Blood Is a Stranger

by Roland Perry

  ‘Is Robert Perdonny at home?’ one of the four men said.

  The guard ordered the servant to fetch Perdonny, who appeared in a white towelling robe. The visitor stepped forward. He seemed on edge as he bowed and handed over a letter.

  ‘You are under house arrest, sir,’ the man said.

  ‘On whose authority?’ Perdonny asked. He tore open the letter.

  ‘The president.’

  ‘There are no reasons in this,’ Perdonny said. ‘On what grounds am I to be held?’

  ‘The president has not specified any, sir,’ the visitor said, deferentially.

  ‘What are the conditions for this detention?’ Perdonny said.

  ‘You and your wife must remain inside this property until further notice.’

  ‘My wife is on Ambon,’ Perdonny said.

  The man said something to one of the others out of earshot of Perdonny.

  ‘She may stay there.’

  ‘Are you a Bakin officer?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I would rather be held there,’ Perdonny said.

  ‘We must ask you to remain in your home,’ the Bakin officer said.

  ‘My official home for all purposes is on Ambon,’ Perdonny said coolly. ‘I suggest you speak to your superiors and remind them of this.’

  The four men glanced at each other.

  ‘I’m sure the president won’t mind,’ Perdonny added with the hint of a smile. ‘I am more out of the way there.’

  A search light swept the Ambon airport perimeter. Cardinal had been cooped up in the plane for twelve hours when Webb returned at nine.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ Webb said, ‘the place was crawling with cops and soldiers. Couldn’t risk comin’ back till now.’

  He handed Cardinal a tomato sandwich and a beer.

  ‘Had to check in with the customs and immigration people,’ Webb said. ‘They’re pretty bloody thorough. This is one of the islands for illegal immigration and drug smuggling to Australia.’

  Cardinal munched in silence.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’re in good shape,’ Webb said, pointing to seismic equipment at the back of the plane. ‘Just got to deliver that gear in the morning and we’re off. There are no plans to hold up flights.’

  ‘When exactly can we take off?’ Cardinal stretched and did some knee-bends.

  ‘With luck by mid-morning. I’ve notified local authorities that I’ll be staying with the plane overnight.’

  ‘Why are you doing that?’

  ‘The bloody army around here is starved of its own planes. They like to commandeer commercial planes to hike soldiers around the islands.’

  ‘Will I stay here too?’

  ‘No. You’ll have to get out. Soldiers will be checking every plane before midnight. Jakarta has alerted the locals. They’re on the look-out for terrorists.’

  ‘Does that mean me?’

  ‘I don’t know. But we can’t take chances. I’ve got accommodation for you.’ Webb pointed beyond airport buildings. ‘You’ll see a car dip its headlights in a couple of minutes. Wait until the searchlight has passed over the plane, then go for it. The driver’s one of Perdonny’s people. He’ll take you to town.’

  Cardinal picked up his suitcase.

  ‘I’ll phone you when we get the all-clear in the morning,’ he said. ‘The driver will bring you back here.’

  Webb gave him the thumbs up sign. ‘Sleep well and relax. We’ll make it to Darwin, no worries.’ He walked across the tarmac and was bathed in the searchlight.

  Cardinal kept his eye on the road leading to the terminal. He saw the signal and gripped the suitcase. The moment the light slid over the plane he jumped out. Cardinal waited a few seconds and then began jogging to hangars. He could see the silhouettes of soldiers in the terminal lounge about forty metres from him. He reached the car and slipped into the back seat.

  ‘You Aussie?’ the driver said, near the end of the one-hour journey around the coast road.

  ‘No, American, why?’

  ‘Many Aussie die there,’ the driver said, waving at a cemetery.

  ‘When?’

  ‘In war.’ The driver took a hand off the steering wheel and made a chopping motion. ‘Japanese. Five hundred in one day.’

  ‘Were there any survivors?’

  ‘Three. But one die in jungle, one die in water. Only one made it to Australia, on raft.’

  Cardinal felt uncomfortable. The driver grinned into the rear-vision mirror. ‘You be okay,’ he said. ‘Robert’s wife tell me he come to Ambon soon.’

