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  As they climbed higher into the mountains, Bongo translated a memo from early April which recorded a new policy being pushed by military elements in Habibie’s cabinet. It advocated a new transmigration of families from Sulawesi and Java to East Timor, known as ‘Tim-Tim’ in Jakarta. The cabinet members wanted the government to support the migration policy with land, bonuses and an infrastructure build-out in the poorest of Indonesia’s provinces. The Indonesian Army would supply logistics support.

  ‘Sounds serious,’ said Bongo.

  ‘There’s a final sentence,’ said Mac, reading it aloud.

  ‘What it says,’ Bongo explained after a pause, ‘is that the policy should aim to have one million migrants from Java and Sulawesi settled in Tim-Tim by 2009.’

  There were just over seven hundred thousand East Timorese in the province, which was essentially a subsistence economy subsidised by Jakarta. The one million settlers would not be additional – they would have to be a replacement population.

  ‘Shit, Bongo – what do they do with the Timorese?’

  Before Bongo could respond, they rounded a tight corner and almost ran into the rear of a blue Land Rover Discovery belonging to the UN. Pulling over into the weeds, they waited as two UNAMET police in sky-blue shirts and UN baseball caps approached and motioned for Bongo to wind down the window.

  ‘There’s been a militia attack a hundred metres up the road,’ said the Aussie officer. ‘We’re just clearing it for safe passage – if you could give us five minutes?’

  Nodding, Mac could see a group of UNAMET police – civilian cops from Australia and Japan – walking back to the convoy. As Bongo pulled his Desert Eagle from beneath his seat and Mac touched his own Beretta for luck, the group reached their vehicles but one of them kept walking to the Camry.

  ‘Any Australians in here?’ asked a flushed ocker as he leaned in Bongo’s window.

  Mac opened the door and followed his fellow intel operator, Grant Deavers, around the back of a truck.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, McQueen!’ snapped Deavers as they stopped. ‘What the fuck are you doing up here?’

  ‘Nice to see you too, Devo.’

  ‘And please tell me, please assure me – that is not Bongo Morales with the hairdo?’ said Deavers, fumbling for a smoke from his UN shirt pocket.

  ‘Well, you know, Devo -’

  ‘He still working the airlines?’ asked Deavers, referring to Bongo’s cover as a peroxide-haired first-class steward on Singapore Airlines, entrapping adulterers, homosexuals and paedophiles, then blackmailing them on behalf of Philippines intelligence.

  ‘He’s helping out,’ said Mac sheepishly.

  ‘He’s with us?!’ screeched Deavers, exhaling the smoke through his ginger moustache. ‘Bongo’s working for Aussie intel?’

  ‘Mate!’ said Mac, looking around. ‘Do you mind? And by the way, it’s Davis – Richard Davis, okay?’

  Sucking on his smoke, Deavers shook his head. ‘Sorry, mate, but this is getting on top of me. Dead set, Macca – Richard – this whole place is out of control.’

  Grant Deavers headed the civilian police component of the UNAMET scrutineers but the cops had been denied the use of firearms during their mission in East Timor. He was from the intelligence arm of the Australian Federal Police and he had a military background. So the Indonesian generals played chicken with Canberra: your spook can run UNAMET’s police, but there’ll be no firearms. Before Deavers and his lieutenants knew what was happening, they were going to the new Killing Fields without so much as a six-shooter on their belts – not a happy scenario when the militias were using M16s.

  ‘He was at the meet where some of our assets were snatched,’ said Mac. ‘Bongo lost a piece of his shoulder in the ambush.’

  ‘Okay, Macca, but keep him away from the militias, okay? Last thing I need up here is that whole macho Filipino thing.’

  Nodding, Mac asked what was happening beyond the convoy.

  ‘Shooting,’ said Deavers. ‘Bunch of women walking to market.’

  ‘Militias?’ asked Mac.

  ‘Yep,’ snarled Deavers. ‘The ones that don’t exist, according to Canberra.’

  ‘So, can we go through?’ said Mac, pointing beyond the UN vehicles.

  ‘Waiting for the soldiers to clean it up, secure the area,’ said Deavers, his cigarette hand shaking slightly. ‘Where you off to?’

  ‘Maliana, Balibo – all the quieter spots,’ said Mac.

  ‘Do me a favour, Macca, and don’t? Please?’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Bobonaro is wall-to-wall shit,’ spat Deavers. ‘It’s a joke.’

