rupiah was devaluing on the black market at a rate of twenty percent each week. American dollars were in great demand. Communications were practically non-existent. The country was on the verge of economic collapse.

Coleman pondered these things. In his capacity as a Second Secretary, Australian News and Information Bureau, his effectiveness would be reduced considerably due to the absence of modern communication facilities. Urgent messages were dispatched by telegram through the PTT which often required several days before delivery could be effected. These difficulties were further exacerbated by the government’s inability to provide a constant supply of electricity. The PLN, Perusahaan Listrik Negara, often had major power failures for days on end severing communications domestically and internationally. The Embassy provided each of its staff with diesel generator backup systems -essential to the preservation of meat and occasional dairy supplies which managed to survive shipment via the harbour of Tanjung Priok.

Living under these conditions was a demanding task for foreigners. To operate effectively one required patience, cunning and stamina supported by almost unlimited financial reserves to survive the corruption, disease and frustration of day-to-day existence. The older expatriates would caution newcomers with regards to their health.

Disease was rife, ranging from the plague, cholera and all forms of hepatitis, to the more common ‘revenge’series of disorders such as the bug, Soekarno’s revenge; the bug had successfully permeated Jakarta’s drinking supplies. The Koki, or cooks’ revenge, was a similar bug caused by the unsanitary habits of the domestic staff and it was often the more devastating of the two. And then, of course, there was the frightening venereal wart which expatriate wives claimed was their revenge on unfaithful husbands. These excrescences grew to a huge size and were common amongst Jakarta’s one hundred and twenty thousand prostitutes or kupu-kupu malam, the night butterflies, as they called themselves.

Coleman had suffered the discomforting after effects from the mandatory series of injections prior to his departure. The gamma-globulin was painful and, disappointingly, had proven ineffective to many who had suffered the long needles. His cholera and typhoid cocktail shots had caused light fevers and swelling during his final weeks in Melbourne.

Albert had been sympathetic but insisted that, even with the added protection of these injections, Coleman should never drink un-boiled water in Indonesia. Asians are often shy and avoid describing ablutionary problems to Westerners. Coleman could now understand Albert’s reluctance to describe the filth he now observed before him. The open storm drain which ran east to west under the roundabout towards the hotel was crowded with Java’s itinerants. What the foreigners’ minds did not wish to comprehend, their senses were obliged to perceive as the sight of becak drivers squatting on the edge of the kali , defecating alongside women washing their clothes while others bathed, was all too real.

There were no public ablution blocks in Indonesia, this former Dutch and temporary British colony, yet it contained the world’s largest Moslem population, which required its followers to clean before each of the five daily prayer periods. Coleman was reminded of his error in using a Moslem supplication during his early days with Albert. The Timorese were Christian and despised the Islamic teachings. He acknowledged his debt to the guru. There was no doubt in his mind as to the real reason for his success in studying the language. He had been informed that due to the political crisis in Indonesia his posting was to be effective immediately upon completion of the final examinations. He had excelled. Each evening he had spent hours with Albert and their relationship had quickly grown beyond that of student to guru . His vocabulary and style improved in fluency until he felt almost as comfortable in Bahasa Indonesia as he was in his own tongue.

Mary never accompanied them whenever they left the campus. Albert would attempt to explain the Asian philosophy by taking Coleman on field trips to farms, where in-situ exposure to agricultural life could be utilized to teach him the more delicate interpretations of idiomatic usage.

“Never forget, Mas Koesman, Indonesia is and always will be an agrarian state. It is therefore imperative for the complete linguist to first of all understand those things which are of most importance to the people. Europeans have little knowledge of our staple food. Rice. As you have now learned, we use a variety of terms to describe the state of that mystical crop. We do not call it just rice. You may consider me a pedant. I am not. Nor am I attempting a lesson in semantics, for rice to Asians is life and life is God’s gift to us. It therefore follows that, to a logical Asian mind, rice is a life form with its own soul. You must understand that, for Asians, acceptance of animism is common and is often intertwined with religious philosophy to become one belief. There are no rules governing what man should accept unto himself in terms of personal belief. Those barriers exist only within religious dogma itself.”

Coleman had listened intently. In a country as populous as Indonesia, it was obviously a mammoth undertaking to feed the newborn millions each year.

“Do other basic crops command similar respect and therefore name changes from planting to consumption?” he had asked.

“Only some, and not in Indonesia, however I would expect so in China. Those people will eat anything.”

The student was now accustomed to the occasional slight directed at the Chinese, for even a Christian Timorese who had grown up in poverty could still be expected to harbour some animosity towards the more affluent members of the community. The Asian staff at the school rarely proffered political opinions nor did they openly cast aspersions on other ethnic groups. Albert’s comment was merely indicative of just how close the two had grown. Their time together had been mutually rewarding.

Stephen might have viewed their friendship differently had he known that Albert had forwarded his name to the Chief of Indonesian Intelligence — Nathan Seda. Albert felt satisfied that he had fulfilled his ongoing commitment to Nathan by advising him of students’ names, military background, and postings upon course completion. He felt little remorse for these people were occidental and could not begin to understand the orientals’ obligation to family. The mere suggestion of threat to his father and family was sufficient motivation for Albert. One is born with a greater loyalty than friendship and this was enforced by his belief, thou shalt honour thy father and thy mother.

He did not look on what he had done as disloyalty, but he did not deny that his strengthening bond of friendship with the young Australian tempted him to confide in Stephen.

His predicament had no immediate solution. To divulge his secret to Coleman and trust him not to alert the authorities was too much to demand of any friendship. On the other hand, once in Jakarta, his friend could convince Nathan of Albert’s impossible position. These alternatives frequently crossed Albert’s mind; however he feared that an officer such as Coleman would be obliged to inform his superiors if he became aware of Albert’s extra curricular activities. He had, wisely, discarded the idea.

They had parted at the end of the course with feelings of mutual affection and respect and, as Stephen had bid his farewells, Albert immediately felt the void of loneliness in which he was left. In the months that followed they had not communicated. Both had been too preoccupied with the demands placed on their lives during that time.

Coleman’s fond memories of Albert were abruptly interrupted as he identified the CD-18 number plates on the Holden. The driver ran around the vehicle and opened the door before he could do so for himself.

“Selamat pagi, tuan,” Achmad, the smiling Sundanese driver greeted him.

“Selamat pagi, Mas,” responded the Australian, much to the surprise of Achmad.

“Tuan bisa mengerti Bahasa Indonesia?” Achmad inquired, amazed at Coleman’s grasp of the language.

“Bisa saja,” Coleman replied.

The driver sat quietly concentrating on his driving. He was pleased that he had been sent to meet the new tuan . None of the other drivers would believe this when he told them. A new tuan who could already speak their language! Surely he must have lived here before. Ah, decided Achmad, then of course he could be Dutch and just pretending to be Australian. Achmad decided to scrutinize the newcomer to look for visible signs of his being Dutch.

Not that Achmad would know for he had never seen one of the former colonists. He was born during the Japanese occupation and the Dutch never returned to his province after the war. Those who had stayed on after independence left when Soekarno annexed West Irian in the early sixties.

Coleman could see that Achmad was not concentrating on his driving as well as he should. Instead, his small brown eyes darted continuously to and from the rear vision mirror observing the tuan . What for, Coleman could not fathom. They continued in silence for the short drive to Cikini where the Embassy building stood, set back from the railway some seventy-five metres. Coleman’s heart sank.

