Chapter 16

Early the next morning, Wally woke feeling bright, alert, aware of his whereabouts, and much calmer. Cautiously, he rolled to one side in the hammock and tugged at the blackout curtain. He could just see people already plodding, making their way up the steep fields beyond the fence. He watched until they reached a certain point where some bent over and began picking selected tea-leaves. His inquisitiveness demanded to know why, why pick only those single leaves and not just cut them all off. Following several pickers with his eyes, he noticed other workers tying bags while squatting. It fascinated him how Asians could be comfortable in that funny squat, their backsides just off the ground and their knees at chin level.

In the distance, beyond the tea plantation, Wally noticed a tall mountain with a shawl of jungle. The peak of this sharp crag hid that rising yellow smudge, the sun. Misty clouds curled around several ridges. Then, just below, a flat man-made terrace followed the contours of the steep inclines. The soil was a rich red colour. Banana trees were planted near the top; the lower terraces grew rice. Such a concentrated use of prime land.

Several of Diyab’s relations worked on the tea plantation. They lugged the bagged tea to the initial transportation pick-up mound, near the end of the path that ran behind Badal’s house. From that mound, it was a twenty-minute walk to the first plants.

Time to get up. The sky had a glow of soft grey-orange.

Clinging fast to the hammock rope and planting a foot firmly on the floor, Wally reached out to the long cord Diyab had tied to the rafter overheard. By pulling himself up, he managed to stand.

He relieved himself behind the vine. He hadn’t been at all surprised when told the dwelling had no plumbed toilet. In fact, Aulia had given him a small wad of toilet paper and a spade.

Next, he walked quietly around the side of the tiny house. Out the front, scooters and bikes started to clog the narrow dirt lane they called a road. It reminded him of Vietnam. Further up, at the intersection with the so-called main road, he could see small cars, motorbikes, tray trucks carrying people, and even more bicycles and motor scooters, all packed in a mad chaos of incremental movement. The occasional large four-wheel drive, BMW, or Audi — vehicles belonging to the nation’s elite — joined the traffic. Few locals owned land here; corporations held the reins.

Inside the house, Diyab’s mother, Selina, stirred the open fire. Wally entered, smiling warmly, and with his hand politely indicated he would like a drink. Moments later, he was handed a cup of sweet tea. He returned to ‘his chair’ out the back and sat.

For the first time in days, he delved deeply into his recollections of recent events. He decided to go back to the beginnings of this journey, to tease out just what he could remember. Yes, he recalled leaving Australia.

The flight was on time, a window seat, Melbourne covered in cloud as usual. Good flight, nice meal. That’s right, yep, a good movie, The Sapphires.

Time warped again. Out of nowhere, that ever-familiar sound. A disturbing interruption for any Vietnam Veteran. The helicopter flew over the jungle just above the banana plantation. A media chopper. Of all sounds, this one haunted him the most. Was it looking for him? He prepared to run, to hide inside the house, when the moment of anxiety eased. His logic returned. He stood under cover of the verandah and stared.

The sound faded to nothing.

He sipped his tea and resumed the journey inside his head. Confusion had returned. Why now? As he rubbed both eyes and started to sweat, into his head came the image of the barrel of a pistol. The sound of someone saying, ‘Get out.’

Yes, that’s right. But that was Jakarta, I think?

I remember being …

I remember … nothing. Just waking up in the train, in bloody Indonesia.

Yet again Wally’s mind went blank, a brick wall. He began again. The Melbourne airport, the Jakarta airport, Steve waiting, yes, good …

He heard another sound; it was Diyab, coming through the doorway. He walked past Wally and urinated in the garden. Finished, he greeted Wally with a smile and asked what he would like to eat.

‘Nothing, thank you, this tea is enough. Do you have to go to work today?’

‘Yes, both of us, Aulia and me. We leave shortly, we will take the hired scooter, only a thirty-five to forty minute trip.’

‘Can I get a taxi or something and come to your work?’

