Three hundred Moslem demonstrators pressed close to the Soviet Embassy’s front fence just as Cardinal got out of his taxi. He hesitated as bottles and rocks were hurled into the compound. A tank rolled forward flanked by police and soldiers wearing gas masks, who charged across busy Japan Thamrin. Two tear-gas grenades scattered protesters. Cardinal saw his chance. He skirted the billowing cloud and hurried through the iron gates that were armed by Embassy staff. A petrol bomb smashed and caught fire fifteen metres from him. A rock the size of a baseball missed him by centimetres as he ran for the Embassy entrance. He presented his invitation card to the ‘October 1917 Anniversary Celebration’ to machine-gun toting guards and was searched.
Inside, the lobby was a crush of guests who had just avoided the demonstration. An elevated bust of Lenin sitting on a marble shelf dominated a wall. Portraits of the Soviet Communist Party secretary and the president were hung either side of it.
The throng squeezed through to meet Soviet Ambassador Leonard Volkov, a heavy-featured Georgian with a wad of grey and black hair, clipped short back and sides. His chest was festooned with medals, including a polished Order of Lenin, which gave him forward ballast.
When Cardinal was not far from Volkov, he saw an official look in his direction and whisper something in the ambassador’s ear. As Cardinal stepped up to him, Volkov thrust out a hand.
‘Mr Cardinal,’ he said. ‘Good of you to come. Please enjoy our contemporary art.’
Cardinal wondered about Pedonny’s pull with the Soviets.
Hundreds of guests had congregated in a big reception room, and Cardinal began circulating in the hope of seeing Hartina or even Tien, whom Rhonda had described to him. He juggled a champagne from a waiter. An explosion outside shook the building. People screamed, and guards made a dash for the compound grounds. Volkov stopped receiving guests and started moving from group to group. Muffled machine-gun fire caused uneasiness despite the gregariousness of Volkov and his staff. The air was soon thick with cigarette and cigar smoke which the old-fashioned roof fans could not disperse. Drink waiters were working at the double dispensing vodka at a rate that would have impressed the hardiest Russian peasant. Cardinal found himself next to a tall, elegant woman from Chad.
‘This party has certainly gone off with a bang,’ he said.
Her grin turned into a nervous intake of breath as a volley of shots rang out. Windows in the lobby shattered in slow motion. Another group of arrivals threw themselves through the front doors. The doors were slammed shut behind them.
Automatic fire echoed around the building. Not even the ebullient Volkov could calm the people who were gathering in helpless knots, questioning the latest guests.
Cardinal continued to move about, a vivid impression of Hartina in his mind. He spun around as he caught a glimpse of a tall brunette. Cardinal shouldered his way past a bevy of diplomats to reach her, but stopped short. The woman, he realised, was European. Cardinal circled the perimeter of the room and ended up near the doors. Volkov was telling a group of anxious diplomats that no one could leave the Embassy until he said so.
Cardinal found a circle of Russians and inquired if any more guests were expected.
‘Not now,’ one said.
A drink waiter touched Cardinal’s arm. ‘The lady over there wishes your company.’
Cardinal turned and caught the eye of a tall, elegant woman in a black evening dress. Attractive flecks of grey in her hair had been highlighted and she carried herself like an aristocrat.
Two explosions crashed down like thunder. The lights flickered, came on again and then faded out. In the hysteria that followed, Cardinal lost Tien. The Russian guards inside began to struggle with guests who tried to open the doors.
Volkov’s voice boomed above the screams. He called for calm and ordered his staff to hand around torches and candles. The mix of lights illuminated eerie shadows and the faces of panic. Volkov then inspected damaged windows in the lobby. Accompanied by four guards, he stepped through the shattered glass into the grounds. There were only soldiers in the street. Having done their worst, the demonstrators had fled. Volkov returned to the party.
‘Please, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said using a loud-hailer, ‘do not attempt to leave until we are sure the streets are clear. I shall announce this shortly. But I would like you to stay and enjoy yourselves! You will never forget the Russian Revolution, eh?’
There was some nervous applause. Lights came on again.
‘Cocktail?’ a waiter said to Cardinal.
‘Molotov?’ he said. This brought an unwarranted roar of laughter from a group of relieved guests. Camaraderie was magnified as diplomats from different embassies, who would not normally be seen near each other, embraced. Volkov, now with his chubby, attractive wife at his side, weaved among the crowd encouraging everyone to relax.
Cardinal caught sight of the woman he thought might be Tien and made his way to her.