  ‘I’ll think about it – we’re looking for a local girl who may be up there.’

  Deavers shrugged.

  ‘Her name’s Maria Gersao, probably being held by Kopassus intel.’

  Raising his eyebrows, Deavers shook his head. ‘Kopassus has a depot in Maliana but it’s a bloodhouse, mate, I’m warning you.’

  ‘Where?’ said Mac.

  ‘The Ginasio – big place in the middle of town.’

  Swapping phone numbers, Mac shook with Deavers. Then, looking up, he saw an army troop truck rumbling downhill. Through the canvas sides Mac could see the soldiers sitting on the bench seats. Among the regulars were young men in T-shirts and jeans.

  The second troop truck stopped and while Deavers had a quick chat with the driver, Mac got a clear look through the canvas sides.

  Stunned, he stared at the departing trucks as he staggered to the Camry, sagged into his seat, almost disbelieving his own eyes.

  ‘Everything okay?’ asked Bongo.

  ‘No, mate,’ said Mac, reaching for his water. ‘There were militia in the back of those trucks.’

  ‘That surprise you?’

  ‘They were wearing army boots.’

  ‘So?’ asked Bongo.

  ‘Aussie army boots!’

  CHAPTER 17

  They found Jessica entertaining a couple of Aussie UNAMET officials in a coffee shack on the outskirts of Aileu when they stopped for lunch.

  ‘It’s not safe out here, Jessica,’ murmured Mac, stopping at her table. ‘Thought I told you that.’

  ‘I’m okay – got Dan and Lance helping me out,’ she said, smiling towards her drivers. ‘Have a seat.’

  ‘Boys,’ said Mac, nodding at the blokes as Bongo came to the table, glaring at Jessica and then the Aussies.

  ‘Richard is a sandalwood merchant,’ Jessica told her new buddies, blue eyes flashing beneath a blonde fringe. ‘I thought he was going to help with my father, but -’

  ‘But I can’t help you with anything if you go off hitchhiking into militia country,’ said Mac, trying not to sound annoyed with her. ‘There are people out here who’d be happy to put you in a grave with twenty other women.’

  ‘I didn’t hitchhike. The boys picked me up outside the Turismo this morning,’ she said, ignoring Bongo, who was clearly seething.

  Mac and Bongo’s order arrived – cold spiced chicken on warm rice.

  ‘You boys armed?’ asked Mac, starting his meal.

  ‘Nah,’ said the blood-nut called Dan. ‘Not allowed, mate.’

  ‘So how were you going to defend her?’ asked Bongo, eyeballing Lance. ‘Don’t you think a pretty white girl would get some attention out here?’

  The blokes shrugged, embarrassed.

  ‘Let’s get it straight, Jessica,’ said Mac. ‘The Bobonaro regency is thirty k that way,’ he said, pointing west. ‘It’s militia country – death squad country. It’s the most dangerous eighty square kilometres in the world right now, and you’re walking around with your arse hanging out of your shorts?’

  Looking down at her exposed midriff and short shorts, Jessica dropped her smile. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, looking up at Mac.

  ‘No wukkers,’ said Mac. ‘Let’s eat up and we’ll give you a lift back to Dili.’

  The tailing vehicle followed at a professional distance as Bongo, Mac and Jessica sped down the
river valley road to Ainaro. Mac assumed the black Toyota LandCruiser with game-fishing aerials was Indonesian intel. If it was soldiers or militia, they’d be in a ditch by now.

  ‘He’s standing off,’ mumbled Bongo, who rejected Mac’s offer to take the wheel. Like many Asian drivers he didn’t feel comfortable with the way Anglos handled a car.

  ‘Who is?’ asked Jessica, who had been demanding to know what Mac and Bongo would do to help her find her father, if she wasn’t allowed to do it herself.

  ‘Other driver,’ shrugged Bongo. ‘Thought I might let him go through.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Mac, looking out at the brown-grass grazing areas interspersed with stands of bush.

  ‘No?’ asked Bongo.

  ‘Nope,’ said Mac, who wasn’t happy with the ground. The Royal Marines had taught him that if you had the opportunity – if it was your call – you should always make the choice about the battleground. Mac didn’t want to stop out in the bush, on the side of the road, and allow some trigger-happy Kopassus intel hoon to approach from behind and do what he wanted. Sometimes it was easier to keep the balance by continuing to move.

