by Roland Perry
‘You never met me,’ Hewson said. He looked out over Brunton Avenue’s sweep past the Melbourne Cricket Ground. From the Regent Hotel’s thirty-fifth floor piano bar, cars looked like remote-control beetles as they shunted slowly in the evening peak-hour traffic.
‘Cut out the James Bond stuff,’ Rhonda said. ‘Are you trying to tell me this is not a social gathering?’
‘Yes and no,’ he said, pulling an envelope from his pocket, and handing it to her.
‘May I open it here?’
He laughed and nodded. It was a clipping from a Chinese newspaper.
‘That’s about all I can do,’ she said. ‘I certainly can’t read it.’
‘But you could have found it in the National Library,’ he said dryly, ‘about this time next year.’
Rhonda nodded. ‘Or our Peking correspondent could have posted it to me.’
‘Exactly. Let me summarise it.’ He sipped his light beer. ‘The article accuses the Russians of using their Vietnamese puppets to experiment in the war in Kampuchea with chemical weapons and lasers.’
‘So?’
‘It means the war is being used for experimentation. It’s also most unusual for such an article to be so specific and vitriolic about what the enemy is using.’
‘I know you think my bust measurement matches my IQ,’ Rhonda said, ‘but I still don’t know what you’re driving at.’
Hewson took off his dark glasses. His turned eye made it difficult for Rhonda to concentrate. She wished she was sitting next to him.
‘Could it be,’ he said, leaning forward, ‘that the Chinese are getting in first with an accusation because they intend to use the same weapons?’
Rhonda’s expression brightened. ‘You mean the Chinese on behalf of the Americans?’
‘And maybe the Khmer Rouge,’ he said. ‘The Killing Fields have become the laser-testing fields.’
Rhonda studied Hewson. She leaned close. ‘I’ll need more than that to follow up.’
‘That’s all I can say.’
‘Hartina Van der Holland’s transfer to Bandung must have caused ASIO much embarrassment,’ she said.
‘Some,’ he said, refusing to be drawn.
Rhonda took some cashew nuts from a bowl.
‘Don’t ask me anymore for the moment on this one,’ he said.
‘There was something else on my mind.’
‘Shoot.’
‘I’ve been doing some research on the death of Harry Cardinal. I was wondering about one aspect of it.’
‘I really don’t think I can help. No one can on our side.’
Rhonda sipped her champagne. ‘Then could we consider something hypothetical? Is it possible to substitute a body so that someone living could disappear?’
Hewson leant back in his chair. ‘When I was a kid of around ten, the Olympic Games were held in Melbourne. My father insisted I miss school and go to the main events. We were in the city a few hours before the start of some track events at the MCG, and he took me to a movie to kill time.’
He paused while a waitress filled their glasses and moved to the next table.
‘The movie was called “The Man Who Never Was”,’ he said, dropping his voice. ‘I can remember it very well even after more than thirty years.’
‘Nice title.’
‘It was a dramatised version of a true story about the body of an English soldier washed up on a beach in Europe occupied by the Nazis in World War II. The Nazis fell for the misleading information on the body, which made the soldier seem like an Intelligence courier, and made some disastrous errors that affected the outcome of the war.’
‘So there are precedents?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, just imagine that someone wanted to make us all think that Harry Cardinal was dead. Where would a substitute body come from?’
‘Do you know how many unidentified Caucasian male bodies are found in South-East Asia, including Australia, each year?’
‘Surprise me.’
‘Scores.’
‘How come?’
‘People die on vacation or even disappear on business trips. Some are murdered, some end up in remote hospitals in India or Korea and are never heard of again. Some become drug addicts and never leave the Thai countryside. Others traffic in drugs in Malaysia and get caught.’
‘You mean, there’s a kind of body bazaar? A reject shop for corpses?’
‘Hospitals are often buyers.’
‘But how would the CIA . . .,’ Rhonda began, raising her voice.
Hewson’s face expressed caution.
