by Jon Cleary
Malone was surprised at the bitterness in Timori’s voice. He had thought the ex-President was resigned to his future, to exile, to the opprobrium. “I won’t be muck-raking, Mr. President, not unless it’s necessary, to find out who’s paying Seville.”
“Damn Seville! Who cares about him?”
“I thought you did, sir.”
Timori stared at him. In Palucca, Malone thought, my head would be off within the next hour. There was no mistaking the rage in the ex-President’s dark face; then all at once the rage drained out of it and something else replaced it. It was a moment before Malone recognized it as fear.
“You may go, Inspector.” He turned and walked away to the end of the terrace and stood staring out at the harbour. Delvina hesitated, then she gave Malone an angry look and followed her husband. She took his hand and they stood close together, gazing north, towards Palucca. It was only by accident they were looking in that direction: neither of them had the slightest idea about the points of the compass. When Abdul prayed each day it was Sun, the Buddhist, who always had to point him towards Mecca.
“You’ve over-stepped the mark again, Inspector,” said Hickbed. “We’ll have your head for this.”
Then the housemaid appeared. “Inspector Malone? You’re wanted on the telephone.”
Saved by Russ Clements: Malone knew it would be him. He followed the girl into the house. “Are you Vietnamese? Or Filipino?”
“No, sir. I’m from Palucca. I work for Mr. Hickbed two years.”
He might have known. “What did you think of Madame Timori when you were there?”
She was not embarrassed by the question. “Oh, she was wonderful, sir. She called herself the Mother of the Poor.”
“And was she?”
“Was she what, sir?”
“Mother of the Poor.”
The girl had her first doubt; she frowned. “Oh, I think so. There’s the telephone, sir.”
She went away towards the back of the house, shaking her head at foreign policemen who asked stupid questions. Malone picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“Inspector Malone? Scobie, this is Russ. We picked up Dallas Pinjarri. But no gun.”
IV
“General Paturi’s on the doorstep,” said Neil Kissing, the Foreign Minister. “Or anyway, his embassy’s doorstep. You’ll have to see him.”
“You see him,” said Philip Norval. “He’s not a Head of State. Or is he? How do these juntas divvy up their status?”
“I’m not seeing him, not on my own. He’s your baby, not mine. He wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t invited Timori. He’d be in Washington or somewhere, worrying the guts out of them.”
Kissing had been in politics for twenty-five years. He was now in his mid-fifties, a bluff, curly-haired man who came from a working-class background. He had deserted his father’s party, the Labour Party, because of the in-fighting that always seemed to be going on; he had joined the Liberal Party and been stabbed in the back so many times he had become known as the Dartboard. The deepest wound had been inflicted when Norval and his backers had manipulated the numbers and, after years of striving, he had been defeated for the Prime Ministership. He had been given Foreign Affairs as compensation and he had worked brilliantly in the post; the fact that the Big Powers, and even the Small Powers of Europe, took little notice of Australian policies did not count. The nation’s voice, if only a bleat in the corridors of world power, was a triumphant shout in the nation’s newspapers: Kissing’s minders saw to that. He was biding his time, certain that he would be Prime Minister before he had to draw his superannuation.
“I’m not carrying the can for you this time, Phil. You handle these buggers on your own. I’m having enough trouble with Suharto in Indonesia. And with Singapore.”
Sometimes he wished Australia was elsewhere on the world map. Say where Sicily now was: shrunken, of course, to fit into the Mediterranean, but that wouldn’t matter. There was so much of the country that could be discarded. The whole middle third of it, which was just so much desert; Tasmania, which was always being left off maps anyway, even by Australian cartographers; he’d wipe off Queensland, too, which wanted to secede, or so it was said. It would be a pleasure to have to deal with the Europeans instead of the Asians; he would still get the dirty end of the stick, but the Europeans were less touchy about abuse. They expected that from the relics of their empires.
Phil Norval smoothed down his hair. He had just had his personal barber attend to it; the blondness had been touched up a little so that it would catch the light in tomorrow’s cameras. Tonight, too, he would be at the Bicentennial Ball and he wanted to look his best for that. His suntanned handsomeness always looked good at night and he would look particularly good beside Anita, who was fair-complexioned and, more importantly, short. He had never forgotten how, on a visit to Europe, he had been photographed alongside the six-foot-two wife of a Scandinavian Prime Minister. He had looked like her page-boy.
He was feeling depressed and worried, not a common state of mind for him; he was famous for always being buoyant and smiling through any disaster, natural or political. He had had an uncanny knack for being able to shrug off the blame for any of his government’s mistakes; he had chosen (with much advice from Hickbed and the kitchen cabinet) a Cabinet whose ministers, willingly or unwillingly, had always been able to carry the can. Now they were deserting him. None of them, with the exception of Kissing, was in Canberra and though he had sent for them, none of them had responded. They were, his minders had been told by their minders, celebrating the Bicentennial in their electorates, as all good ministers were expected to. They would come back to Canberra in the event of war or his own death, but that was all.
“What does Paturi want? Does he want us to hand over Timori?”