  Throwing his arm over the back of his seat, Mac turned and spoke with Jessica, though his eyes stayed on the LandCruiser.

  ‘So, what was the disappearing act all about?’ he asked, sipping from a bottle of water.

  ‘Had a tip-off. Someone said Dad was in the mountains, near the border,’ said Jessica.

  ‘Tip-off, huh?’ said Mac. ‘From who?’

  ‘Well, a rumour more likely.’

  ‘From a little bird?’ said Bongo, looking into the rear-view mirror.

  ‘A local man followed me into a cafe, in Dili. He told me it was better not to hear his name.’

  Mac frowned. In South-East Asia, being followed wasn’t good for the health.

  ‘Should have waited for us, Jessica,’ said Bongo.

  ‘I thought the UN option was safer, all things considered,’ she replied.

  Mac and Bongo swapped looks.

  ‘All things considered?’ smiled Mac.

  ‘I don’t know how you do business in this part of the world,’ she said, levelling her gaze. ‘But what I saw in the car park last night didn’t look like a negotiation.’

  Sighing, Mac turned back to face the road. ‘Sometimes, Jessica, the way business works in South-East Asia -’ Mac caught himself as he sensed Bongo hissing at him to stop. ‘Um, I didn’t mean your dad,’ said Mac, turning to look at Jessica. ‘I’m sure he’s fine.’

  But the moment had gone and Jessica looked mournfully out the window, putting on a brave face.

  Turning back, Mac copped a withering glare from the Filipino.

  ‘We okay for gas?’ said Mac.

  ‘Getting low,’ said Bongo.

  ‘Ainaro?’ asked Mac.

  ‘Ainaro,’ said Bongo.

  The three Pertalima pumps sat on the street outside the general store on the Ainaro main street. As they pulled up, Mac and Bongo reached under their seats for their handguns.

  ‘My watch has fallen under my seat, Jessica,’ said Mac. ‘Could you grab it, please?’

  As Jessica leaned over and searched under Mac’s seat, the Land-Cruiser pulled alongside the Camry on Mac’s side. Heart pounding up into his throat, the pistol grip slid in Mac’s palm as the driver of the LandCruiser lowered his tinted window. Holding the Beretta just below the windowsill, Mac felt a surge of adrenaline and then a flood of relief as a familiar, well-groomed Indonesian face wrapped in dark sunnies appeared. Slowly, Mac lowered the concealed Beretta as the Indon’s face lit up with a smile.

  ‘Mr Richard,’ said Amir, the spook he’d met with Damajat two days’ earlier. ‘Major-General Damajat extends his warm greetings and asks you to join him for lunch tomorrow.’

  ‘Lunch,’ rasped Mac, having dropped the Beretta into the door’s map pocket. Bongo had backed off too.

  ‘Yes,’ said Amir. ‘Major-General Damajat wishes to show you the facilities, sir. In Maliana, Mr Richard.’

  ‘Okay, Amir,’ said Mac, and listened to the directions.

  As the LandCruiser sped away, Mac slumped in the seat.

  ‘Okay,’ said Jessica, chastened. ‘Now I see what you mean about doing business down here.’

  ‘Damajat runs an army-owned company on Timor,’ said Mac. ‘So if he wants to see me, I guess he’ll see me.’

  ‘Nice way of introducing themselves,’ said Jessica.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m about ready for a few beers and an early turn-in,’ said Mac.

  ‘Amen to that, brother,’ said Bongo.

  The Republica guest house was behind Suai’s main market area, on a small hill covered in lush greenery, beyond the wall with the graffiti reading I Love you Military. Faces peered out of shacks and tumbledown houses. Some houses had been reduced to charred stumps, others were peppered with bullet-acne. What looked like a makeshift refugee camp dominated the church grounds. It was a shanty town of blue and green tarps with scared white eyeballs staring out of the darkness beneath them. Suai’s history in the last three months had been similar to the rest of East Timor’s south coast: young men executed, women raped, houses and crops burned, markets ransacked. As if to underline the terror, someone had written Lak Saur on the churchyard fence, referring to a violent militia group operating from across the border in Indonesian West Timor.

  Sitting in a lawn chair in front of the colonial-era guest house, Mac sipped on a Tiger beer courtesy of Mickey Costa, the owner. Mickey’s establishment had seen better days, with its sagging iron roof and wave in the floor. Old garden furniture was dotted around the overgrown garden and by the deep red of the setting sun Mac could make out a few posts and some chicken wire that had once surrounded a tennis court.

