Indonesian Gold (19 page)

‘Leave Kremenchug to me,' he insisted, ‘besides, from what
I hear he is in a heap of shit in Australia.'

Everyone in the industry was aware of the mess Alex was
embroiled in Down Under. Fielding's consolation was not having had any capital at the time to
participate in the Meekathara prospect when it first went on offer. ‘You don't want me to contact
him?'

‘No,' the banker warned, ‘I'll have a few words with him
when he shows his face. In the meantime, I'll spread the word that he's
persona non
grata
.'

Fielding became further alarmed. Kremenchug's name was
still linked to BGC in a substantial way. ‘Don't, Scott,' he pleaded, ‘we're still trying to tidy
up a few arrangements in Jakarta, and, if he gets wind of what's happening, we may as well close
up shop there, altogether.' Fielding felt a surge of panic; should Walters have their associate
black-listed, he knew that this would stigmatize all involved and, with Kremenchug's very close
ties with the Indonesian government, he could retaliate.

Walters' shrill laugh echoed down the line. ‘You think he
walks tall and carries a big stick? Let me tell you something, Chris. It's whoever carries the
moneybags over there that counts. Don't fret about Kremenchug; the Indonesians would dump him
faster than you can say, ‘how much?' if they thought there was a dollar in it for
them.'

Fielding conceded that this may be true, but was still
reluctant to burn bridges unnecessarily. ‘I still don't think it would do our stock any good to
sandbag one of its major players,' he argued.

‘BGC stock can't fall any further,' Walters quipped,
cynically.

‘Who says?' Fielding responded, wishing immediately he had
bitten his tongue.

‘If it does, Chris,' the other man warned, ‘you would do
well to consider other pastures.' With that, Walters had slammed his receiver down leaving
Fielding wallowing in a sea of desperation.

****

Christopher Fielding's recent marital skirmishes had left
him all but impoverished. Since settling with his first wife five years before, the once highly
respected geologist's image had been tarnished on a number of fronts. A brief, second marriage
had also ended in acrimony, his shareholding in BGC reduced by half, the stock dumped on the
market within days of settlement causing most of the company's value-woes of today. Then there
was the challenge with respect to the integrity of Kremenchug's senior geologist, Eric Baird,
when further investigations had been carried out under a ‘farm-out' arrangement which saw the
stock all but collapse. Fielding accepted that he must shoulder the greater portion of blame,
refusing to permit twenty years of experience and his gut instinct from questioning the veracity
of Baird's glowing report. As a result of two divorces his finances were at an all time low. He
knew that Scott Walters' ominous threats should be taken seriously and, for one fleeting moment,
as he gazed out over Vancouver's, bleak winter skyline, he contemplated finishing it all and
saving Walters' goons the trouble.

****

A warm, moist wall of air greeted the passengers as they
entered the Manila International Airport, Kremenchug registering immediately that the
air-conditioning was not working. Even dressed in a lightweight safari suit, the sticky, tropical
enclosure soon took its toll, blotches of perspiration appearing around his armpits and lower
back as he waited, impatiently, for his luggage to appear on the carousel.

With more than thirty minutes passing and his baggage
nowhere to be seen, Kremenchug started to curse the inefficiencies of airport systems. When the
carousel finally ceased its endless travel and it was obvious that his suitcase had been
misplaced, he stormed across to the information desk in heated fashion.

‘You've lost my baggage!' he accused, standing with one
hand on hip, disappointed also that he had not been met inside the customs and immigration area
by someone from the General's office.

‘May I see your ticket, please sir,' the tiny Filipino
with a heavily American accent asked.

‘You mean luggage receipts?' he responded,
annoyed.

‘No, sir,' the airport officer replied with a pleasant
air, ‘please show me your ticket.'

Irritated, Kremenchug produced his ticket.

‘And boarding pass, too, please sir,' she requested, still
smiling as she slipped off her stool and stepped out from behind her cluttered desk. ‘Thank you,
sir.' She strolled off slowly to a group of porters standing further down the hall. He noticed
her jabbering with these men for several minutes, then turn, and walk back in leisurely
fashion.

‘Well?' he asked, with growing annoyance.

‘Thank you, sir,' she smiled sweetly, returning his
documents, ‘you are a first class passenger.' Kremenchug looked puzzled. ‘All first class baggage
is collected and stored over there,' she pointed towards the group of porters. ‘Please, sir, take
your baggage claim tickets to the airport porters,' she instructed, returning to her stool.
Kremenchug walked over to the men and was relieved to discover his suitcase standing up against
the wall.

The delay had placed Kremenchug at the end of the
immigration queue, the congestion a result of passengers from other flights that had arrived
earlier. An hour later he found himself standing outside the building, anxiously looking for some
sign of either Sharon Ducay or an escort from General Dominguez's office. Idling engines filled
the muggy air with suffocating fumes, and Kremenchug started to suffer the effects. He was
tempted to grab a taxi and go to a hotel, shower and change, then phone Sharon to see what had
happened when a black Mercedes with heavily tinted windows sped towards him, braking within touch
of his shoes. The rear door was flung open and, clad in high heel, leather pumps, the lower half
of a woman's leg appeared beneath the open door, and a gloved hand partially extended through the
electronically opened window, beckoned him.

‘Alex, Alex,' she called, her voice faint against the
background of blaring horns and the thousands of Filipinos who had ventured out to the airport to
welcome friends or relatives. A driver dressed in a spotless, white uniform, hurried around the
vehicle and greeted Kremenchug.

‘Mabuhay,'
he welcomed,
taking Kremenchug's suitcase and storing this in the luggage compartment.

‘I'm sorry I'm late,' Sharon apologized. ‘I hope you
haven't been waiting too long?'

