The Operators

by Barry Heard

  But why was the camera hidden? Had the kidnappers downloaded copies of the photos? Why then stuff the camera in a shoe? He dismissed these thoughts, and tears welled in his eyes as relief flooded his body.

  He returned to the desk and his time line. At last, the gaps were closing. By flicking through the hundreds of photos from Jakarta, he was able to trace his movements exactly. Excitedly, he grabbed a pen.

  Flew to Jakarta, stayed with Steve and Leanne, I loved their two kids. I remember the walks, sightseeing — so beautiful. The house, very big, servants, and …

  He put down the pen.

  His mind was suddenly truly clear — alive, sharp, and alert. Clarity was now on his side; it no longer belonged solely to the enemy.

  He recalled the Audi, the tall man with large, dark glasses. Well-dressed, slick. Steve’s security staff had been frightened of this man. The busy road, Wally in the back. A garage, a pistol. Inside a huge house, and at that moment — handed a folder explaining his role in this, this plot, and the outline of their plan. A folder that contained the most intimate details of his life and travel arrangements. Wally shivered.

  After reading those pages — blank. That was when they must have drugged him, Wally guessed.

  He picked up the pen and wrote his story in blunt terms. When he reached the blank, he went back to correct or add some finer points. He re-read the description of his memory of reading that criminal plan — common sense told him to stop there. That was it, until he woke up on the train.

  Move on.

  Now was the time to contact his mates.

  Nowadays, if you queried any of Wally’s Vet mates, they would have described him, almost in unison, as the planner, the systematic, boring administrator. At their social meet-ups, these old men would heap crap on each other and reminisce about the good times. Yes, the last few decades had been their better times — the ‘healing’ after that terrible era when they’d returned home from Vietnam and been forced to live like hermits. For most Veterans, the dark period following Vietnam had lasted far too long.

  Wally, on his homecoming from Vietnam, had the good fortune to return to the dairy, a place that offered perfect solace. Up at dawn, early to bed, every day, with little social contact and an understanding mum, Wally savoured his privacy. His precious grandparents understood, too, having seen family members and friends affected by two World Wars.

  Wally the ‘returned’ dairy farmer worked hard, drank too much, and lived like a recluse. Apart from the dogs, the cows, and the open spaces, Tompop was his only friend. His heart was closed for business … until that day when an everyday farming accident prompted a new opening. Tompop slipped on the muddy step of the new tractor as he climbed up into the cabin, falling heavily. At his age — an age Wally could hardly imagine reaching back then — the injury was serious. Despite his grandfather’s protestations, Wally was firm in his belief that medical help was needed. He rang an ambulance, and soon the ambulance officers confirmed his concern — Tompop would need that trip to the hospital.

  The stay would last over a week, filled with twice-daily visits from Wally.

  A few days into these visits, Wally’s life was turned around.

  He met ‘that woman’.

  He felt like saying, ‘Thank you for slipping, Tompop — was that planned or an accident?’

  Wally, with no plan to pursue the opposite sex, and no clue that he’d attract any of its members, met a fine woman — a nurse — who was tending his Tompop after that nasty fall. Earlier in her career, this same nurse had been stationed in a city hospital that tended to Vietnam Veterans, treating them for both physical and mental problems. Her name was Meredith.

  Tompop rested eight days in the hospital with a damaged back. Once Wally had met Meredith, on every visit, after morning and afternoon milking, he hoped and prayed that she would be there on duty. If luck came his way, Wally would awkwardly try to court the nurse. Somehow, it had worked, and Meredith became his wife. Her only condition before accepting his proposal: give up the grog. Wally did, finding it a lot easier than he had thought possible.

  After a small wedding, the happy couple settled into the routine of life on a farm. Meredith accepted her lot. Living with Wally meant that full-on romance, socialising, and adoration were not part of their relationship. He’d been clear about this from day one, but not as clear about his problems other than drinking. Had Meredith not had professional experience with Vets, their marriage would have ended. She stood by her Wally, often stepping in and taking total control during his bouts of depression and isolation. And she understood Wally’s unique bond with his fellow Vets, and respected their privacy when they gathered at the farm.

