The Operators

by Barry Heard

  A beaming Rio shook Mike’s hand. Bagus stood and introduced himself.

  ‘Have a seat,’ said Rio. ‘Would you like a drink? Take off your glasses and relax.’

  ‘A coke would be good, but, look, I am in a hurry. You have the money?’ Breathless and still wearing his glasses, he plopped himself onto a seat with a loud grunt. ‘God, I’ll never get used to this heat,’ he said with a fluency of Bahasa that suggested that this would indeed be true.

  Bagus smirked.

  ‘We have your money, but where is our man?’

  Mike, still gasping, wiped his brow and said between breaths, ‘I have a van down below, fifteen-seater. Enough for the two of you or any minders you want to bring. It’s about a half-hour drive. Not far but a lot of traffic. Can we leave straightaway?’

  He reached across and grabbed a bottle of cola. After taking a long drink, he rearranged the huge scarf around his neck before reaching for the end of it to wipe his brow once again. His dreadlocks dripped sweat on Rio’s expensive chair.

  ‘Are you armed?’ asked Rio.

  ‘No. Check me if you like, the guard has already. I keep a pistol in the glove box.’

  ‘Good. The guard will search your vehicle and confirm this when we go down.’

  Rio called in his office staff. They weren’t surprised to see a sweating weirdo in Rio’s office: you met all types in animal welfare, especially Australians. Rio advised them that he had appointments arranged and would be away for a time. He wasn’t sure how long — several days, he guessed — but he would confirm later tonight via email. Meanwhile, Bagus texted his work with a similar message.

  Walking slowly for Mike’s benefit, the three made their way to the car park. After one of the guards handed Bagus the pistol from the glove box, he and Rio stepped inside the rear of the van. Rio carried a small briefcase, the money inside. Both men were armed, had been even before Bagus pocketed Mike’s pistol. They sat on the middle bench seat, a window each. Mike grunted as he slipped his huge gut under the steering wheel. After a coughing fit, he reached for his asthma tube, took a long draw, and sat quietly for a moment. Next, he turned to the two men.

  ‘Just the two of you, is that it?’

  Rio said yes, and Mike started the van. As he drove, he unclipped the sunglasses and turned on the radio, low, not wanting to interfere with any conversation the two in the rear might want to have. Shortly, after driving only a few kilometres, Bagus leant forwards to inspect the dashboard over Mike’s shoulder.

  ‘That is a large navigation map. Nice. I was going to follow you on my mobile, but there’s no need, I see.’

  Rio, too, moved closer. He handed a cigarette to Bagus, lit it, then lit one for himself.

  ‘How long have you had Mr Flannagan?’ he said.

  ‘Quite a while,’ said Mike. ‘It’s a great yarn. I’ll start at the beginning, you’ll love the story, and I reckon you’ll both be pleased we found him so soon. No one has any idea we have him, and we think he still has all his possessions. To begin: by luck or chance, a minister from our local church sent a message to me. He asked, could I visit his chapel, as they had an old man there, delirious and vomiting, an Australian man. Now, I work in a barber’s shop, not far from the church. A lot of tourists are told about us, the barber’s shop, that I speak English, and can help them with certain things, you know what I mean? Mainly Aussies, they speak a different language — not English, right?’

  Mike roared with laughter that transformed into coughing, and he had to reach for the bottle of water beside him.

  ‘With what sort of things can you help them?’ asked Rio.

  ‘Drugs — we have a thriving business. Good supplier, owns a pharmacy, big flash house, and is so smart. He was the one who came up with the idea of how we do the drugs. So clever, right?’

  Again he laughed and coughed.

  ‘When a customer comes into our shop, the first thing we do is ask what number haircut they’d like. The styles range from one to nine, or we let the client pick a number and explain what else they would like. Apart from the numbers, there are twelve alternatives on the display board. You know — clipped moustache, dyed hair, half-shaved head, and that sort of thing.’

  ‘Is this at all relevant?’ asked Bagus.