‘Come with us, on the scooter. I hired it for a week, just for you. Anyhow, it’s hard to get a taxi from around here, and I don’t have a phone. It’ll all be okay with the scooter, Aulia will stand up as we travel, on the foot pegs. She does this whenever I bring my other sister on her boyfriend’s scooter. The most I’ve carried is four, though one was a kid.’

‘I can come with you, you sure? I’d like to go into town and visit a hotel, get a phone, and ring home. Get on the internet. Charge my phone. Oh, and what day is it?’

‘Friday the eleventh, and, yes, stop worrying — you can come with us.’

On hearing the date, Wally sunk back into confusion. ‘Flew out of Melbourne on Tuesday first, and this is the eleventh?’ His mind raced. ‘I’ve been here, in your house, two days?’

‘Yes, this is the third day actually.’

Diyab returned inside, but Wally had to sit.

I’ve been away for almost two weeks?

Then an idea — check the passport. Rising, Wally retrieved the man bag. He checked inside: the pistol, Leon’s phone, and his passport. He took it out.

Yep, it’s definitely mine. Stamped, Jakarta. I arrived in Indonesia at the beginning of last week — so that’s right.

Yet Wally found it hard to accept this gap in time. He recalled having an operation on his knee, decades ago, and waking afterwards, bewildered by the hour of missing time due to anaesthetic. He could grasp that. But now … days on end … that baffled him.

Noise rose from the kitchen, a beehive of activity. Diyab returned; Wally asked him to keep an eye on the door. He wanted some privacy. In a matter of seconds, he reached into the man bag, found the rolls of money, and handed over a large sum to Diyab, $1000.

‘For the family. Ask no questions, mate, I’m loaded, got heaps of Yankee notes. More importantly, I will see if I can book into a pub or guesthouse near where you work, got any ideas?’

Diyab smiled.

‘I know just the one. I work at two hotels. One, low class, only attracts low-income travellers or locals. But it’s got internet. I will point it out before we arrive, then drop you off. Then you can walk in alone and check in. I will arrive shortly after you and will pretend I don’t know you. I don’t spend a lot of time in that hotel, mainly the classy one, not too far away.’

‘Good idea, that is smart.’

Next, Wally checked his local clothes were on correctly and made sure he had the scarf. After a brief breakfast (actually brief), the three were ready. Aulia grabbed Wally’s suitcase.

It was emotional for all when Diyab explained that Wally was coming with him to his hotel. Wally shook Badal’s hand and said goodbye to the family. Diyab, Aulia, and Wally then mounted the scooter. At the last moment, Diyab handed the money over to his father and nodded towards Wally. The old man gasped, bowed with his hands clasped, and thanked Wally, unable to hold back more tears.

Diyab drove off steadily, easing into the rush.

They dropped Aulia off at her work at a transport shed.

One hundred metres from the laneway leading down to the Maple Hotel and Guest House, Diyab stopped, gave the necessary instructions to Wally, and rode off.

Wally, still dressed like a local, blended in. His welcome at the Maple’s front office was amusing, to put it politely. The manager assumed he was a scruffy old trader selling cheap wares — a large suitcase-full. The staff shouted at him, but Wally had no idea what any of it meant, as the abuse flowed in Indonesian. However, when he waved ten American notes, things calmed rapidly. The staff quieted and bowed, and Wally asked for someone who could speak good English. They all looked at the manager, who at least spoke basic English.

‘I can, we do simple things, but better you wait. Soon, soon be a man, I have just sent message, so then you can check in with your English.’

Wally signed in using his own name, no other details. He paid for two nights with cash.

And so here we are: After signing him in at the hotel reception, the senior staff member named Diyab escorted Wally Flannagan into a very cheap, very small room.

Cleaned up and dressed in his stinking clothes again, Wally read the two Facebook posts on his Wally’s Bucket page. As mentioned at the beginning of this story, the first time Wally was able to access a computer in that cheap hotel, what he read stunned him.

The first message, from one mate:

All OK mate?

The second, from Basil Hester:

Going to my grandson’s christening, have to dust-off the suit jacket.

Basil’s message contained a warning. There was only one word of significance — ‘dust-off’.