  Life wasn’t easy, but it gave them children and then grandchildren. It was a good life.

  It had taken what seemed like forever just to convince her, but Meredith had even supported Wally’s plans for his first-ever adventure alone, to Indonesia. The trip of a lifetime for her man Wally. It was Wally’s extensive, boring, systematic planning that had assuaged all her concerns — ‘What happens when you arrive? How many pills do you need to take? What will you do if … ?’ Then she’d given him what all men hoped for, that nod. She approved.

  She had approved. And now look where he was.

  He had to get home to his soulmate.

  She’d kill him, otherwise.

  However, right then, in that moment, if you queried any of Wally’s Vet mates, they would never have imagined that Wally Flannagan was sitting at a desk in a hotel room in Cimahi under the name of Wayne Smith and writing out a message in code that he planned to somehow send to Basil and the rest of them on Facebook. They would have been even more surprised at how calm he appeared. Yet he drew his confidence from that same inner circle of people he hoped to communicate with.

  He was glad he’d been able to alert Meredith to what was afoot. If he hadn’t, who knew what she’d think after what he was about to do? Anyone who read the seemingly incoherent jumble of letters and numbers he would have to post, anyone apart from his Vet mates, would think he had lost the plot.

  He twiddled his pen. There was so much to consider, so many unanswered questions. What should he send? How much information? Where should he begin exactly? Should he post to Facebook? Or should he just ring?

  Slowly, Wally recited the names of each of his mates — Basil, Bill, David, Paul, Harry, Jack, Frank, Chris — when suddenly he stopped.

  ‘Bloody Basil and Harry play golf together tomorrow! Meet at the clubhouse, finish about four o’clock, have a drink, listen for the results, and leave about six o’clock. Forget the code, this is better.’

  Chapter 20

  ‘Joko has nothing,’ announced Rio. ‘No phone calls, no messages, no computer use. Mr Wally Flannagan has disappeared without a trace.’

  ‘What about the Facebook access?’ asked Bagus.

  ‘If someone else got to him, if they took his phone, they might have opened the app on his phone. In his confusion before something happened to him, he might have even opened the app on his phone himself. Without any actual activity from him, a post or comment, there’s no proof the access was intentional.’

  ‘So you think someone else grabbed him?’

  ‘Whoever found him has got their money’s worth and disposed of the old fool. What do you think?’

  Bagus was shaking his head. ‘There’s something missing, some information or source we have overlooked. I’ve been racking my brain, and an idea popped into my head while you were on the phone. Leon’s courier, the one who found the sucker who spoke English, then later joined us in first class. We should check him out. You never know, he might remember something about the man chosen to pass messages between Leon and the conductor.’

  Rio stared out the window as if ignoring him.

  ‘Have you spoken to Leon since?’ Bagus asked.

  More silence, broken by
a brisk reply that made Bagus jump.

  ‘Yes, yes, that young courier, the messenger, the conductor. Follow up with them. Well done, Bagus. Let’s call Leon, see how he is, if he remembers anything else.’

  They put him on speaker, but Rio, disgusted, could barely tolerate listening to the injured man. The hospital drugs must have made Leon forgetful, because he offered Bagus a different version of what had happened. On the other end of the line, of course, he couldn’t see Rio and Bagus raising their eyebrows then lifting their hands in exasperation. They knew he was lying, and Bagus said as much. Realising his mistake, Leon attempted to account for it, blaming his head wounds and claiming that he couldn’t remember earlier.

  ‘Then why make it up?’ Rio screamed.

  Bagus hung up. Rio drew a finger across his neck, and his lieutenant nodded.

  Next, they contacted Leon’s cousin. Leon had already provided Bagus with the family’s telephone number. They ran a water-carting business, which benefited from the injections of cash brought home by their favoured son after he had helped his Uncle Leon. They all understood the conditions, to say nothing. Their son was always keen to help. The money gave him prestige in the eyes of his family. In fact, the ‘courier’ was little more than a dogsbody in Rio’s scheme, his part simple:

  First, find a sucker who speaks English.

