by Ray Scott
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 wondere
d 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?’