  ‘You decide, Mr Flash Dresser. If the customer asks for a five haircut with an eleven blue dye, we nod, he goes to the waiting chairs. When ready, the barber calls him, the customer leans back in the chair, I throw the large cloth wrap over him and begin a light trim. Meanwhile, our client shuffles around under the wrap, finds a pocket, and removes the drugs he has ordered via his haircut-style numbers. Pays for them on the way out, at the cash register. Bloody clever, don’t you reckon?’

  Rio mimed clapping, Bagus just nodded, but both seemed impressed with the little scheme. They waited, knowing the best was yet to come. Mike enjoyed the moment, then continued.

  ‘Luckily, I was due for a break when the messenger from the minister arrived that day. He asked me to come to the church immediately, urgent, Mr Minister wanting an Australian talker. I know the minister well, good bloke, doesn’t ask for many favours or money. So I thought, what the heck. Boy was I stunned when I saw your Mr Flannagan, lying on a mat, in the minister’s lodging, a tiny room out the back. Mr Flannagan wearing a filthy suit, unshaven, mumbling, and he looked real sick. Had been there for a day or two or more, but was getting worse. I didn’t ask. But when I spoke English, suddenly he began vomiting. So I sat down, had a chat with him. He mentioned the words heist, kidnap, drugs. My God, I was shocked. I asked the minister to leave us alone as this was very personal. Sure, the holy man had little or no English — but hell. Who was this fellow, an Australian, been here for days? It was so confusing. I was there for a while, then, with Mr Flannagan’s help, I opened his small bag. Now, that put a different perspective on everything. I acted quickly, told the minister to keep him isolated, fan him lightly, and I would have a vehicle pick him up shortly, deliver the old man to a hospital. Quite a distance from his church, of course.’

  ‘And what was in Mr Flannagan’s bag, Mike?’

  ‘A pistol, heaps of cash, a phone, passport, travel tickets, lots of crap. I was speechless. Who the hell was this Mr Flannagan? Anyhow, we got him into a delivery van, drove him to my boss’s house, got someone to attend his health problems, and bingo. His head cleared, and he told us what he could remember about the kidnap. Not much, I might add, but we also found a note addressed to a Mr Leon in his bag. It contained instructions on his part — for Mr Leon, that is — and, wait for it, two phone numbers. One number: the train manager at Bandung Station. The other for a person named Bagus. Mr Flannagan remembered you, Bagus, not on the train, but when he nearly shit himself in your house. The only other thing he thought might be true was about someone about to give him an injection. Later, after some enquiries at Bandung Station, we found a photo of you Bagus, yes, the station manager had one. It was on a business card. Mr Flannagan recognised your face. Pretty face, eh?’

  Bagus and Rio said nothing.

  ‘Rio, well, the boss had heard of you. Didn’t take long to decide to call you instead of Bagus, and to get hold of your number. Anything else you want to ask, or should I shut the window and turn on the air conditioner?’

  Without a word, the two men leaned back in their seats.

  Mike pulled the van to the side of the busy road. Awkwardly, without turning in his seat, he pushed the sliding window across, calling for them to shut all the rear windows. With the windows closed, the rear of the van offered both privacy and refreshingly cool air.

  Mike accelerated back into traffic, his arm hanging out the window, ready to give any number of traffic signals at a moment’s notice.

  Quietly, Rio and Bagus discussed Mike’s story. The trip so far had been stilted and boring, the van rarely exceeding forty kilometres an hour. They were on a major road, but th
ey were still in the city zone, some distance from where the traffic would clear slightly and allow more speed. The air conditioning helped.

  When Mike next looked in the mirror, Bagus had found a blow-up pillow and placed it against his side window. His eyes stared ahead, unfocused, wide open as if in a dream — about to go to sleep? Rio was wearing earphones, his head gently lolling to the music he was no doubt listening to. His eyes were like Bagus’s but shimmering slightly.

  Mike’s phone vibrated. He lifted the feature phone from his lap and glanced at the screen. A text message: ‘Yet’. Keeping his eyes on the road, he unlocked the screen, found the ‘3’ button, pressed it twice, then hit send.

  He waited another three minutes, then picked up the vehicle’s microphone. It could be used to address tourists in the rear but also a crowd surrounding the van. Mike cranked up the volume. After a very deep breath, he shouted, ‘Help!’

