Rogue Element

Prologue

General Suluang shook a toothpick from the holder. He dug out a piece of chicken that had lodged in the canyon left by a filling broken long ago. The waitress cleared away the meal eaten by the men hunched in the circle of dim light over the table. The general looked up when her scent reached his nostrils. She smiled. He admired the young woman’s body, momentarily diverted from the discussion.

‘Kalimantan is troublesome again,’ said Lanti Rajasa, the head of Indonesia’s security police. ‘We kill the terrorists but the burnings persist.’ His lips were stretched tight across yellow teeth, giving him the appearance of an animal baring its fangs.

The general nodded, relieved that the annoying piece of chicken had finally been dispatched. This was his favourite restaurant in Jakarta. The food was acceptable, the decor a mishmash of jungle themes and Indonesian mythology. The music softly piping through the restaurant’s speakers was a popular melody played on a continuous loop. The general found the familiarity of it reassuring. The room, though large, was dark and private. Thick brown carpet swallowed conversation and the muted light encouraged anonymity. It was the kind of place businessmen took their mistresses during the day, but it was one o’clock in the morning now and the last of the paying customers had long since left. He especially liked this restaurant because the owner was his cousin, a retired army major from a good regiment, so he didn’t feel that he had to guard his conversation.

Rajasa continued. ‘Aceh is worsening. The police chief there is missing. We don’t think we’ll find him alive. Several government buildings have been torched. The army is on the streets, but the looting, as you know, goes on. The students are the worst. The people no longer wait for the soldiers to turn their backs before they steal. The army doesn’t seem to be an effective deterrent any more.’

The general again nodded thoughtfully, ‘Perhaps we should have had our men remove their red berets way back in the beginning. It would have been helpful having supporters in the area working behind the scenes. We’ve let things get out of hand. Lack of respect is a disease, Lanti, and it spreads. Aceh, Ambon, Kalimantan, Irian Jaya.’

‘You mean West Papua, General,’ said Colonel Javid Jayakatong, commanding officer of a mechanised infantry regiment. ‘I still can’t believe the government caved in to pressure from a few natives waving spears and allowed the place to be renamed.’

‘They can call it what they like, Colonel. It’ll always be Irian Jaya to me,’ said Suluang.

‘Even Bali is proving difficult,’ said Rajasa, snorting in disbelief.

‘Yes, it has never really recovered from those fanatics,’ said Jayakatong, ‘The Balinese resent us. They think we allowed it to happen because they’re Hindu, rather than Muslim. Fools. Don’t all of us here have assets there that rely on the tourists? Why would we hurt our own investments? Still, there is a bright side.’

‘And that is…?’ Rajasa was intrigued.

‘The number of Australian flags burned across the country in support of the attacks,’ said Jayakatong.

The men laughed heartily.

The general waited for the laughter to subside and let his face assume a hard, conspiratorial mien. He leaned forward. ‘It started with East Timor. Now, every other island and province with the vaguest historical grudge against Java is moving towards secession. There are racial tensions, religious pressures. Gentlemen, we are sitting on the complete disintegration of Indonesia, nothing less.’

Blood flushed into Colonel Jayakatong’s head at the mention of East Timor. He had been chased through a jungle trail there, humiliated by Australian soldiers, and he hit the table with a closed fist. ‘Australians! Asia’s white trash! They are to blame for so much unrest within our country.’

Lanti Rajasa spoke in a low voice, ‘Many Indonesians feel as you do, Colonel.’

Suluang was pleased to see the anger on the colonel’s face. That was good. It fed his resolve. He glanced quickly at Rajasa and received an imperceptible nod. ‘We all know why we’re here. Indonesia needs a strong hand. Together, united, we have the means at our disposal to act in Indonesia’s interests.’

Rajasa’s eyes flicked from Colonel Jayakatong to General Kukuh Masri, the man known as Mao, for his striking resemblance to the late Chinese leader. They’d all been thinking the same thought. Indeed, it had been whispered often enough in barracks throughout Indonesia since Australia’s invasion of East Timor. The impact of that blow was still echoing throughout the country, with each subsequent month seeming to bring a further diminution in the power and authority of the country’s armed forces. Finally, someone had put the idea on the table and neither Jayakatong nor Masri had flinched.

General Masri had been silent, Rajasa noted, nodding occasionally but hardly the strident advocate of military intervention they were expecting. They needed him. He commanded a powerful regiment of crack paratroopers. ‘Yes, it’s time to stop killing our own people,’ he said at last.

General Suluang raised his empty glass and saluted Masri’s sentiment. ‘You are absolutely right, Mao. We might be the shepherds, but our flock is wandering off. We need to regather them if Indonesia is to survive.’

The men looked at each other a little nervously. After the initial bluster, each man knew the course they were on was a dangerous one. ‘And,’ said Suluang after a pause, ‘I have an idea that will almost guarantee there’ll be no blood-letting on Indonesian soil.’

‘What of the Americans? How would they react?’ said Colonel Jayakatong. ‘They are an unpredictable quantity.’

‘Yes,’ said Suluang, ‘the Americans.’ He seemed to be placing the question under scrutiny as he took another toothpick and examined its point. ‘They do not want to see Indonesia disintegrate. They will appreciate the benefits of a strong hand holding the archipelago together. And we’re not terrorists, or religious fanatics. We have a legitimate concern for our country’s stability. If we say the right things about trade, promise a return to stability. Free elections, of course…’ The general shrugged dismissively.

The officers chuckled, the tension relieved. Suluang’s confidence was contagious. Of course the Americans would fall into line. And there was still so much occupying them in the Middle East. They’d be difficult at first, but they’d come around.

The young waitress again distracted Suluang. She was across the room folding napkins. A light from the kitchen behind her revealed long slender legs beneath the cotton sundress. Women: taking as many of them as possible to his bed was one of the advantages of power. Very few refused him. He caught his reflection in a mirror. He was a man of power and, at only forty-five, in the prime of life. He smiled to himself before calling her over on the pretence of ordering a drink.

‘What’s your name?’ he enquired after placing an order.

‘Elizabeth,’ she said.

Elizabeth caught him staring at her breasts between the buttons as she leaned forward to remove some plates from the table. She moved to improve his view.