Читать книгу Cut to the Chase - Ray CW Scott - Страница 8

It was very hot as Wallace booked into the Ming Court Hotel in Singapore, the heat seemed to shimmer from the pavement and hit with a sledgehammer. His bags were collected and taken up in the lift by a porter, and not for the first time he marvelled at the “No Tipping Allowed” sign. It made a refreshing change from avaricious London taxi drivers and virtually everyone who offered a personal service in the United States.

He revelled in the luxury of a shower and then set to work on his presentation. He was determined that this one was going to be a good one, one of his best, because he knew there would be a few in the audience that he knew from his days in the industry. Laurie Frazer called when he was finishing the second run through; Wallace was pleasantly surprised to see him in Singapore.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’ Wallace asked.

‘I didn’t know myself,’ Frazer replied. ‘My boss was called away to London at the last minute and it seemed pointless wasting the air ticket.’

Wallace went over later to the Convention Centre to check everything, he knew from bitter experience that it paid to check everything. Taking other people’s word for it that everything was in working order was a short cut to disaster.

He discovered that there was no spare light globe for the overhead projector so he asked the head porter to obtain two spares. The porter looked blank and clearly didn’t know what Wallace was talking about, and when he did he had no idea where there were any spares. So Wallace went out into the nearest shopping centre and purchased two, taking care to slip them into his shirt pocket, avoiding the side pockets of trousers or jacket. He had lost light globes like that before when placing a hip against a stiff door to open it.

He had a few drinks with Laurie Frazer that night plus two of his cronies who had arrived by the afternoon flight. From their conversation the current insurance industry in Australia did not inspire confidence, far too many companies servicing too few people.

‘If we had a population twice our size we’d be OK,’ lamented Dick Prowse, a manager from the Renown Fire & General.

‘If we had a population twice our size we’d be starving and dying of thirst,’ retorted Laurie.

They went around the town and had a rickshaw ride in the stifling heat, though there was a pleasant breeze as dusk fell. They visited the Raffles Bar and finally returned to the hotel the worse for wear.

Wallace gave the presentation another run through and manipulated the overhead projector slides. This was useful as he found two of them had got out of order. He found that his diction was slurring a little, so he ran through it again and pronounced himself satisfied. Then he turned in at 1.00 am.

The meeting was in session when Wallace arrived at the Convention Centre, this was the morning session and there would then be lunch followed by his own presentation. There was a separate room allocated for visiting performers, there had been a Chinese comedian at dinner the previous evening. Wallace was somewhat intrigued to know what direction the humour of a Chinese comedian would take, and resolved to ask Laurie later.

Wallace was placed between the President and the Past-President, and had to agree with Laurie that the latter would definitely have been associated with the original edition of the offending cartoon and was thankful he had altered it.

‘I gather that there are some problems within the insurance profession,’ Wallace said to the President as a conversation starter.

‘Yes, we are presently having difficulties, in Victoria in particular, with the collapse of a large insurer,’ said the President. ‘They had been undercutting for years which affected all of us as we had to cut rates to obtain new business or save some business connections, now they have gone we have a period of adjustment. We’ve also had severe bush fires that encroached upon some suburban areas last year. There are other factors of course.’

‘I heard about an insurer that collapsed when somebody embezzled most of its funds.’

The President nodded.

‘There was also the case of another UK company where someone bought the Australian branch but it collapsed shortly afterwards. Both of these discrepancies occurred some years ago now. Regrettably there have been other cases, they have not helped the industry at all.’

The conversation moved onto Wallace’s presentation, he was feeling nervous, as he usually did prior to a presentation, and began to perspire. The screen was not in view but was behind the curtain on the stage. The overhead projector was in sight and – as at 8.00 am – worked all right. He checked in his pockets for the spare light globes, they were still there.

There were many faces in the audience that were clearly from the local scene, and some that were from Indonesia and the Philippines. Wallace was not sure whether these countries had private insurance industries or whether the business was run by the state so he asked the question.

When the meal was finished and the coffee cups were in evidence, the President rose to his feet.