  A motorbike swerved, the rider pushing himself from the wall of the van.

  Mike fixed his eyes on the rear-view mirror and shouted again. No movement. His guests’ eyes were only almost shut — the two men were not yet gone, but they were completely insensible. Mike turned the rear fan to high, increasing the flow of deadly gas to Rio and Bagus.

  Four minutes later, he parked the van on the nearest side road, opened the side door, stepped back, waited a minute, and stepped inside the rear. He checked both men, then cuffed their hands and feet. Next, he found their weapons, removed the bullets, and put the pistols and ammunition into his satchel. Finally, he took their phones, switched them off, and removed the SIM cards. Job done, almost, he could relax just a little.

  The fresh air was most welcome for the passengers. The first movement came from Bagus. He gave a long, deep yawn, adjusted his head, and stayed asleep. Pulling the man gently forwards, Mike placed a hood over Bagus’s head.

  Rio reacted differently. He beamed the widest smile at Mike, attempted to stretch his arms, frowned, and looked mystified. Yes, he was handcuffed. Mike reached forwards, delicately pulled Rio’s eyes shut, and waited. After only a matter of seconds, Rio returned to sleep. Mike put the remaining hood on Rio’s head.

  He didn’t want his guests doing anything stupid that might get them hurt, so he wound a natural-fibre rope around both their bodies and the seat, securing it with a trucker’s hitch. The men appeared tranquil, calm; they breathed softly. Mike opened all the windows, closed the sliding door, took out his phone, and texted ‘2’.

  A second later, Adam rang. Mike said, ‘Hoodwink,’ and hung up.

  He lifted his shirt and ripped out the silicone belly, his pretend pot-gut, before removing the heavy shirt and thick pants. He felt the light breeze on his arms and legs as his shorts flapped in the wind. Last, he took off the fake glasses, costume nose-ring and eyebrow-rings, and the wig, those bloody dreadlocks, perfect for disguising a shaven head but unpleasant to wear. No longer Mike the overweight slob, he was just Mike once more.

  Adam pulled up behind the van. Perfect timing — Mike didn’t want to stand around for too long. He handed John the two mobiles and their SIM cards, then got back into the van, and the two vehicles moved off together, with Mike in the lead — away from the last whereabouts of Rio and Bagus, at least as far as Joko and Hanif, who would be tracking the bosses via their phones, were concerned.

  Free from prying eyes, the short convoy turned towards Bandung.

  The sleeping gas had worked. Though it was outside the experience of the Vets, Mike, Adam, and Rick had all used it before, in their service days. The critical thing was to expose the victims to the minimum gas possible. Rio and Bagus had experienced barely ten minutes of it; after, Mike had acted speedily to clear the gas and expose them to fresh air — well, exhaust fumes and humid smog.

  Scientific acknowledgement

  Sleeping gas is an oneirogenic general anaesthetic that is used to put subjects into a state in which they are not conscious of what is happening around them. Most sleeping gases have undesirable side effects or are effective at doses that approach toxicity. (Wikipedia)

  It was dark when Mike’s van and Adam’s car drove through the sliding steel gate of Rick’s wife’s sister’s place and stopped beside the verandah. Rick greeted the arrivals and glanced in the back of the van at Rio and Bagus, who were struggling clumsily, making mumbled requests, and bumping into each other.

  Rick approached Adam in the other vehicle.

  ‘Come in. Do you want to stay the night or head back to the hotel?’

  ‘Quick feed, then the hotel. Only a short drive, gives me more time. Our guest will stay.’

  A late tea was most welcome for the happy group of Wally’s helpers as they sat and reminisced over the day’s events. All kept patting Mike on the shoulder for a job well done. Mike, as always, turned the praise away.

  ‘Lucky, we didn’t have to take other measures,’ he said. ‘I imagined there was going to be at least four in the van. Not a problem, you know, but just two made my job easier. Did you glean anything while they talked in the back?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Rick. ‘Hardly worth the effort of planting the microphones in the van. They just wanted to hand over the money and fix Wally. Didn’t say what their plans for him were. They assumed you were an amateur, Mike, and your gang a bunch of novices. In fact, Rio hoped you wouldn’t pass out from heat exhaustion on the way. They were a little concerned that intel seemed to be leaking from their organisation. If only they knew!’

