The Fifth Season (36 page)

Within the hour, the two young women sat together, their tears already exhausted, bitter that their mother had taken her life. The empty bottle of sleeping tablets had been discovered under her bed. The enigmatic letter Ibu Purwadira had found upon waking earlier, had said it all. Her husband had left and taken their son with him. The general's intentions were very vague. He had not indicated whether he would return, nor where he had taken their son and this implied to the desperate, heart-broken woman, that he had deserted her.

Earlier, Ibu Purwadira had read the brief note, but she did not weep.

Instead, unable to face the further shame of having been abandoned, the once elegant woman believed there remained only one course of action available to her. She bathed, dressed in her finest clothes and carefully applied her makeup, then swallowed the half-bottle of prescription tablets, and lay down in her fine clothes to die.

It would be days before news of his wife's death would reach General Purwadira. He had left his home to join with General Praboyo, a chance to redeem himself, and recover his shattered career. In the following weeks, he would assume command control of the Bandung metropoli-tan police, once Praboyo had seized power. By then, his son would have enlisted, and commenced basic training in the newly-created military forces which would, when ready, challenge General Winarko for control of the country.

Although he had revisited other parts of Asia during the past eighteen months, Hamish had not returned to Indonesia since the night of his hurried and confused departure from Jakarta and the events which had thrown the nation into turmoil. He had watched President Suhapto's resignation via satellite in his hotel room in Geneva.

The following week, when he had parted company with his Swiss-based employers, Hamish was tempted to return to Jakarta and confront Mary Jo in person, finally deciding against this course of action. He had phoned a number of times and left messages, but she had not responded, suggesting to Hamish that their relationship had come to an end. He considered his options and, recognizing that he desperately needed a break away from Asia's demanding cultures, Hamish had grabbed his unpacked bags and flown to New York, where he spent several months feeling miserable with himself before re-establishing his network within the financial community. A year had dragged by before Hamish had admitted how much he missed the Orient, and he left New York as suddenly as he had arrived, and flew to Hong Kong. To his dismay, the city with its teeming millions had changed under its new masters, much of the old character gone, forever.

The new airport had opened and most of his old acquaintances had left the former colony in the wake of the Asian meltdown. In discussions with the few who remained he detected an air of fatalism which soon convinced him that he should leave. He spent but a few weeks wandering his old haunts, crossing to Macao by ferry and trying his luck at the tables, absorbing what remained of the old familiar ambiance, the pungent cooking smells and noisy pedestrian traffic, tourist faces filled with anticipation and the contradictions of wealth and poverty which still screamed their presence at every turn.

It was not long before Hamish acknowledged that he was no longer suited to the changes which had occurred in his absence. Appalled by what was happening throughout Asia, he decided to reposition himself in Europe where the markets were more vibrant and opportunities for his expertise would be more lucrative. He boarded a Cathay Pacific flight to Geneva where, by chance, he met the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees socially, the event changing the course of his life immediately.

Hamish McLoughlin accepted the position with the UNHCR to provide financial evaluations with respect to Asia's looming refugee crisis and did so, not out of any mercenary considerations, but because he believed this role could offer a genuine sense of purpose and satisfaction. He realized that he had neglected to enrich his personal life, pleased now that he had undertaken to dedicate his skills towards more humanitarian pursuits than those of his past. It was only when he joined the six thousand strong organization did Hamish discover the enormous difficulties with which so many nations were faced when dealing with the socially and politically sensitive issues of refugees. The Geneva-based body engaged his services on a contractual basis and, although the UNHCR operated in more than one hundred countries, he specifically requested South East Asia as his territory and this was granted in view of his previous experience in the region.

Hamish's first official task had been to attend the mini-summit requested by Malaysia and Thailand as both countries faced new challenges with both illegal immigrants and refugees spilling into these countries. The breakdown of civil order in Aceh had seen thousands board small fishing boats and sail the short distance from Sumatra to Malaysia.

The majority managed to bypass coastal patrols only to be caught during immigration sweeps and incarcerated in the already overcrowded detention centers. It seemed that the winds of reform had done little to change Indonesia and had now become but a flutter as the country moved towards the end of its second consecutive year in peril.

As his plane reached its cruising altitude high above the Alps, Hamish accepted the tray of hors d'oeuvres, smiling as the stewardess finished refilling his glass with Moet Chandon. He opened the International Herald Tribune lying on the empty seat alongside, immediately reminded of Mary Jo Hunter as he searched through the pages for anything which might relate to his brief. His mind returned to the recent Kuala Lumpur meetings, and his surprise when he had spotted her standing amongst a group of journalists covering the conference.

Mary Jo was dressed in sage-green slacks and matching safari jacket.

Her appearance was almost masculine, the military-styled outfit out of place in the setting. At first he had hesitated, awkward with the moment.

Then, as their eyes locked, he knew that it would be impossible to avoid talking to her, and walked towards the woman who had once enjoyed a very special place in his heart.

‘Hello, Mister McLoughlin,' she said, her voice devoid of sarcasm, but nevertheless cool, as she extended her hand to accompany the forced smile.

‘Hello, Jo,' was all he could find, hoping his embarrassment was not obvious.

‘I didn't realize that you had changed careers until the handouts were passed around,' she said, referring to the information sheets the local United Nations office had circulated to the Press prior to his arrival. Her first words reminded Hamish of more pleasant memories and he smiled warmly with the recollection of their first meeting not long after she had first arrived in Jakarta.

‘How long are you staying, Jo?' he asked, not knowing how to respond to her statement.

‘Just long enough to cover what's happening here, then back to Surabaya,' she said. Hamish detected a sadness in her eyes, wondering what might have contributed to this.