‘Mr Cardinal,’ she said. She offered her hand. ‘I’m Tien Van der Holland.’
‘Is your daughter here?’ Cardinal asked. ‘I really must speak with her!’
‘She wanted to come,’ Tien said, coming close to him, ‘but she was detained in Bandung. She thanks you for the flowers.’
Tien linked Cardinal’s arm in hers and led him to a corner where coffee was being served.
‘I want to know who killed my son,’ Cardinal said.
‘Chan,’ she said. ‘I wish someone would kill him!’
‘She is sure?’ Cardinal said, holding her by the forearms. He searched her face.
‘There were two involved,’ Tien said. ‘Chan used a shot-gun. An accomplice used a hand-gun.’
‘But if she saw it . . . ?’
‘It happened very quickly, Mr Cardinal,’ Tien said, moving her arms as his grip tightened, ‘but she is certain about Chan.’
His hands fell to his side.
‘You must help us!’ Tien said. ‘Chan is coming to Bandung.’
‘When?’
‘In two days. We don’t trust him! He is going to double-cross Utun!’
Tien paused and looked deep into Cardinal’s eyes before she added, ‘Do something for the memory of Harry.’
Rhonda stared at the phone. She was compelled to call Cardinal in Jakarta but was reluctant to pass on the results of her research. Rhonda had obtained a copy of the coroner’s report, which included a detailed comparison of Harry Cardinal’s medical record and that of the body found at Lucas Heights. They were identical. Rhonda had also gone to Harry’s Bronte house to examine the pictures of him. One showed him with a gold ring on his left hand and another with the same or a similar ring on his right hand. Cardinal had been worried about the time of Harry’s death, but everything Rhonda had been able to put together was plausible. Harry had left Lucas Heights at ten in the morning; the body had been discovered seven hours later, at five. A day had elapsed before the body had been examined. The coroner had put the time of death at between thirty and ninety-six hours before the autopsy. These details fitted Cardinal’s version.
Rhonda had made up her mind to call when the phone rang. It was her producer, Jenny Dunstan.
‘Good news and bad news,’ she said. ‘The prime minister’s office has been in touch with our superiors. He has asked that we do nothing with your interview with Utun, and he was adamant that we do not report the president’s assault on you.’
‘Bastard!’
‘But predictable, darling,’ Jenny said. ‘We must never rock the boat with Indonesia. Our government has been scared of doing that for thirty years.’
‘So that’s it?’
‘Afraid so. But now the good news. I’ve lined up a meeting with the managing director so we can make a pitch for a budget for the Cardinal story.’
Rhonda felt uncomfortable. Her former husband would probably attend.
‘Have you any footage on Cardinal?’ Jenny asked.
‘You better plan some.’
Rhonda reached for the phone to call the Sari Pacific.
Cardinal used binoculars to scan the Dutch Colonial mansion on Jalan Wijama in the affluent, leafy suburb of Kebayoran Baru. Chan had turned the building into a fortress complete with electrified wire atop a high brick fence. Four roving-eye cameras could be seen on the front facade. One guard on the roof to the portico entrance sat on a deck chair, a Sterling sub-machine gun on his lap.
‘Impossible to get in,’ Perdonny said from their vantage point in the car about a hundred metres away along Jalan Wijama. ‘The only way, we think, is to strike from there.’ He pointed to a footbridge with one metre high walls, a hundred metres from the front entrance. ‘If Chan could be made to get out of the hearse at those gates, he would be a target from the bridge.’
‘Do the gates open automatically?’ Cardinal asked.
‘They sometimes malfunction and only partly open. People have to get out of cars and walk through.’
‘But the gate is the only way in?’
‘Yes. Chan has been known to ride around the block and use a phone in the hearse to get it fixed first. It depends on his mood.’
‘How do you know about the gates?’
‘Our man on the inside has had to fix the gates.’
‘Could they be made to malfunction?’ Cardinal said. ‘Wouldn’t that force Chan to walk through the smaller gate?’
‘You mean, so the hearse couldn’t get through but the occupants could?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll check.’
Cardinal used the binoculars to look at the area again from the footbridge to the front gates.
‘Is the hearse left-hand drive or right?’ Cardinal asked.
‘Right, same as this.’
‘Then he probably sits where I am, left, to get the best field of vision, which means he would get out the left rear door. That would place him on the far side of the car from anyone aiming at him from the footbridge.’
‘A more difficult target.’
‘Head and shoulders only until he straightened up in front of the vehicle to get through the gate.’