  Perdonny waded through the early morning crowd of locals. They were dressed in traditional saris and skirts of red and white. They cheered their most successful son who had just flown in on a military aircraft from Jakarta. He waved, shook hands and moved into the terminal lounge to collect his luggage. He was about to leave when he noticed Webb huddled in a corner.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ a tired-eyed Webb asked. ‘Let’s have breakfast.’

  ‘Where’s Cardinal?’ Perdonny asked, when they’d found a private spot.

  ‘I had to send him around the island,’ Webb said, his intense eyes darting to the lounge. ‘The place is crawling with Bakin!’

  ‘Is that who you were speaking to?’

  ‘Yes,’ Webb said lighting up a cigarette. ‘They’ve been asking a lot of bloody questions.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Had I seen any Americans? Why did I switch routes and not go into Bali? What cargo was I carrying?’. Perdonny noticed that his hand was shaking. ‘I’ve been up all damned night. First the army threatened to take my plane. Then those bastards in there bailed me up.’

  ‘You’ll be able to get out, though?’

  ‘Shit! I hope so.’

  ‘With Cardinal?’

  ‘If things have cooled down by mid-morning.’

  They ordered breakfast. Minutes later, eggs, bacon and toast was placed in front of them.

  ‘What restrictions have been placed on you?’ Webb asked.

  ‘I have to check in with the police every morning.’

  Webb laughed. ‘Big deal. You own most of them, don’t you?’

  Perdonny looked up at the Australian. ‘This is no joke,’ he said. ‘I can’t get off the island without permission. Nor can my wife. I’ll be watched.’

  ‘But this is your bloody island!’

  ‘People can be bought to betray me.’

  ‘Why do you think Utun did it?’ Webb asked. ‘Bit of a desperate move, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know what his motives were. But I do know I’m one step away from Buru.’

  ‘Utun wouldn’t have the nerve to put you on Buru!’ Webb scoffed.

  Perdonny stared at him.

  ‘Do you want to get out?’ Webb asked, leaning forward.

  ‘No,’ Perdonny said. ‘I still have much to do here.’

  ‘But if more pressure is put on . . .’

  ‘I’m staying,’ he said. ‘You concentrate on getting Cardinal out. That’s more important at the moment.’

  Cardinal had trouble sleeping in the guesthouse called Witsana in the heart of Ambon, a small Dutch colonial town. He had not liked the delay and was not comforted by Webb’s over-confident attitude.

  He got up before dawn and wandered into the town to watch the sun rise. Its warmth cheered him as did the guesthouse proprietor, a bustling old Ambonese woman who fussed about making breakfast. As he sat down to eat the phone rang.

  ‘Spider.’ The woman grinned.

  ‘I’ve been grilled by Bakin this morning,’ Webb told Cardinal, ‘so things are tight. But come around the island in the next hour.’

  ‘Have you been given clearance for Darwin?’

  ‘Not yet. But we can go to other islands where the heat will be off.’

  ‘Well, where should I go? I can’t just wander into the terminal.’

  ‘Get out of the car at a turn in the road about a kilometre from the airport. You’ll see a well
right there. Cut across the fields next to the airport and come around the back of the hangars. I will move the plane nearer to them and be on the look out for you.’

  ‘What about the soldiers?’

  ‘They’re all in or around the terminal. I can’t sit on the phone here too long. See you soon.’

  On the return ride, Cardinal felt uneasy, his fears accentuated by the low-flying helicopter.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ Cardinal asked the driver as he craned his neck to see it.

  The driver looked troubled and shook his head.

  ‘Sometime they do that,’ he said. ‘Army very powerful on Ambon.’

  Cardinal kept his eyes on the chopper as it circled above and then drifted off north-east of the road. He could only just hear the dull roar of its engine when they reached the well. Cardinal asked the driver to pull over. He sat motionless in the rear seat scanning the field between the jungle and the airport. He was uncertain about moving straight across because it seemed to give him little or no cover. Instead he told the driver to reverse to the face of the jungle.