‘Will you have time to grab a bite together?' he asked, wishing the other journalists would give them some space.

‘Sure, Hamish,' Mary Jo agreed, placing a cigarette between her lips and lighting this as he looked on with raised eyebrows. ‘Fell back into the habit I'm afraid,' she said, observing his expression.

‘I'll be finished about eight tonight, will that be okay for you?' Mary Jo shrugged, blowing a cloud of spent smoke through the air.

‘Fine,' she replied, ‘let's meet in the lobby bar.' Hamish nodded, pleased.

That night, following the conference's first round of talks, they had met and, in order to avoid the constant stream of noisy journalists through the popular bar, Hamish had taken Mary Jo across the road for dinner, hoping that the Chinese restaurant recommended by the concierge would put them both at ease. There, they were escorted directly to a quiet, intimate setting, the atmosphere unusually subdued for that style of cuisine. Settled, each with a drink in their hand, it was Mary Jo who broke the ice first.

‘Where do we start?' she asked, cutting directly to the chase. Hamish raised his glass, and touched hers gently, hoping they could put whatever had happened behind them quickly in as mature a fashion as former lovers might.

‘I tried to phone you for days, and even left messages for you at the villa,' he explained. ‘I tried again from Geneva for the best part of a week.

I left messages but when you didn't return these, Jo, I thought you might have lost interest.' Mary Jo remembered the chaotic days and nights which had followed the students' occupation of Parliament. She had spent most of that week camped there, and could not recall having been given any messages by her servants.

‘Why didn't you write?' she demanded, a little too loudly.

‘I did,' he replied, ‘I wrote to you from New York but you never answered that letter either.' He was telling the truth. Hamish had written to her, wishing her success and happiness, and was surprised that she had not received his mail.

‘Bullshit,' she said, without any signs of rancor in her voice. Hamish breathed heavily, then played with his drink as he sat there observing Mary Jo.

‘It's true,' was all he offered. She could take it or leave it he decided, not at all sure that his decision to meet with her, a sensible one. The wound had since healed; he bore her no malice, and yet he found himself on the defensive.

‘Let's just put it down to the poor postal service then, okay?' she suggested, this time with a hint of sarcasm creeping into her voice. Hamish nodded slowly, and waved to the waiter. He ordered and when their four course meal was served they ate in silence. Hamish encouraged her to talk but her responses were short, almost bitter. Confused, he had given up any further attempts to lift the cloud which had descended upon them both, and an hour later they had parted company, their relationship even more strained than earlier in the evening.

Although he saw Mary Jo from a distance a number of times during press conferences neither made any attempt to speak. At the end of the week they had gone their own ways, both convinced that the other bore responsibility for their breakup.

Now, as his flight crossed the wide expanse to the north and west of the Mediterranean Sea, Hamish McLoughlin's thoughts addressed what lay ahead, and the possibility that their paths might cross again. Should this happen, he decided, it might be appropriate if he challenged Mary Jo to tell the truth regarding what had really transpired the night he had left Jakarta, when he had phoned, and discovered her in Eric Fieldmann's room.

* * * *

Nuri paced the room restlessly like some caged untamed cat. The entire Suhapto family's movements had been severely restricted by the government. They were now virtually prisoners in their own castles. The interim President, Hababli, had needed to convince the Indonesian people that he was indeed serious about recovering assets from the former First Family. Nuri looked out through the flimsy curtains to where the presence of military guards clearly indicated that her family would remain in so-called protective custody for as long as Hababli had General Winarko's support.

Nuri was angry that the family had not fled when they had the opportunity to do so. Now they lived with the fear that not only would they be stripped of their wealth, but the possibility that some, or even all of their number might face trial, charged under the laws of the recently revised Constitution.

Accusations concerning her father's role in the kidnap and murder of his superiors back in 1965 had surprised them all. Nuri wondered why her father had not taken preventative steps years before to remove the political prisoner responsible for the damming revelations.

In the months following her father's resignation, Nuri and the other five children had wanted to leave Indonesia but their father had forbid-den them to do so. At that time, Suhapto still believed that he would be restored to the nation's helm once the people discovered just how incom-petent the interim President really could be. Now the entire family had been confined to their houses as prisoners, while President Hababli's shaky regime moved precariously closer to the brink of its own political abyss.

Nuri despised Hababli. The thoughts of the pretender sitting in power, lauding it over his former benefactors, remained with her constantly, and she prayed that he too, would receive his just retribution.

Nuri's anger burned deeply when she was reminded that her family had become the source of Hababli's wealth. She had watched, her heart heavy with resentment, as the new President had slowly, but surely, stripped the Suhaptos of power in the most insidious manner. At first they believed that he was merely playing to the international monetary agencies. That had been the original arrangement between her father and Hababli made during the hours leading up to the transfer of power.

Hababli had then betrayed them all. Within days of being appointed to the Presidency he arbitrarily announced that existing contracts between government agencies and companies associated with the Suhapto family would be terminated. The Suhaptos watched as, one by one, the lucrative arrangements were unwound. Tanker contracts were canceled, power-plant operators were changed, monopolies were abolished and this madness continued until their empire had been slashed, through flesh and nerve, depriving the Suhaptos of all income. Then the asset-stripping commenced as Hababli's own cronies moved to plunder and dismantle the Suhapto family's conglomerate. Nuri estimated that assets valued at more than two billion dollars had been transferred to the new President's own family, these blatant acts of treachery encouraged by those who were once loyal to her father. Without their cash-flow her family had been unable to prevent the collapse of their domestic operations. Then there was the question of her family's numbered accounts.