The building was the obvious remnants of some colonial family mansion built in the latter part of the last century. To some it would have antique charm. To others, who knew that the ageing exterior often indicated a complete state of interior ruin, such dwellings were best demolished.

Alex Crockwell, the embassy officer who had been delegated the task of meeting him at the Kemayoran airport the previous evening had not discussed working conditions in the Embassy nor had he mentioned the poor state of the premises. Coleman assumed that it was not an oversight as the man most probably considered the dilapidated building’s appearance romantic.

He was not unhappy that Crockwell would leave as soon as their hand-over was completed. Stephen disliked the petty, almost officious character, as he had seen many like him during his stay in the capital. He knew that there were many small-minded bureaucrats whose relatively unimportant positions provided the breeding ground for their moody dispositions and deep-rooted animosity for those who had real power.

Achmad the driver left the engine running as he raced around to open the tuan’s door. Stephen adjusted his suit and started up the steps admiring the magnificent beringin tree to the right. The highly polished brass plate affixed to the small roman column on the right announced that they were entering the Australian Embassy. Coleman thanked his driver and entered the foyer, surprised at the apparent lack of security. He was relieved to observe that the structure had been air-conditioned with large banks of window units, each humming its way through a surprising range of mechanical noises, as the power fluctuated through lows and peaks that would have destroyed lesser machines.

“Ah, there you are old chap.” a voice boomed from the other end of the reception area causing Stephen to turn quickly, immediately wishing he hadn’t. The sharp stabbing pain near his temples returned with a vengeance. “Welcome, welcome,” the rotund figure continued, extending both hands as he waddled towards the newcomer. Coleman thought the man looked like some giant duck.

“Have a good trip, did we? Are they looking after you at the Ha Ee ?”

Stephen was to learn later that this sound like a banshee wail was the abbreviated form for the Hotel Indonesia and that not knowing so identified one immediately as new blood in town.

“My name is Geoffrey Dickson, Dicky to my friends, and I am the Consul in this fine establishment. You, of course, must be Stephen Coleman!”

Stephen smiled and immediately relaxed at the warmth of the man.

“Yes, and thank you Mr Dickson, Stephen Coleman is correct,” he said extending his hand to those of the Consul.

“Dicky, man, Dicky,” he intoned, taking Stephen’s right hand between both of his, pumping ceremoniously and beaming sincerely.

“I will take you around this fine establishment and introduce you to its erstwhile tenants,” the jovial Consul announced, sounding more and more like Robert Moreley.

“That’s very kind of you, er, Dicky,” Stephen responded, his left arm now under the control of the surprisingly strong grip of his escort.

“No need to worry about registration and all of that nonsense right now, old chap, you will have ample time to complete the formalities tomorrow. Come along now,” he ordered, almost lifting the taller man off the ground with a sudden spurt of speed Stephen would not believed him capable of making.

“This is Bobby; he is the Assistant Consul. Totally superfluous in my opinion but the Post staffing requirements demand that his position be filled even though he has less than nothing to do,” he said, his twinkling eyes and trace of a smile showing that he was not serious. “Bobby, say hello to our newest addition, Stephen Coleman.”

The junior stood with an outstretched hand while removing his glasses for the introduction.

“Robert, Robert Thornton. Welcome to Dicky’s Den,” he said. The emphasis on the Consul’s name indicated that this part of the complex really did belong to the fat career civil servant.

“Thanks, Robert, look forward to having a chat with you later. Maybe you can help me unscramble some of my advances and docs. Okay?”

“That’s what we’re here for, mate, that’s what we’re here for. Come back when you’re settled and we’ll have a look at what you’ve got,” with which Bobby sat down again and resumed his examination of the long list of financials in front of him.

They continued on through a lengthy corridor, down the centre of which was a length of thick wine red carpet, held in place by highly polished brass strips.

“You must close your eyes now, my dear,” Dicky joked, as he extracted a large ring of keys from his back pocket attached to which was a chain tied carefully to his belt.

The door was unlocked, and again Stephen was speedily lifted off his feet by the Consul as he ushered his new man inside, Dicky ceremoniously re-locked the doors with a double turn of the strange looking keys. Stephen was surprised, as all that was visible was another corridor. He had expected something quite different, not sure exactly what, but certainly not just corridors! Dicky increased his pace and Stephen was a little troubled by Dicky’s vice-like grip, which had remained on his arm since they were outside in the foyer.

“Won’t be long now,” he said, and suddenly propped before pushing at the wall between photographs of Her Royal Highness and Sir Robert Menzies.

Stephen was mystified. Why was there no handle on this door that had been made to appear to be part of the wall? He didn’t ask. They entered another corridor, and now Stephen began to feel as if Dicky was playing some practical joke on him, a common trick back home when someone commenced their first day in a new job. Dicky sensed the younger man’s resistance to continue and moved his grip further up Stephen’s arm closer to his shoulder, without reducing his incredible speed.

“Ah, here we are,” he announced, coming to the end of the corridor and opening yet another door with one of his countless number of keys. He pushed the door ajar, gestured with his left hand and, with a slight mocking bow, indicated that the newcomer should enter. Stephen did so, amused by his escort’s antics.

They had entered the second level of security. The first had not been obvious but did, in fact, include the reception and the entire consulate area. Systems had been put in place to ensure the safety of the personnel and the security of the embassy’s contents; however, these were deliberately not evident to the eye of the casual visitor. There were six or seven offices directly off to his left as he had entered, the upper sections of their partitioning constructed with glass to permit visual contact between the offices while affording soundproof cubicles.

“Why all of the subterfuge, Dicky?” he asked, not yet comfortable with the first name basis this man had insisted apon.

“Riots, my man, riots,” he answered as if Coleman would automatically understand, but before he had the opportunity to delve into the idiosyncrasies of the passages with their strange access, Dicky was already opening the doors to the cubicles and introducing him to the officers at their desks.

“This is David, and that empty seat belongs to Alex Crockwell,” he indicated with another wave of his hand. “They are with the remnants of the Colombo Plan section and assist with Australian aid and information. I believe you have already met Alex. Where is Alex, David?” he asked, lips pursed not expecting more than a token response, and then deciding he would answer his own question.

“Of course,” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers, “you have already met our Alex. He was rostered as the duty officer to pick you up from the airport. I trust he took good care of you?”

“Yes, thanks Dicky, I certainly appreciated being met and assisted with the hotel check-in,” he lied, but somehow feeling that this man already knew more about Crockwell’s attitude than he let on.

The introductions continued as they passed from office to office, most offering no more than a cursory polite ‘welcome’ and displaying impatience at wanting to return to whatever they were engrossed in doing before being interrupted by the gregarious Consul.

“Well, that’s about it for here. Except, of course, your desk, which is over there next to the First Secretary’s. You can have Alex’s when he leaves. Bit cramped here, I’m afraid, but you’ll soon get used to the hang of things and once the new Embassy is built then we won’t have these problems of space, will we?”

“Where are the Military Attachés’ offices?” Coleman asked.

The Consul snapped his head ever so quickly back and his eyes narrowed considerably. “We will come to that shortly,” he answered, as if miffed.

Coleman immediately regretted his question. He should have remembered that the consulate section had limited security access and this had always been a bone of contention between the diplomatic service and consular offices since the first overseas emissaries were sent from country to country eons ago.