Ask any Vietnam Vet what that word ‘dust-off’ means — ‘help, immediately, I need a helicopter’. Usually conveyed over a radio. Someone wounded … gunfire, a booby trap …

In Vietnam, ambulance helicopters were called a ‘dust-off’.

Wally turned off the computer and returned to his room. He needed to think, decide carefully his next move.

Forty-five minutes later, he headed back to reception and approached a staff member about hiring a phone. Within minutes, he had a borrowed mobile phone in his hands.

First call he made was to Mandy, their neighbour, a woman who lived across the paddock from the dairy farm in Stratford. She answered. Wally was polite, precise, and clear. He claimed he had tried to ring Meredith several times, but her phone and computer network didn’t seem to be working. Would it be too much to ask if Mandy could take her phone over to Meredith? He would ring back in about ten to fifteen minutes. Mandy agreed, keen to help. She would hop on the quad bike and go straight across.

Wally rang again, Meredith answered, Wally spoke.

‘Hi, my sweet, I must be brief. Trip to the flower not going to happen, big problem has come up. I am okay, in a hotel in Indonesia, and must stay here until I sort things out. I was kidnapped, managed to escape, and I am safe. I’m using a borrowed phone. I am about to contact my Vet mate Basil, and we will sort this out. My sweet, please don’t tell anyone, contact anyone, or say anything. The kidnappers have bugged or infiltrated our phones and computer, got private details. Basil will contact you soon, within hours. Okay?’

Meredith sat down, looked politely towards Mandy, and answered Wally in a quiet voice, ‘Sure.’

She handed the phone back to Mandy and thanked her, saying little else. Mandy guessed something was wrong — but not serious — and left. Meredith waved goodbye, turned, and stood on the verandah, thinking.

‘I should have known,’ she said. ‘Wally has messed up, he usually does. But kidnapped, I don’t understand. Please, Basil, ring me soon.’

Second call: Tom Grinter.

‘Can you talk, Tom? It’s Wally Flannagan.’

‘Sure, mate. This is a surprise, you’re on a holiday or something? You okay for diesel, I was at your joint only four weeks ago, remember?’

Wally faltered for a moment.

‘Not diesel, Tom. Sorry, mate, I’ve lost Basil Hester’s number, phone’s nearly flat, and I need someone to contact him. Knew you’d be on the road or yakking to someone. Can’t contact Meredith, would you mind, just a short message to Basil, okay?’

Tom agreed, and Wally relayed the message: ‘Cut the holiday short, home soon, leave me a message on Facebook about that christening. Not too much, Tom?’

The truck driver laughed, repeated the message, then said, ‘Sure, no problem, mate. He’ll have it by 5.30 p.m. I thought those bloody days were over — you know, that christening stuff. I’ll ring Basil at my next stop, Thorpdale, need to get his number.’

Sometime later, Wally returned to the hotel computer. He logged in to Facebook, then navigated to Wally’s Bucket. Sure enough, there was a message from Basil.

OAT’S lOVER had a big win at the trots, and you guessed it, Hutchy picked it — that’s right, He won a fortune, $18,514 — THE bastard only put on $175 The lucky prick! My ugly four-legged freak called ‘The Pinto’ it fell and cost me a fortune. Should have picked OAT’S LOVER

He printed off the message and returned to his room. Next, he found some blank paper, laid it out, and picked up a pencil.

Most people who read such a message would smile and believe Wally’s mate was having fun. No, the opposite. And so here we are.

Wally copied Basil’s statement with painstaking exactitude. He then underlined the capital letters, placed a dot beneath each lower-case letter, and circled other characters carefully. He nodded and kept nodding. Wally knew from experience that this process was the most crucial. After two checks, he had got his head around the message. He’d never thought he would hear or see a message like that again — ever.

By the third check, Wally’s mind had jerked into full alert. That message from Basil, no doubt, it was very serious. Yet again and again he asked himself, why? For a moment, doubt returned. Why this message, using this technique? What did Basil know?