Kremenchug
scrambled into the
Mercedes to escape the foul, outside air, passing her tardiness off with a smile. He brushed his
lips lightly over her wrist, the lingering scent of a Nina Ricci perfume tantalizing his senses
as he gazed up at the Filipino beauty.

‘You're not too late,' he said, eyes roaming around the
vehicle's interior. He counted no fewer than four separate communication units, ranging from
mobile phones to radio links and a miniature television that had been built into the console
between the bucket seats. A Saint Christopher medallion hung loosely around the rear vision
mirror, under which a quote from the scriptures reminded the driver not to sin. On the dashboard,
a number of religious figurines swayed around their spiral anchors in response to the car's
movement as the driver moved them away from the congested airport – Kremenchug's eyes returning
to the woman alongside, as her hand rested on his.

‘The traffic is always unpredictable at this time of the
year.' Sharon tapped his wrist to make her point.

Kremenchug
placed his hand
over hers. ‘It could never be as bad as Jakarta,' he offered.

‘The beginning of the year is always impossible in Manila.
No sooner have we finished with the Christmas and New Year celebrations, the entire population
becomes obsessed with Easter.'

Kremenchug
was surprised.
‘But, isn't Easter still at least two months away?'

‘Yes, Alex, it is. However, you must remember that this
country is more catholic in its ways than most. Lent will commence within weeks, during which
time we will also prepare for the Easter celebrations.'

Kremenchug
thought about this.
‘Little wonder it's so difficult to make arrangements around this time. Indonesians are preparing
for Ramadan, their month of fasting, the Philippines is preparing for Easter, and the rest of
Asia is getting geared up for Chinese New Year!'

‘Poor Alex,' Sharon teased, ‘perhaps you should find
yourself a girlfriend to take your mind off such problems?'

Kremenchug
laughed. ‘My wife
is not that understanding. As it is, I am away more often than not. Besides,' he said, gritting
his teeth, expecting to hear the impact as a child narrowly missed being run over by their car,
‘I hear that the ladies here can be extremely jealous.'

Sharon
's face broke into a
huge smile. ‘And dangerous,' she added. ‘So, if you take a Filipino as your lover, Alex, be
faithful – or you might not be of much use to your wife!'

Their light banter continued as they drove through the
city's outskirts, Kremenchug now relaxed after the tiring flight from Australia. As they
approached the city, the traffic slowed then ground to a halt as he was introduced to gridlock,
Manila style.

‘Is it always as bad as this?' he asked, drawing parallels
between Manila and Jakarta at every turn.

‘Sadly, yes,' Sharon confirmed. ‘Downtown is impossible,
particularly around Makati. We try to avoid driving through the city.'

‘Then how do businessmen get around?

‘Most executive cars are equipped with a mobile office.
Many companies employ drivers who double as messengers, secretaries and spend the majority of
their working hours sitting in traffic with senior employees functioning as best as they
can.'

‘Must drive the government into a frenzy,' Kremenchug
suggested, wondering what would happen in the event of a fire emergency.

‘The generals, senior officials and the influential
businessmen and women commute via helicopters. It's not unusual for a cabinet minister to fly to
meetings around the city.'

The driver turned to Sharon and asked for her permission
to take an alternate route. She agreed, the less than scenic detour taking Kremenchug through a
slum, the roadside shanties home to but a few of the millions of itinerants who had abandoned
their fields and villages, for a life in these squalid surrounds.

‘It's not pretty,' Sharon said.

‘Don't apologize,' Kremenchug peered through the darkened
glass, ‘every country has its slum areas.'

The driver had chosen well. To their relief, they were
clear of the poverty-stricken area within minutes.

‘We should arrive shortly,' Sharon announced, Kremenchug
aware that they had entered an elite area, evidenced by the presence of armed security standing
guard over the villas lining this street. The Mercedes gained speed, braking occasionally to
negotiate speed bumps, the palm-lined avenues an idyllic setting for the rich and famous who
lived in this suburb.

****

General Narciso Dominguez stood, hands clasped behind his
back observing the gardener trimming the two-meter high hedge which hid the concrete, perimeter
fence. Even with fading eyesight, the retired general could still clearly identify the rolled,
razor wire, which had been strung along the top of walls to discourage thieves, and others, from
attempting to break into his home.

A cruel smile crossed his lips as he leaned further into
the bay window, peering down to his right where both Doberman pincers rested in the afternoon
shade. The general regretted not having the strength to play with the pair, envying Alfredo this
opportunity when he groomed the animals each day. He had seen the dogs turn on Maria, one of the
servants, an attack that was totally unexpected as the domestic staff was as close to the dogs as
he. The incident had occurred near the servants' quarters some six months before, when Alfredo
had boisterously picked up the maid in one hand and spun her around playfully, before setting her
down. The moment her feet had touched the ground, both Dobermans had sprung, tearing at her legs
and hands, the injuries significant before Alfredo could bring them to heel.

The General tapped one of the small, oblong-shaped
windowpanes with the back of his hand, the sound immediately attracting the hounds' attention.
They sprang into life, looking up at the blurred image on the second story, then alongside the
villa where Alfredo had come into view. The aide snapped a command, sending the guard dogs to
their kennels, where they would be chained until nightfall. Under his General's watchful eyes,
Alfredo strolled over to the gardener, and reminded him to open the gates when Sharon
returned.

General Dominguez continued to view his garden, reminded
of a time when he and his late wife would entertain their guests in the magnificent setting. The
carefully laid out lawn featured a profusion of flowering shrubs and trees, which she had planted
and lovingly cared for, the colorful flowerbeds of red, pink and yellow hibiscus separating the
lawn from the driveway grown from cuttings she had taken while on holiday in Hawaii. He turned
away from the scene below, the memory of those happier times often painful recollections, now
that she was gone.