She leaned forward. ‘How would they get the body into the country?’
‘We’re discussing the art of the possible, right? Not specifics.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Australia allows some special representatives of friendly nations security clearances in and out without checks.’
‘But bodies? Would people become suspicious?’
‘Not if no one is looking for a corpse.’
Rhonda was thinking quickly.
‘But how would you choose the right body? And how would you make it look exactly like somebody else?’
‘Suppose the person you were wanting to make look dead acquiesced with everything,’ Hewson said. ‘Then he or she would be the model.’
‘But Harry Cardinal had a pin in his shoulder from a football injury . . .’
‘Have you seen what funeral parlours can do to a body?’
‘God!’ Rhonda said.
‘They don’t even need him. Hair dyes and coloured contact lenses can make such a difference.’
‘What about birthmarks?’
‘You should see what they can do with lasers, these days.’
‘Harry Cardinal’s blood and dental records all matched up with the corpses’,’ she said, perplexed.
‘You’re getting specific again,’ Hewson said. He put his glasses on. ‘But you might do well to check who matched up all the records . . .’
Perdonny opened the silver foil and offered Cardinal the yellow-brown cake.
‘I’m not eating it,’ Cardinal said, ‘especially if you don’t tell me what it is.’
‘It’s a special thing that some Moslem friends gave me the recipe for twenty years ago,’ Perdonny said closing the foil. ‘In the sixteenth century, Moslem fanatics prepared to face the conquering Christians. To give them the courage to face death and to kill, they used to take this. They were called Hashish eaters. Over the centuries Hashish became the derivitive of the word ‘assassin’. Some Islamic killers still take it. But the recipe is only known by a few.’
‘It’s just hash then?’
Perdonny shook his head.
‘No. It’s a special opiate mix,’ he said.
‘You want me to take that?’
‘It numbs the fear but concentrates the energies on the mission.’
Cardinal looked apprehensively at the foil package. ‘Harry would be laughing,’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘He would have loved me taking such a lethal mix!’
‘Have you ever taken drugs?’
‘No. As a kid in Korea, there was only alcohol. But I was never addicted. Occasionally I have too much now . . .’
‘You can’t become addicted with one intake of this either.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘You must have some fear. This will overcome it.’
‘I have more than some. But I’m sure that kind of thing would slow me up.’
‘That’s the point. It represses fear but sharpens the nerves and muscles you need.’ Perdonny picked it up and held it in front of Cardinal. ‘Please, at least take it with you,’ he said. ‘If the mission begins to overwhelm you, consider its value . . .’
The worst moments for Cardinal began when he returned to his hotel room carrying the case with the unassembled rifle. It was eight, and he had ninety minutes before he would make his final move. While he had been with Perdonny in the safety of his villa he had kept his nerve. A
lone, he felt a terror creep over him. He would be on his own until after the strike, and even then he would have to cover about a kilometre on foot. There was also the possibility that an innocent passer-by could be on the bridge. Perdonny said that it was used by fewer people at night, but that was no guarantee. He had told Cardinal to carry on regardless; it was unlikely that anyone would try to stop him. The problem of patrolling police and soldiers was outside Cardinal’s control, but Perdonny had suggested that he not step near the bridge until the last moment.
‘After you have hit Chan,’ Perdonny told him, ‘walk away from the bridge with the weapon against your side. Don’t run until you’re clear of the bridge. Then let the gun go.’
Cardinal went over the plan and three times assembled the weapon so that nothing was left to chance.
He lit a cigar and switched on the television. It was in Indonesian and more unsettling than relaxing. He switched it off. Cardinal put on a stocking mask that Perdonny had insisted he wear, and tried on a hooded anorak.
He removed the mask and looked out the window. It was raining. He wondered how much the wet would change things. He was concerned about being able to focus in the dark but recalled there was a light that Chan and his guards would have to pass under. Cardinal submerged his worries by thinking about his motive. If he didn’t make Chan pay, no one would.