Consular officers were basically there to care for the citizens of the country they represented, whereas the main body of the Embassy housed not only Aid and Trade offices, but also sensitive sections such as the Military Attachés representing army, navy, and air force contingents. Even Federal Police sometimes maintained a presence as part of the international effort to prevent the flow of drugs from country to country.

The Ambassador, of course, as formal etiquette required, was equated to the rank of a Four-Star General in the host country. His authority was final. This is why the position was designated Ambassador, Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary. The Military Attachés naturally resented having to report to a civilian who probably did not understand their world of armaments and fighting, and often the mood during briefings reflected these differences.

When the need for the first Ambassadors became apparent more than a millennium before, they were sent as emissaries bearing gifts, offering peace and goodwill. They were trade representatives, not political officers. Somehow the two became confused as one, and this made it necessary for Ambassadors to carefully juggle the needs of both their country’s merchant houses and the militant forces waiting impatiently behind them.

“Another officer will take you through,” Dicky pouted, leaving the surprised Coleman uncomfortable, standing alone not quite sure of what he should do next.

As the door was pulled tightly closed by the departing Consul (if he could have slammed it, he would have happily done so!) another man appeared through yet another access adjacent to the last cubicle.

“Coleman?” was all he said, holding the door slightly ajar assuming the gesture was sufficient for him to follow.

“Yes,” was all he had the opportunity to say moving quickly to follow the man with the serious face.

He stepped inside and once again he heard the familiar click of another exit being locked behind him.

“I’m Peter Cornish,” the man stated, not extending his hand very far from his body.

“Stephen,” he responded. His surname would surely be known in here.

“Okay, Stephen, let’s go. I’ll introduce you around. Hope you smoke, everyone here does and there’s one hell of a lot of pressure

on right now.”

Coleman nodded, quickly evaluating what he saw.

There were five Australians present. Two were women. The outer section was relatively small. It was effectively a barrier. Keys were required to pass through the mini-reception which consisted of an observer’s window so that the inner-sanctum officers could identify the visitors without their being aware that they were being observed.

Past the double locked security door and to the right were a number of telex machines. All clattered away, out of synch with each other, creating a staggering amount of mechanical noise as they force-fed themselves information that had been retyped and converted through the deciphering monsters buried further inside, locked away from the scrutiny of even these operatives.

He passed several desks and continued down through a maze of filing cabinets into an area which housed two large refrigerators and an electric stove. Stacked to the ceiling on both sides of this walled-off section were cases of malt whisky, Jack Daniels Bourbon, Gordon’s Gin and Bacardi Rum. There were no soft drinks or sodas evident.

Squeezed into this already tight area was a desk on which a new Remington blazed away at unbelievable speed, its extended carriage holding oversized pages unlike anything Coleman had seen before. The young woman operating the machine, a desk officer, momentarily looked up and smiled before returning her attention to whatever it was at hand that demanded her full attention.

“This is Margaret. She knows who you are. Margaret is the senior secretary in this section,” he said, his voice almost monotone. “This is the First Secretary’s office.”

Coleman followed him into a cramped twelve-square-metre box. The desk, small as it was, carried more paper than Stephen believed possible. He looked around and asked, “Where is the First Secretary?” raising his voice more than he wanted, out of nervousness.

“That’s me. I’m the man,” Cornish answered, almost impatiently, then continued, “and you didn’t actually get off to a good start in this city did you?” he snapped, gesturing to Coleman to sit on the typist’s chair, which doubled for guests, rare as they were in here.

Coleman responded, surprised, “What the hell do you mean?”

The other man had by now taken his position behind the mound of files and, swivelling on his chair, lit a cigarette without offering one to his visitor, then swung back and hit the small cleared space over the blotter with his open hand.

“What the hell do I mean?” he shouted, then repeated himself, “What the hell do I mean? For Chrissakes, you haven’t been in town more than twenty-four hours and already you’ve been out humping around with this lot!”

Stephen was stunned. Cornish didn’t even bother closing his door as he continued.

“You young bastards come up here, full of your own shit, and forget everything you’ve been taught as soon as some tart opens your fly!” He flicked the imaginary ash onto the floor. “What’s more, weren’t you bloody well briefed by that little cock-sucker Crockwell when he picked you up from the flaming airport?” he demanded.

“No,” Stephen stammered, “he didn’t brief me on a damn thing except the fact he would rather be away for the bloody weekend than have to escort someone from the airport.”

Anger now pumping the necessary amount of adrenalin, he continued. “Who the fuck are you to get on my case anyway?” he demanded, his hackles rising as he started to move out of his seat; aware that his temper had taken control of his better judgment but did not care, as his head ached, his stomach was in turmoil and now he was faced with some sanctimonious bastard who was having a bad day and quite obviously prepared to take it out on the new boy. It was not lost on Stephen that part of his response was in retaliation to being reprimanded within earshot of the young woman just outside the Secretary’s door.

Suddenly, he was determined. ‘If this arsehole wants to get his jollies off berating others within earshot of his staff then he can find someone else to take a shot at, and now!’ he decided. He leaped to his feet and started to leave the office, when the secretary outside leaned across and closed the door brusquely, not even giving him a second look.

“Get back here, Coleman!” the voice barked. “Sit down and shut up.” He was about to respond when Cornish raised his open palm and glared at the newcomer not to talk. “Just shut up and listen,” he said.

Shaking with anger Stephen turned and glared at the First Secretary who was standing behind his desk, his anger obvious. Moments passed. He shook his head in disgust and returned to the seat.

“I am sick to death of seeing you young upstarts coming up here and carrying on as if you were the proverbial gift to whatever it is these days. You have only been here two days and already you are in shit up to your eyeballs.”

Coleman sat still, listening partly out of shock and partly also because he was captivated by this man’s performance.

“What the hell,” the First Secretary continued and then, with a sigh of exasperation, pulled a cigarette from the box of Rothman filters and offered the packet to his new assistant. “Man, did I cop a bollocking because of you when I came in this morning,” he said, his voice having dropped its venom. “Ten minutes with the boys out the back threatening to down grade our security in this section did not, I assure you young Coleman, offer the best start to my day!” He leaned back in the chair, placed his hands behind his neck and, with the cigarette still hanging from the side of his mouth, blew smoke from the other side contemptuously. “They will want to see you in fifteen minutes so I guess we’d best get on with the rest of the introductions.”

Stephen still sat there, stunned. He didn’t even know what the hell he had done but decided to wait for the ‘boys out the back’ to enlighten him as the atmosphere in the room was still hostile.

“Okay, thanks,” he offered, “sorry about the outburst.”

The older officer stared directly at his assistant’s eyes for what seemed an eternity before unclasping his hands and leaning across the desk. He held his hand out which Stephen readily grasped, relieved that the bumpy start had a chance of being overcome. It was only then that it also dawned on Stephen that this man either had two offices or he had misheard Dicky point out the First Secretary’s desk in the adjacent section. He was about to ask when there was a brief knock, the door opened and, not waiting for permission to enter, Margaret stuck her head into the room and said, “Time to move, boss, the animals need feeding,” with which she left the door ajar and Cornish beckoned to Coleman to follow.

Turning to the others sitting around the larger office he said, “Listen up, everyone, this is Stephen Coleman. He will be on our team but will be seated outside until we can come to some other arrangements. He’s coming with me now to the zoo so don’t raid my stocks while I’m away!” with which he half waved while there were audible responses such as ‘Hi, Steve’and ‘Welcome, mate’, but the one which caused him to be even more curious than ever was the girl’s voice as she called back to her boss. “The animals sound hungry boss, better tell Stephen, to keep his hands in his pockets!” which attracted several guffaws from the men.