  Second, take him to the conductor … and move onto Bagus and the doctor in First Class and tell them, all good.

  Third, do whatever Bagus and the doctor ask. But usually, just sit, until it is time to return to Leon.

  Rio rang, but the young courier could not offer any clues as to who the English-speaking messenger was. He couldn’t remember anything that would help them find this one man among millions. He then mentioned the trouble he had got into at Jakarta when he arrived at the station without a ticket.

  ‘But then I was let off. I don’t know why.’

  ‘No trouble,’ said Rio, and hung up. He had friends in high places …

  Rio and Bagus frowned at each other. Their legitimate work, their other criminal work, both required their attention, but they had none to give. The loss of Mr Wally Flannagan was all-consuming.

  ‘Go back to Bandung,’ Rio said. ‘Contact Azka.’

  ‘Probably our last hope.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate Hanif.’

  ‘If nothing else, Azka has a keen eye and brilliant memory. He’s more likely to remember something we can use than that water courier. But if I was a betting man, I wouldn’t put money on a result. But leave it to me. I’ll visit the station, have a talk with his manager. Hope I don’t have to visit him. His home and that suburb are complete dumps, filthy, they have no standards, those dogs.’

  Bagus arrived again at Bandung Station later that afternoon. He parked in the spot reserved for the station manager; the man rode a scooter and didn’t need it. Mr Gupta welcomed him into his office, then, after a short chat, walked out to the platform. Perfect timing: Azka’s train was due any minute. Perhaps Bagus’s luck was changing. Azka always reported to Mr Gupta before knocking off, but his duties before that visit often took some time. This time, the manager would direct Azka straight to the office — and Bagus.

  The two sat alone in the station manager’s office. Bagus smoked and Azka looked at the floor. Bagus wasn’t interested in chitchat.

  ‘You know about the incident on the train? Leon and his cousin got on. What followed afterwards?’

  Azka nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, Mr Bagus, sir.’ Gentle soul, he believed Bagus was speaking of the young boy who had held the overhead box. The terrified young boy whom Leon had kicked in the stomach and threatened. Such an appalling incident … ‘Yes, it was bad, so bad, I am not fully clear, but it was bad.’

  ‘Well, doesn’t matter what you have heard, or how many stories are going around. We just need some help. That young man who came to you along with Leon’s courier and handed over the note and then went back to Leon. Could you describe him? Was there something about him that might help us identify him? We believe he could have seen Leon being beaten up, or heard the argument. Afterwards, did he come back? Or did someone else talk to you? It must have created a lot of interest. Even the White Suit being thrown off the train must have created quite the stir.’

  Azka lowered his head towards the floor and scratched his head.

  ‘Take your time,’ said Bagus. ‘The smallest detail may help. Anything?’

  In truth, Azka had heard some gossip about Leon, about the White Suit, but he hadn’t listened. His whole life, centred as it was on the life of his daughter, hung in the balance. He had obeyed his instructions to the letter and in the spirit they were intended. Remember, there will be no need to check on Leon or the White Suit. Do not make enquiries or ask questions. Ignore any comments or reports the odd passenger may pass on about the White Suit. He had avoided knowing anything that he shouldn’t. Bagus’s plans — outside what he had shared — were not Azka’s to know. What was he talking about now? Leon beaten up? The White Suit thrown from the train?

  Leon will send two people to contact you. One, Leon’s courier, you will recognise. The other will be a temporary helper, collected from the carriage. Then, as arranged, the temporary man will send you a signal via a note. After contacting you, the temporary courier will return to Leon with the card you hand over.

  Azka’s mind was in overdrive. He remembered the petrified look on the face of the helper when he’d handed over the note. He remembered the logo on his shirt — the Seasons Hotel. And the man’s name tag — Diyab. Azka would never forget that moment, his hand on the man’s shoulder, the words he had thought but could not say, ‘Take care …’

  Bagus crossed his legs, took a drag on his cigarette, kept his eyes on Azka. It wouldn’t do to keep this man waiting.