“I don’t think so. The last thing they want is any sort of political trial—they might have to shoot Timori. They wouldn’t want to do that in public. No, Paturi wants us to say we’ll freeze all the Timori holdings here in Australia and return them to Palucca.”
“That could take years!”
“Maybe. Even if it does, it’s the appearance of things. The generals would be seen to be doing things, they won’t lose face. Neither shall we.” Losing face had never worried Kissing, he had become used to it. It was bums on seats, on a chair in the Cabinet room or here in the Prime Minister’s residence, that counted.
They were in Norval’s study in The Lodge. It was not a large room, not as big as his study in his own home back in Sydney. It had been decorated by Anita Norval in what one critic from a women’s magazine had described as Network Moderne or Commercial TV Chic. The Lodge, it seemed, was continually being redecorated as each new tenant moved in; the taxpayers, it was said, only voted to re-elect an incumbent to save some of their own money. The study was in bright colours, the studio for an up-market TV host. The paintings on the wall were modern but not abstract, the carpet and the drapes were of best merino wool, the desk and chairs and table of the best native timber. There was only a small bookshelf, but Anita knew camouflage could be taken too far.
“Timori will never forgive me if I see Paturi.”
“Does that matter? Nobody ever looks for forgiveness in foreign affairs—I’ve never met a foreign minister who could even spell absolution. Except maybe the Vatican’s and he’d keep his fingers crossed while he gave it to you.”
“What do I tell Paturi then?” He was lost without his advisers. He had come down to Canberra only for a couple of hours and had told them there was no need for them to accompany him. He had been attracted to politics by the theatrics of it; he was still ill at ease with the problems. He had no burning beliefs; his conservatism was simple-minded. His minders acted as his conscience, which meant it was best that they had none of their own. “He’s sure to want a quick answer.”
“Agree to whatever he asks—that is, unless he asks for Timori. Much as I’d like to, I don’t think we can hand him back. But the six or seven hundred million that�
��s rumoured to be here—”
“We can’t hand that back! We’ll have the pensioners and the education gang and the bloody social workers on our back—”
“They’re all supposed to be small l liberals—they’re not supposed to be on Timori’s side. In any case, we don’t physically hand it back.” He wondered who took care of Norval’s finances; it must be Anita or a good agent. “We just persuade him to leave the holdings here, but we change them into the name of the new government. Or their nominees.”
“Who’ll they be?”
“Him and his mates, possibly. We don’t know yet how honest they all are.”
Norval sighed; the demands of office were sometimes too much. “Okay, I’ll see him. But you stay with me, just in case.”
“Just in case what?” But Kissing smiled, went to the door and told the secretary on duty to phone General Paturi and tell him the Prime Minister would see him.
General Paturi arrived ten minutes later; he must have been poised on one foot waiting for the call. He had had the good sense to wear mufti; his embassy had told him that Australians, especially politicians, were always uncomfortable in the presence of uniforms. He was a small man with sleek black hair and skin much darker than his ex-President’s. He came from an up-country family that had given up head-hunting only after the turn of the century when his grandfather had come back from a Dutch-paid trip to Europe and reported that heads had no value in the outside world and were not considered trophies unless they wore a crown. In his own language Paturi talked a blue streak, most of it in blue words, but he was hesitant and circumspect in English.
“Mr. Prime Minister, you do me an honour. You too, Mr. Kissing.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, General.” Norval had spent all his adult life practising social lies. But he decided to be blunt: “What can we do for you?”
Paturi was a career military man, but he was accustomed to circumlocution: it had gone with the climate in Palucca. He blinked, then decided to be blunt in return: “It would please us if you kicked out our ex-President.”
“We’re trying to find somewhere for him to retire to. But as you understand, it isn’t easy. You wouldn’t take him back?” He smiled to show he was joking.
Paturi was not used to joking in serious matters; he looked affronted. “Never! Our people would never have him back—”
“Of course not,” said Kissing, feeling a little diplomacy was needed.
“It is a pity the assassination attempt wasn’t successful.” Paturi was not going to waste any more time in diplomacy or niceties.
“That’s pretty brutal, isn’t it?” said Norval. After all, Abdul Timori was supposed to be a friend.
“I’m a military man, Mr. Prime Minister.” Perhaps he should have worn his uniform with the double row of ribbons, all won without honours but not dishonourably. “Brutal solutions are sometimes the best.”
“That sounds like a military solution.”
“It is.” If he hadn’t fought a war, he at least knew what a gun was for.
“Do you know who might be trying to have him assassinated?” said Kissing.
“Yes,” said Paturi. “Himself.”
“Himself?” Norval almost fell out of his chair; even Kissing was shocked at such a suggestion. But then neither of them understood the Asian mind. “Timori himself?”
“He’s a cunning man, Prime Minister, as cunning as a serpent. He could have arranged it so that it looked as if he was the one to be killed. Instead poor Mr. Masutir got the bullet.”
“Got the bullet. A pretty drastic way of being fired.” Norval looked at Kissing and smiled; he could never resist a joke, in poor taste or otherwise. Kissing did not smile back.
“What would it achieve, General?” he said.
“Sympathy.”