  Cardinal stayed close to the field’s boundary and paused to hide in the undergrowth. He was about half-way across when he heard the sound of a chopper looming up from the airport area. It kept climbing almost vertically and then drifted across towards the field which it hovered above. Cardinal side-stepped into the foliage until it circled low and returned to the airfield. Just as he started to walk again, a jeep came careering out of the airport across the field. He glanced back at the road and saw several soldiers running his way. Everywhere he looked he could see figures running. He turned to the safety of the jungle but had not gone two metres when he stopped. Two soldiers were propped behind trees with rifles aimed at him. He dropped the suitcase and raised his arms.

  An officer advanced from the field, shouting orders. He approached Cardinal cautiously and slid the suitcase away from him.

  ‘Passport!’ Passport!’ he yelled. Soldiers formed a tight ring around Cardinal. He nodded to the suitcase. The officer waved a revolver at Cardinal, knocking his Bogart off, and he fumbled in the side pouch and handed the document over. He grabbed his hat

  The officer was ecstatic. He gabbled to the soldiers, and they guided Cardinal towards the jeep. He was bustled in and driven to the airport hangars where the chopper had landed. Its rotors were still spinning. Cardinal was pushed out of the jeep and ordered to run to it.

  When Cardinal was aboard, the chopper took off. He looked down to the Beachcraft only thirty metres away. Webb was sitting in the cockpit. He seemed to be looking at him.

  8

  Cardinal’s first view of the infamous prison on Buru island west of Ambon was the leaning watch-tower known as ‘Pisa’. He was accompanied by four armed soldiers on the three-hour journey, first by helicopter to a clearing north-east of the island and then by motor boat down the muddy Wayupa River to the prison landing site.

  Cardinal could see a barbed-wire fence around the buildings, which needed repair. The small contingent was forced to wait in the tall alang grass outside the main gate while one of the rifle-toting sentries climbed listlessly from a tower. Cardinal leant against the gate and it seemed to give a little under his weight. He thought that one hard shove could bring the whole Jerry-built construction tumbling down.

  Cardinal was marched alone to the commandant’s offices in a cabin of split logs, and was left in a spartan room. He could see the soldiers leaving the prison grounds as the commandant appeared. He looked as if he had been the victim of napalm. His facial skin had purple splotches and was stretched across his flat cheekbones like a hideous mask. His tall, lean frame was bent as he shuffled past Cardinal to a cluttered desk. He sat down without acknowledging him and stared at scribbled notes. He lifted his eyes to meet Cardinal’s gaze. The commandant sniffed and rubbed his face, which heightened the colourful patches.

  ‘You are accused of murder and subversive activity,’ he said in stilted English. ‘Do you wish to make a confession?’

  ‘I only wish to speak with the American Ambassador to Indonesia,’ Cardinal replied.

  ‘Answer my question.’

  ‘I do not wish to make a confession - only to speak with the American Ambassador.’

  ‘The ambassador can not help you. This is Bum.’ The commandant spoke throatily.

  ‘On what authority are you detaining me?’

  The commandant frowned.

  ‘Where were you three nights ago?’ he said, looking at his notes.

  ‘On vacation.’

  The commandant stared at the ground. He brought a fist down on the desk. ‘You murdered a member of the Kampuchean Embassy!’

  Cardinal felt numb. He looked out the office window and could just see the heads of the retreating soldiers above the grass.

  ‘Why did you commit this crime?’

  Cardinal was about to ask whom he was supposed to have killed, but checked himself.

  ‘I don’t have to answer anything,’ he said defiantly. ‘The ambassador’s name is David Temple. Please contact him.’

  The commandant stared up at Cardinal and stood up.

  ‘My advice is to co-operate, Mr Cardinal. You are in big trouble.’

  He searched Cardinal’s face for a sign of capitulation. ‘You are a professional CIA assassin? Yes?’

  Cardinal shook his head. The commandant flicked a hand at the guards and snapped orders.

  They seized Cardinal and led him to a wooden two-level cell block a hundred metres from the commandant’s office.

  Cardinal was marched upstairs to a long wide corridor with cells on either side. Prisoners straggled to their cell bars and watched the new arrival. Cardinal noted their emaciated appearance and felt a sharp wave of depression wash over him. His cell was isolated and contained just a bunk and bucket. There was one small window above eye level which provided the only view and air in the fetid room.