‘Could we ask you to vacate the room, gentlemen and re-convene at 2.30? This will give time for the furniture to be shuffled around and the room prepared for the presentation to be delivered by Mr Wallace.’

As Wallace entered the bar of the hotel later that night he felt as if he were walking on air. After the presentation people had come up to shake him by the hand and congratulate him upon a job well done. As he stood at the bar, and later when seated at a table quaffing drinks with Laurie Frazer, Dick Prowse and others, people sought him out and made kind remarks about the delivery and presentation.

Everything had gone well and in the main the jokes had gone down well – apart from one which he had hastily slurred over when it was clear that laughter was not forthcoming. This happened in most presentations, that joke or aside that had brought the house down the last time could fall like a lead balloon the next. As the French would say, spreading their hands out in Gallic resignation: – c’est la vie!

Wallace was royally entertained until late that night, when he finally turned in he slept the sleep of satisfaction that is only born of a task well done.

It was hot and sultry when Wallace disembarked at Jakarta, even hotter than it had been in Singapore. He decided to take a taxi to the hotel. If ASIO or ASIS was going to hire his services then they could pay for the privilege. He was beginning to entertain feelings of dissatisfaction with Bramble, although these jobs were simple and were little more than messenger drops or pick ups, there was always the fear at the back of his mind of being apprehended. He had never forgotten the case of GrevilleWynn, a businessman who had carried out odd jobs of a similar nature for MI 6 when he went overseas on trade assignments. He had carried out one job too many and had been arrested at a trade exhibition. He finished up in the Lubyanka Prison for a lengthy term until he was eventually swapped for some Soviet agent M.I.5 had previously apprehended and jailed.

He told the driver to head for the Hotel Indonesia and settled back in the rear seat. Bramble had told Wallace to call in at the Australian Embassy, a natural enough place to call if he was in the city on business. He had been told to book an appointment with a local Jakarta agency who would allocate an assignment that would assist contact with their courier. It was best that the assignment came from an outside agency even if it was pre-ordained, the embassy did not wish to be directly involved. At the embassy Wallace was to see the Military Attaché who would brief him as to what was expected.

As the cab threaded its way through the streets he was struck by the vast numbers of people, the streets and pavements seemed to be packed with humanity. He was also aware of a slight smell of rotting vegetation. The grandfather of one of his colleagues had visited Jakarta many years before; he had said that the smell had reminded him of the stench of the trenches of the First World War. After many years it was far better now, but Wallace could see what he had meant.

The areas passed through were a mixture of high rise buildings and shanty town, not unlike Singapore where modern developments were banishing the old style buildings that had been there for centuries. That the new architecture was interesting there was no doubt, and similar edifices could be seen anywhere from Paris, Sydney, New York and London.

The cab finally entered the centre of the city and pulled up outside an impressive building with a glass facade. Wallace clambered out onto the pavement and superintended the dumping of luggage at the feet of the porter, handed the cabbie a note which he accepted and then drove off with a crash of gears before there was any question of giving change. The cases were loaded onto a trolley and were forced through to what appeared to be crowds of pedestrians to reach the front entrance.

‘Wallace,’ he said tersely to reception, they ticked off his name and the porter was handed a room key, they entered the nearest lift and went up to the 9th floor.

The room was good, maybe better than the room recently vacated in Singapore. Wallace resolved to eat meals within the hotel as he had no wish to contract the Jakarta Dribbles because of unwise eating. He remembered Clive Passay, an old friend who made frequent trips overseas servicing boilers, saying that in foreign climes one ate only in the best places, and even then one was not immune. Diarrhoea and Jakarta, he alleged, were synonymous and if troubles of that nature were contracted the best policy was not to cough or sneeze. Happiness, as Clive remarked on his return from one of his various overseas trips, was a dry fart!

He decided to defer the visit to the Australian Embassy until the next day, and took a stroll through the city streets, starting his wanderings at 7.30 pm after finishing the evening meal and soon could feel the perspiration beginning to soak into his shirt.