  Rick looked around the table.

  ‘Nice stash of money in Rio’s bag, fits in with our plan. Remember, 6.00 a.m. in the morning. Everyone to bed, except for John, he’s about to jump onto our computer and check out those SIM cards. Marcus is waiting. Don’t stay up all night, though, John. Big day, tomorrow.’

  During tea, all up, there were nine in the house, including the security guard. He wasn’t part of the plan, but was aware of the goings on. The Australian team comprised Wally and John; Adam, Rick, and Mike; and the three Vets, Basil, Harry, and David.

  All up? Not quite. There were two more, downstairs in the basement, but it was so unlike the convivial, if highly secure, ground level of the compound that they might as well have been in another world. There, Rio and Bagus paced, freed from constraint, in a room like a shipping container. It offered nothing much. Two straw mats, a bucket to do their personals, and an old newspaper for hygiene. A small table, some stale food — and that was it. There were two doors to the basement. One, the thick wooden door that exited upstairs; the other, an ominous steel door that led … somewhere? Perhaps most disturbing for the two prisoners were the powerful lights that appeared to have no switch.

  Set in the wooden door was a window with bars, which allowed unknown faces to peer in and check on their movements. Every hour someone knocked loudly on the door, looked through the bars, and said something dumb, like, ‘All good, any complaints?’

  Upstairs, everyone was up at 5.00 a.m. By 6.00 a.m., they were all eating a hearty breakfast. John had enjoyed less than three hours’ sleep, but he was up and happy and on catering duty, which wasn’t surprising — he loved being the cook, at home or away. Nothing much was being said. Several times, a Vet wiped his eyes; the tears were hard to stop. Beyond the food, there was so much to digest. They were all, once more, part of such a bizarre experience. The days felt like weeks, even longer. And soon it would be over. Sure, there had been endless minutes of planning, verification, safety checks, and security exercises, particularly in cyberspace, but it was still hard to believe: they had the all clear; Wally was free to return home …

  Time to get down to business.

  The men split into two groups. One lot — John and the Vets, bar Basil — would return to the hotel. The remainder would set up in the coolroom, next to the basement.

  As the first group left, a gloom fell over Rick. He hadn’t realised how close they had become. He hugged and shook hands
with gusto. Though he knew he would see John again the soonest, he spent the longest moment with him, calling him a genius; it was a pleasure to meet such a good man. Rick stood rigid and saluted as this group drove through the security gate.

  Wally’s departure was a precisely choreographed effort. His name was kept off the flight bookings, even those internal to Australia (friends in high places). He would fly from Karratha to Perth to Melbourne, where Meredith was waiting. An elaborate scheme of fakes and exchanges took place in the real world, while algorithms written by John and Marcus ran interference in the digital realm. Leaderless, Rio’s team had already been thrown into confusion, but Harry and David accompanied Wally, at a distance, to account for any exigencies.

  And with that …

  Wally was free …

  That’s it?

  Did you expect Wally to ‘go Rambo’? This isn’t a movie.

  Sylvester Stallone, born in 1946, filmed the fifth Rambo movie when he was seventy-two, but that was a movie.

  Wally’s not a star, he’s a Pig, and a Pig uses his brain and relies on his mates.

  Chapter 27

  That night in the basement. Would it be the first of many such nights? Imprisoned or in prison? Rio and Bagus argued, conjectured, shouted; demanded a visitor, a meal, a blanket, a glass of fresh water; begged for their captors to turn on the ceiling fan or turn off the bright lights.

  Ego was their dictator, attitude their guide, the two ready to inform these self-described professionals that they still held power, a lot of power, and — don’t upset us or our contacts and let’s just get this done!

  By dawn, they were still talking, still believing that Mike and his drug connections were strictly amateurs … maybe. A hint of doubt now emerged. Rio recalled awaking, the vague semi-return to normality, the van, those in the house. He hadn’t seen their faces, but he’d heard the briefest of conversations — in English, but it sounded different somehow … like one of them was calm, in command …