He followed his new superior back through the maze of doors and corridors towards the reception and consulate offices. Leading off in another direction from the area he had just visited was yet another passageway which led into a small guest area containing a number of chairs, coffee tables and book racks, creating an atmosphere not dissimilar to that of a dentist’s or doctor’s reception. There was a buzzer positioned at almost eye level above which the instructions advised those requiring to enter need only to push the button twice. They did so and were ushered into an area which contained at least a dozen offices, each tagged with the occupant’s name, rank and official position, and a warning that access was strictly for authorized personnel only.

Stephen was taken around the outer office first and introduced to the three non-commissioned officers who acted as personal assistants to each of the three Military Attachés. He was then taken in to meet the attachés, one by one. He observed that all desks had been cleared of files and loose documents.

There was one remaining office apart from the others which had no designated name or any other information to identify the occupant. Only the warning regarding unauthorized entry was evident on the door. Peter Cornish knocked and waited. When the door was finally opened, the tall man extended his hand to the surprised Coleman.

“Welcome to the Zoo,” said a smiling John Anderson.

During the following days he met most of the remaining members of the embassy staff. Their reception was warm and Stephen was amused to discover that he was the only fluent Indonesian speaking Australian in the Embassy. Most of the others had acquired a smattering of what sounded to Coleman’s ear to be basic kitchen pidgin. However, he reminded himself not to be overly critical as he understood only too well the problems these Australians would have experienced taking up temporary residence in a country where even most of the local inhabitants used their national language poorly, not to mention the absence of spoken English.

Where possible the Australian Embassy had purchased or rented houses in adjacent suburbs. He had not expected a palace neither had be been provided with one. Jalan Sidoardjo, Number Two, consisted of a one bedroom apartment-sized home surrounded by high brick and bamboo walls. The sliding iron gate was so heavy that the jaga appeared close to rupturing something each time he was required to provide access to the garage. The previous tenant had apparently used only embassy hire vehicles and was not particularly concerned with security. Previous guests were obliged to park their cars outside where there should have been a curb had the government of Jakarta both understood the necessity for such conveniences and, of course, the funding to build such infrastructure.

The area where he was now domiciled was known as Menteng. The homes were all of Dutch vintage and desperately in need of care. Lawns were practically non-existent as servants could never bring themselves to understand the reasoning for growing grass around one’s house, cutting it regularly then throwing the cuttings away. You could not eat it and the effort in maintaining fine grass in the tropics was excessive. As a result, houses in Jakarta rarely had lawns but, instead, cleanly swept areas of dirt which, when the tuan was away, always managed to double-up as a badminton court.

Coleman inherited three servants. This did not include the jaga whose basic function was to provide security around the quarters. As the driver carried his suitcases into the house the servants ran around bowing and wishing him welcome. They had already heard of his linguistic ability. Surely life would be much easier with this new tuan who could actually speak to them avoiding the confusion which reigned with the previous tenant! He spoke to them for a few minutes and then set about familiarizing himself with the house. The jaga , an East Javanese, presented poorly. His demeanour was arrogant and Coleman identified the product of too close an association between employer and employee. Several questions to the cook confirmed his suspicions. The previous tuan

had been dependent on the jaga for his girl supply and often shared his liquor with the man. Stephen discharged him immediately to the dismay of the other servants. A replacement was found within the hour.

Another problem was the fasting period. He had arrived the week the religious observance had commenced and was now well into the Ramadhan cycle. Although the majority of Indonesia’s Moslems commence the fast together, very few manage to continue for more than a few days. The general lethargy in the workplace becomes impossible to deal with by the end of the second week, at which time tempers have a tendency to become more volatile than usual.

As tuan of the house, his responsibility was to ensure that when the fasting period ended and the celebrations had commenced his staff would each have a set of new clothes and an additional ration of one month’s rice, or beras , as it is called before cooking. He was politely informed by the cook that tuan should give them sufficient funds that day in order that they have adequate time to instruct the tailor to sew the new clothes.

He agreed and immediately there were requests for loans, holidays and salary increases by all. Coleman suggested that they were overdoing their demands and reminded them of the jaga who had been replaced. Koki agreed that the others had been greedy and ungrateful and undertook to reprimand them herself.

Christmas was a nightmare as it co-coincided with the Ramadhan period. Home-made firecrackers prevented all but the very deaf from sleeping during the fasting period. There were many parties but one had to risk the possibility of being stranded at another’s home due to the curfew imposed nationwide. Liquor from the Embassy’s duty-free canteen was extremely cheap and, as there was very little else to do, most of the foreign community drank — in most households, to excess.

The New Year was quickly followed by the Lebaran holidays. As Moslems celebrated, the country was inundated with the wet season’s first rain. The conditions were not as Coleman had expected. Humidity caused discomfort demanding constant showering and a slowing of one’s physical pace. Offices closed at two-fifteen providing workers with the opportunity to take their lunch then sleep through the hottest part of the day. Expatriates emulated the locals. They too slept through the afternoons. Most evenings were occupied with cocktail parties, national day celebrations and endless dinner parties. Weekends were often spent in the magnificent Puncak Hills bungalows area, where cool evenings often required a log fire, due to the scenic area’s altitude of five thousand feet.

Coleman easily settled into the swing of the routine and soon enjoyed the self-confidence of an old hand. Local staff warmed to him when they understood that he had taken the time to learn to speak their language prior to his arrival. The drivers joked with Achmad, now Coleman’s warmest admirer, for the rumours he created regarding the new tuan’s Dutch shaped head, incorrectly designating him as a descendant of the former colonial rulers.

Achmad had suffered the embarrassment of their jokes until being requested through the driver pool manager, Sjaiful, to become the new Second Secretary’s permanent driver. He was ecstatic as this removed him from the uncertainty of not only his work hours but also provided him with the opportunity to deal only with a tuan who understood his language. He was so very pleased that evening when, having completed his ritualistic prayers, he prayed also for the health and good fortune of his new tuan who had come from that faraway country of weapons they threw into the sky called kangaroos and cuddly little bears they called dingo. He knew all of this as he had listened to the other tuans and their njonjas discussing such things and laughing, happily about their country with its strange habits and practices. Although culturally confused, he was a good driver.

Achmad’s position in the world improved overnight.

Ah, he had thought, he must ensure that his children have his advantage of understanding a second language!

Direct communication permitted Coleman access to government circles never before open to the monolingual embassy personnel. His willingness to assist others soon endeared him to the other Embassies for few of their staff could match Coleman’s fluency. His face could be seen at all the major social and diplomatic functions as the Corp Diplomatique suddenly discovered that they could invite senior military and cabinet representatives to their function without fear of their being left out of the conversations.

It was at such a function Coleman first met Louise. Embassy functions were not designed to entertain. More so, these events were orchestrated to continue to highlight both one’s country’s and one’s own presence on the cocktail circuit. Most parties commenced at the evening hour of six-thirty and rarely continued for more than two hours. Dress was normally formal and it was obligatory that all members of the host Embassy attend the Ambassador’s residence where the functions were normally held.

Coleman had dressed slowly to avoid perspiration spots. He just could not get used to the depressing heat! The black tie and cummerbund made him feel self-conscious when he was first required to wear the dress suit but now, his confidence was such, the thought of wearing the Singapore tailored outfit made him feel more presentable. During his first formal reception not long after his arrival, he had discovered that almost without exception the other male guests were as uncomfortable as he in the tropical heat wearing the white dinner jackets, and yet they all persevered with the inappropriate attire just because of tradition.