He walked around the shopping centre, taking care not to loiter too long at any one particular shop or stall, not being in the mood for being accosted and touted by over excitable shop-keepers. He was looked upon as fair game by a few touters; one fellow simply would not let up and actually followed him around the corner as he sought safety in flight. Wallace assumed he was near to his closing time and wanted one last customer before placing the shutters up for the night.

Wallace stayed within the main streets that were well lit, he wasn’t sure of the prevalence of mugging in Jakarta streets but saw no point in not taking precautions. That was no reflection upon the Indonesian citizenry, when walking around at night he would have done the same in Sydney, London or Melbourne.

A cool breeze began to ruffle his shirt as time crept on and the sun disappeared over the horizon, yet the numbers of people in the streets was undiminished. This was another factor that had struck Clive Passay. He said that whatever the time of day or night the streets were still bustling with people.

He paused on the way back to the hotel and looked behind him. Perhaps it was thoughts of the fate of GrevilleWynn that had made him uneasy – and again he silently cursed Bramble.

The fee of $3,000 also caused some unease, it was more than he had ever been paid before and was far higher than the fee expected.

His eyes flickered over the pedestrians behind and around him, but there appeared to be nobody who could have been watching him. There were so many that it was difficult to pick out anyone who could have been designated as a possible shadower. But why should anyone be shadowing him? He had merely arrived as a tourist with a legitimate business appointment tomorrow afternoon.

‘I have come to see Major Lincoln.’

‘Is he expecting you, Mr…er…Wallace?’

‘Yes,’ Wallace answered shortly. He had the feeling that the lady receptionist was treating him warily as though he was an Anti-Nuclear, Anti-War or Anti-anything else protester who was likely to start unfolding banners and writing slogans on the embassy walls with a spray can.

‘I can’t see any appointment listed here, what did you…?’

Wallace appreciated that she had to protect her charges against unsolicited interruptions, but he was becoming irritable.

‘If there is any doubt – ask him!’ he said coldly. ‘I have another appointment elsewhere this afternoon and I haven’t much time. I have an appointment with Major Lincoln at 11 o’clock and it is three minutes to eleven now.’

He was aware of heads turning and flushed, he didn’t want every damned domestic cleaner or casual visitor in the place pinpointing him as a visitor to the Military Attaché. There was always the fear that every Embassy cleaner could be a government spy. Was it the Greville-Wynn syndrome again? Or maybe he had read too many espionage novels.

She picked up a telephone and asked the question, while Wallace muttered to himself and wandered over to the window that overlooked the street. The embassy was in a building in a street that intersected one of the main thoroughfares, he found himself looking down a city street that possessed many tall edifices of glass and concrete, though there was the occasional old style building – it was reminiscent in some respects of Sydney and Melbourne.

He had seen the same thing in Singapore, though the older buildings were fast vanishing from there, especially with the site clearing that had been carried out for the new underground metro railway that was now proving such a boon for the Singapore commuter. The sites for the Singapore metro stations had removed many old buildings. Jakarta was also constructing a new monorail system, though construction tended to be in stops and starts, in addition to having adapted some of the local rail tracks around the city into a city system. Despite this the streets still proliferated with double decker buses, taxi cabs and motor traffic.

‘It’s all right, you can go up, Mr Wallace,’ she said, interrupting Wallace’s reverie. ‘Top of the stairs there and then the fourth door on the right.’

‘Not before time…!’ he was about to say, and then cut it off short. It wasn’t her fault he was angry with Bramble and was wishing he was elsewhere. So he thanked her and gave a smile that he hoped was winning and convincing, climbed the impressive stairway and walked along the first floor corridor. He found the door in question and knocked; it opened and he was greeted by a young man in shirt sleeves.

‘Mr Wallace?’

Wallace indicated that he was and the young man said. ‘Major Lincoln is on the telephone at present, can I get you anything?’

Wallace asked for coffee and was waved to a chair.

Major Lincoln rose to his feet as Wallace entered his room and extended his hand. Though he was dressed in civilian clothing, everything looked as though it had just emerged from a clothes press. The creases on his trousers were clearly visible from the doorway. His hair was cut short, almost in a crop cut, and he had a definite military style moustache. He appeared brisk and precise in his movements. Wallace felt that had an unwelcome intruder entered the room Lincoln would have responded automatically, snapping into action and taking evasive or offensive measures.

