The Timor Man (16 page)

They had entered the second level of security. The first had not been obvious but did, in fact, include the reception and the entire consulate area. Systems had been put in place to ensure the safety of the personnel and the security of the embassy's contents; however, these were deliberately not evident to the eye of the casual visitor. There were six or seven offices directly off to his left as he had entered, the upper sections of their partitioning constructed with glass to permit visual contact between the offices while affording soundproof cubicles.

“Why all of the subterfuge, Dicky?” he asked, not yet comfortable with the first name basis this man had insisted apon.

“Riots, my man, riots,” he answered as if Coleman would automatically understand, but before he had the opportunity to delve into the idiosyncrasies of the passages with their strange access, Dicky was already opening the doors to the cubicles and introducing him to the officers at their desks.

“This is David, and that empty seat belongs to Alex Crockwell,” he indicated with another wave of his hand. “They are with the remnants of the Colombo Plan section and assist with Australian aid and information. I believe you have already met Alex. Where is Alex, David?” he asked, lips pursed not expecting more than a token response, and then deciding he would answer his own question.

“Of course,” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers, “you have already met our Alex. He was rostered as the duty officer to pick you up from the airport. I trust he took good care of you?”

“Yes, thanks Dicky, I certainly appreciated being met and assisted with the hotel check-in,” he lied, but somehow feeling that this man already knew more about Crockwell's attitude than he let on.

The introductions continued as they passed from office to office, most offering no more than a cursory polite ‘welcome' and displaying impatience at wanting to return to whatever they were engrossed in doing before being interrupted by the gregarious Consul.

“Well, that's about it for here. Except, of course, your desk, which is over there next to the First Secretary's. You can have Alex's when he leaves. Bit cramped here, I'm afraid, but you'll soon get used to the hang of things and once the new Embassy is built then we won't have these problems of space, will we?”

“Where are the Military Attachés' offices?” Coleman asked.

The Consul snapped his head ever so quickly back and his eyes narrowed considerably. “We will come to that shortly,” he answered, as if miffed.

Coleman immediately regretted his question. He should have remembered that the consulate section had limited security access and this had always been a bone of contention between the diplomatic service and consular offices since the first overseas emissaries were sent from country to country eons ago.

Consular officers were basically there to care for the citizens of the country they represented, whereas the main body of the Embassy housed not only Aid and Trade offices, but also sensitive sections such as the Military Attachés representing army, navy, and air force contingents. Even Federal Police sometimes maintained a presence as part of the international effort to prevent the flow of drugs from country to country.

The Ambassador, of course, as formal etiquette required, was equated to the rank of a Four-Star General in the host country. His authority was final. This is why the position was designated Ambassador, Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary. The Military Attachés naturally resented having to report to a civilian who probably did not understand their world of armaments and fighting, and often the mood during briefings reflected these differences.

When the need for the first Ambassadors became apparent more than a millennium before, they were sent as emissaries bearing gifts, offering peace and goodwill. They were trade representatives, not political officers. Somehow the two became confused as one, and this made it necessary for Ambassadors to carefully juggle the needs of both their country's merchant houses and the militant forces waiting impatiently behind them.

“Another officer will take you through,” Dicky pouted, leaving the surprised Coleman uncomfortable, standing alone not quite sure of what he should do next.

As the door was pulled tightly closed by the departing Consul (if he could have slammed it, he would have happily done so!) another man appeared through yet another access adjacent to the last cubicle.

“Coleman?” was all he said, holding the door slightly ajar assuming the gesture was sufficient for him to follow.

“Yes,” was all he had the opportunity to say moving quickly to follow the man with the serious face.

He stepped inside and once again he heard the familiar click of another exit being locked behind him.

“I'm Peter Cornish,” the man stated, not extending his hand very far from his body.

“Stephen,” he responded. His surname would surely be known in here.

“Okay, Stephen, let's go. I'll introduce you around. Hope you smoke, everyone here does and there's one hell of a lot of pressure

on right now.”

Coleman nodded, quickly evaluating what he saw.

There were five Australians present. Two were women. The outer section was relatively small. It was effectively a barrier. Keys were required to pass through the mini-reception which consisted of an observer's window so that the inner-sanctum officers could identify the visitors without their being aware that they were being observed.

Past the double locked security door and to the right were a number of telex machines. All clattered away, out of synch with each other, creating a staggering amount of mechanical noise as they force-fed themselves information that had been retyped and converted through the deciphering monsters buried further inside, locked away from the scrutiny of even these operatives.

He passed several desks and continued down through a maze of filing cabinets into an area which housed two large refrigerators and an electric stove. Stacked to the ceiling on both sides of this walled-off section were cases of malt whisky, Jack Daniels Bourbon, Gordon's Gin and Bacardi Rum. There were no soft drinks or sodas evident.

Squeezed into this already tight area was a desk on which a new Remington blazed away at unbelievable speed, its extended carriage holding oversized pages unlike anything Coleman had seen before. The young woman operating the machine, a desk officer, momentarily looked up and smiled before returning her attention to whatever it was at hand that demanded her full attention.

“This is Margaret. She knows who you are. Margaret is the senior secretary in this section,” he said, his voice almost monotone. “This is the First Secretary's office.”

Coleman followed him into a cramped twelve-square-metre box. The desk, small as it was, carried more paper than Stephen believed possible. He looked around and asked, “Where is the First Secretary?” raising his voice more than he wanted, out of nervousness.

