Rogue Element

Java, 0745 Zulu, Friday, 1 May

Achmad Reza pulled in to the centre of a small village. There was an open concrete building with seats inside where an old lady sat mending clothes. Several small children played noisily with a plastic missile, making loud rocket-type sounds. Scrawny chickens scratched for food on the ground around them.

The building, painted various shades of dirty white, green and blue, as if the people who had applied the paint had been unable to make up their minds on the colour, matched an adjoining shop. Bottles of water, Coca-Cola and Heineken beer lined the shelves outside. A blue light set in an electrified grille hung on the wall beside the darkened doorway and fried insects that became too adventurous. Several other small buildings with dark, glassless windows sat beyond. A small group of men squatted in a wired enclosure and fussed over a large rooster, cooing and patting it. The animal seemed comfortable with all the attention, holding its proud head high, red neck stretched.

As he drove slowly past, Reza saw a young woman leaning on the outside corner of the building occupied by the old woman and the children. He gathered from a slight movement of her head that he was to follow her. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. He saw a couple of bikes carrying laughing children, but nothing sinister.

Reza parked his old Mazda beside two other equally decrepit vans in a cleared area by the roadside, and cautiously walked towards the building the woman had disappeared into. He paused at the doorway, wiping the sweat from his forehead with an old, folded handkerchief he always kept in his pocket for the purpose, and stepped nervously into the dark interior.

His eyes adjusted slowly to the dimness. The small, oneroom house was home to a family. Inside, there were two sets of bunks, a table, matting and cushions on the beaten earth floor. The aroma of potent spices filled the air. The home was neat but there was little room to spare for anything other than the people who occupied it.

A very old woman sat on some cushions in one corner. She sang quietly and tunelessly to herself and seemed oblivious to his presence. The young woman kneeled beside her. She wore a thin, bright yellow cotton sundress that complemented the copper colour of her skin. Her hair was thick and black with highlights that caught the sun pouring through the glassless window. A hint of lavender underpinned the smell of chilli and dried fish.

‘Don’t mind the old bag. She has Alzheimer’s,’ said the young woman in a disrespectful way that took him by surprise and threw him even more off balance.

‘Were you followed?’

‘I don’t think so.’

She looked Indonesian yet spoke English with an Australian accent. Her black almond-shaped eyes never left his. Reza wondered if this woman was as dangerous as she was beautiful.

She answered his questions before he had time to get them out. ‘My name is Elizabeth. I work for the Australian government. I sent you the photo.’

At that moment, Reza knew he’d been set up, used as a pawn in a game he had no knowledge of. He’d thought the photo had originated from within the TNI, but now he knew it had not. The questions lined up in his head, each fighting so hard to be asked first that none succeeded. ‘What… what is this all about?’ he stammered lamely.

‘You tell me. We know your air force shot down a Qantas jumbo. We know the air traffic controller, the man who first reported the disappearance of the Qantas plane, Abe Niko, died in a wonderfully timed accident yesterday,’ she continued. ‘We also know that there are Indonesian soldiers in the jungles of Sulawesi trying to kill any Australians who might have survived the crash of the Qantas plane.’

Achmad Reza’s mouth had opened involuntarily in shock. A roaring sound filled his ears and he found it difficult to breathe. He sucked at the air, taking small, feeble breaths like someone on their deathbed, his chest constricted.

The woman casually lit a Marlboro, dragged deeply on the cigarette and blew the smoke into the sunlight. It swirled into a pattern of blue fingers. She seemed to be enjoying herself. ‘We know that two of the conspirators are the Generals Suluang and Kukuh Masri.’

Suluang and Masri. That was odd, thought Reza, struggling to find some solid ground in a world that had suddenly tilted on its edge. Weren’t theirs the units brawling in the streets of Jakarta?

‘What we don’t know is whether all this is something secretly sponsored by the Indonesian government. That’s where you come in,’ she continued, flicking the ash from her cigarette out the window.

Reza felt dizzy. ‘Are you Indonesian?’ he asked.

‘Indonesian parents. They migrated to Australia before I was born. That makes me a hundred percent Aussie.’

‘You’re a spy?’

‘If you like,’ she said, examining the end of her cigarette.

Reza had no idea why he was being chosen to be some kind of go-between. Is that what I am? Certainly there were many others more qualified, better connected. He hesitated before asking the next question. ‘What… what do you want?’

‘We want you to… we call it throw a spanner in the works.’

Reza was familiar with the expression, and he recalled the chaos he’d caused in the parliament. ‘I think I’ve already done that.’

The woman drew elegantly on her cigarette and blew the smoke into the air between them before continuing. ‘My government can’t contact yours through the usual channels because, of course, if your government has anything to do with this, then all we’ll get is denials. And if we go charging in with unsubstantiated accusations…’ She let the thought hang.

The Australians were right. ‘Do you know why the plane was shot down?’ he asked.

‘No. But that is the question, isn’t it?’

‘You said there were soldiers hunting for survivors. Do you know if there are any survivors?’

‘Yes, we believe there are two,’ she said, stubbing the cigarette out on the floor before flicking the butt out the window. ‘We are working on getting them out.’

That could only mean Australian soldiers on Indonesian sovereign territory. Uninvited. Reza felt decidedly uncomfortable.

‘Think of it as a rescue,’ she said, smiling, reading his concern and enjoying his obvious discomfort.

‘Who’s going to rescue Indonesia?’ Reza said, sweating profusely.

‘You are.’ Her eyes held his.