Most of the time, the talk at these functions was mundane. One woman would complain of boredom, poor servants, bad stomachs and the heat while another would compete with stories of rashes, cockroaches and petty theft amongst the servants. The men bragged of their latest excursions to Mama’s Bar where they drank hot Bir Bintang and paid the equivalent of thirty cents for a short time hooker out in the rear toilets.

Coleman soon discovered that eating the paté de fois was dangerous at these events. He restricted his diet to the occasional chicken saté as the electricity, and therefore the refrigeration, was not completely reliable.

He viewed the assembly which, as the alcohol took effect, appeared more like a flock of penguins gathering than the elite of the diplomatic establishment. It was Australia Day. Unfortunately, it was also the Indian National Day but tradition had it so that the Indian Ambassador would first attend the Australian function and delay the commencement of his own so as not to draw upon each others’ common guests.

He was bored. Even the champagne was warm and he found himself restless. He was about to refuse yet another glass from the attentive jongus and leave when he saw her moving through the garden towards the steps.

She was wearing a full length white evening gown and her blonde hair was cut just above her suntanned shoulders. Lifting the hem of her dress between thumb and forefinger, and with very little effort, she covered the four steps back into the crowded, hot and noisy main reception hall.

Coleman removed two glasses from the waiter’s tray and stepped into her path.

“I think you may have misplaced this,” he said, holding one of the glasses towards the young woman.

She stopped. Casually casting her eyes over the now noisy gathering she returned her gaze to Stephen.

“Thank you,” she smiled in response, accepting the flute. “I knew I’d left it here somewhere.”

Stephen was surprised to see an unattached and yet attractive European alone. Especially one as beautiful as this!

“Coleman. Stephen Coleman,” he offered.

“Louise,” she answered, “and thank you for the champagne.”

“Would you prefer to move away from the crowd? It’s safe, I can assure you,” Stephen offered, indicating an area in the corner garden.

She hesitated and then turned without speaking, leading the way back down the steps to the fountain and impeccably maintained garden. Raising her glass she said, “Saluté, Coleman, your timing was perfect!”

Stephen laughed and touching her glass with his own, paused momentarily to observe her place the crystal glass to her lips and sip the champagne before he followed, drinking the flute dry.

“Well,” she teased, “you’re either from the liquor suppliers or very thirsty,” referring to the speed at which he had consumed his drink.

“No such luck, I’m afraid. Just a thirsty civil servant,” he joked, feeling the alcohol working its wonders as he stood there bewitched by this beautiful woman, her fragrance more intoxicating than the wine he had consumed.

“Well, civil man, how would you like to be my servant and take me away from all of this?” she bantered, tossing her hair with her left hand while flashing impeccable teeth.

Stephen admired her beauty as she stood there, the party lights playing tricks with the colour of her fair hair and golden skin. She was immaculately dressed, her make-up highlighting her beautiful features. Taking her by the hand, he led the way through the now inebriated mass of diplomats and the portals of the white-columned entrance.

Always alert, Achmad spotted his tuan and soon had them both in the Holden speeding away from the celebrations. He was almost as excited as his boss that the beautiful woman now sat in the rear of the vehicle with her head on his tuan ’s shoulder.

There had never been any question that they would make love. She had opened her apartment, and within moments had disrobed standing naked in the room as if it were quite natural to do so. Coleman had followed — an urgency now taking charge as he held her, feeling her warmth and then her hands slowly stroking, encouraging him to the floor as she dominated the love play.

He felt his heart thumping as his body moved in concert with the slim soft stomach and firm breasts on top of him. Her perfume permeated the air and, as she called encouragingly he found his body moving to her commands, moaning together as they held each other tightly until the waves of muscular spasms urged by her orgasm caused him to ejaculate, draining his energy in total. She took his hand and slowly kissed his fingers, then his palms, his wrists and finally his mouth until he clung to her body passionately, unable to respond any more through sheer exhaustion.

They rested together, in a lovers’ embrace, oblivious to the outside world. He dreamed. It was a peaceful dream and when he awoke he was totally rested. Coleman lay on his back savouring the clove cigarette. Louise’s radio clock had turned itself on and he rested in the double bed listening to the Voice of America’s music segment. He found himself humming along with Buddy Holly’s ‘Heartbeat’ although he didn’t know the words. He was happy! And as the song continued, he hummed, “why do you skip when my baby kisses me?”

Totally relaxed, at peace, and resisting the floating sensation merging on drowsiness he’d rarely experienced after previous sexual encounters, he smiled as he dragged on the sweet cigarette. This nothingness, this lack of ‘afterglow’ should have a word more descriptive of how he felt, he mused. His lips compressed into a thin smile as he mentally envisaged a definition for this lack-luster feeling. They smoked marijuana; his first. And now he was suffering from post-coital depression.

He laughed. He turned his head just enough to observe her beautiful body, the soft lines of her milk white breasts and pink aureoles dominated by the tiny nipples standing lazily overlooking the lines falling away to the firm stomach and shapely thighs. He remembered the warmth of her tongue and the shuddering spasms which followed. They spent the entire weekend together, making love, sitting on the large cushions which lay carelessly thrown onto the floor over the broadloom carpet, listening to her collection of LPs and cooking for themselves while Louise’s two servants looked on in dismay.

She played the guitar and sang, and when Stephen had tried to accompany her she threw the smaller cushions at him, pulling a childish face while mocking his poor voice. They wrestled and they showered together (Louise insisted that the two of them just couldn’t squeeze into the bath!) and Stephen taught her how to play Five-Hundred, a card game he had picked up back in his boarding school days.

Late on Sunday evening as the unfinished bottle of Medoc stood on the floor, accompanied by two partially finished glasses of the soft red wine, Louise suddenly leaped to her feet and ran into the bathroom where she stayed until Stephen could coax her out. He knew exactly how she felt. As the weekend came to a close it was as if each would lose something extremely precious that they had shared together.

He held her closely in his arms and whispered to her until the tension of the moment was broken, and he tried to sing the Johnny Horton ballad she loved, softly into her ear. She collapsed to the floor laughing and then he knew they would be all right. They were in love. And neither wanted to say it for fear that they would break the spell.

Louise asked him to leave before morning. He didn’t understand but he unhappily agreed to her wishes, leaving the apartment compound where she was billeted in search of a becak to take him home. To his amazement, Achmad was standing outside beside the Holden with a broad grin on his face.

“Selamat pagi, tuan,” he said, pulling the rear door of the sedan open for the young foreigner.

“Ya, selamat pagi, Achmad,” Coleman responded, alerting the driver to the fact that he was not all that happy to be going home.

Monday was hell in the office. Everybody wanted him for something or other. He phoned her office before lunch and then again late in the afternoon. He had left several messages for her before leaving for an official visit to Medan. When he returned he was disappointed to discover that there had been no reply at all.

The second week dragged slowly and Coleman felt that had Louise really wanted to respond she would have returned his calls. He was depressed. A few more weeks passed and he decided to get on with his work and, if necessary, put the affair quickly behind him. He tried, unsuccessfully, as Louise totally dominated his thoughts. Stephen had been required to attend yet another reception. He was averaging more than five per week due to his linguistic skills and was becoming more than a little testy with the over-demand on his time. He understood the cause of his moody behaviour and was determined to put her out of his mind, once and for all.