He checked his work a fourth and fifth time. By now, the message was crystal clear. He had deciphered the meaning. The message was blunt. He checked the time. All up, it had taken over half an hour to get his head around the message. As a young soldier, he would have allowed himself two minutes …

He returned to the lobby, booked another half-hour on a computer, and used a search engine to locate ‘The Melbourne AGE newspaper’.

Up came the home page. Nothing of interest. Page down, nothing … then he noticed a subheading.

Drug Heist. Australian citizen implicated, whereabouts unknown.

He clicked through to the article.

Victorian man … recently arrived … Jakarta … jungle flower event … thought to be part of an Indonesian drugs syndicate … found dealing on a local train … escaped the Indonesian Police … please contact Crime Stoppers if you have information …

Wally scanned the page again. No photograph, no name — good. The article was curiously vague.

He shuddered. What the hell. An ember of memory flared. Yes, he recalled reading pages of instructions. Given to him at a large house. Then a car?

Wally logged off the computer and adjusted the scarf across his face. He then went to reception and asked to check out. He said he had received an urgent message and had to leave. He told the staff member he wanted no refund. However, he needed the staffer who had helped him before to come back — to speak in English. There was hesitation, likely due to the language barrier, but Wally’s fear surged. The staffer picked up the phone while Wally looked on helplessly. Diyab, explained the staffer, was at the other hotel.

When Diyab arrived, Wally took him to one side. Though the staff here couldn’t speak fluent English, he imagined they might understand enough of what he said.

‘I’m sorry, but there’s been another change, Diyab. I must book out, go somewhere else. Just got off the computer. It’s obvious something serious is going on. From what I can gather, it appears almost certain that I am part of a major investigation or something like that. There’s an article in a Melbourne paper about a drug incident, and at least one of my mates has worked out that it’s possibly about me. I need to get back on a computer or use a mobile phone and text a mate. However, I need to be very careful. I believe the kidnappers will find me quickly if I log in as me. I’m not going to use my phone either. I will leave it flat, turned off completely, I’ll try and get another one.’

Diyab could only stare in amazement.

‘All okay for the moment, mate,’ Wally added. ‘Just one question. Is it safe for me to go and book into another hotel, your other one, under a false name?’

Diyab pondered for a moment.

‘Yes. I will totally remove your details here when you leave. Only your name really exists, as you paid in advance in cash. Go to the Seasons Hotel, it is four-star. Go up the lane, turn right, and a ten-minute walk, there it is. A concierge will escort you in. I will be able to visit you shortly. I spend most of my time in that hotel, in charge of all bookings. Although the two hotels are part of the same company, there will be no indication you have checked in here. More importantly, when you checked in earlier, they couldn’t physically identify you with that scarf on. Keep your face covered. Best change your name at the new hotel. Oh, and they have a safe in every room.’

He evaluated Wally critically.

‘There are many shops along the way. You will need to buy new clothes and change if you are to check in at the Seasons.’

Wally nodded. The pair returned to Wally’s room to pack. Diyab then carried the suitcase to reception, where Wally loudly asked for a taxi. Diyab walked him out to the front of the hotel, pretending to hail a taxi. The street was busy, and it was easy for them to move just a short distance and out of sight.

‘Thank you, Diyab. First thing, I am going to buy some cheap clothes, get changed. I’ll keep the stuff I’m wearing with me. I will book into your other hotel as Wayne Smith. Give me about an hour. Can you just keep the case for the moment? Then bring it down secretly when you get a chance, say you’re handing over belongings for Mr Wayne Smith. Is that okay?’

‘Too easy.’ Diyab smiled. ‘I will go back into the Maple through a side door. I’ll leave your gear in the laundry locker, make sure I have the only keys. I’ll be free in fifteen or twenty minutes and I’ll head for the Seasons.’

Wally shook his hand.

‘See you when we meet up, Diyab. Don’t fret, I’m okay, mate.’

