The Timor Man (84 page)

He was ushered into an office where the almost effeminate creature, the man who had caused his blood pressure to rise when he'd last visited, was seated. The consulate officer smiled sweetly and advised him that his passport had been endorsed by the Consulate, but not renewed.

“What do you mean endorsed? What sort of crap is this?” he had asked immediately, standing over the now agitated official.

“I am not the Consul, Mr Coleman, you will have to speak directly to him. He has asked that you meet upstairs and he will explain.”

Coleman was then ushered upstairs and through another series of security doors, similar to the first, to another section where he was instructed to wait. He became impatient to get out of the building with its overhead fluorescent lights and sterile atmosphere.

Twenty minutes had dragged by when finally Stephen was asked to follow the security officer. The man was dressed smartly in his new Federal Police uniform, one of the first issued under the restructured department's new image edicts. Stephen became uneasy when he noticed, with some surprise, the Smith and Wesson Thirty-Eight police special strapped to the officer's hip.

Immediately Coleman sensed that he had made an error in judgement. He should have had his documents renewed in Manila, he thought, as the journey from Palau took him through that city, where he had spent two days and would have had ample time to complete the necessary formalities without this inconvenience.

He turned suddenly to the consulate officer, unhappy with the way things were developing and concerned that he might now be under armed escort. Stephen hoped he was overreacting.

“What's the problem? Look, if there's a problem, just give me my old passport and I'll proceed on to Shanghai and have it done there. It won't be a hassle for me as I have business there and my passport still has enough space for limited travel,” he lied.

“I'm sorry, but you'll just have to wait.”

“Okay, ten minutes then I'm out of here, passport or no passport,” he warned.

“All right, follow the officer then,” he was instructed, “you can sit in the other office.”

Tense and convinced that he was justified in feeling hostile, Stephen followed silently as he was escorted into yet another room and again left to wait, impatiently, for what seemed an excessively long time. It was impossible to know, but he felt sure that the armed security who had not spoken during his exchange with the consulate official, had taken up post directly outside the room in which he now found himself. He was angry and was about to leave without his documents, deciding to return later or arrange to have someone else pick the passport up on his behalf, when the he heard voices approaching.

The door opened and Coleman stared at the visitor in disbelief.

“Good morning, arsehole!” the man snarled at him.

Coleman still couldn't believe his eyes. Standing across the room at a safe distance was the man he had left lying on the ground in Ho Chi Minh City. Greg Hart.

As he rose to his feet cautiously the doorway was suddenly filled with several other men who pushed in quickly and stood still, saying nothing, just glaring at him. These were unfamiliar faces but Coleman guessed from their size they were there to restrain him, should the necessity arise.

Hart smirked. Or was this his new natural smile acquired as a result of their last confrontation and the beating he'd given him?

“I won't give you any crap about the good news and the bad news Coleman,” he spat sarcastically. “For you it's just all bloody bad!”

Stephen looked at the man silently, refusing to be baited in case he was being set-up. The heavy-set pair looked like they were just waiting for an opportunity to use their muscle on him.

What the hell was Hart doing here?

“You are being placed under arrest,” Hart began, “and you are being charged under the Official Secrets Act.”

The other government men in the room could see from the cocky manner that Hart was enjoying himself. The sarcastic tone and method of delivery wasn't lost on them. This was the first time either of the security men had been party to an arrest under The Act and they were nervous, understanding the gravity of such charges.

Had they been privy to the thoughts of the man now detained their concerns would have been justified. At that very moment, more than anything he'd ever wanted before, Coleman wished they would leave the room, if only for just a few minutes, so he could kill the smiling Hart. He knew he would do it, without hesitation. Coleman sat stunned with the incredible realization that it was Hart who was making the statement for his arrest. He must have been involved somehow with Coleman's former government associates and had been, even way back in Jakarta when his now apparent treachery had resulted in the collapse of Stephen's world.

He wanted to kill. More than anything he had wanted ever in his life before, he wanted to kill this man who had betrayed him.

He cursed himself for leaving Hart's automatic behind in Ho Chi Minh City. Even without a weapon he knew he could do it. He stood rigidly still willing the guards to leave them alone as he half heard Hart's voice continue with the official statement.

“At this time you will not be given the opportunity to call or communicate with any legal representation.” Hart paused, placing his hands on his hips before continuing. “I am advised that you will, however, be provided with such an opportunity when you arrive in Australia.”

Coleman stood very still, only his fists moving as he clenched them tightly, almost cutting off the flow of blood to his fingers.

“Furthermore,” the sarcasm evident in voice, “you will be escorted back to Canberra by these two gentlemen standing beside me.”

Hart then turned to the men.

“Be careful of this piece of shit! You can see what I copped when I wasn't looking!” he lied, gesturing with one hand towards the fresh scars on his face.

“Well, he's welcome to bloody well try,” said the thick-set ex-rugby footballer. Stephen's eyes darted to the man and knew that there would be no chance of escape.

“Well, that's it then,” Hart said, his voice now slightly pitched as he was enjoying Coleman's dilemma. “Guess we won't be seeing you for awhile, eh Stephen?”

“My guess is about thirty years,” stated the other Service escort, not really knowing what the exact charges were against this man but wishing to be considered knowledgeable on the subject of the arrest.

Coleman remained very still.