The evening had commenced well. He had accompanied the Ambassador’s wife to the function at her request as she despised being alone and admired the young Coleman’s knowledge of the local people. Her husband had been unable to return from Pontianak on time as the aircraft was grounded with engine trouble leaving his wife to carry on to represent them both.

Actually, she was quite pleased. Normally she found these cocktail parties as boring as hell but never indicated to those around her that she felt so. Tonight she would not be obliged to stand behind or to the side of her vociferous husband and listen to him carry on about the Commonwealth’s interests being eroded in this hemisphere or how that man in Singapore was really a Communist, and so on.

Stephen held her by the elbow as he escorted her up the few steps to the formal reception line. He had developed considerable social skills and, dressed in his white jacket, attracted more than one second look from the ladies, most of whom were married and led very dull lives. The reception had been under way for just a short time when he spotted her. The other guests were moving around quickly, almost in a frenzy, snapping up the hors d’ouvres before the fresh Sydney rock oysters all disappeared. It had been quite a culinary coup for the New Zealand Ambassador to have a visiting RNZAF Hercules crew bring the ice packed shellfish on their visit in time for his function.

Peering over the heads of the crowded room he could see her standing talking to an Indonesian officer. He sauntered over to join in their conversation. As he approached, Louise’s blue eyes sparkled as they had that first night they’d met and when he heard the soft laugh he felt the fist grab at his stomach. He moved in closer to them and was about to say ‘Why the hell didn’t you answer my calls,’ when their eyes met and he instantly felt foolish.

“Selamat malam, Bapak Seda,” was all he could muster, hoping at least his use of the language would impress her.

“Good evening, Mr Coleman,” the general replied in English as a courtesy to the young lady. “Have you met Miss Louise?”

“Yes, sir, I’m pleased to say,” he acknowledged adding “but I was not sure that at the time I hadn’t been dreaming.”

The general looked at them both quizzically not understanding the connotation as the beautiful young woman flushed red with embarrassment. Louise regained her composure almost immediately and asked, “So, you are friends with General Seda?”

Coleman looked distantly into her eyes. Why hadn’t she returned my calls he wondered? “We have met once or twice,” Seda replied before Coleman could. “Then I am sure you will have something to discuss. Please excuse me,” she said, smiling at the officer and quickly leaving to speak to another group she had spotted near the temporary bar.

Seda took mental note of the mild social skirmish and then he too excused himself leaving Coleman feeling like some disbeliever who had just been discovered in the midst of a holy gathering.

He headed for the bar and not finding Louise, settled down to enjoy the champagne.

Stephen did not go unobserved as he downed the Moet, too quickly, the bubbles forming an airlock in his throat. Louise stared at him, with mixed emotions, from the far side of the room while the Timorese casually observed them both. He reached for another glass from the silver serving tray as the jongus passed by. The house servants were always careful to ensure that this man always had their attention for more often than not, his presence in a household inevitably meant that the domestic staff were in trouble as he was the man who could speak their language and they knew they should watch him carefully.

Nathan considered the smartly dressed Australian. His dossier had been completed with additional input from Albert. He had identified some reluctance from his stepbrother when pushed for the information but eventually the data had flowed through. Nathan was surprised with his brother’s glowing report and footnote concerning their apparent friendship. Albert had emphasized that his relationship with Nathan had never been disclosed.

Nathan had smiled when he read this annotation. Albert was no fool as he obviously realized the consequences that such disclosure would have brought to them both. Nathan’s dedication had earned him the coveted star on his shoulder bringing him to the Attaché Corp’s attention immediately. His job function under the newly reorganized HANKAM was described as Intelligence Protocol. This enabled Nathan to mix with the foreigners easily. His English was poor as he had forgotten most of what he had learned under the priests. To his delight, conversing with this new Information Attaché Coleman was, indeed, a pleasure.

Believing that he had inadvertently caught the young man’s eye, he signalled. Coleman noticed Brigadier General Seda’s wave and he returned the gesture. The General had been particularly helpful with assistance travelling to remote areas which still required military escort. Central Java and a few of the outlying provinces were unsafe for foreigners. In diplomatic terms this indicated that the Central Government was still mopping up some of the so called communist remnants in those areas.

Coleman had witnessed the execution of one hundred and twenty seven peasants near a small kampung in the Blitar region. The Captain responsible for the turkey shoot proudly paraded some fifteen rifles, the total armoury captured, hoping the representative of the Australian News and Information Bureau would congratulate him, perhaps even send photographs of this heroic soldier to Australia for inclusion in the newspapers.

There it would be picked up by Antara and perhaps included in the Armed Forces News. This would result in a rapid promotion for the cowboy Captain. Coleman understood this dangerous mentality and used it to improve his own position. Coleman praised the Captain, his men and their efforts to assist eradicate Communism. At first Coleman felt disappointed with himself for the hypocrite he had become. As the months passed and the horror of what had occurred in this beautiful country became apparent even he developed an affinity towards the hundreds of thousands of innocent victims who had been imprisoned on islands such as Pulau Buru and Nusa Kambangan. Rehabilitation camps appeared throughout the country and virtually a million men, women and children were ‘re- indoctrinated’ into the Panca Sila way of life.

Along a dusty mountain track south of Blitar Coleman was disgusted to see pre-school children being instructed in the ways of the New Order, the Orda Baru . As his four wheel drive Toyota passed the newly erected kampung huts, row after row of little children were forced to stand with their right arms raised in a Hitlerstyle salute, yelling Merdeka! Freedom! in unison. These were the orphaned children of executed communists and it was here that the New Order practised its grass roots policy of indoctrination.

The sins of the fathers . He remembered the text from his boarding school days when at least two hours each week were dedicated to the scriptures.

Although Coleman realized he was becoming drunk he decided that another drink would give him something to do with his hands. He heard his name being called and turned towards the guest responsible.

“Ah, there you are Coleman,” called the British Ambassador. “I wonder if you would mind interpreting for me for a moment old chap.” Coleman disliked this Ambassador intensely. He was, at best, extremely patronizing and excessively colonial in nature and, in Coleman’s view, a poor choice to send to this country.

“Not at all Ambassador. To whom do you wish to speak?”

“Why, this chap here of course,” announced the gnome-like figure of Maxwell Westaway, in his deepest baritone, indicating the Asian figure to his left.

The object of the Ambassador’s attention stiffened and turned to avoid what could presently become an unpleasant incident caused by the obnoxious diplomat. The British Ambassador would not be thwarted and he grabbed the man’s arm.

“Just a moment old fellow, I would like to ask you something. This chap here speaks your lingo so don’t run away.” Ambassador Westaway had, by this time, secured the embarrassed Asian with his left hand while gesturing for Coleman to approach closer and assist with the dialogue.

“Coleman, be a good fellow and ask this chap if he had that dinner jacket made here or in Singapore. I’ll bet it’s a Singaporean product if ever I’ve seen one. Very stylish. Very stylish indeed.”

The Asian gentleman diplomatically checked his anger over the Ambassador’s obvious lack of finesse but the glint in his eyes suggested that he intended scoring off the pudgy British Queen’s representative.

Turning to Coleman the Malaysian First Secretary asked in his own language, “Are there very many more like him in Jakarta? My name is Ali bin Noor and I am the new First Secretary at the Malaysian Embassy. I overheard you speaking to our Ambassador in Bahasa Indonesia and I must admit, I’m impressed. Do you have difficulty with the slight differences in our two languages?”

