The Timor Man (55 page)

They arrived on the coast before noon and rested. Towards mid-afternoon they started again returning to the gruelling pace they'd set before. Finally, as the rest of the afternoon wore away, they approached the fishing village of Babau. Exhausted and very hungry, Umar hoped that they had finally arrived. He remained hidden approximately a hundred metres off to their flank, observing the men prepare for the next stage of their journey. Where are they going? Umar worried.

Some two hundred metres down towards the village fishing jetty he could see a number of rubber dinghies tied together. Not far from his concealed position the Major could just make out the two foreign men being marched across the sand, hands tied, heading towards the boats. He moved in closer, just enough to get a better view, but not so close as to be discovered. Umar sat cross-legged and lifted the binoculars to his eyes, adjusting them quickly, worried that the foreigners would soon be removed from his reach. His hands shook as fatigue prevented him from maintaining a steady focus. He rested his elbows on the ground to steady his view.

‘
Damn!
' he cursed under his breath,
‘they're being taken back as prisoners!'

He estimated that there were more than seventy Indonesian troops on the edge of the beach, some sitting with their legs dangling over the side of the short fishing jetty while others moved around slowly, almost aimlessly. They appeared to be resting. He squinted as he examined their condition, their gear and their faces. There had been a fire fight here, he knew.

The signs were all evident and he could clearly see that the young and inexperienced troops were still suffering from the shock of their first engagement as they moved slowly, listlessly, with the tell tale signs of fatigue. Although Umar could not hear what was being said, it was quite apparent that the soldier who had executed the first four foreigners was an officer, as several of his subordinates had saluted as he'd approached, leading the two prisoners.

Umar decided that the two groups of soldiers were from the same battalion and regiment from the reception the newcomers received from the others on the beach. He watched as the officer addressed his men. Standing to attention the captain suddenly barked an order. They jumped to their feet. Umar knew immediately what was going to happen and instantly recognized who these soldiers were. He knew, because he had been one of them, once. A long, long, time ago.

He looked on in disbelief. Slowly, Umar shook his head and then stared at the assembly of soldiers with their two prisoners. What were these soldiers doing here? And out of uniform? Suddenly, the two foreigners were pushed forward, their hands tied behind their backs, forced to bend to the ground onto their knees. Neither made a sound. Or if they did, Umar could not distinguish any from this distance.

Umar watched the Indonesian officer step forward and place his revolver behind the head of each of the men, and pull the trigger. Twice. The scene was reminiscent of the infamous front page photograph which shocked readers around the world when a South Vietnamese officer executed a Viet Cong suspect on the streets of Saigon.

The echo from the second shot left an empty silence. None of the soldiers had cheered. Some had turned away, not wishing to witness the executions. They knew that what had just taken place was terribly wrong. A few even turned their heads away, not from the bloody site but in shame, knowing that one of their own officers had executed unarmed men. Foreign men!

Minutes passed when the order was given to bury the bodies.

He'd seen enough. The job had been completed even though he personally could not claim responsibility. The General's plans had been carried out by another. But the result would be the same. International condemnation of Indonesian forces and their invasion of Timor-Timur. After all, he thought, that had been the intention all along.

Umar Suharjo fled the confusing scene, leaving the foreigners and their executioners to create their own history. And they did.

 

This senseless killing became the turning point, not just in the military war, but also on the political front. The international press focused on the slaying of the unarmed journalists who had been executed arbitrarily by the Indonesian paratrooper, whose only justification was that he personally believed that these newsmen were responsible for relaying vital military information by reporting what they had observed while in the active zone.

It was ironic. Some later called it fate. The officer who executed the journalists shared the same name as his President. Soeharto was a common enough name in Java, but one which was immediately buried along with the disgraceful act. Captain Soeharto also didn't make it back home to his family.

 
   
Somewhere off the coast not far from the scene of the killings an order was given. Immediately, engines were started and as the powerful twin Cummings diesels came to life, the launch raised its anchors and moved out of the area, unnoticed.

On board, the man who was responsible for the collection and dissemination of the material that they had received on a regular basis from on-shore looked out across the sea towards the island's coastline. He wondered why transmissions had ceased so suddenly.

As their direct radio contacts had failed for five consecutive days, the mission, as agreed, was abandoned and the launch sailed directly back to Darwin, the captain concerned more for the safety of his media magnate passenger than the loss of communication contact with the journalists.

Jakarta

The air-conditioning at Halim Perdanakusumah Airport was struggling to maintain some semblance of relief for the passengers. The terminal, recently converted from buildings originally used by the AURI Strategic Air Command, was quite inadequate to handle the increased numbers of businessmen and tourists now flooding into the vibrant economy. The former international airport, Kemayoran, had been retained as the domestic terminal.

Stephen used his pass to enter the restricted areas. The QANTAS Boeing 707 had arrived over an hour late. He stood patiently, observing the passengers disembarking slowly before struggling across the tarmac, heat rising up from the cement, increasing their discomfort. As they struggled across the searingly hot concrete, perspiration formed large ugly patterns on their clothes.