  Cardinal heard the key turn in the lock. He stood on the bunk to see twenty men being walked around in the midday heat.

  He sat on the bunk and was attacked by biting gnats. He tried to think positively, but could not see any way out of his predicament. He recalled what a fellow-inmate had said to him in a POW camp in China: ‘If you have nothing, you always have hope.’ His main expectation was that Webb would raise the alarm and alert the American Embassy.

  Rhonda sat at one end of the table.

  ‘We feel that the story must be done through Ken Cardinal’s eyes.’

  Network managing director, Bill Hartford, sixty, balding and rubber-lipped, sat at the other end in a three-piece suit, which looked ready to burst at the vest buttons. Either side of him were corporation lawyers and two senior executives. One of them was Rhonda’s ex-husband.

  ‘Cardinal creates the human-interest thread,’ she said, ‘and I think that’s the best way to present it.’

  ‘The story revolves around him trying to find out what happened to his son,’ she went on, ‘and we should orient it to beg the question of whether his son is dead or alive, with the inference being that he may well be alive.’

  ‘You mean slant it to hint the son is alive?’ her ex-husband asked.

  ‘Let me run through the story,’ Rhonda replied, ‘then make your own judgement.’ She looked up at the faces at the other end.

  ‘Two experts in lasers disappear from Lucas Heights. One is an Indonesian with both Australian and Indonesian citizenship. She may travel on a dual passport. This woman is abducted from Australia to Bandung where she works for the Indonesian government. Assumption: she is involved in two projects. One is to make nuclear bombs for Indonesia. The other is to create laser weapons for use by Kampuchean forces in the war against the Vietnamese.’

  ‘When you say assumption,’ a lawyer interjected, ‘have you got facts to back this up?’

  ‘Enough circumstantial evidence to make the documentary credible,’ Dunstan answered for Rhonda.

  ‘That’s dangerous ground,’ the lawyer said. �
�You’re accusing our most important near neighbour of making nuclear weapons!’

  ‘Let me finish,’ Rhonda said. ‘Indonesia gets the capacity to make the bomb as a trade-off with the CIA to allow it to use the Bandung reactor facilities to develop laser weapons for use by the Kampucheans. Originally the laser developments for nuclear bombs and Star Wars had been secretly carried out at Lucas Heights. With the change in government here, the nuclear bomb project continued but the Star Wars commission was thrown out. The CIA was forced to find another Pacific-Asian nation to carry on that project. The Indonesians were chosen. They had the facility and were willing to make it available if the Indonesian woman scientist was transferred to Bandung to head the work. That was done. Certain things suggest that the man who was supposed to have been murdered at Lucas Heights, Harold Ian Cardinal, may also have been moved to Bandung. He was the Star Wars specialist. He could help the woman on the bomb project for Indonesia and she could help him on the Star Wars work.’

  ‘But why would the CIA go to so much trouble?’ the executive asked.

  ‘It fits their aims,’ Rhonda replied. ‘They don’t want it known that there is American involvement in the Kampuchean’Vietnam war, while there is abundant evidence to suggest it has been supplying special arms to the Khmer Rouge for some time. A suitable war is needed to experiment with Star Wars weaponry. The Americans do not want to be seen breaching their agreements with the Soviets on Star Wars so they need a clandestine outlet. The battle with the Vietnamese is perfect. The Americans have wanted to curtail Vietnam’s expansion in South-East Asia. Letting the Khmer Rouge loose with Star Wars weapons is consistent with US foreign policy.’ All eyes were on Hartford.

  ‘So the CIA fakes the death of this key scientist so that he may secretly work on Star Wars in Indonesia?’ he asked.

  Rhonda nodded.

  ‘Can you get the CIA to respond to all this?’ Hartford asked.

  ‘We could try,’ Dunstan said. ‘Of course, they would deny it.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ Hartford said, ‘just give them the chance to deny it.’ He turned to Rhonda again and asked, ‘Where is Cardinal now?’

  ‘I last spoke to him in Jakarta about three days ago.’