The Timor Man (83 page)

Each time he revisited, Coleman had difficulty believing that the tiny paradise, although it still enjoyed the protection of the United States, was in itself not subject to any external threat; nor was the minute republic exploited, even though it was truly one of nature's tropical wonders that had to be visited by all. Even the domestic political disputes were, by very nature, almost tribal, and the casual visitor soon became familiar with the more prominent personalities in the isolated and relaxed capital.

Stephen primarily dedicated his time to exercise aimed at reducing his weight. He ate sparingly, enjoying salads and the popular steamed fish dishes the islanders prepared so well. He drank only in moderation and was quite pleased with himself at being able to abstain until the late afternoon sun had disappeared below the horizon, providing him with the motivation to continue with these efforts to restore his health and get his life back into order. When he remembered the copious amounts of alcohol that he'd consumed every day over the past years, even he was surprised that his body functions had not given up well before, leaving him to die in some stinking hospital in Vietnam or China.

He read the American newspapers when they were available. Inevitably, the tabloids emphasised news from the States and hardly mentioned his area of the planet. There was still plenty of time to catch up, he thought, and once he had restored his energy level to where he felt confident of being able to withstand the demands he planned to place on his mind and body, then he would make the effort to find out what exactly had been happening in the rest of the world that may be of any real consequence to him.

Towards the end of the fourth week Coleman felt totally revitalized. He had lost eight kilos, almost eighteen pounds of fat, due to his healthy diet and exercise program. His skin had lost its jaundiced tinge, replaced by a healthy tan. He looked at himself in the beachside bungalow's long dressing mirror and decided that he should have embarked on this road of self care years before.

Admiring his improved shape and tan, he decided it was time to move on.

That evening he arranged his onwards travel a little saddened that he would be leaving the magic of these islands behind. The airstrip severely limited the size of the aircraft that could land in the scattered island group and he decided to follow the path established by many of the American servicemen still stationed on Guam, making his way south across the myriad of small islands down to Port Moresby, where he intended then sailing on to the northern tip of Queensland, via Cooktown and the other small coastal towns.

The typhoon changed his plans to island hop across the region as the sky turned ominously dark and the wind howled threateningly through the coconut palms and rooftops.

The power of nature's forceful winds alarmed Coleman. He had no wish to fly around the islands in a light aircraft being tossed around in the turbulence. The typhoon kept him indoors for almost three days and, sensing a bout of depression, he cancelled his immediate plans, electing to remain on the island for a few more weeks. Stephen scrapped the original itinerary and decided to replace his wardrobe and replenish the dwindling contents of his tattered money belt. He returned to Hong Kong.

No longer concerned with anonymity, Stephen checked into the Hyatt on Hong Kong Island, as the Kowloon side had suddenly been inundated with another flood of Chinese investors intent on purchasing whatever property they could now that the gates had been opened.

He visited some of the old familiar haunts but found that many had given way to even more high rise development on the already over-saturated land. The city's character had changed to such extent in just a few months he had difficulty identifying the real ‘Hongkies'. The new tenants had flooded into the world's largest marketplace, placing unprecedented pressures on everything from public utilities to exotic and previously outlawed forms of Chinese cuisine. This new breed, descendants of Shanghai coolies and street traders who had become China's
nouveau riche
, had brought with them many of the old habits and ways which had been prohibited under the British.

Restaurants blatantly advertised animal organs from protected species as main fare for the day. Stephen noticed that one restaurant he'd passed had no compunction preparing the rhesus monkeys from India, locked in their cages, screaming at their temporary masters, almost knowing that they were doomed to a tormented living death when the expensive meal was taken by the discerning Chinese connoisseurs, scooping pulsating brain through a hole made in the table's centre section so that all of those present could participate simultaneously, believing that eating the live monkey's brain would give them tremendous sexual vitality.

He wasn't disgusted that the city's inhabitants had seemed to have taken a major step backwards and forgotten whatever the one hundred years of colony rule had taught them. Western civilization's perception of how human behaviour should be as the world approached the twenty-first century meant very little here.

Stephen understood that. Instead, he merely reserved judgement even though the thought of the monkey's brain appetizer would spoil his appetite. He remembered where he was, and how the people in the real world of Asia actually lived, and would probably continue to do so millenniums after Western civilization had been put well to rest.

Mister Lim's operation had quietly closed after he had fled to Canada prior to the Chinese takeover of the former colony. The hotel's concierge soon put him into contact with an up-market service, which he had dialled and made arrangements for the following evening.

He had ordered a selection of new clothes to be tailored and, although the fashions had changed to a combination of baggy shirts and semi-stovepipe trousers, with button-less coats left open, he'd insisted on the older and more traditional cut for his single-breasted suit. He intended at least to look the part of the role that he knew he must play.

When these were ready, Coleman phoned the Australian Consulate General and arranged an appointment with the passport control officer as his travel document once again required renewal.

Then he visited his safety deposit boxes and confirmed his assets, smiling to himself at the wise decision he had made all those years back when the pressures of the moment could have caused him to panic and lose it all. As he sat in the private cubicle prepared by the bank's clerk, viewing the first of the two boxes, a flood of memories returned as it always did each time he opened what he jokingly thought of as being his own private bank. He picked up the faded photograph and smiled before placing it back inside the box. Then he checked the cash.