Wally found several tourist shops selling cheap clothes. After perusing one, he went inside. As expected, the staff looked down at him. One approached to ask him to leave, but he hurriedly produced several US dollars — an offering of peace. Smiles came from everywhere. After riffling through their wares, he placed a armful of clothes, a pair of sandals, and a pair of sneakers on the counter. From his days in Jakarta, he remembered the money talk, and he handed over the correct amount with a large tip. Next, he entered the fitting room. Behind the thin curtain, he changed into jeans, sneakers, and a locally designed shirt. It was a bright, short-sleeved shirt with a tropical flower design, typical of those worn by tourists. All up, he had bought three shirts. In a nearby shop, he purchased a large pair of sunglasses that clipped onto his own glasses, and a comfortable, wide-brimmed sunhat. Finally, he bought a watch, a cheap model that just told the time. Wally always wore a watch.

Carrying his purchases and the older Indonesian clothes in a shopping bag, he checked in to the Seasons Hotel as Mr Wayne Smith. This time, he asked for an executive room, the best available. He paid for three nights, cash. His new room was very spacious compared to the last hotel room. As well, it had a television. However, the thing he wanted most, what he’d booked this room to get, was a safe space. Satisfied, he lay back on the king-sized bed.

The knock on the door startled him.

‘It’s Diyab. Room service, Mr Smith, I have your baggage.’

‘Hi, come in. That was perfect timing. Can you stay? I need some computer advice, security stuff, and maybe a new account?’

‘Sorry, I have to go. I’m not sure when I am free, but I’ll come straightaway.’

They hugged briefly.

Wally emptied the man bag onto the bed. He placed its contents — the gold bracelets, Leon’s phone, his own phone, the pistol, and a still considerable wad of money — in the safe. The clothes in the shopping bag he hung up or transferred to drawers.

Time for a room inspection. The television featured pay-TV channels. The fridge was stocked with complimentary drinks. On the executive-style desk sat a local guidebook, a notepad, and a nice pen. The room had a wide window and door that opened onto a balcony, which offered an interesting view of the city and maybe mountains in the background. Even the bathroom was extravagant. He’d washed at the last hotel, but this was going to be a treat.

Next came time for a shave — requiring a big decision. Wally stared at the mirror for ages. It had been a week since his last decent shave. No question, he looked scruffy.

‘Should I grow a beard or shave off the moustache? The missus will be annoyed. I have had this mo for decades. And, like Diyab said, nearly all tourists and most oldies wear that scarf thing.’

He almost wished Diyab was there, as a second opinion would help. He reached into his toilet bag, grabbed the shaving brush, hesitated before lathering up, decided: shave off the moustache and grow a goatee.

Fifteen minutes later, a very different looking (and smelling) Wally left to visit the computer room. He needed to get back on the internet. On the way, he scribbled a note for Diyab at the front desk, telling him where he was going, signing it ‘Wayne Smith’. There were six computers, available for hourly rental.

Wally typed in another Melbourne newspaper, ‘The Melbourne Herald Sun’. He paused, added, ‘Indonesia drug heist’, and the computer immediately came up with an article.

Forget the core of the story: it was all about this lowly act he had pulled, running off with a heap of cash while working as a courier for some drug syndicate. But it went downhill from there. Hmm … drama is better than the truth.

Still no names, but an ongoing investigation would soon fill in the details …

He returned to his room. Like a bull locked in the cattle yard, Wally walked in a circle. Finger tapping his top lip, he stood at the window and surveyed the busy street below. People walked, sat, chatted, laughed, and smoked. Scooters whizzed everywhere.

His mind like a jigsaw puzzle, he took a sheet of paper from the notepad. With the expensive pen, he tried to set out a time line, a diary of his last week. After twenty minutes, clarity started to emerge.

Got to Steve’s OK, good to catch up. Should I ring Steve?

Taken or kidnapped or forced — from Steve’s place?

Then maybe drugged and threatened with a gun?

Put on a train, with my suitcase containing heroin or whatever — placed in among my personal items. Yet somehow, the heroin is missing?

At least I don’t have the drugs on me.

As Wally wrote that last line, a dark shiver rose from somewhere deep down inside his soul or spirit. Like a special sign. He pondered its significance.