‘Ah! Mr Wallace,’ he said.

Wallace grunted and shook his hand and looked with interest around the room as he sat down. There was a picture of a tank on one wall, a print on another wall showing a military scene which Wallace recognised as having been painted by Ivor Hele who was a well known war artist. He had seen the original in the Canberra War memorial some years back. There were also photographs of a younger Major Lincoln with groups of military colleagues and there was a small metal reproduction of a tank on the window ledge. There was also a polished hand grenade on the desk that appeared to be in use as a paper weight. Wallace hoped it was a dud.

‘You know Mr Bramble, I understand?’

‘Yes!’ Wallace replied shortly, implying that he wished he didn’t.

Lincoln then chatted about the weather, Australian Rules football, the current Ashes Test series and inflation. When it had reached the point when Wallace thought he would have to be the one to broach the reason why he was there, Lincoln shut off the conversation abruptly, as though a bugler had sounded the Advance somewhere. He leaned forward.

‘Now…Bramble tells me you have offered to give us some assistance.’

Offered was the over-statement of the year! Offered? Dragooned into it more like! ‘Fuck Bramble!’…he thought viciously, and vowed it would be the last time. But for this Wallace reckoned he could have been back in Sydney by now watching the Ashes Test match. He had seen from the newspapers in the waiting room that though England had followed on, their top order batsmen were giving the Australian bowlers some stick in their second innings.

‘There is a package that has to be collected from an informant, a very important package. I can’t tell you what’s in it – not at this stage anyway, it means that you can plead ignorance if…er…that is, it’s being delivered by a man who has travelled from the east end of this island – I can tell you that much,’ Lincoln paused to adjust a pencil on his desk that had wandered out of alignment. ‘There is no danger that he will lead anyone onto the person he delivers to, but if I or anyone in my department were to act as the collector or recipient we could well lead someone onto him. All right so far!’

No it wasn’t bloody well all right, Wallace hadn’t liked the word “if” where he had broken off in the middle of the sentence. It seemed to indicate that there was a possibility of somebody, most likely Wallace, being apprehended. Nevertheless, he nodded, having got this far and utilised the hotel accommodation paid for by Bramble’s masters he couldn’t very well countenance backing out now.

‘We are not a major nation on the world stage, whatever our leaders may believe as our revered Prime Minister flies off to London, New York, Washington and Paris, so anywhere else this type of manoeuvre may be quite unnecessary,’ Lincoln paused to allow a smile to pass his lips, presumably a grim smile – military personnel above rank of captain for the use of! Then the smile vanished, presumably in response to a crisp internal command, and he continued.

‘Here it is a little different, being close neighbours and what amounts to a Western nation within an Asian context, there is much interest in what we do, say or like. The former Communist nations are well represented here, as are the Muslim nations of the world, they all like to know what we and New Zealand are doing because to a certain extent it gives them some insight as to what the Americans are thinking.’

He paused briefly then continued.

‘If they can pick up anything from us that conflicts with the usual red herrings flung at them by Washington and the CIA they consider that what they get from us could be the truth. So, we have to be careful and watch what we say and do.’

He paused to sip his coffee; each movement of his lips and hands was geared not to spill a drop, the cup presumably being tilted at the regulation angle permitted by the powers at Duntroon.

Wallace was beginning to like the sound of this less and less, but couldn’t think of any way of getting himself off the hook. Major Lincoln was assuming that he was going to do the job, which was probably his means of ensuring that Wallace did carry it out – once again the salesman’s assumed close.

‘We have arranged for you and our contact to meet in a setting somewhere in the city, where you can meet casually and exchange views – and the package. Then you bring it back here, and we place it in the Diplomatic Bag. Simple isn’t it?’

‘Er…yes,’ it did sound simple and confidence began to return. ‘I haven’t got to take it out of the country then?’

‘No. Leave that to us.’

Wallace raised one eyebrow. He seemed to recall that Diplomatic Bags were, by international protocol, not to be used for espionage or intelligence. He mentioned that to Lincoln.