He also thought of Perdonny’s motives. The little man had nothing to lose if Cardinal succeeded. Utun’s position would be weakened because Chan was essential to his power. A failure was more problematic. Cardinal’s worry was that Perdonny could isolate him and link him to the CIA.
He looked at his watch. It was close to nine. Cardinal unwrapped the silver foil containing Perdonny’s cake. He carved off a chunk with a spoon and remembered Perdonny’s words: ‘Take no more than a tablespoon at a time. Too much can be counter-productive. You would go crazy.’
He took the prescribed amount. The honey taste surprised him. Then he lay back on the bed and tried to relax. The rain had become torrential. Cardinal felt comforted by it and lay listening to it for nearly half an hour.
He got up and wandered to the window. The unshielded light bulbs in the small market in the street behind his hotel were a blur as the roadside stalls were flooded. Cardinal watched the drops crashing down on the balcony, spraying on the window where they seemed to splatter in slow motion. He slid the window across. The cooling rain splashed on his face. But he did not feel it.
‘I’ll go for a ride,’ he said aloud. He buttoned up the anorak, picked up the case and walked out of the room. He took the stairs and found the door to the rear of the hotel. Cardinal lifted the anorak over his head as the rain pounded his skull.
He hurried around to the front of the hotel’s basement where taxis were delivering people to the Pitstop disco. Cardinal found a Chinese driver who took him for the short trip to the point near a petrol station, only a kilometre from Jalan Wijama and the Embassy.
The driver accidentally took him some way past the station. Cardinal leant forward and asked the man to return. He saw his own reflection in the rear-vision mirror. At first he was surprised to see the beads of water on his forehead. He didn’t feel as if he was perspiring. Then he realised that water from the anorak was trickling down his face.
Cardinal tipped the man well and watched the taxi move off. He looked at his watch. It was nearly ten. He set off at a brisk walk and reached a narrow alley that led to Wijama. He hesitated. He was in two minds whether to assemble the rifle here or wait until he was among the trees by the road. It was then he realised that he had made the decision.
Rhonda wouldn’t take no for an answer. When the receptionist said Cardinal was not in his room, she insisted that someone be sent to check on him. A few minutes later she was told that his room was empty. Rhonda rang Perdonny at his villa. It was obvious that she had disturbed something.
‘I can’t talk to you now,’ he said. ‘There are things happening tonight.’
‘Like what?’
‘Rhonda, I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’
‘I’ve been trying to phone Ken,’ she said. ‘I have to speak to him urgently. The hotel says he’s not in his room. I thought he might be with you.’
‘He had dinner here and left me at about eight. What did you want to tell him?’
‘I’m worried that he might be doing something dangerous,’ she said. ‘He must know that it’s possible that his son is still alive.’
‘What makes you say that?’
Rhonda began to rattle off her reasons.
‘Rhonda, I must go,’ Perdonny said. ‘Let’s speak tomorrow.’
Cardinal put on the mask, pulled the anorak hood over it and waited behind trees twenty paces from the footbridge. He had assembled the rifle and loaded it. Despite the drug, he was nervous. But he was able to concentrate. As soon as the hearse passed under the footbridge, he planned to take up position on it and wait for Chan to get out. He had focused on the gate. His main worry was whether he would be able to see Chan’s face well enough.
Thunder sounded like a distant drum, and the rain came down harder.
Cardinal sheltered under the trees and practised lining up the target. I’m not going to miss, he kept telling himself. Minor flooding on the wide street had caused traffic to slow. Cardinal calculated that the weather would delay the hearse by twenty minutes. He watched each passing vehicle send up a spray of water as it went under the bridge. Pedestrians had not used it in the time Cardinal had been there, and he was thinking how useful the foul weather was when two figures appeared on the other side of the road. They came up the steps and onto the bridge. Cardinal found himself urging them to hurry or get off. He cursed as they reached the centre of the bridge and the point from which he planned to make the attack. The two people were taking their time. Cardinal looked back towards the gates. A vehicle had pulled up. It was the hearse. He dashed for the steps and bounced up them as the two people were coming down.