Among the clothes and toiletries and such in his suitcase was a complete DVD collection of Elvis movies. Why did he have them? In fact, why had he kept them? He could have left them for Diyab’s family. Perhaps they liked that sort of music. Wally had never been a fan. He went to the suitcase and opened the DVD cases one by one, trying to find an answer, but they were exactly what they appeared to be.

Wally’s mind refused to supply any more information. Stress pulled his memory into an erratic, even misleading mode. Yet he knew there was a connection somewhere.

Those bloody DVDs. The only thing in his suitcase he didn’t own or recognise. The box they’d come in, half the size of a shoebox, looked authentic. He reopened the first DVD case and took out the moulded DVD holder — and there was the answer: a small zip-sealed plastic bag inside the body of the case. Each case held a bag. Each bag contained white powder. Ten minutes later, he had fifteen small bags.

This was proof, at least to himself. He was being set up, framed, whatever.

He went back to the desk, took another sheet of paper.

Left Steve’s in taxi.

Pistol, in a garage.

Woke up on train, lot of pain. The man next to me badly hurt — blood, large lump.

Patch, my right arm, word Norspan, check this. Weird clothes, money, jewellery.

Met Diyab.

Got off the train.

Remember the rest …

That word ‘Patch’. He remembered. It was a painkiller, for his back. His doctor had once suggested Norspan if his back continued to deteriorate. It was stronger.

Two more ideas entered his head. Whoever had drugged him — they somehow found out or knew he had a bad back. Yes, that patch they put on would have blocked any back pain from bumps or twists he received on the train. So smart. Wally realised these were all suppositions. However, he also knew that the more he questioned his limited information, the greater the possibility of real answers.

If nothing else, Wally strongly believed he had to remain hidden, unidentifiable, and isolated. There was no way he could return home, no way to get through customs. If he tried to make a run for it, the authorities would arrest him, and he’d have no way of explaining what had truly happened.

Uppermost in his mind was Meredith. She had handled that phone call well, but she needed more information, another phone call. But was it safe to call?

He decided he needed to just sit, relax, facing the window. It was closed and the air conditioner was doing its job. His eyes returned to the street to wander along the vendors, the busy shoppers, the kids, the animals. So many shapes and sizes. People hurrying or the opposite, children playing, animals scrounging for food, so many scooters and motorbikes — when suddenly a classy black Audi came into view, some distance down the street, moving slowly.

Alarm bells rang in his head.

He stood, opened the door, and stepped out onto the balcony. Leaning on the rail, he tracked the car down the road until it disappeared.

He jammed his eyes shut, and the scene appeared. First, a distinct image of a car coming up the driveway at Steve’s place. Steve, Jakarta, that week’s stay, the pool. Stop. Start again, concentrate on the Audi. The Audi, the tall man, no face, smart clothes, taxi driver, busy streets … Recovering his memories felt like chipping a hole in concrete with a blunt butterknife. He wanted to thank someone, something, for this small revelation.

He moved inside to write. Don’t rush, just take it easy. From this moment on, he knew what he wrote would be close to accurate.

Yes, he’d been abducted. That was right. He remembered it all now. And worse — his family, and just maybe his mates, were to be extorted to secure his release.

My God, he thought, they know everything about me, and I must remain hidden, yet somehow tell them, yes, Meredith and my mates, this new information and that I’m okay.

Yet, for all this recall, there were no faces, only blurs, except that bloke on the seat of the train … Wally had been drugged before the train, perhaps again once aboard, which explained the blurs and the gaps in time.

‘Thank God Tom Grinter rang Basil.’ Yet Basil didn’t really know what was going on. Wally wished he could contact John; his son would have the answers. But he didn’t know how to do it. Basil could do it, but Wally wasn’t sure how to contact Basil. It didn’t matter what phone Wally used, he’d still have to call someone he knew in Australia, and there was every chance they were being monitored, with the likelihood increasing every minute. He needed to send a message in some sort of code or veiled language.

Wally stopped, as if he’d run into a brick wall. He had been thick.

‘Yes.’

He recalled those days, living the life of codes. He began to mumble.

‘Rover, shoe, drink, so many words I still remember.’