Perdonny asked the driver to pull in at a parking bay about a hundred metres beyond the bridge, and out of view of the Embassy building.
‘The bridge is vulnerable,’ Cardinal said. ‘The walls offer some protection, but you would have to have your whole torso exposed, even if you fired from the steps leading to and from the bridge.’
‘Getting there with a weapon without being seen would be difficult.’
‘I. would be more concerned about getting away.’
‘Pity we can’t walk it.’
‘Why not?’ Cardinal said. ‘I’ve counted a dozen people going over it since we’ve been here.’
Perdonny looked around as they got out of the car. He asked his driver to wait.
‘Better go one at a time,’ Perdonny said. ‘When you see I’m over it, you follow. But don’t double back. Just keep walking and cross the road a few hundred metres further on.’
Cardinal watched Perdonny stroll to the steps and counted them as he moved up. There were about forty. He watched him saunter across and move down the other side. From that distance it didn’t appear suspicious. Cardinal followed. From the bridge’s centre he could see the Embassy’s grounds. They needed some honest gardening. He stopped and looked each way and could feel a wind that had not been apparent from the ground. Cardinal moved on and glanced back to see the guard on the Embassy roof.
Perdonny was waiting for Cardinal in the car. ‘You shouldn’t have stopped like that,’ he said as Cardinal got in. He ordered the driver to take them away.
‘I wanted to test the guy on the roof,’ Cardinal said.
‘Chan goes to Bandung on Friday,’ Perdonny said.
‘So you said.’
‘You would have to strike in the next thirty hours.’
‘It can’t be organised in that time.’
‘Why not?’
‘Finding the right person, alone, takes time. You need a professional.’
‘I heard it was easy to have someone murdered here.’ Cardinal tried to draw out Perdonny.
‘You could get a killer for a hundred dollars, but he would fail. All the capable people we know would take a lot of tempting.’
‘You need someone from outside the country.’
‘Definitely.’
‘What about a weapon?’
‘Most pros have their own, but we have suitable weapons.’
‘I would like to see one.’
Perdonny eyed Cardinal. ‘Why?’
‘I want to do it myself.’
Three tries and two hours later, Rhonda got through to Cardinal at his hotel. They were cut off once and the line was bad, with voice-back and crackling making it difficult to talk easily.
‘Did you speak to our friend?’ Rhonda asked. She was careful not to mention names.
‘No,’ Cardinal replied, his voice echoing down the line, ‘but her mother turned up.’
‘Did she tell you anything?’
‘Everything I wanted to know.’
‘Everything?’ Rhonda repeated. She was surprised, but reluctant to ask for details.
‘I’ve got what I want.’
‘So you’ll be coming back to Sydney soon?’
‘In a few days.’ His tone was chilly.
‘Why not immediately?’
‘Rhonda, I’ve much on my mind, but I’ve still been thinking about you. A hell of a lot.’
‘I’ve been thinking about you too. Do you know what day you’ll be in Sydney?’
‘No.’
‘Have you made a booking?’ she asked more anxiously. ‘Ken, is there something wrong? You sound as warm as a Siberian winter.’
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to leave now. Goodbye, Rhonda.’
She felt a knot tightening in her stomach as she replaced the receiver. ‘Perdonny,’ she mumbled as she reached for her diary, ‘must call Perdonny.’
When Chan’s profile filled the rifle’s telescopic sight, Cardinal pulled the trigger.
‘Better,’ Perdonny said. He moved forward to inspect the piece of paper that had fallen from the tree trunk where it had been pinned. ‘Perhaps you should rest and practise again later.’
Cardinal’s right shoulder was numb from the butt pressing into it, and his eyes were smarting from the sun and the need to squint into the sight. He followed Perdonny around the edge of the swamp at the rear of the villa and through a gate that led to the pool. The atmosphere was sticky as the red streaked sky rushed from sundown to dusk then darkness. Buildings on Jakarta’s skyline were changing rapidly into grey shapes. The green jungle beyond the swamp would soon be shadows. Servants served them scotch as they sat at the poolside table.
‘You’re a good shot,’ he said, raising a glass to Cardinal. ‘Do you feel comfortable with that rifle?’
‘It’s solid,’ Cardinal said. He patted the weapon. ‘What make is it? The brand seems to have been scraped off.’
‘It comes from the Soviet Union.’
‘You seem to have good relations with them,’ Cardinal said.
‘I know you are suspicious of that,’ Perdonny said, ‘but we must have mutual trust at this moment.’
‘Do you work for the KGB?’ Cardinal asked bluntly.