“That's me. I'm the man,” Cornish answered, almost impatiently, then continued, “and you didn't actually get off to a good start in this city did you?” he snapped, gesturing to Coleman to sit on the typist's chair, which doubled for guests, rare as they were in here.

Coleman responded, surprised, “What the hell do you mean?”

The other man had by now taken his position behind the mound of files and, swivelling on his chair, lit a cigarette without offering one to his visitor, then swung back and hit the small cleared space over the blotter with his open hand.

“What the hell do I mean?” he shouted, then repeated himself, “What the hell do I mean? For Chrissakes, you haven't been in town more than twenty-four hours and already you've been out humping around with this lot!”

Stephen was stunned. Cornish didn't even bother closing his door as he continued.

“You young bastards come up here, full of your own shit, and forget everything you've been taught as soon as some tart opens your fly!” He flicked the imaginary ash onto the floor. “What's more, weren't you bloody well briefed by that little cock-sucker Crockwell when he picked you up from the flaming airport?” he demanded.

“No,” Stephen stammered, “he didn't brief me on a damn thing except the fact he would rather be away for the bloody weekend than have to escort someone from the airport.”

Anger now pumping the necessary amount of adrenalin, he continued. “Who the fuck are you to get on my case anyway?” he demanded, his hackles rising as he started to move out of his seat; aware that his temper had taken control of his better judgment but did not care, as his head ached, his stomach was in turmoil and now he was faced with some sanctimonious bastard who was having a bad day and quite obviously prepared to take it out on the new boy. It was not lost on Stephen that part of his response was in retaliation to being reprimanded within earshot of the young woman just outside the Secretary's door.

Suddenly, he was determined. ‘If this arsehole wants to get his jollies off berating others within earshot of his staff then he can find someone else to take a shot at, and now!' he decided. He leaped to his feet and started to leave the office, when the secretary outside leaned across and closed the door brusquely, not even giving him a second look.

“Get back here, Coleman!” the voice barked. “Sit down and shut up.” He was about to respond when Cornish raised his open palm and glared at the newcomer not to talk. “Just shut up and listen,” he said.

Shaking with anger Stephen turned and glared at the First Secretary who was standing behind his desk, his anger obvious. Moments passed. He shook his head in disgust and returned to the seat.

“I am sick to death of seeing you young upstarts coming up here and carrying on as if you were the proverbial gift to whatever it is these days. You have only been here two days and already you are in shit up to your eyeballs.”

Coleman sat still, listening partly out of shock and partly also because he was captivated by this man's performance.

“What the hell,” the First Secretary continued and then, with a sigh of exasperation, pulled a cigarette from the box of Rothman filters and offered the packet to his new assistant. “Man, did I cop a bollocking because of you when I came in this morning,” he said, his voice having dropped its venom. “Ten minutes with the boys out the back threatening to down grade our security in this section did not, I assure you young Coleman, offer the best start to my day!” He leaned back in the chair, placed his hands behind his neck and, with the cigarette still hanging from the side of his mouth, blew smoke from the other side contemptuously. “They will want to see you in fifteen minutes so I guess we'd best get on with the rest of the introductions.”

Stephen still sat there, stunned. He didn't even know what the hell he had done but decided to wait for the ‘boys out the back' to enlighten him as the atmosphere in the room was still hostile.

“Okay, thanks,” he offered, “sorry about the outburst.”

The older officer stared directly at his assistant's eyes for what seemed an eternity before unclasping his hands and leaning across the desk. He held his hand out which Stephen readily grasped, relieved that the bumpy start had a chance of being overcome. It was only then that it also dawned on Stephen that this man either had two offices or he had misheard Dicky point out the First Secretary's desk in the adjacent section. He was about to ask when there was a brief knock, the door opened and, not waiting for permission to enter, Margaret stuck her head into the room and said, “Time to move, boss, the animals need feeding,” with which she left the door ajar and Cornish beckoned to Coleman to follow.

Turning to the others sitting around the larger office he said, “Listen up, everyone, this is Stephen Coleman. He will be on our team but will be seated outside until we can come to some other arrangements. He's coming with me now to the zoo so don't raid my stocks while I'm away!” with which he half waved while there were audible responses such as ‘Hi, Steve'and ‘Welcome, mate', but the one which caused him to be even more curious than ever was the girl's voice as she called back to her boss. “The animals sound hungry boss, better tell Stephen, to keep his hands in his pockets!” which attracted several guffaws from the men.

He followed his new superior back through the maze of doors and corridors towards the reception and consulate offices. Leading off in another direction from the area he had just visited was yet another passageway which led into a small guest area containing a number of chairs, coffee tables and book racks, creating an atmosphere not dissimilar to that of a dentist's or doctor's reception. There was a buzzer positioned at almost eye level above which the instructions advised those requiring to enter need only to push the button twice. They did so and were ushered into an area which contained at least a dozen offices, each tagged with the occupant's name, rank and official position, and a warning that access was strictly for authorized personnel only.

Stephen was taken around the outer office first and introduced to the three non-commissioned officers who acted as personal assistants to each of the three Military Attachés. He was then taken in to meet the attachés, one by one. He observed that all desks had been cleared of files and loose documents.

There was one remaining office apart from the others which had no designated name or any other information to identify the occupant. Only the warning regarding unauthorized entry was evident on the door. Peter Cornish knocked and waited. When the door was finally opened, the tall man extended his hand to the surprised Coleman.