‘This isn’t espionage, this is information inasmuch as it relates to Australia,’ Lincoln said somewhat curtly. Wallace pursed his lips and dismissed it, he didn’t want to become involved in an argument about semantics, presumably the diplomats knew the rules and it was not up to him to question it. Another thought occurred to him.

‘How do I meet this courier of yours?’

‘You will have an appointment with Mr Fernandes, he runs a theatrical agency style business, and he will allocate the assignment for you. All is taken care of.’

I bloody well hope so, Wallace thought bitterly, and cursed Bramble again.

‘One further point, if there are people watching the embassy, won’t they know that I’ve been to see you?’

‘No because you haven’t.’ Lincoln replied. ‘Your appointment was with the Commercial Attaché not with me.’

‘Is that why I wasn’t in the appointment book?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Is that why your receptionist couldn’t find my appointment in the book?’

‘It was in the book!’ Lincoln snapped.

‘No it wasn’t, that is…when I asked for you and gave her my name, she couldn’t find any trace of me anywhere.’

‘You did what?’ for once Lincoln was jolted out of his military precision and composure, his wrist brushed the coffee cup and caused some waves on the surface that probably exceeded regulation height.

‘I asked…!’

‘I heard you the first time. Shit!’ Lincoln ejaculated. ‘Didn’t Bramble brief you to ask for Mr Miller?’

‘No!’ Wallace answered shortly, and all of his unease returned. Bramble had not briefed him on that, the name of Miller didn’t ring a bell at all.

‘Christ Almighty!’ Lincoln drew his sleeve across his forehead in a, for once, imprecise gesture. ‘I’ll chew someone up for this.’

Wallace hoped the chewing up candidate would be Bramble.

‘Is there a problem?’ he asked, with some trepidation.

‘No, I think not. I guess all embassies are paranoid about informers within them; we tolerate them for being useful for passing incorrect information at times. But we don’t like people calling upon me to be noted, that’s all, as you can understand. However, we are fortunate in that one suspected informer is off sick today.’

‘I see.’

‘Nevertheless, I’ll have someone’s guts for this.’

Wallace shuddered, hoping that his would still be intact by the time he reached Australia again.

On return to his room Wallace found his mobile telephone didn’t work, he had left it on charge but the battery was still flat. On trying the room phone he found that didn’t work either. He emerged into the corridor heading for reception and found a porter hovering around outside the room. He seemed to know what the trouble was and Wallace began to smell a rat.

‘How long will it be out of order?’

The porter shrugged and spread out his hands and Wallace’s suspicions grew. Indonesia, like so many of the nations based near the Equator – and many that weren’t – had a reputation for the sustenance of services being reliant upon an unauthorised supply of credit, in short, unless you have about $50 your telephone, which has suddenly ceased to work, will continue not to work this side of Ramadan, until the said $50 has changed hands.

‘Who do I have to see?’

‘No problem, I have a friend who knows how to fix these things, the Telephone Authorities will charge you about $100 to have it re-connected, my friend can…!’

‘Shit!’ Wallace hissed with such venom that the porter blenched. He eyed him uneasily, clearly not sure whether he was going to be a paying proposition or a punching one.

‘How much?’ Wallace snapped.

‘$50 American.’

Which was probably God knows how much in Australian currency. Wallace’s expletive had brought down the price, which had then been raised by the rate of exchange. Wallace half folded his arms and drummed his fingers on his upper arms.

‘I’ll see you in about half an hour,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to use the telephone now, but maybe I’ll need it later in the day. Leave it for now.’

That clearly was not the answer that was expected. Nevertheless Wallace was in a filthy temper as he went down to lunch. He strongly doubted whether the hotel had any connivance, he reckoned the porter was working on his own account. Wallace had to telephone his afternoon appointment to confirm it, but his mobile phone battery had been suspect for some time and it looked as though it had finally given up the ghost. He didn’t fancy using the phone in the lobby as it would entail feeding coins into it. On the other hand, he detested any form of corruption.