Perdonny shook his head. ‘That would be incompatible with my other work for Australia, but I do keep in good contact with the Soviet Embassy people. It will be useful when we are in power.’
Cardinal wiped his brow.
‘We know Chan’s movements,’ Perdonny said, removing a folder from a briefcase and placing it on the table. ‘We only know for sure of the one time when he will return to the Embassy. That’s tonight at ten.’
‘Jesus,’ Cardinal muttered. ‘I was hoping for another day’s preparation.’
Perdonny opened the folder. ‘You can always abandon this.’
Cardinal did not react.
Perdonny put on glasses to read from notes and then looked up. ‘Ten is a good time. The curfew is at midnight. You will have plenty of time to return to your hotel . . . afterwards.’
‘You think that’s wise?’
‘The idea is to act as normally as possible. But you must get out of Jakarta fast by plane.’
‘Won’t the police be checking Halim?’
‘Exactly. My idea is for you to fly to Bali. Planes go from Jakarta’s internal airport.’
Cardinal frowned. ‘And then?’
‘Bali and Ambon are my two homes,’ Perdonny said. ‘My contacts will hide you. You’ll be safe until we arrange an external flight.’
‘When does the Bali flight leave?’
‘Six is the first. You should be at the airport at five-thirty. The curfew is lifted at five, so that’s okay.’
‘But the cops and soldiers will be on the look-out for . . .’
‘You’re a tourist. Act like one if you’re picked up. We’ll help by providing some diversions to keep Bakin and everyone else busy through the night.’
Cardinal put down his drink. ‘I should be doing more practice.’
Perdonny looked at the sky. ‘Wait until it’s dark, then you will be simulating conditions better . . .’
‘You never met me,’ Hewson said. He looked out over Brunton Avenue’s sweep past the Melbourne Cricket Ground. From the Regent Hotel’s thirty-fifth floor piano bar, cars looked like remote-control beetles as they shunted slowly in the evening peak-hour traffic.
‘Cut out the James Bond stuff,’ Rhonda said. ‘Are you trying to tell me this is not a social gathering?’
‘Yes and no,’ he said, pulling an envelope from his pocket, and handing it to her.
‘May I open it here?’
He laughed and nodded. It was a clipping from a Chinese newspaper.
‘That’s about all I can do,’ she said. ‘I certainly can’t read it.’
‘But you could have found it in the National Library,’ he said dryly, ‘about this time next year.’
Rhonda nodded. ‘Or our Peking correspondent could have posted it to me.’
‘Exactly. Let me summarise it.’ He sipped his light beer. ‘The article accuses the Russians of using their Vietnamese puppets to experiment in the war in Kampuchea with chemical weapons and lasers.’
‘It means the war is being used for experimentation. It’s also most unusual for such an article to be so specific and vitriolic about what the enemy is using.’
‘I know you think my bust measurement matches my IQ,’ Rhonda said, ‘but I still don’t know what you’re driving at.’
Hewson took off his dark glasses. His turned eye made it difficult for Rhonda to concentrate. She wished she was sitting next to him.
‘Could it be,’ he said, leaning forward, ‘that the Chinese are getting in first with an accusation because they intend to use the same weapons?’
Rhonda’s expression brightened. ‘You mean the Chinese on behalf of the Americans?’
‘And maybe the Khmer Rouge,’ he said. ‘The Killing Fields have become the laser-testing fields.’
Rhonda studied Hewson. She leaned close. ‘I’ll need more than that to follow up.’
‘That’s all I can say.’
‘Hartina Van der Holland’s transfer to Bandung must have caused ASIO much embarrassment,’ she said.
‘Some,’ he said, refusing to be drawn.
Rhonda took some cashew nuts from a bowl.
‘Don’t ask me anymore for the moment on this one,’ he said.
‘There was something else on my mind.’
‘Shoot.’
‘I’ve been doing some research on the death of Harry Cardinal. I was wondering about one aspect of it.’
‘I really don’t think I can help. No one can on our side.’
Rhonda sipped her champagne. ‘Then could we consider something hypothetical? Is it possible to substitute a body so that someone living could disappear?’
Hewson leant back in his chair. ‘When I was a kid of around ten, the Olympic Games were held in Melbourne. My father insisted I miss school and go to the main events. We were in the city a few hours before the start of some track events at the MCG, and he took me to a movie to kill time.’
He paused while a waitress filled their glasses and moved to the next table.
‘The movie was called “The Man Who Never Was”,’ he said, dropping his voice. ‘I can remember it very well even after more than thirty years.’