Coleman played the game.

“I should apologize for the Ambassador. He is the epitome of the sort of racially bigoted Englishman even we Australians have come to despise.”

The Malaysian smiled and shook Coleman’s hand warmly. He then turned to the Ambassador and announced, in precise English, “Actually, I purchased the jacket in London. If you wish, Mr Ambassador, I would be only too pleased to phone my wife in Kuala Lumpur and ask her to send the address to you.” Smiling broadly, he then excused himself winking to Coleman as he passed behind the embarrassed diplomat.

Brigadier General Seda had overheard the exchange and he too winked at Coleman. He approached the Australian and assisted his escape from the now visibly furious ambassador. They conversed in Indonesian. “ Mas Stephen, I have something I wish to discuss with you.”

Cautiously blended with the correct tone of respect Coleman replied. “Pak Jenderal how may I be of service to you? ”

“I have observed you and am pleased that you show simpati towards my country. One day you may need friends who are able to assist you for it seems that you are a good man. It also appears that you are not so adept at making friends amongst your own?”

It really was not a question that required an answer. The General continued.

“There are those in positions of strength who could be of assistance to you should the need arise. Everyone needs friends, some more than others. ”

“Does the Jenderal include himself as one of those who may wish to assist if the need arises?” Coleman was not sure which way this conversation was heading however he intended playing the game through.

“Yes. In particular ... .” the General hesitated, and then decided to change his approach. “The request I have really is just an idea. You speak our language so well whilst we have great difficulty with the English speaking foreigners. Watching you tonight I though what an opportunity we have for you to assist us with our English speaking courses. What do you say, Mas, would you help with some of that spare time I hear you foreign visitors have so much of here in Jakarta? ”

Coleman was conscious that the request was not necessarily being made for the General. He decided to play along, accept the challenge as he could always drop out, if it became too involved.

“Yes, of course, I would be pleased to participate in such a program. Why don’t we discuss it formally, next week?”

“No. I don’t think so. I would prefer an informal discussion to define the possible areas of cooperation before proceeding to an official level.”

Coleman now knew he was entering dangerous ground. Informal discussions could easily be misconstrued.

“Perhaps then, if you would provide me with the opportunity I could visit you in your office Pak Jenderal”

“Bagus !” he replied. “Let’s leave it at that for the time being. I will arrange for a meeting next week.”

Satisfied that they had concluded their arrangements both men continued with small talk until eventually drifting into separate groups. Coleman felt uneasy with the General’s oblique approach. He gave no more thought to the discussion and, considering the possibility of the protocol soldier’s motives being not what they seemed, he decided as a precaution to report the incident directly to Canberra in his weekly report. He returned to the bar having strolled around the remaining guests looking for Louise. Where could she have gone?

Coleman was confused and angry that she had ignored him. He couldn’t understand her attitude as he knew he’d done nothing to upset her! He remained at the bar, drinking heavily. He could vaguely remember one of the other guests suggesting he’d had enough. Each time the tuan’s glass was empty the jongus refilled it quickly. Finally, somebody took him home but when he awoke in the early hours of the morning in the unfamiliar room he realized instantly the stupidity of his actions.

In the darkness the Ambassador’s wife moaned and rolled towards him. Naked, her breath foul from the cigarettes and far too many Jack Daniels, Coleman’s eyes opened wide with surprise as he saw the white mound edging towards him. Quietly, he crawled out of her bed, dressed quickly and searched for the security gate. The old man dressed in his white safari jacket, proudly displaying the gold buttons with the Australian crest, pretended not to notice as Coleman slipped past him into the night. He stood outside under the ageing elms, feeling foolish, dressed in his tuxedo at three o’clock in the morning on a deserted street.

Achmad, of course, was nowhere to be seen as the previous evening Stephen had had the benefit of theAmbassador’s limousine. And, apparently, also his wife!

He walked to the corner and woke one of the sleeping becak drivers to take him home to his own bed. He needed more sleep. His body was already sending him alarm signals over the abuse he had heaped upon it. Still partially drunk, his anxious house-boy helped the swaying tuan into the bedroom. Exhausted, he kicked off his shoes, removed most of his clothes and dropped onto the bed.

He’d had difficulty at first, drifting off to sleep, the ceiling spinning slowly and even when he closed his eyes he still imagined the nauseating motion through his eyelids. When he finally succumbed Stephen dreamed he had been pushed into a kali by a beautiful naked blonde who laughed as he was slowly being sucked down in the stream’s filthy quagmire.

The dream was confused with others also laughing as soldiers threw bodies of children into the canal while Albert stood high on the embankment sagely shaking his head at Coleman’s futile efforts to retrieve the bodies and throw them back to safety. Occasionally he succeeded, only to have the children scream as they were again bundled back into the cesspool. A tall soldier, his uniform covered in blood stood yelling at Coleman to do his duty and teach the children the words in English so that the soldiers could understand that they really did not want to die thereby saving them from his stupidity.

As he groaned and cried out in his sleep the house-boy banged on his tuan’s door. He feared that something dreadful had happened to his master. Coleman was partially conscious of the pounding on the door but believed it part of his nightmare until finally, he awoke, crying out, his body smothered in sweat in the cold air-conditioned bedroom.

Sukardi, the jongus, raced into the room to help the young tuan .

“Tuan, tuan, ada apa? What is it tuan?” screamed the house-boy now feeling the terror in the room.

Perhaps the tuan had been bitten by a krait ! No! That is preposterous he admonished himself. How could a snake enter his master’s bed when he himself just hours before had prepared the room?

“Tuan, tuan, please tell me what it is that is wrong with you ,” he pleaded.

As his master’s consciousness returned ‘Kardi put his arm around the younger man’s shoulders assisting him out of bed.

“Maaf tuan, maaf tuan,” the servant apologized for placing his hands on the tuan . No sooner had Coleman regained consciousness than he doubled forward as the sharp stabbing pain ran down through his lower abdomen signalling the cause of both the nightmare and the screaming. Coleman had been initiated with his first attack of Soekarno’s revenge.

As a result of this illness and its debilitating effect both physically and psychologically, the concerns he’d felt for General Seda’s obvious attempt to recruit him and the guilt of spending part of the night in another man’s bed diminished with the days, as he lay listlessly in bed recuperating from what he hoped would be his last encounter with the dreaded disease.

He had made a mental note to discuss his interpretation of the General’s approach with one of the Military Attachés when the opportunity arose once back at his desk. His real concern was what his reception would be back in the Embassy considering his blatant indiscretion. And, of course, his career!

One very long week passed slowly and, lighter but now stronger, Stephen returned to work. He’d tried to contact Louise from his home to see if she would accept his call to discuss whatever it was she seemed to have on her mind, and obviously the cause for her behaviour towards him at the party.

The Embassy operator was impatient with his insistence that the call was extremely important. He insisted that she connect him to her extension. Finally, after numerous attempts, he was informed that Louise had been very specific in her request to the switchboard. They were not to accept any of his calls. That was it, then! He decided he couldn’t understand her attitude — at least she could accept just one call to explain her position. He was deeply disappointed and became even more depressed.

Fortunately, the incident involving the Head of Mission’s wife became more of a joke around the Chancery than an impediment to Stephen’s career. Straight-laced Dicky had waddled past him during the early days when the rumour mill was in full swing, and merely ‘tch-tched’ him indicating his disapproval of the indiscretion. He had no idea how the gossip managed to spread as quickly as it did but, by his second day back at work it was obvious that he’d become the centre of attention within the Embassy’s community.

