the city streets, starting his wanderings at 7.30 pm after finishing the evening meal and soon could feel the perspiration beginning to soak into his shirt.
He walked around the shopping centre, taking care not to loiter too long at any one particular shop or stall, not being in the mood for being accosted and touted by over excitable shop-keepers. He was looked upon as fair game by a few touters; one fellow simply would not let up and actually followed him around the corner as he sought safety in flight. Wallace assumed he was near to his closing time and wanted one last customer before placing the shutters up for the night.
Wallace stayed within the main streets that were well lit, he wasn’t sure of the prevalence of mugging in Jakarta streets but saw no point in not taking precautions. That was no reflection upon the Indonesian citizenry, when walking around at night he would have done the same in Sydney, London or Melbourne.
A cool breeze began to ruffle his shirt as time crept on and the sun disappeared over the horizon, yet the numbers of people in the streets was undiminished. This was another factor that had struck Clive Passay. He said that whatever the time of day or night the streets were still bustling with people.
He paused on the way back to the hotel and looked behind him. Perhaps it was thoughts of the fate of GrevilleWynn that had made him uneasy – and again he silently cursed Bramble.
The fee of $3,000 also caused some unease, it was more than he had ever been paid before and was far higher than the fee expected.
His eyes flickered over the pedestrians behind and around him, but there appeared to be nobody who could have been watching him. There were so many that it was difficult to pick out anyone who could have been designated as a possible shadower. But why should anyone be shadowing him? He had merely arrived as a tourist with a legitimate business appointment tomorrow afternoon.
‘I have come to see Major Lincoln.’
‘Is he expecting you, Mr…er…Wallace?’
‘Yes,’ Wallace answered shortly. He had the feeling that the lady receptionist was treating him warily as though he was an Anti-Nuclear, Anti-War or Anti-anything else protester who was likely to start unfolding banners and writing slogans on the embassy walls with a spray can.
‘I can’t see any appointment listed here, what did you…?’
Wallace appreciated that she had to protect her charges against unsolicited interruptions, but he was becoming irritable.
‘If there is any doubt – ask him!’ he said coldly. ‘I have another appointment elsewhere this afternoon and I haven’t much time. I have an appointment with Major Lincoln at 11 o’clock and it is three minutes to eleven now.’
He was aware of heads turning and flushed, he didn’t want every damned domestic cleaner or casual visitor in the place pinpointing him as a visitor to the Military Attaché. There was always the fear that every Embassy cleaner could be a government spy. Was it the Greville-Wynn syndrome again? Or maybe he had read too many espionage novels.
She picked up a telephone and asked the question, while Wallace muttered to himself and wandered over to the window that overlooked the street. The embassy was in a building in a street that intersected one of the main thoroughfares, he found himself looking down a city street that possessed many tall edifices of glass and concrete, though there was the occasional old style building – it was reminiscent in some respects of Sydney and Melbourne.
He had seen the same thing in Singapore, though the older buildings were fast vanishing from there, especially with the site clearing that had been carried out for the new underground metro railway that was now proving such a boon for the Singapore commuter. The sites for the Singapore metro stations had removed many old buildings. Jakarta was also constructing a new monorail system, though construction tended to be in stops and starts, in addition to having adapted some of the local rail tracks around the city into a city system. Despite this the streets still proliferated with double decker buses, taxi cabs and motor traffic.
‘It’s all right, you can go up, Mr Wallace,’ she said, interrupting Wallace’s reverie. ‘Top of the stairs there and then the fourth door on the right.’
‘Not before time…!’ he was about to say, and then cut it off short. It wasn’t her fault he was angry with Bramble and was wishing he was elsewhere. So he thanked her and gave a smile that he hoped was winning and convincing, climbed the impressive stairway and walked along the first floor corridor. He found the door in question and knocked; it opened and he was greeted by a young man in shirt sleeves.
‘Mr Wallace?’
Wallace indicated that he was and the young man said. ‘Major Lincoln is on the telephone at present, can I get you anything?’
Wallace asked for coffee and was waved to a chair.
Major Lincoln rose to his feet as Wallace entered his room and extended his hand. Though he was dressed in civilian clothing, everything looked as though it had just emerged from a clothes press. The creases on his trousers were clearly visible from the doorway. His hair was cut short, almost in a crop cut, and he had a definite military style moustache. He appeared brisk and precise in his movements. Wallace felt that had an unwelcome intruder entered the room Lincoln would have responded automatically, snapping into action and taking evasive or offensive measures.
‘Ah! Mr Wallace,’ he said.
Wallace grunted and shook his hand and looked with interest around the room as he sat down. There was a picture of a tank on one wall, a print on another wall showing a military scene which Wallace recognised as having been painted by Ivor Hele who was a well known war artist. He had seen the original in the Canberra War memorial some years back. There were also photographs of a younger Major Lincoln with groups of military colleagues and there was a small metal reproduction of a tank on the window ledge. There was also a polished hand grenade on the desk that appeared to be in use as a paper weight. Wallace hoped it was a dud.
‘You know Mr Bramble, I understand?’
‘Yes!’ Wallace replied shortly, implying that he wished he didn’t.
Lincoln then chatted about the weather, Australian Rules football, the current Ashes Test series and inflation. When it had reached the point when Wallace thought he would have to be the one to broach the reason why he was there, Lincoln shut off the conversation abruptly, as though a bugler had sounded the Advance somewhere. He leaned forward.
‘Now…Bramble tells me you have offered to give us some assistance.’
Offered was the over-statement of the year! Offered? Dragooned into it more like! ‘Fuck Bramble!’…he thought viciously, and vowed it would be the last time. But for this Wallace reckoned he could have been back in Sydney by now watching the Ashes Test match. He had seen from the newspapers in the waiting room that though England had followed on, their top order batsmen were giving the Australian bowlers some stick in their second innings.
‘There is a package that has to be collected from an informant, a very important package. I can’t tell you what’s in it – not at this stage anyway, it means that you can plead ignorance if…er…that is, it’s being delivered by a man who has travelled from the east end of this island – I can tell you that much,’ Lincoln paused to adjust a pencil on his desk that had wandered out of alignment. ‘There is no danger that he will lead anyone onto the person he delivers to, but if I or
