The Fifth Season (62 page)

‘Told me what?' she snapped, her shoulder throbbing painfully.

‘The whole place was overrun. That's why the fleet set sail with such urgency.'

‘Mufti Muharam?'
she stared up at Hamish, skeptical. She forced herself upright in the uncomfortable seat. ‘They were that close?'

‘They swarmed all over the place while you were out visiting the ships.

They even managed to get a few shots off at our Jet Ranger,' he explained.

‘There wasn't a boat anywhere to be found by the time we returned to the hotel. We did everything possible Jo, but in the end the U.N. team leader ordered us to get the hell out of there before it was too late. I had no control over the situation.' They exchanged glances, Mary Jo dropping her eyes.

‘And Anne?' she asked, wondering why he had not mentioned her name. Hamish shook his head, Mary Jo immediately expecting the worst.

‘She didn't return to the hotel Jo. It's obvious that she waited for you, and missed the flight. We took a run at the beach but it was in total chaos.

There was just no way we could have picked her out of those crowds.'

‘And you've heard nothing since then?'

‘Only that the entire area fell to Abdul Muis' forces. I'm sorry Jo but I wouldn't hold out too much hope for Anne now.' Mary Jo nodded silently, not wishing to speculate on what might have happened to her assistant and friend at the hands of the Moslem rebels. She had witnessed enough suffering for one lifetime, most of it within that week. She put Anne to the back of her mind, promising to attend to her whereabouts as soon as she could get to a phone and contact Jakarta.

‘I guess I owe you an apology,' she said lamely, offering her hand to Hamish for his assistance. He hesitated, then helped her to stand.

‘You're hurt?' he asked, pointing to her shoulder.

‘Yes, but at least I'm alive,' she replied, emotionally drained and suddenly extremely tired. Hamish attempted to wrap an arm around her waist, perplexed when Mary Jo resisted, wondering what had altered the chemistry between them. She pulled away again.

‘I'm sorry Hamish, but I need some time to myself. I'm not even sure if I'm still the same person you left in Samudera Beach. A great deal has happened over the past week and I'm going to need some space.' She reached over and touched the distinctive, red welt on his cheek. ‘Am I forgiven?' she asked, without warmth to her smile, and in her eyes he could see the scars of others.

Hamish's free hand went to the side of her face, gently touching the tender, sunburned skin. He could see that she had been deeply affected by her terrifying experiences, the coldness in her manner silent testimony that these had brought change. He would have to give her time, and the space she demanded. Hamish gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze and returned her smile recognizing, sadly that their relationship might never be the same again.

* * * *

President Winarko stood looking out the window of his old office, across Merdeka Square towards the national monument, observing the American flag as it moved under the morning breeze. The official palace offices had been destroyed in an aerial attack.

A line of black, official limousines drove out of the U.S. Embassy, turned left into Jalan Merdeka Selatan and followed the military escort. Winarko knew these would be filled with the remaining diplomats' families, on their way to the airport. He looked up at the gold tipped flame atop the magnificent obelisk in the centre of Merdeka Square, his thoughts filled with concern for his own family. He checked his gold plated Omega and, although not normally given to displaying any emotions, the general's heavy heart caused him to sigh as he turned to the aide standing patiently behind, waiting.

‘It's time, General,'
he heard the colonel say.

‘I know,'
he answered in his customary, quiet voice. Winarko walked slowly towards the door, followed by his aide, leaving the command office unattended. They went directly to the heli-pad where a Super Puma had been waiting on stand-by, with its precious passengers. They were airborne within minutes, the pilot flying the President to the air-force field at Halim Perdanakusumah. There, standing on the tarmac, its starboard Rolls Royce engines already turning slowly, an air force VIP Boeing 707 prepared for departure. When General Winarko's helicopter landed, a well rehearsed team of combat hardened soldiers raced to the aircraft and formed a protective shield for those alighting.

First to step down was Nuri Suhapto with her husband and children, followed by Tuti and her youngsters.

‘Quickly! Quickly!'
the women called, hurrying towards the Boeing with their families in tow. Amongst the fleeing group, the man who would be king - former President Hababli - scolded one of his grandchildren for stepping on his toes, as he too made his way to the air-force passenger jet.

One by one they boarded, leaving General Winarko standing anxiously on the tarmac watching, silently urging them all to hurry. His wife and children climbed the stairs to the aircraft, turned with tears in their eyes and bade him farewell.

The President stepped back, covering his ears as the jet's four screaming engines' deafening pitch filled the air, his face grim as he caught one final glimpse of his wife waving goodbye. Winarko watched the aircraft take off, then re-entered the helicopter with a dozen or more of the hand-selected soldiers. Within minutes the Puma was airborne again, but it did not return to the city. Instead, General Winarko sat back counting off the minutes before he and his guard, would arrive at his enemies' lair. Having placed those who still controlled much of Indonesia's wealth out of Abdul Muis' reach, Winarko would now sit down and negotiate his peace with the
Mufti Muharam,
confident that the former First Families would provide for his own wife and children, in the appropriate manner, should he not succeed.

Mary Jo handed her new passport to the immigration official, waiting patiently in line until he had punched the numbers and other information into his computer.

‘Did you enjoy your stay in Australia?' the smiling officer asked.

‘Sure,' she lied, ‘could have stayed on.' She accepted her travel documents then proceeded to the designated waiting lounge, where she flopped into an empty space, preparing her mind for the long flight home.

Mary Jo looked down at the cheap Kodak camera she had purchased with funds borrowed from Hamish and smiled, wondering what they would say in New York if she were to walk in with a five dollar throwaway like this.