The clearest signal was when he entered the main office area and all conversation ceased, the men with knowing smirks while the women looked at Stephen, almost with admiration. He had stood in the centre of the office and with a sombre voice and hands up-raised had said, “Not guilty,” and left it at that. Unbeknown to the young attaché, the Ambassador’s wife was responsible for the story travelling at such speed as she blatantly admitted having the romp with Stephen, during the weekly tea session all the Embassy wives attended.

Exaggerating the brief encounter, describing his sexual prowess directly from her vivid imagination some of the younger ladies had giggled nervously, one spilling her tea, while others laughed at her rendition of how eventually she had cried ‘enough, enough,’ and dispatched him on his way before he completely wore her out!

Stephen would have been very uncomfortable had he known that many of the looks he now received from the opposite sex were, in fact, an appraisal of the good looking man and curiosity as to whether his ‘one-nighter’ with madame was as sexually extravagant as she had insisted. He knew that if he could get through the following days without any clear indication that his career was to suffer then, by all accounts, he believed that the story had not and would not reach the Ambassador’s ears and perhaps then his future would not be jeopardized by the foolish error in judgment.

Brigadier General Seda arrived home and elected to work in his study until his wife decided to sleep. She was heavily pregnant and the soldier found her condition sexually repugnant. As a Christian he had only one wife whilst his Moslem peers sported as many as four wives and numerous cewek on the side.

He had married a Javanese hoping his Timorese heritage could somehow be overlooked by his superiors. Divorcing her would be out of the question unless he could find a woman whose family could influence his career to his advantage. Perhaps he should be satisfied with an occasional visit away.

Bandung — now there was the ideal opportunity for a man who had needs! The city boasted a major divisional headquarters and was literally over-run with poor young ladies financing themselves through school. He considered the options and decided he may invite the young Australian to accompany him on such a visit. He reflected on their casual but pointed conversation; however he remembered that, at the time, the Attache’s attention had been somewhat distracted by the attractive American. He made a mental note to obtain further information on her, also. Seda was determined to move slowly with the embassy officer as he had detected the reluctance to meet privately when discussing the possible mutual advantages of cooperating together.

Control was important to the General. Although his salary was officially equivalent to only a few dollars each month, his position in the community provided access to the business sector which could not operate without the assistance of senior military personnel, such as he. The more important consideration was, however, to gain control over General Sudomo’s slush funds, acquiring control of the clandestine operational accounts which, reportedly, ran into millions of dollars each month. He desperately needed access to these funds if he was to survive and grow. To build a clandestine power base required money, and he knew it was only a matter of being patient before he had the key.

The tall Timorese undressed then showered. Without reflecting further on these matters he slipped quietly into bed, cautious not to awaken his wife.

Indrawati, his wife, legs curled up so that her knees touched her enormous belly smiled contentedly. Her husband had returned home. How considerate he was not to awaken her and demand his rights! She imagined the other wives were envious. Her husband was handsome. She was an only wife. The first wife of a General!

She was pregnant. She was happy, deliriously happy. Tomorrow she would insist he couple with her as she understood only too well the dangers of an unserviced husband. That would surely please him, she decided, as he had not had many opportunities these past few months.

The room was not air-conditioned. The still, musty air, slowed their breathing. Had Seda’s wife had any insight into her husband’s covert activities which were so secret that even his superiors had no information regarding his machinations then, in all probability, Indrawati would have delivered her child there and then. Seda was building his network He was now a very dangerous man. Totally oblivious to each other’s thoughts, their minds drifted until they finally achieved a deep, comforting sleep.

BAKIN — Jakarta

Another year passed quickly. The city changed dramatically whilst in the villages the people had already put most of the horrifying past behind them. There had been tears and recriminations but nothing had really changed. The peasants still rose with the first rays of the sun and worked until exhausted from the day’s physical toil, returning to their village huts to sleep only to awaken the next day and do it all over again with monotonous regularity.

Nathan Seda was pleased with his new appointment. General Sudomo had passed away, creating the opportunity for the ambitious and still relatively young soldier to tentatively occupy the sensitive post.

He had followed the career of the American, Hoover, and emulated some of this powerful man’s control over others by developing an information base regarding their personal activities. Since the abortive coup attempt he had ensconced himself solidly within military as well as political circles.

Many of the former military officers had retired or passed away. Some were dispatched overseas as Ambassadors. A number still remained under detention for their part in the abortive coup or their affiliations with Communist elements or sympathizers. Some just had the misfortune to be in the path of another more ambitious player resulting in their disappearance or secret incarceration until whatever they had or knew had been surrendered. His star was rapidly on the ascent.

Military Attachés frequently wrote reports advising their respective Governments that Seda, although neither Javanese nor a Moslem, should be considered to be an integral part of the nation’s New Order and not to be underestimated. He was well received amongst the Corps Diplomatique . He often assisted facilitate access to senior government officials and generally presented himself as a loyal, intelligent, and dedicated officer with no apparent political aspirations. His youth was not considered a handicap.

Even the Chief-of-Air-Staff and Minister for Air, Laksamana Madya Roesmin Nuryadin had been appointed by the President at the incredibly young age of thirty-eight! Informed sources suggested that Seda had not only slipped into Sudomo’s chair but had also succeeded in accessing the funds used by the intelligent services for their clandestine activities.

The Indonesian counterpart to the Central Intelligence Agency occupied a prominent complex of buildings at the southern end of Jalan Jenderal Sudirman. This organization, BAKIN, Badan Koordinasi Intelijen , received more than adequate funding for the many nefarious activities considered essential to the nation’s security.

Seda relished this position of power. He had finally accessed the enormous amount of capital previously hidden away by his predecessor. The funds at his disposal were even more substantial than he had envisaged! Now he could build and develop his plan. He was secure.

There was virtually no financial reporting as the Ministry of Finance was under civilian control and, providing he spread sufficient funds around in the correct quarters, there would be no questions to answer as he now dispersed these funds. All of his predecessor’s aides and administrative support staff were either posted to other commands or pensioned off to ensure positions for his own people.

He had both the Sudomo watchdogs ordered to Irian Jaya where they suffered, at his request, before the tribesman removed their heads. He had set about initiating a special operations team responsible for highly sensitive duties and it was at the head of this team that he appointed Captain Umar Suharjo.

Even in the BAKIN building there were whispers regarding this silent unsmiling Javanese whose past career details remained vague. He was a man to be avoided and the more hardened amongst their number did so, willingly, as the soldier’s cold almost blank eyes could penetrate in the most chilling manner. Some said that he had been trained in a special camp; others declared that he had served in the anti-Communist sweep which accounted for several hundred thousand dead during the post abortive coup clean-up campaign. Whatever was said or whispered, there was, in fact, no accurate data relating to the Captain’s past.

Only Seda had the key. The man would disappear for weeks at a time and no one dared inquire as to his whereabouts. Suharjo was Seda’s secret coordinator, bag-man, go-between and, on occasions, executioner. He had killed so called enemies of the State, blackmailed members of the government and even orchestrated the recent demise of one of the other BAKIN operatives who accidentally discovered information dangerous to both himself and Bapak Seda.

He never questioned his instructions. He received his orders directly from the General. His life was simple, uncomplicated, and suited his talents. He had no family and no friends. Just the General. He never questioned his superior’s instructions. He did not care. He had become the perfect soldier.

And he belonged to the Timor man.