He scrutinized the disembarking passengers looking for Wanti. He couldn't believe the over-dressed tourists as they appeared from the long cigar-shaped airliner and were suddenly hit with the immense heat rising off the expanse of cement and reinforcing steel holding their aircraft in place. Obviously inexperienced passengers began the walk briskly then slowed to a lethargic stroll. Many of the one hundred and sixty had already entered the health and quarantine sections to complete their initial formalities when Coleman finally spotted them leaving the aircraft.

As they were near last off the plane this suggested to him that Wanti was still in need of attention and, perhaps, assistance in leaving her flight. Stephen discovered his error suddenly, recognizing them as the couple almost directly in front of him. He frowned.

They walked together, hand in hand and with that leisurely gait couples often develop together when moving as a single unit. Albert had aged a little less than he had expected. At his side, smiling and obviously relaxed, was the beautiful graceful woman he had loved so long ago, now physically more mature, her classic features even more prominent than he remembered.

She walked differently, he noticed. And her body had filled out, as graceful as before, now, if not more so, her shining long black hair as distracting as it had been when he'd first noticed her. She was everything he remembered. Stephen put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

“
Selamat datang, Manis
,” he welcomed his wife.

Turning to the older man, he extended his hand which Albert immediately grasped and pumped enthusiastically, a foreign habit obviously developed during his many years in Australia.

“
Selamat datang,
Albert.”

Coleman escorted them through the immigration and customs procedures flashing his security pass. They completed their formalities in just twenty minutes. Most of the officials identified Coleman and waved him through with his guests as the porters fought over the large amount of luggage.

The driver had kept the Mercedes cool, and within minutes of leaving the terminal they were speeding down the new divided highway towards the Bogor-Tanjung Priok bypass. Stephen had placed them both in the rear of the red Mercedes 280, positioning himself alongside one of the drivers from the company pool. He normally elected to sit up front unless the occasion dictated otherwise. He talked excitedly as they drove back into the city along Jalan Gatot Subroto past the Air-Force Headquarters and down around the clover leaf roundabout into Jalan Jenderal Sudirman.

Jakarta
had grown incredibly, and high-rise structures now dwarfed the remnants of red clay tiled roofed
kampung
houses scattered alongside the new hotels and office blocks. Wanti was engrossed in the apparent quantum leap the Capital had experienced since her last visit. She had forgotten the noise of this bustling city. And the scream of the thousands of motorcycles.

Stephen observed Wanti sitting serenely, almost unaware of the excitement around her. She appeared to be preoccupied, although there was a peacefulness about her that puzzled him. He smiled at his beautiful passenger and leaned back reaching for her hand as he spoke.

“
Wanti, you will find the shopping here an improvement from the old days. I will take you down to the new plazas tomorrow after you have rested.
”

She withdrew her hand slowly and smiled.

“
Albert will escort me, thank you Mas. We don't wish to be a burden during our visit
.”

Surprised, Stephen glanced at Albert who immediately looked away to avoid further eye contact. They continued to drive in silence. Coleman was puzzled. He decided to wait until the opportunity arose, as it appeared that his wife's rehabilitation process had not been as successful as he had at first been advised.

As their vehicle entered the driveway the office staff and servants were all outside to greet the new arrivals. The houseboys swarmed over the car grabbing the luggage in their excitement and wishing their
njonja
welcome home. Minutes later they sat quietly in the living area.

It was apparent that there was something amiss, and Coleman decided to take Albert aside to discuss the problem. He escorted his old friend into the business conference room which was maintained primarily for VIP discussions.

The room was furnished with Javanese carved tables and chairs, the walls covered with letters of appreciation and miniature banners from the many military commands which had benefited from his activities. Photographs of a slightly younger Coleman shaking hands with the President at an aviation day ceremony remained the centre piece, framed in a gold leaf frame. He indicated where his guest should sit and then placed himself directly opposite.

“
Stephen
,” Albert commenced, his embarrassment now obvious. “
Stephen, we must talk about Wanti
.”

“
All right, Albert, we have been close friends, almost family for many years. I have learned to identify from the expression on your face when something is bothering you. What's the problem?
” he asked, taking a clove cigarette from the opened packet lying on the table and lighting it without first offering one to his guest.

Stephen had that feeling. It was rarely wrong. His sixth sense had guided him into safe waters more than once in his business career and, he remembered, whenever he'd ignored the sensation it had cost him dearly. Stephen took a long draw on the
kretek
and then leaned back into the chair and observed his guest. He looked uncomfortable and Stephen wondered why.

Albert had acknowledged that the decor was expensive as soon as they had entered the premises. He didn't appreciate who the designers were or the artists' names whose works hung on the walls, he just knew that it looked expensive. His friend had come a long way. Looking at Stephen, he was suddenly at a loss for words. He didn't know where to start, but he did.