The Operators
Page 23
Other children — too many to name, mostly grandkids — weren’t sitting. They tore around the yard, still excited to have watched those dairy cows being milked, herded out of the yard, and strolled down to the swamp paddock, where the bovines now stood and chewed nonchalantly on the rich grass. Every kid had taken part in Wally’s ‘droving team’. Wally had pointed out birds, frogs, plants, trees, and countless other gems on the way back to the house. Not one kid stared at a phone or an iPad.
The group had gathered over three days for this special get-together. By car, by train, and, in Rick’s case, by RAAF transport — that was so Rick.
Lots to talk about, more even to tell.
Let’s begin with Azka. Late in the day, when asked to stand and talk, he burst into tears. There were two reasons. First, he was overflowing, overcome, with joy — tears were the only way of expressing his love to those around him. Second, he was rendered speechless by the telepresence of his beautiful wife and children, here on a large television screen but there in a neat office in Bandung.
When Azka could not speak, his family in Bandung did. They waved and laughed and said hi to the Australian party and, in return, received the kind of applause normally reserved for celebrities. Azka sat and a tall well-dressed older Indonesian man stood.
‘My name is Pratham,’ he said. ‘I know Azka, Diyab, and their families very well. I met Azka after that terrible incident with you, Mr Flannagan.’
(Much to the Indonesian party’s bemusement, the mention of Wally’s name drew laughs, boos, hisses, and a general hubbub, which lasted for ages. Was our Wally a hero or the butt of jokes?)
‘I want to share something with you that explains the amazing connection I have with Azka, his family, Layla. As a young man from a wealthy family, growing up I had everything. Toys, books, my own room, comfort. True, I wanted for nothing. Except a friend. Our family hired many servants. However, there was one boy, Saqib, my age, ten years old, he shared a bed with our lovely dog. Our bond began slowly, became unbreakable. We shared stories, books, games, everything. As Saqib had had no schooling, I was amazed how quick he learnt, surpassed me, and helped me gain the highest marks in class. On finishing school, I left home, tried to keep in touch with Saqib. He died too young, leaving a wife, young family, and here is his son, Azka, the mirror of his father. I am guessing you believe that’s the end of the story? No, just the beginning. My family own several large hotels. I manage one used by foreign governments, high-flyers, and wealthier patrons. It’s how I met Rick. Many a time, Rick has rung personally, booked a room for a dignitary or politician. I was surprised when he approached me that day about a job for a young man named Diyab. I never questioned his request or doubted his recommendation. All of us admire you, Rick. Diyab fitted in so well. I admit, I never met with Diyab personally. I had done Rick a much-deserved favour — that was it. Or so I thought then. How far from the mark could I be? Next, Rick wanted several reservations, a family suite, cash-only settlements, and no records — that was different. Then it happened. Diyab approached me, said he had met a young man, and with Rick’s help they would be taking over a block of units nearby, setting up a refuge of sorts. I admit, I was confused, so I contacted Rick, we met, and, yes, I met Azka, Saqib’s son. The moment I saw him I was stunned at the resemblance. A few enquiries satisfied my curiosity. I might add that, like his father, Azka is a genius. Together, we have set up a home for those young women you rescued from sex slavery — a special home, run by Azka and Layla.’
As the two men hugged, all stood, in Australia and remotely. The applause was loud and sustained. Admittedly, many had heard the story, certainly knew of Pratham and his generosity in providing all the essentials to maintain the units for the rescued women and girls. Pratham had not only known Rick, but been on Bagus’s commercial real-estate client list — such a contradiction.
The barbecue seemed ready to go down in The Guinness Book of Records. The guests had begun arriving at 9.00 a.m. and now, two meals later, it was approaching 9.00 p.m. No one wanted to leave.
The stories, the drama, the success — it would take another book to relate it all. To finish, we must turn to two photographs and a funny story.
A professional photographer had been hired to take portraits and group photos, including two special group photos.
In the first, Wally, Basil, Harry, David, John, and Marcus stood in the background. In the foreground, while Rick held aloft his glass eye, Adam presented him with a plastic Oscar for his acting prowess that day in the basement …
In the second group photo stood Diyab, Azka, and Gus, their faces lit with cheery smiles, their arms thrown over the others’ shoulders. Gus stood to the far left. Yes, with just one full arm, the other severed just below the elbow, he could only hug Azka on his right. Gus, Joko’s twin brother, had lost that arm and damaged the left side of his face in a motorbike accident at the tender age of eighteen. Joko hadn’t even visited him in the hospital when he heard the news. Joko — Gus believed — had been too busy. Marcus and John had discovered Gus when tracing Joko’s connections.
In the course of the day, Rick had given several stirring speeches and copped endless flak from the Vets.
With a leer, Adam had asked, ‘How did you manage to throw that machete at that wooden door and hit that tiny sticker, the size of a drink coaster, dead in the middle, some nine metres away?’
‘Twenty metres,’ said Rick.
‘A hundred!’ chorused the Vets.
Rick smirked.
‘I didn’t think I’d even hit the door, let alone the sticker — biggest fluke in my life.’
The Vets roared with laughter.
Yet when John asked what had happened to Rio, Bagus, and their team of criminals, Rick’s answer was even funnier.
‘I will always remember — in that basement, some time back now, when I spoke to Rio and Bagus, just after Adam had finished interrogating them, I pointed at the window in that wooden door and said something like, Get used to looking through those bars. No matter how long it takes, justice will triumph. It did, and they will most likely die behind bars.’