‘Nice title.’
‘It was a dramatised version of a true story about the body of an English soldier washed up on a beach in Europe occupied by the Nazis in World War II. The Nazis fell for the misleading information on the body, which made the soldier seem like an Intelligence courier, and made some disastrous errors that affected the outcome of the war.’
‘So there are precedents?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, just imagine that someone wanted to make us all think that Harry Cardinal was dead. Where would a substitute body come from?’
‘Do you know how many unidentified Caucasian male bodies are found in South-East Asia, including Australia, each year?’
‘Surprise me.’
‘Scores.’
‘How come?’
‘People die on vacation or even disappear on business trips. Some are murdered, some end up in remote hospitals in India or Korea and are never heard of again. Some become drug addicts and never leave the Thai countryside. Others traffic in drugs in Malaysia and get caught.’
‘You mean, there’s a kind of body bazaar? A reject shop for corpses?’
‘Hospitals are often buyers.’
‘But how would the CIA . . .,’ Rhonda began, raising her voice.
Hewson’s face expressed caution.
She leaned forward. ‘How would they get the body into the country?’
‘We’re discussing the art of the possible, right? Not specifics.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Australia allows some special representatives of friendly nations security clearances in and out without checks.’
‘But bodies? Would people become suspicious?’
‘Not if no one is looking for a corpse.’
Rhonda was thinking quickly.
‘But how would you choose the right body? And how would you make it look exactly like somebody else?’
‘Suppose the person you were wanting to make look dead acquiesced with everything,’ Hewson said. ‘Then he or she would be the model.’
‘But Harry Cardinal had a pin in his shoulder from a football injury . . .’
‘Have you seen what funeral parlours can do to a body?’
‘God!’ Rhonda said.
‘They don’t even need him. Hair dyes and coloured contact lenses can make such a difference.’
‘What about birthmarks?’
‘You should see what they can do with lasers, these days.’
‘Harry Cardinal’s blood and dental records all matched up with the corpses’,’ she said, perplexed.
‘You’re getting specific again,’ Hewson said. He put his glasses on. ‘But you might do well to check who matched up all the records . . .’
Perdonny opened the silver foil and offered Cardinal the yellow-brown cake.
‘I’m not eating it,’ Cardinal said, ‘especially if you don’t tell me what it is.’
‘It’s a special thing that some Moslem friends gave me the recipe for twenty years ago,’ Perdonny said closing the foil. ‘In the sixteenth century, Moslem fanatics prepared to face the conquering Christians. To give them the courage to face death and to kill, they used to take this. They were called Hashish eaters. Over the centuries Hashish became the derivitive of the word ‘assassin’. Some Islamic killers still take it. But the recipe is only known by a few.’
‘It’s just hash then?’
Perdonny shook his head.
‘No. It’s a special opiate mix,’ he said.
‘You want me to take that?’
‘It numbs the fear but concentrates the energies on the mission.’
Cardinal looked apprehensively at the foil package. ‘Harry would be laughing,’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘He would have loved me taking such a lethal mix!’
‘Have you ever taken drugs?’
‘No. As a kid in Korea, there was only alcohol. But I was never addicted. Occasionally I have too much now . . .’
‘You can’t become addicted with one intake of this either.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘You must have some fear. This will overcome it.’
‘I have more than some. But I’m sure that kind of thing would slow me up.’
‘That’s the point. It represses fear but sharpens the nerves and muscles you need.’ Perdonny picked it up and held it in front of Cardinal. ‘Please, at least take it with you,’ he said. ‘If the mission begins to overwhelm you, consider its value . . .’
The worst moments for Cardinal began when he returned to his hotel room carrying the case with the unassembled rifle. It was eight, and he had ninety minutes before he would make his final move. While he had been with Perdonny in the safety of his villa he had kept his nerve. Alone, he felt a terror creep over him. He would be on his own until after the strike, and even then he would have to cover about a kilometre on foot. There was also the possibility that an innocent passer-by could be on the bridge. Perdonny said that it was used by fewer people at night, but that was no guarantee. He had told Cardinal to carry on regardless; it was unlikely that anyone would try to stop him. The problem of patrolling police and soldiers was outside Cardinal’s control, but Perdonny had suggested that he not step near the bridge until the last moment.
‘After you have hit Chan,’ Perdonny told him, ‘walk away from the bridge with the weapon against your side. Don’t run until you’re clear of the bridge. Then let the gun go.’
Cardinal went over the plan and three times assembled the weapon so that nothing was left to chance.