It was a fair bet that if the hotel management was asked to fix it, the task could take several hours. The whole idea of a “fix” was that the job would be done quickly, and that was why the porter and his contacts thought he would be willing to pay. Clearly the same individual would be doing the job whether it went through the porter or the management, it would just that the technician would take longer if it went through the latter.

After lunch he went down into the lobby. He hadn’t enough change so he went outside to the nearest newspaper stand to purchase an English language newspaper and re-entered the lobby armed with the paper and coins of small denominations. He entered a telephone booth, there were instructions in a variety of languages including English, and commenced to dial.

Fernandes did not seem to be a bad sort. He was obviously of Portuguese descent and had an eye for the girls. His receptionist was of a dark brown complexion with a skin like velvet, she had large eyes and full lips. Her bust line followed the same pattern; her legs were well shaped as were her thighs; considerable expanses of them were on view.

She escorted Wallace from reception into Fernandes’ office and then turned on her heel with a flashing smile and walked out again. Fernandes’ eyes followed her as she made her exit, as did Wallace’s. Fernandes’ thought processes were quite transparent, and quite frankly, having had more than a first look at the girl himself Wallace couldn’t blame him. He felt his groin twitch as she walked out.

Fernandes licked his lips, his eyes registered a last lingering look before the door closed behind her before he turned to Wallace with an ingratiating smile. Wallace wondered if she could type.

‘You have heard of the Indonesia-Australia Society?’

‘No!’ Wallace replied with perfect truth.

‘They are meeting the day after tomorrow. Can you give them a half hour presentation?’

‘Yes, I think so,’ Wallace replied, and wondered how on earth he was supposed to contact Major Lincoln’s courier, whoever he was. ‘What is the fee?’

‘$1,000 American.’

‘And this is for half an hour?’

Fernandes spread out his hands.

‘Half an hour, forty five minutes, there is some latitude, but no longer than forty five minutes.’

‘What subject?’

‘Friendship between our two nations seems a good idea,’ suggested Fernandes.

Wallace wasn’t sure if he was suggesting a speech subject or whether he was giving an opinion. He heard the door open behind him and Fernandes’ eyes went slowly from minimum to maximum elevation, rather like the AA batteries on a destroyer as a flight of torpedo bombers approached. Wallace didn’t need to turn his head to see who it was.

She placed a small tray on Fernandes’ desk. Wallace could hear her thighs rubbing against the material of her tight dress. Once again his groin indicated that if the need arose it was ready for action, and Wallace hastily issued counter orders. As she straightened up she gave a flashing smile that instantly made him forget all of his forebodings and troubles. She did a heel turn that wouldn’t have disgraced a ballet dancer and headed for the door. Fernandes watched her go, wrinkled his nose from side to side and licked his lips.

‘What was that?’

‘What was what, Senor Wallace?’

‘What you said. It was something about the Friendship Society?’

‘Ah yes,’ Fernandes dragged himself back to reality with an effort as the door closed. Wallace wondered if her ears were burning.

‘Friendship…er…yes! Between our two nations. We are so close to each other that we must hold each other in mutual respect… No?’

‘No…er…yes,’ Wallace hastily corrected himself. ‘All right, I can draft a presentation on those lines. Will you want to vet it first?’

‘It may be an idea,’ agreed Fernandes. ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll draft a good address, but there is always the danger of the odd word that could be misunderstood…eh?’

Wallace could certainly agree with that. He still squirmed at the memory of the day when he had used the word “durex” to a predominantly British audience – he had meant Sellotape, momentarily forgetting that in Britain “Durex” had other connotations. An American presenter he had met in San Diego had told him of a similar experience. When addressing a British audience he had talked of being out of his depth, using the expression…“up to your fanny in the mire”. He had been unaware one of the words had a different usage in the British Isles from that encountered in the United States. He had also been to a meal in a restaurant in London after delivering a seminar, sitting back and declaring to his astonished hosts that he was stuffed! He had merely meant that he couldn’t eat any more!

‘Yes,’ Wallace replied. ‘I agree there is.’

‘Hallo, Wallace.’

Wallace didn’t like that. It was as though he was one of Lincoln’s troops.