Her eyes dropped to the photograph of the two Asian women.

She had remained in Darwin until the U.S. Embassy in Canberra had forwarded a new set of travel documents. Mary Jo acknowledged that she was fortunate to have had Hamish as a friend. He advanced funds, assisted with her arrangements and stood by quietly without making any demands.

Mary Jo was grateful and wished she could have demonstrated this to Hamish in a more physical way but she could not stop hurting. He had left, returning to Switzerland, promising to keep in touch.

The following morning Mary Jo had visited with Hani and Lily, undertaking to do whatever was in her power to assist with their applications to remain in Australia. Unfortunately, this proved to be of little significance the government already swamped with requests from more than one and a half million refugees. They had been tearful and, in spite of her assurances to the contrary, both believed they would be deported, sent back to face the horrors of living in Indonesia. Some scars would heal but she knew theirs would not.

Mary Jo had made arrangements to return to New York for a long, overdue break. Although surprised, the chief of staff had promised she could return to Asia and this pleased Mary Jo, more determined than ever to maintain her coverage of refugees, their plight and society's attitudes towards the millions of displaced people who remained in camps around the globe.

Her flight was called and Mary Jo boarded the Qantas 747, destined for Los Angeles and New York, where the new equipment she had ordered would be waiting, ready for her next assignment.

‘It seems we have reached an impasse,'
Muis admitted, surprised with Winarko's revelations regarding those he had helped escape. The General had not said, but Muis expected that Winarko's own family would have accompanied the others. They sat opposite each other in the hastily prepared setting. It had been more than six months since they had spoken and, although surprised with the request to meet in this particular location, Abdul Muis was receptive to the suggestion that they sit down together, in a neutral zone. He looked around, sniffing the decay which had permeated this room inside the Bogor Summer Palace.

Muis had observed his opponent when Winarko entered, surprised that the general had put on weight. They shook hands with guarded politeness and took their seats in what had become a museum dedicated to the first President, Soekarno. One of Muis' security officers poured the lukewarm tea into miniature sized cups, then stepped back. Winarko observed that both men wore side arms. He was concerned, not offended.

‘I still don't think you can take the city,'
the General challenged, not wishing to mince words.

‘We could, in time,'
Muis replied, not arrogantly. Winarko silently agreed.

‘It's time to call an end to the fighting,'
he declared. These were the words Abdul Muis had hoped to hear but showed no sign that this was so.

‘You will have to step down,'
Muis insisted. Winarko had not expected less.

‘And my position after that?'
he asked, feeling the guards' eyes boring into the back of his head. He glanced over in their direction, hoping Muis would take the hint.

‘Vice President, if you want it,'
Muis answered, knowing he no longer had anything to fear from this man. The threat of Winarko living the rest of his days with a
fatwah
hanging over his family's head had, the Moslem leader believed, resolved the leadership question. Winarko seemed to have surrendered, accepting the inevitable. Muis was immediately elated with the outcome and had difficulty hiding his pleasure. He moved his head slightly, indicating to his two white clad bodyguards that he wished to be alone with his visitor.

‘Then it is time to re-establish peace in our country,'
the General proposed, and Muis nodded, eager to proceed. He would be President before the sun had set across the white domed Istiqlal Mosque in Jakarta. They would return together, he as the victor, to declare Jakarta as the capital of his Islamic state. He would hold his prayer sessions there, that night.

He beamed at Winarko, clasped his hands together and raised them to his face as a gesture of salute to his new ally. Then he closed his eyes and uttered the words
‘terima kasih'
in gratitude for what had just transpired.

With a rehearsed movement, General Winarko swiftly extracted the weapon he had concealed inside his vest and, placing the point of the automaic directly at the Moslem leader's forehead, fired once. Haji Abdul Muis' head snapped back, his eyes opened wide in shock and disbelief as the false prophet fell dead to the floor.

The room exploded into activity as Muis' personal bodyguards poured back into the room, their guns raised as they ran to their leader's side.

‘You killed Abdul Muis?'
one of the men screamed, hatred filling his eyes as he pointed his weapon at the President. Winarko braced himself, expecting to die at that moment. He stared back at the soldier, his face like granite. Outside, the air erupted as automatic fire was exchanged by the opposing troops standing guard around the helicopter. Momentarily distracted, the first guard fell dead when Winarko fired, the second caught as he rose to his feet from checking the body.

‘General!'
Winarko heard the officer outside and did not hesitate. He ran from the building out onto the lawn where the fire fight continued.

The General was rushed to the Puma, its huge rotor blades already cutting a path through the air.

‘Go! Go! Go!'
the NCO screamed to those of his men left standing, and they too ran to the helicopter as he covered their retreat. The pilot did not hesitate, the powerful twin engines lifting the French designed transport into the air at his command. The helicopter rose, its four bladed rotors dangerously close to tree tops as bullets continued to thud heavily into the aircraft's fuse-lage. One of the commandos screamed, a bullet hitting him low in the back, another falling silently as he too was struck. The Puma beat its way into the air quickly distancing the President from ground fire and Winarko looked at the young officer and grinned, raising his thumb in the air as he did so.

His subterfuge had worked.

In a world dominated by forever changing political alliances, General Winarko had made his choice. Whether his stance against Moslem sectarianism might be perceived by the American people as a positive step really was of no consequence to the Javanese General. His people had dominated these islands for more millenniums than any European state had been in existence.

The responsibility for maintaining the nation's cultural core was far more important than any religious issue. Winarko now accepted that Java was, although the dominating force, not representative of all Indonesia. He would initiate changes which would reflect the country's multi-ethnic community.