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Azka. ‘I remember nothing. He was a man. Average. Undistinguished. He handed over the note. I gave him the card that I had been given. He returned to Leon without trouble.’

  Bagus stubbed out the cigarette.

  ‘So. I half-expected you to say that. Our Mr Wally Flannagan has disappeared without trace. Your station manager has assured me that nothing has been reported to him beyond what we already know. It is good to share what you know, because we have many ways of finding out what you think we may never know.’ He met Azka’s eyes and held them. ‘I best move on.’

  Azka stood, forced a smile at Bagus as he left, then followed him out the door and waited for his time with the station manager.

  His pay was most welcome, but Mr Gupta desired him to tarry. Just as Bagus had spoken of ‘the incident on the train’, Mr Gupta spoke of the assault and disappearance as if Azka were in the know and up to date. He thanked him for his cooperation. Their talk ran to nothing and eventually he let Azka go home.

  Chapter 21

  Wally woke up the next day, refreshed. After he’d confirmed that the spare phone contained the golf course — sure enough; he played there several times a year and always rang to check the start time — he had slept easily. The morning passed easily, too.

  Eventually, he glanced at the time and found it was nearly eleven. He had an hour to go. Good. Time for a walk, time for a coffee.

  He changed back into his cheap tourist clothes, covering up with the face scarf, hat, and sunnies. The hotel boasted a pleasant coffee shop with cushioned armchairs and low tables. Its clientele looked well to do, casual Europeans and well-dressed locals. He sat alone, at a corner table, side-on to further obscure his identity, but in a comfortable posture. He ordered a coffee and then opened the book he’d put in his suitcase before leaving the farm, a book by Bill Bryson, one of his favourite authors. And he relaxed. He knew that few people would interrupt a person reading a book.

  After an enjoyable coffee, a tasty pastry, and the satisfaction of reading two chapters of his book, Wally returned to his room, removed the scarf
, hat, and sunglasses, and finally sat with a hotel gift biro in one hand and a Seasons Hotel notebook in the other. He wrote down the several points he wanted to convey to Basil.

  He kicked off his sandals, picked up the new mobile phone, and rang the golf club’s office number. ‘Hope Basil’s there,’ he muttered.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, it’s Basil Hester’s Pig mate Fred speaking. It’s important I speak to him. Could you fetch him for me, mate?’

  ‘Yeah, sure, mate, I can see him from here. I’ll get him for you, won’t be a moment.’

  Basil came on the line. ‘Who in the bloody hell are you, Fred, you cheeky bastard?’

  ‘It’s me, mate. I need to be brief and to the point, okay?’

  Basil held the handset away for a quick moment, shaking his head. He would recognise that voice anywhere.

  ‘Wally?’

  ‘That article in The Age was me. Don’t know exactly what happened, drugged or something. Managed to escape. I’m okay, mate, safe, stuck in a hotel in Indonesia. Made a good acquaintance, young bloke, knows Bluey. I can’t go anywhere. Plenty of money, don’t need to use bankcard or the like. I will message my new phone number. It’s secure, but where possible I will only use it for messages. You need to get another phone, cheap one, text and calls only, no contracts, just prepaid. Okay so far?’

  ‘Roger.’

  ‘I’ll text all the important details to your mobile. It won’t show you the caller ID. John might have some ideas, but, for now, is Fraggles okay, Basil?’

  ‘Sure, mate. Roger, out.’

  Basil hung up, thanked the barman, and walked back to Harry ever so slowly, head down, his eyes teary. On reaching Harry, he simply said, ‘We gotta get out of here, mate. We need to talk.’

  Wally’s situation had already kept them apart from the clubhouse revelry, and they now excused themselves without fanfare as the day’s prizes held everyone’s attention. They sat in Harry’s car, where Basil explained Wally’s surprise phone call.