Cardinal reached the middle of the bridge just as the gates began to open. Cardinal’s fear was that Perdonny’s man on the inside had failed to jam them. The hearse slid forward. The gates began to close. They crashed into the front of the vehicle. It reversed to let them clang shut. Cardinal had the weapon protruding over the bridge. They’re trying to automate those damned gates again, Cardinal thought. Seconds later, the gates began to open once more. The vehicle bounced forward, but the gates jammed and hit the vehicle, so hard this time that a headlight shattered. There was a one metre gap to negotiate, but if any passengers tried it, they would have to climb over the vehicle’s front.
Cardinal heard a shout from the bottom of the footbridge. The two people who had crossed it were signalling. Cardinal turned the rifle in their direction, and they scampered for the trees. He looked once more to the gates. The driver was out, inspecting the damage. He argued with others inside and indicated they could climb over the vehicle, but the passengers were reluctant to get out.
Cardinal’s heart pounded. ‘C’mon! C’mon!’ he muttered.
An explosion rocked the area, and the driver ducked back into the hearse. Cardinal glanced towards the city skyline as smaller explosions were heard. Cardinal thought the hearse might retreat. The brake light went off, but instead of reversing the driver tried to force the gates open. The engine revved, and a cloud of exhaust drifted through the rain.
The far rear door opened. Cardinal tightened his grip on the rifle. ‘C’mon you bastards!’ he whispered. People began to get out. Cardinal caught a glimpse of the first person. A woman! he thought. Where’s Chan?
The second figure out was quickly surrounded by two men from the rear and another from the front seat.
‘Chan!’ Cardinal mouthed. He lined up the head as the figure climbed on the front of the car. Cardinal squeezed the trigger. The shot echoed. He fired again, and the figure slipped. The others grabbed for him.
Cardinal ran down the steps and headed for the trees. Two figures from the hearse
gave chase across the road. They dodged cars that braked and skidded. Cardinal reached the alley. He felt a tingle down his spine as the sound of submachine gun echoed after him. He pulled off the mask and threw it away. Once in Jalan Nagran, where the taxi had dropped him, Cardinal didn’t know which way to go. A police car was coming his way.
‘Jesus, no!’ Cardinal hissed. He stepped back into the shadow of the alley. Suddenly he was aware he was still carrying the rifle. He tossed it over a fence just as a shot was fired from the other end of the alley. Cardinal ducked instinctively and crouched back into the street. The police car wailed and slushed its way through the traffic and passed him. Cardinal ran across the road. An army truck roared by in pursuit of the police car. Cardinal found himself among thousands of people doing last-minute shopping in a market before the late-night curfew. The rain stopped. He hurried through the market, glancing back at the alley. Chan’s guards were in the street. The police car and army truck had turned round and returned.
I’ve had it, he thought as he looked desperately about him. He could see a bus pulling up on the other side of the market. Cardinal kept in the shadows of the stalls until he was near the bus line of thirty local people. It had been his meeting spot, but Bani, Perdonny’s driver, was not there. The police and soldiers began combing the market. Two more police cars and another army truck arrived. A bus pulled in. People started moving into it. Cardinal joined the line. He entered the bus just as soldiers approached it. He ducked his head as the vehicle chugged off.
‘Would you like a drink at the bar?’ Gillie, the shapely blonde manager of The Pitts restaurant, said to Rhonda. Moments later Kim Lim appeared wearing a black body-stocking. She joined Rhonda at a long mirrored bar. About forty lunch-time diners — mainly dark-suited businessmen – in discreet cubicles were being attended by attractive girls.
‘I just want a chat with you?’ Rhonda said.
‘I must change,’ she said.
Gillie had heard the exchange. She came over to Rhonda as Kim disappeared into a cloak room.
‘Are you on a story?’ Gillie asked. ‘Has Kim done anything wrong?’