“Not here, General. Most Australians are sorry the assassin missed.”
Paturi raised his eyebrows. He had been told most Australians were good sports, whatever that meant. “Back in Palucca there would be sympathy in some quarters. I have to confess, not everyone was glad to see him leave. There are many ignorant people in our country who believed everything he and Madame Timori told them. We have to educate them,” he said and made it sound like a gigantic task.
Kissing knew what he meant: even the voters here needed educating. “If what you say is true, maybe you should talk to him, come to a compromise.”
Paturi shook his head emphatically. “We could never trust him, Mr. Kissing. Nor that woman—” The disgust in his voice was like a dry retch. “She is the one we’d never have back. She is worse than he is. She is a foreigner, too.”
The two foreigners nodded. Norval said, “So what do you want?”
“All their assets in this country frozen. I am here to talk with lawyers. Once we have established what is held, we shall claim it. Then we shall sell all of it to you.”
“Us?”
“The Australian government. We shall sell you all the holdings, whatever they are, and you will give us the money. I have read in the newspapers that there may be seven hundred million dollars’ worth held here. It is not much to a wealthy country like Australia. Petty cash, I think you call it.”
“General Paturi,” said Norval, “this isn’t some quiz show.”
“Excuse me, Prime Minister?”
“What the Prime Minister means,” said Kissing, who wished Norval would forget what he had once been, “is that this isn’t some sort of prize money we can hand out. The government can’t buy the Timori holdings—for one thing, we don’t believe in the government owning anything. We can possibly freeze the assets, I don’t know the drill on that, but we could never buy them. You’ll have to find your own buyers.”
“It would be much simpler—” Life in a democracy was complicated: he did not look forward to the future back home.
“Of course it would,” said Norval, who saw the opportunity for another joke, but resisted it; to Kissing’s relief. “But that’s not the way we work here. Leave it with us, General. I’ll get our Attorney-General or whoever to look at it.” He stood up, put out his hand. “I’m sorry. I have my plane waiting to take me back to Sydney in half an hour.”
General Paturi was not used to being dismissed so abruptly, but he swallowed his resentment. “I, too, am going back to Sydney. Perhaps—?”
Norval was deliberately slow; but Kissing was quick as a fox: “Of course! The Prime Minister will be glad to give you a lift. It will give you the opportunity to get to know each other better for the future.”
“Will you be coming, Mr. Kissing?”
“Alas, no. A pity. The celebrations, you know—I have to go back to my electorate, not fifty miles from here.” He grinned at Norval, having stabbed him in the back. “You should get an electorate closer to Canberra, Phil.”
Norval, not normally a vicious man, gave him a look that would have severed his head from his body had looks been steel.
“I understand there is a Bicentennial Ball this evening,” said General Paturi on their way out of the study. “I have been invited.”
“Who by?” Norval missed his step in surprise.
“I have never met the gentleman. The invitation came to the embassy by telephone. From the Premier of New South Wales, Mr. Vanderberg.”
Behind them Kissing had a sudden fit of diplomatic coughing.
6
I
SEVILLE PULLED the blue Honda Accord into the kerb in the quiet suburban street. He had arrived here almost like something caught on a wayward breeze; he only knew he was in the municipality of Randwick because a council street sign told him so. He did not know he was only half a dozen blocks from the street where Malone lived, but he would not have been surprised if someone had told him so. Accidents of geography no longer amazed him, coincidence was part of the pattern of life.
When he had driven out of the city parking station he had known he would have to dump the stolen Honda as soon as possible. Though he had immediately headed nort
h towards the Harbour Bridge, he had soon turned east and driven through the central business district of the city. Before long he had picked up what seemed to be a main stream of traffic. It had taken him through some inner city streets, where the houses were crowded together without front yards and the doors of some stood wide open like dark mouths gasping for breath in the hot morning. Then he was driving down a wide tree-lined avenue past what looked like a huge sports complex. A cricket Test was taking place there, but it meant nothing to him.
The Sydney Cricket Ground was no mecca for him; no cricket ground anywhere in the world tempted him. His father, the Englishman twice removed by birth from England (the family name had been Saville till his mother, the Argentinian, had changed it after his father’s death), had done his best to teach his only son a love of the game; as a boy he had been taken each weekend by his father to the Hurlingham club and made to watch while his father played, usually badly. All he could remember from those hated weekends was the ignominy of watching his father fail week after week (“Jolly hard luck, old chap, better luck next week”) and the once confided secret regret by his father that he had never scored a century. The old man was dead now, buried in the mausoleum in Recoletta, remembered for his decency, his love of things English and his disappointment that his son, the natural athlete, had never wanted to take advantage of his prowess. For his father’s sake he had played the game at St. George’s School in Buenos Aires, always scoring well but never a century; twice he had been within sight of the hundred runs and twice he had got himself out deliberately. He had never attempted to analyse, because he had not wanted to know, whether he had committed cricket suicide to spite his father or out of respect for him. His father had tried so hard to be as English as possible, but there had been the machismo streak in him and he might have felt more hurt than pride if his son had achieved something that he had longed for and to which he had never got even close.