Stephen counted. There was still more than four hundred thousand dollars left in the steel boxes. Even when he'd been in a permanent alcoholic haze in the past, he'd kept track of his cash.

There were also three envelopes.

He had not considered it necessary to take precautions before the threats against his life. When making the notarised declarations at the time, Coleman had thought that the ignominious material contained in the letters wasn't much of a testimony to his life. He understood clearly that, should the letters become public or actually be read by the addressees as annotated on each of the revealing envelopes then, of course, he would be dead.

His instructions to the bank management had been simple and explicit. At least once in every year he required that his signature be presented when either transferring funds or just inspecting his own safety deposit. In the event that a year had passed and he had not appeared in person then the bank was to open his security boxes and forward all of the contents to one Albert Xavier Seda as per the address he had given. Coleman had attached a will leaving the cash contents to his wife, Wanti.

The three brown envelopes were addressed to each of the editors of The Jakarta Times, The Sydney Morning Herald and The Mirror with copies of details of Seda's involvement in their
kongsi
, attaching invoiced proof of funds with the relevant banking authorizations nominating the General's own accounts as the recipient of huge commissions. Each also contained a statement regarding his earlier role working for the Directorate headed by John Anderson — sufficient information, he had thought at the time, to severely curtail their activities for some time to come.

Before closing the lid of the second container, he considered the contents of these damaging envelopes and smiled. Stephen sat quietly for a few moments before passing the cream-coloured steel boxes containing his whole life's possessions over to the clerk for double locking. He then left the bank's cellars and returned to the hotel, already bored and exhausted by the bustling city.

Stephen phoned the escort service and advanced his booking.

 

The officious immigration officer had insisted Coleman return for his passport after two full working days, looking up at the applicant as if he were some dirty piece of dog's excrement, carried into the consulate stuck to the underside of his public service shoes by mistake.

At the time Stephen had bristled. He knew that this type of petty bureaucrat entertained themselves at the expense of the public and willed himself not to over react. Stephen knew how Australians were perceived by their Asian counterparts, although they were normally too polite or embarrassed to say. Often, when confronted with these minor officials whose supercilious behaviour resulted in adverse first impressions, the Oriental would accept the insulting conduct as normal and in line with what they had learned to expect of all European races.

As it was now already Thursday, Stephen had little choice but to wait until the Monday morning when the Consulate would have his new passport ready. They agreed that he could retain his old passport, reluctantly, until he had insisted that it would be required for banking purposes.

“You must surrender your old passport on Monday when we give you your new one.” he was told.

He had thanked the obnoxious consular officer and left before his temper got the better of him. Coleman knew that he had to remember to keep his cool. It would be important in the weeks ahead. He had time to kill and decided to spend the next two days visiting Guang Zhou as he had not been there for some years. Disappointed with the industrial pollution, he returned late in the afternoon in time to confirm the arrangements for his Saturday night's entertainment.

She was exceptionally attractive, but not in Angelique's class, he thought, watching her undress hurriedly. Their lovemaking had been mechanical at first, and Stephen was tempted to pay her then and there spending the remainder of the weekend alone. She had showered and was sitting silently as if waiting for further instructions.

“You can go home now if you want,” he said.

“Why?” she asked, surprised.

“Well, I thought maybe I'd take a rest and just watch a show on television.”

“You no send me home, okay!” she had pouted, obviously thinking that an early departure had meant her client was dissatisfied with her.

Stephen had laughed at the serious expression and the accompanying act, fully aware of the reason behind the reaction. “Okay, you stay,” he said, with which the towel around her breasts was immediately flung aside as she jumped onto the bed pulling him down playfully.

They left the room only to dine in the hotel's well-appointed restaurants and, as he was not drinking anywhere near as heavily as before, he found that his old stamina was slowly returning to form.

It had been a long time since he had really enjoyed the company of a woman for more than just a few hours. Her name was Kwai Fong. She was expensive. Coleman didn't complain as her attitude had changed when they returned to the suite, this time undressing slowly in well rehearsed and tantalizing movements, before engaging him in a long slow fantasy showing the sexual finesse of a practiced artisan.

Stephen was content to remain in the hotel room, eating, being spoiled and occasionally running the remote control through the multitude of channels offered through the hotel's satellite television service. He had arranged a final fitting for the rest of his new wardrobe and, satisfied that there was little else to do but wait, spent the remainder of the weekend being entertained by the beautiful woman.

 

It was a short taxi ride to the Consulate's offices. The mass of humanity gathered around the ground floor lift access spilled out through the building's foyer onto the footpath. Visa applications for Australia, he assumed. Thousands of the old Hong Kong citizens waited for their families overseas to process their applications to join their children who had the right to sponsor parents and other immediate relatives under the revised immigration scheme. Too impatient to join a queue, he pushed through the crowd and found that it wasn't all that difficult. The others thought he was a member of the staff and quickly stood aside as he asked them to move.

The lift doors opened at the appropriate level and immediately Stephen had to fight his way through yet another large number of Chinese pushing to reach the numbered roll of tape allocating a position to those who wished to make an inquiry from the Consulate.

Again he pushed through and was relieved to see that one of the consulate staff had identified him. He signalled for Stephen to pass through the side security door and into another holding area. Stephen was impressed by the thick heavy door clicking firmly shut behind him.