  Mickey appeared, brooding as usual despite his pixie face and spritely movements.

  ‘No dessert, okay?’ said Mickey, picking up plates that had contained leftover Portuguese chicken and the B-grade rice reserved for non-family diners. ‘Keeping the fruit for breakfast, right?’

  ‘Sure, Mick,’ said Mac, smiling.

  ‘Breakfast till eight, then no more. And in rooms by ten, okay?’ snapped Mickey. ‘Don’t want soldier thinking free beers for him, right?’

  ‘Good night,’ called Bongo as Mickey walked away.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ came Mickey’s muffled response.

  Jessica grabbed more beers from the cooler and Bongo gave her his pocket knife to open them. After a couple of laughs, Jessica paused. ‘Suppose I owe you two an apology, right? About this morning.’

  ‘You’d be really sorry if the militias had got hold of you,’ said Bongo. ‘I’ve seen some bad places in my time, but this one…’

  ‘I just got so frustrated, you know?’ said Jessica, shaking her head. ‘The Canadian Embassy in Jakarta had no idea what was happening in Dili and didn’t even want to send anyone to find Dad – said they were taking people out of East Timor, not sending them in.’

  ‘Smart guys, the Canadians,’ said Bongo.

  ‘Well, you two are here,’ countered Jessica. ‘It can’t be that bad.’

  ‘It’s that bad,’ said Bongo, expressionless. ‘We went through Ainaro today. Remember?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Jessica. ‘How could I forget that lunch invitation?’

  ‘A few weeks ago a whole bunch of foreign aid workers and UN people were evacuated from Ainaro because the Australians uncovered a plot,’ said Bongo.

  ‘What kind of plot?’ said Jessica, sipping her beer.

  ‘The local militia group was going to tell them that the road to Dili was closed, and send them up to Dadina instead.’

  ‘What’s at Dadina?’ asked Jessica, eyes wide.

  ‘The Kara Ulu river – the militia planned to drown the lot of them because the locals had been telling too many stories of atrocities.’

  After that Mac tried to keep the talk away from the violence in East Timor. Jessica had some guts and determination about her and as much as he wa
nted her back in Dili and out of the way, it seemed unfair to frighten her into abandoning her search.

  They’d almost finished the Republica’s beer supply when Jessica got enough momentum to hold forth on why the Indonesian military might be justified in its violence.

  ‘It’s all the postcolonial oppression,’ she said. ‘You know – doing unto the son what was done to the… I mean, well you know, passing on the brutality…’

  ‘They teach you this at UCLA?’ asked Bongo.

  ‘It’s just the facts – it’s a cultural renaissance after being oppressed by the European hegemony.’

  ‘Indonesia became a republic fifty years ago,’ said Bongo, amused. ‘And they invaded East Timor twenty-four years ago.’

  ‘Well, yeah -’ started Jessica.

  ‘So I suppose now it’s the turn of Falintil guerrillas to massacre people? ’Cos that’s been handed down, right?’

  ‘You know what I mean, Manny – it started with the Europeans,’ Jessica retorted.

  ‘No, Jessica, it started with the Malay archipelago being a sought-after resource, fought over by maritime traders, Malay dynasties and pirate-kings. Asian ones!’

  ‘Yeah, but Europeans subjugated their culture!’

  ‘Really?’ laughed Bongo. ‘Ask someone from Ambon or Aceh if the Javanese culture is subjugated.’

  Annoyed, Jessica turned to Mac. ‘What about you, Richard? You agree with me?’

  ‘Nuh.’

  Bongo laughed, slapped his leg and picked a cigarette from his soft pack.

  Grabbing three more beers from the towel-covered case, Jessica levered the caps and sat down. ‘You’ve been very quiet – you must have an opinion.’

  ‘About Indonesia?’ asked Mac.

  ‘What else?’ she said.

  ‘I agree with Manny – this region was always important because of the maritime trading routes which brought power and money. It has nothing to do with the Dutch or Americans.’

  ‘And now? I mean, Indonesia has been through decolonisation, and Soekarno and Soeharto and the development into a modern nation -’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mac, ‘and it still represents maritime power. The United States, Japan and China fear an Indonesia that can’t hold at the centre and so they usually back the military, to stop the country disintegrating.’