by Philip Atlee
"The rest of it is conjecture. Even shut out from the top, she was still friendly with many of Sukarno's staff officers. So she must have learned that her former lover had a new mistress. Peking. That route meant danger to her import licenses, most of which were still in effect, so she decided to smash the left-wing coup."
I nodded, and we parked the car and walked into the airport terminal. After I had confirmed my reservation on the Pan-American flight to San Francisco, I joined Holroyd in the bar booth. We cut up some old touches without really saying anything, and I wrote out a cable to Katja Arnkloo's father in Sweden. Gave it to Burt and asked if he needed money to send it or to arrange shipment of the body.
"No, Joe," he said. "She was on the agency's business when she wandered into the line of fire. We'll send her home."
I nodded briskly. "We do a kind of constant business, don't we, old friend? And bury them like animals."
"That's right," he said.
"Okay. But do me a favor, will you? Have the Japanese mortician patch her up before you ship the body out. They sliced her up badly."
"She'll look good as new," he promised, and the boarding call came for my direct Pan-Am flight to San Francisco. I drained my glass, stood up, and put out my hand for the good-bye shake.
"Not just yet," said Burt Holroyd. "I had a call from Yokohama while you were checking in. We ain't found that bullion yet."
It was the first real, honest-to-God laugh I had had in weeks, and some of the tension in my gut relaxed. With Hatta dead, I had forgotten that I was the only one who knew about the expensive drop keel on Harvard Frank's rudder. I told Holroyd about it, saying that Captain Ling could help him. With the rudder raised, the bullion could be removed much easier.
"What happens to it now?" I asked. "The gold and silver."
"Oh…" Holroyd shrugged. "That's a policy decision, far out of the reach of my poor head. I'd suspect, though, that we'll send it back to Djakarta after the State Department has milked the nobility of such an action by us. I doubt that the Japanese Government will ever know it was here, unless the news leaks."
I shook my head in wonder. "Jesus, kid, I worked like a goddamned coolie melting and recasting that bullion. It gets smuggled out of Java, into Japan, and now you'll probably smuggle it back to its rightful owners. No wonder crime doesn't pay."
Holroyd laughed. "Getting there is half the fun, Joe."
"Why did they execute Hatta? He thought he was saving the bullion."
"We're still not clear on that," said Holroyd. "He was shot in Djokja, and some of our reports say the Sultan ordered it. Others, claiming to be eyewitness, swear that his car was roadblocked on the way into town from the airport by a band of Aidit's supporters. That he was spread-eagled over a front fender of his car, and blown apart at short range."
We had the delayed handshake, and as we moved through the crowded airport terminal he remarked that if the five tons of gold and silver were not in fact hanging from the junk's rudder, I would be detained when my flight reached San Francisco.
That made me laugh again, which was two in a row. because the soft-spoken man wasn't kidding. And I do admire a bulldog. We parted at the barricade and I went up the ramp and into the plane. The big jetliner took oft with a screaming rush and hurtled upward to altitude, beginning its rustling passage high across the Pacific Ocean.
The flight was not full, and no one was sealed near me. As I sat pinpointed by the flare from the tiny fight over my head. I reflected that I might be burning out as an effective agent. It was not that I had any grave concern about the people or the slaughtered populations. People. I have found, are mostly a bad lot. Or would be. if you tickle their greed or vanity.
A trim stewardess came by to ask if I wanted anything. A drink? Dinner, or a sandwich? I said no thanks, and when she had gone on, I snapped off the overhead light. Watched moonlight bathe the snow-fields of clouds below us and wondered how my white tigers were doing.