He lit a cigar and switched on the television. It was in Indonesian and more unsettling than relaxing. He switched it off. Cardinal put on a stocking mask that Perdonny had insisted he wear, and tried on a hooded anorak.
He removed the mask and looked out the window. It was raining. He wondered how much the wet would change things. He was concerned about being able to focus in the dark but recalled there was a light that Chan and his guards would have to pass under. Cardinal submerged his worries by thinking about his motive. If he didn’t make Chan pay, no one would.
He also thought of Perdonny’s motives. The little man had nothing to lose if Cardinal succeeded. Utun’s position would be weakened because Chan was essential to his power. A failure was more problematic. Cardinal’s worry was that Perdonny could isolate him and link him to the CIA.
He looked at his watch. It was close to nine. Cardinal unwrapped the silver foil containing Perdonny’s cake. He carved off a chunk with a spoon and remembered Perdonny’s words: ‘Take no more than a tablespoon at a time. Too much can be counter-productive. You would go crazy.’
He took the prescribed amount. The honey taste surprised him. Then he lay back on the bed and tried to relax. The rain had become torrential. Cardinal felt comforted by it and lay listening to it for nearly half an hour.
He got up and wandered to the window. The unshielded light bulbs in the small market in the street behind his hotel were a blur as the roadside stalls were flooded. Cardinal watched the drops crashing down on the balcony, spraying on the window where they seemed to splatter in slow motion. He slid the window across. The cooling rain splashed on his face. But he did not feel it.
‘I’ll go for a ride,’ he said aloud. He buttoned up the anorak, picked up the case and walked out of the room. He took the stairs and found the door to the rear of the hotel. Cardinal lifted the anorak over his head as the rain pounded his skull.
He hurried around to the front of the hotel’s basement where taxis were delivering people to the Pitstop disco. Cardinal found a Chinese driver who took him for the short trip to the point near a petrol station, only a kilometre from Jalan Wijama and the Embassy.
The driver accidentally took him some way past the station. Cardinal leant forward and asked the man to return. He saw his own reflection in the rear-vision mirror. At first he was surprised to see the beads of water on his forehead. He didn’t feel as if he was perspiring. Then he realised that water from the anorak was trickling down his face.
Cardinal tipped the man well and watched the taxi move off. He looked at his watch. It was nearly ten. He set off at a brisk walk and reached a narrow alley that led to Wijama. He hesitated. He was in two minds whether to assemble the rifle here or wait until he was among the trees by the road. It was then he realised that he had made the decision.
Rhonda wouldn’t take no for an answer. When the receptionist said Cardinal was not in his room, she insisted that someone be sent to check on him. A few minutes later she was told that his room was empty. Rhonda rang Perdonny at his villa. It was obvious that she had disturbed something.
‘I can’t talk to you now,’ he said. ‘There are things happening tonight.’
‘Like what?’
‘Rhonda, I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’
‘I’ve been trying to phone Ken,’ she said. ‘I have to speak to him urgently. The hotel says he’s not in his room. I thought he might be with you.’
‘He had dinner here and left me at about eight. What did you want to tell him?’
‘I’m worried that he might be doing something dangerous,’ she said. ‘He must know that it’s possible that his son is still alive.’
‘What makes you say that?’
Rhonda began to rattle off her reasons.
‘Rhonda, I must go,’ Perdonny said. ‘Let’s speak tomorrow.’
Cardinal put on the mask, pulled the anorak hood over it and waited behind trees twenty paces from the footbridge. He had assembled the rifle and loaded it. Despite the drug, he was nervous. But he was able to concentrate. As soon as the hearse passed under the footbridge, he planned to take up position on it and wait for Chan to get out. He had focused on the gate. His main worry was whether he would be able to see Chan’s face well enough.
Thunder sounded like a distant drum, and the rain came down harder.
Cardinal sheltered under the trees and practised lining up the target. I’m not going to miss, he kept telling himself. Minor flooding on the wide street had caused traffic to slow. Cardinal calculated that the weather would delay the hearse by twenty minutes. He watched each passing vehicle send up a spray of water as it went under the bridge. Pedestrians had not used it in the time Cardinal had been there, and he was thinking how useful the foul weather was when two figures appeared on the other side of the road. They came up the steps and onto the bridge. Cardinal found himself urging them to hurry or get off. He cursed as they reached the centre of the bridge and the point from which he planned to make the attack. The two people were taking their time. Cardinal looked back towards the gates. A vehicle had pulled up. It was the hearse. He dashed for the steps and bounced up them as the two people were coming down.