He wanted to scream. But even more, he wanted to spring across and pound away again at the sneering face as one of the men stepped forward and, to Stephen's chagrin, handcuffed his wrists tightly and deliberately heeled his right ankle, sending a searing spear of pain up through his leg.

They kept him there for five hours. Nobody was permitted into the room with the exception of his guards and the arresting officer. He was not given anything to eat or drink and he didn't want them to have the satisfaction of his asking. Coleman's mind was racing. He knew that this had to be Anderson's handiwork but somehow it just didn't make any sense to him. Surely he wasn't being detained just because he bruised one of their men? And how could they have possibly made the mistake of employing such an incompetent in the ASIS?

No. There had to be something else. Surely after all these years there was no reason for them to harass him, as he had not been involved with anything of any interest to them for over fifteen years? He thought quickly and decided that Anderson would now be too old to still have any involvement in the intelligence network.

Then he remembered seeing the photograph some months before as he flew from Hong Kong to Vietnam. And suddenly he thought he understood. It had to do with Seda!

He didn't offer any resistance to the two huge men as they moved him out of the room and down to the basement carpark where a consulate vehicle was waiting, engine running and driven by yet another Australian. They had been to the hotel and packed his belongings. No doubt, he thought, they would have flashed their Interpol identification cards issued to Federal Police stationed overseas, and easily accessed his room.

There was nothing there of any interest except for his new clothes and other baggage. He still had the safety deposit key and the cash he'd withdrawn in his back pocket. There would have been no evidence of his banking anywhere in the room. He always destroyed these as his arrangements were simple enough to remember and really only required his personal attendance and passport when withdrawing funds from the security boxes.

He tried to concentrate, checking in his mind whether there was anything at all in his baggage that could be of interest to these people. Deciding that there wasn't, apart from maybe three or four hundred American dollars he'd made a habit of secreting away inside his toilet bag for emergencies then, he felt certain his safety deposit would remain intact. As for the small cash reserves, he wasn't concerned, knowing that these men would slip the few hundred dollars into their own pockets when they discovered its whereabouts.

Six hours later a completely shocked and confused Stephen Coleman sat, still handcuffed, on one of the RAAFs ageing Mystere jet aircraft en-route to Canberra. His exit from the former colony had been expedited swiftly without fuss as the Federal Police Officers rushed him through the private diplomatic counter at immigration as one of the pair spoke fluently in Mandarin.

Coleman could see from the expression on the Chinese immigration officer's face that the story they had concocted was obviously believable; he saw the official shake his head from side to side in disbelief at whatever he was being told in his own animated tongue. They checked his baggage only in a cursory manner, eager for the evil man to leave quickly. They knew that sometimes these sort of people brought bad
joss
and there was already enough of that around!

He was then taken directly to the aircraft and, when he recognized the markings, knew that whatever was happening was in fact, serious. The aircraft's engines were already idling as their diplomatic vehicle, escorted by a jeep flashing warning lights, crossed the tarmac and quickly deposited Coleman and his escort officers before disappearing again.

They had been given immediate clearance and, within five minutes, Coleman looked through the small round aircraft windows to see the terminal lights of Chek Lap Kok flashing by as the engine's thrust hurled them along the busy runway.

An hour later he was given a cardboard box containing sandwiches. No weapon there, he observed, picking at the small tuna fish and lettuce sandwich. He remained cuffed for most of the flight. When he needed to use the toilet Coleman was obliged to leave the small cramped toilet's door open each of the three times he visited the heads.

He didn't attempt to sleep. The speed of the events resulting from his arrest still had his head spinning. As the aircraft continued through the night, passing over many of the idyllic beaches where he'd lived an uninterrupted life without the cares of his peers, Coleman thought long and hard concerning his predicament and what it may really mean to his future. He believed then that his assumptions were correct. It was all somehow connected with his former activities with the General, that much was becoming clear as he thought it all through. But why would the Service go to such elaborate lengths to force him back to Australia? He was annoyed with himself at having being so easily tricked with the charade back in Hong Kong. It was just that so many years had passed since he had to be so alert he'd not identified the signs in time.

Coleman remember reading in the Hong Kong papers a few years before that the Intelligence Service had finally been compromised. Its existence was shouted out across the nation by a former agent who fed the classified information to several journalists. These in turn promptly printed their exposé and released the incredibly embarrassing disclosures for the world to read. The report was, in essence truthful, but surprisingly had not been of real consequence to those involved as the Australian public just sighed at the revelations as if they had expected as much from their leaders and promptly forgot about the matter. It was as if the existence of a clandestine government department had little consequence in their lives. The offending agent had been given a slap on the wrist for his offence and asked to find other employment.

Knowing all this, Coleman was sure that his previous involvement with the covert group had little or nothing to do with this current action against his person.

Realizing that it was rather pointless exhausting himself further worrying about the reasons for his predicament he decided to wait for their explanation. He knew there would be one.

 

The small sleek-lined jet refuelled twice and then, eighteen hours from the time he had entered the Australian territory of the Consulate General off Wan Chai, Stephen Coleman was surrendered to another team of Federal guards. They were waiting for his flight, standing patiently beside their unmarked van parked on the military side of the Fairbairn airport in Canberra. Moments later he was again whisked away with considerable speed into the city, where he was taken through the heavy steel restricted access gates leading down into the bowels of the huge gray complex on Russell Hill. There he was immediately locked in the special security wing in a military holding cell.