‘Hallo Major,’ he replied coldly. ‘I have seen Fernandes and fixed up an engagement with the Australian – Indonesian Society.’

‘Don’t you mean the Indonesia – Australia Society?’

‘Yes – probably,’ Wallace didn’t like his brusque correction as if he was a recalcitrant private caught idle on parade. ‘I am addressing them the day after tomorrow.’

‘What on?’

‘Friendship between our two nations.’

Lincoln digested this in silence for a moment.

‘Hmmm! What time are you doing it?’

‘Seven thirty pm.’

‘Good, leave it with me.’

They both hung up. As Wallace left the lobby he became aware of the hall porter who was swabbing down the main entrance hall, he had left a large wet patch near the front door, with a line of wetness extending down to the lobby phones where he was working now. Wallace felt his heel slip on the wet area and cursed as he nearly fell flat on his back. The porter was looking at Wallace as he recovered and entered the lift; he had a little smile on his face.

Wallace had resolved to wake early so he could work on the address for the Indonesia – Australia Society. He was not starting from cold; this type of address had been delivered so often that it was merely a case of adapting from what was virtually a master presentation. Addressing friendship groups within Australia where the third party countries were America, Britain, Canada or New Zealand were stock items. Altering the name to the country concerned was the first step, then culling newspapers and consulting consulates to find what was topical and appropriate was the next.

Wallace had a few words on the telephone with Alex Miller, the Commercial Attaché at the Australian Embassy…the man on whose appointment list he should have been when he saw Major Lincoln. Miller was most helpful in supplying some current agreements and petty differences between Indonesia and Australia.

Wallace had also been put in touch with the secretary of the Society who had given some dates relating to Indonesian history and details of political personnel. All Wallace had to remember was to keep off East Timor, still a touchy subject between the two nations, anything to do with off-shore oil exploration and any mention of a couple of islands where there were internal disturbances from independence groups.

The previous night in the bar, Wallace had met an American from Boston staying on the same floor. He had an unopened bottle of Scotch in his room so they went up later and had a go at that. He also had a telephone that worked and Wallace had been able to make some calls from there as well. Warren Hamilton was a computer software whiz kid, bugs had developed in some software supplied to the Jakarta office of an American company and he had been sent over to sort them out.

Like most Western companies, when it came to sorting out computer problems, whether straightforward glitches or at worst, viruses, they preferred to have their own nationals fix it sooner than anyone from the indigenous population. Fears of industrial espionage, like leaving a bug that could transmit information to a rival; or even sabotage, were rife. Warren was a good sort, he had played some college Grid Iron football, and, to Wallace’s surprise, had some knowledge of Australian Rules. He was also an avid follower of the Boston Red Sox and they talked baseball for much of the evening.

In the morning he was awoken by the sound of activity outside, squinted at his watch and was astonished to find that it was 4.30 am. He could hear the usual bustle in the streets outside and went over to the window to have a look. There was a mosque at the end of the street and crowds of people were heading in that direction. He went back to bed but found that he could not woo sleep again. He gave up the unequal struggle and returned to work on the presentation for the Society.

He took a stroll after breakfast, feeling satisfied with himself. He felt that he could talk for about an hour, which was long enough, maybe too long, for anyone to listen. He managed to reach the park over the road without too much difficulty, apart from narrowly escaping death under the wheels of a taxi and being hooted and cursed by the drivers of about 17 other vehicles.

That was another factor that Clive Passay had mentioned, the road rules appeared to be non-existent, while the ratio of aggression and bad manners rose in inverse proportion to the amount of road rules. Vehicles scurried around the streets as though they were the only ones within a seven kilometre radius, and once Wallace saw a car mount the pavement when taking a left turn when there was insufficient room on the carriageway, while warning signals for left and right turns appeared very late, if at all. Miraculously he didn’t see any actual collisions, they seemed to have a hairline warning system to avert actual contact, but pedestrians had to take their chances.

At 10.00 am he returned to the hotel and gave the presentation another run through and polish before he went for a pre-arranged cup of coffee with Warren. Warren had two other Americans with him; they were recent arrivals and also staying in the hotel. Since like tended to attract like they had all locked onto each other.