Cardinal reached the middle of the bridge just as the gates began to open. Cardinal’s fear was that Perdonny’s man on the inside had failed to jam them. The hearse slid forward. The gates began to close. They crashed into the front of the vehicle. It reversed to let them clang shut. Cardinal had the weapon protruding over the bridge. They’re trying to automate those damned gates again, Cardinal thought. Seconds later, the gates began to open once more. The vehicle bounced forward, but the gates jammed and hit the vehicle, so hard this time that a headlight shattered. There was a one metre gap to negotiate, but if any passengers tried it, they would have to climb over the vehicle’s front.
Cardinal heard a shout from the bottom of the footbridge. The two people who had crossed it were signalling. Cardinal turned the rifle in their direction, and they scampered for the trees. He looked once more to the gates. The driver was out, inspecting the damage. He argued with others inside and indicated they could climb over the vehicle, but the passengers were reluctant to get out.
Cardinal’s heart pounded. ‘C’mon! C’mon!’ he muttered.
An explosion rocked the area, and the driver ducked back into the hearse. Cardinal glanced towards the city skyline as smaller explosions were heard. Cardinal thought the hearse might retreat. The brake light went off, but instead of reversing the driver tried to force the gates open. The engine revved, and a cloud of exhaust drifted through the rain.
The far rear door opened. Cardinal tightened his grip on the rifle. ‘C’mon you bastards!’ he whispered. People began to get out. Cardinal caught a glimpse of the first person. A woman! he thought. Where’s Chan?
The second figure out was quickly surrounded by two men from the rear and another from the front seat.
‘Chan!’ Cardinal mouthed. He lined up the head as the figure climbed on the front of the car. Cardinal squeezed the trigger. The shot echoed. He fired again, and the figure slipped. The others grabbed for him.
Cardinal ran down the steps and headed for the trees. Two figures from the hearse gave chase across the road. They dodged cars that braked and skidded. Cardinal reached the alley. He felt a tingle down his spine as the sound of submachine gun echoed after him. He pulled off the mask and threw it away. Once in Jalan Nagran, where the taxi had dropped him, Cardinal didn’t know which way to go. A police car was coming his way.
‘Jesus, no!’ Cardinal hissed. He stepped back into the shadow of the alley. Suddenly he was aware he was still carrying the rifle. He tossed it over a fence just as a shot was fired from the other end of the alley. Cardinal ducked instinctively and crouched back into the street. The police car wailed and slushed its way through the traffic and passed him. Cardinal ran across the road. An army truck roared by in pursuit of the police car. Cardinal found himself among thousands of people doing last-minute shopping in a market before the late-night curfew. The rain stopped. He hurried through the market, glancing back at the alley. Chan’s guards were in the street. The police car and army truck had turned round and returned.
I’ve had it, he thought as he looked desperately about him. He could see a bus pulling up on the other side of the market. Cardinal kept in the shadows of the stalls until he was near the bus line of thirty local people. It had been his meeting spot, but Bani, Perdonny’s driver, was not there. The police and soldiers began combing the market. Two more police cars and another army truck arrived. A bus pulled in. People started moving into it. Cardinal joined the line. He entered the bus just as soldiers approached it. He ducked his head as the vehicle chugged off.
‘Would you like a drink at the bar?’ Gillie, the shapely blonde manager of The Pitts restaurant, said to Rhonda. Moments later Kim Lim appeared wearing a black body-stocking. She joined Rhonda at a long mirrored bar. About forty lunch-time diners — mainly dark-suited businessmen – in discreet cubicles were being attended by attractive girls.
‘I just want a chat with you?’ Rhonda said.
‘I must change,’ she said.
Gillie had heard the exchange. She came over to Rhonda as Kim disappeared into a cloak room.
‘Are you on a story?’ Gillie asked. ‘Has Kim done anything wrong?’
‘I just think she might be able to help me,’ Rhonda said. ‘Did you know she was an illegal immigrant?’
‘No,’ Gillie said. ‘I didn’t ask for any papers when she applied. She’s a trustworthy sort of kid.’
‘You pay her cash?’
‘She only works part time,’ Gillie said. ‘She’s okay. She pays her taxes.’
They were soon joined by Kim, who had changed into tight jeans and a light shirt.
‘Can we go somewhere private?’ Rhonda asked. ‘Are you still staying at Bronte?’
‘I must leave the place by the end of next week,’ Kim replied, ‘but I stay some nights. With my boyfriend . . .’ Rhonda caught her eye.
‘Let’s go to Bronte,’ she said. ‘I have a key.’
‘Who gave it to you?’
‘Harry’s father,’ Rhonda said, getting off the bar stool.
‘I want the truth,’ Rhonda said as Kim prepared filtered Javanese coffee in the kitchen of Harry’s house. ‘It’s very important because Harry Cardinal’s father is in Jakarta. He may be in trouble.’
Kim was silent, her face impassive. The repetitive dull thud of the surf could be heard.
‘I want you to tell me about you and Harry. He never was your boyfriend, right?’
‘Good friends,’ Kim said, nodding as she spoke. She handed Rhonda a coffee.
‘But Hartina was his real lover, correct?’
‘I think so.’
‘Don’t fuck about, Kim! Someone asked you to play this little role of girlfriend, isn’t that so?’
‘What do you do? Some TV story?’
Rhonda stood up and began pacing up and down the kitchen like a ship’s captain on the bridge. ‘What really happened to Harry?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did he give any warning he would be leaving?’
Kim shook her head.
‘Did he pay you to make up that story about being his girl?’
Kim looked up.
‘Harry gave me some money just before it happened.’
‘How much?’
‘Two thousand, maybe a little more.’
‘Kim . . .’
‘I can’t remember, exactly.’
‘Why did he give that sort of money?’
‘I don’t want to go back to Indonesia.’
‘Why the money, Kim?
‘He said he might go away,’ she said. She began to sob.
‘And that you had to pretend you were his girlfriend?’
Kim pulled out a handkerchief from her jeans pocket.
‘Did Hartina ask you to help out, too?’ Kim gave a reluctant nod.
‘Do you think Harry is dead?’ Rhonda asked.
‘I don’t know!’ Kim wailed.
Rhonda sipped her coffee and stared at Kim.
‘Who gave Harry the money for this house and the yacht and the MGB?’
‘I tell you! I don’t know!’
‘Kim, don’t lie!’
‘It’s true. I was with him and Hartina . . .’
Rhonda thought she had caught her again. ‘Where?’
‘He always went to the illegal places . . .’
‘But the Americans – didn’t they help him with cash and things?’
‘The Americans?’
‘The ones that visited you and Harry and Hartina,’ Rhonda said, bluffing.
‘They may have given him money.’
‘Did Harry or Hartina tell you about that? Surely they would have been pleased to have nice cars and all those other good things?’
‘I’m scared of the Americans too,’ Kim said.
‘Which Americans?’
‘They come from the Embassy.’
‘When and where?’
‘They came here maybe five or six times.’
‘Okay, but when, Kim? The last month, the last year?’
‘In the past few months.’
‘No. I am good friends with Hartina . . .’ Kim began and checked herself.
‘And you came here many times to see your friends, right?’
Kim stared at the floor.
‘Can you describe the Americans?’ Rhonda asked.
‘There was a big one,’ Kim said, ‘a very arrogant man.’
‘Kind of aristocratic looking?’
‘Yes. Always well dressed. There was another. He was short and fat. Smoked cigars and sweated a lot, specially when he came up the steps to the house.’
‘Can you remember the big one’s name?’
Kim shook her head.
‘Blundell?’ Rhonda prompted.
‘Yes, maybe.’
‘After Harry’s death, did the Americans come here?’
‘The same day.’
Rhonda sat forward.
‘What time?’
‘It was after dark. Perhaps seven or eight.’
‘What did they do?’
‘They . . .’ Kim faltered. ‘They warned me not to tell anyone.’
‘Off the record then,’ Rhonda said.
‘They took some files and books and letters. They took his diary.’
‘Files on what?’
‘I don’t know. His laser work, maybe.’
‘You mentioned letters.’
‘I never read them, but I think they were family. You know, his parents. They write to him often.’
Rhonda stood up and walked to the kitchen window. ‘Did he ever discuss his family?’
‘Not with me, but Hartina told me some things.’
‘Like what?’
‘He often spoke about his father’s politics. He hated his father’s politics. Harry was more extreme . . .’
‘Did Harry have a good side?’
Kim shrugged. ‘Everyone put up with his extremes because he was intelligent. He wanted to be the best and make money. Lots of money. I don’t think much else mattered.’
‘And how did Hartina react to him?’
‘They were both in the same field and very smart. Nothing else mattered to them. Only work.’
Rhonda sat next to Kim again. ‘So they were lovers too?’
Kim nodded.
‘Do you really think he’s dead?’ Rhonda asked once more.
Kim stared at her. ‘Something had been planned for weeks. I don’t think he was murdered.’