Cut to the Chase. Ray CW Scott
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of glass and concrete, though there was the occasional old style building – it was reminiscent in some respects of Sydney and Melbourne.
He had seen the same thing in Singapore, though the older buildings were fast vanishing from there, especially with the site clearing that had been carried out for the new underground metro railway that was now proving such a boon for the Singapore commuter. The sites for the Singapore metro stations had removed many old buildings. Jakarta was also constructing a new monorail system, though construction tended to be in stops and starts, in addition to having adapted some of the local rail tracks around the city into a city system. Despite this the streets still proliferated with double decker buses, taxi cabs and motor traffic.
‘It’s all right, you can go up, Mr Wallace,’ she said, interrupting Wallace’s reverie. ‘Top of the stairs there and then the fourth door on the right.’
‘Not before time…!’ he was about to say, and then cut it off short. It wasn’t her fault he was angry with Bramble and was wishing he was elsewhere. So he thanked her and gave a smile that he hoped was winning and convincing, climbed the impressive stairway and walked along the first floor corridor. He found the door in question and knocked; it opened and he was greeted by a young man in shirt sleeves.
‘Mr Wallace?’
Wallace indicated that he was and the young man said. ‘Major Lincoln is on the telephone at present, can I get you anything?’
Wallace asked for coffee and was waved to a chair.
Major Lincoln rose to his feet as Wallace entered his room and extended his hand. Though he was dressed in civilian clothing, everything looked as though it had just emerged from a clothes press. The creases on his trousers were clearly visible from the doorway. His hair was cut short, almost in a crop cut, and he had a definite military style moustache. He appeared brisk and precise in his movements. Wallace felt that had an unwelcome intruder entered the room Lincoln would have responded automatically, snapping into action and taking evasive or offensive measures.
‘Ah! Mr Wallace,’ he said.
Wallace grunted and shook his hand and looked with interest around the room as he sat down. There was a picture of a tank on one wall, a print on another wall showing a military scene which Wallace recognised as having been painted by Ivor Hele who was a well known war artist. He had seen the original in the Canberra War memorial some years back. There were also photographs of a younger Major Lincoln with groups of military colleagues and there was a small metal reproduction of a tank on the window ledge. There was also a polished hand grenade on the desk that appeared to be in use as a paper weight. Wallace hoped it was a dud.
‘You know Mr Bramble, I understand?’
‘Yes!’ Wallace replied shortly, implying that he wished he didn’t.
Lincoln then chatted about the weather, Australian Rules football, the current Ashes Test series and inflation. When it had reached the point when Wallace thought he would have to be the one to broach the reason why he was there, Lincoln shut off the conversation abruptly, as though a bugler had sounded the Advance somewhere. He leaned forward.
‘Now…Bramble tells me you have offered to give us some assistance.’
Offered was the over-statement of the year! Offered? Dragooned into it more like! ‘Fuck Bramble!’…he thought viciously, and vowed it would be the last time. But for this Wallace reckoned he could have been back in Sydney by now watching the Ashes Test match. He had seen from the newspapers in the waiting room that though England had followed on, their top order batsmen were giving the Australian bowlers some stick in their second innings.
‘There is a package that has to be collected from an informant, a very important package. I can’t tell you what’s in it – not at this stage anyway, it means that you can plead ignorance if…er…that is, it’s being delivered by a man who has travelled from the east end of this island – I can tell you that much,’ Lincoln paused to adjust a pencil on his desk that had wandered out of alignment. ‘There is no danger that he will lead anyone onto the person he delivers to, but if I or anyone in my department were to act as the collector or recipient we could well lead someone onto him. All right so far!’
No it wasn’t bloody well all right, Wallace hadn’t liked the word “if” where he had broken off in the middle of the sentence. It seemed to indicate that there was a possibility of somebody, most likely Wallace, being apprehended. Nevertheless, he nodded, having got this far and utilised the hotel accommodation paid for by Bramble’s masters he couldn’t very well countenance backing out now.
‘We are not a major nation on the world stage, whatever our leaders may believe as our revered Prime Minister flies off to London, New York, Washington and Paris, so anywhere else this type of manoeuvre may be quite unnecessary,’ Lincoln paused to allow a smile to pass his lips, presumably a grim smile – military personnel above rank of captain for the use of! Then the smile vanished, presumably in response to a crisp internal command, and he continued.
‘Here it is a little different, being close neighbours and what amounts to a Western nation within an Asian context, there is much interest in what we do, say or like. The former Communist nations are well represented here, as are the Muslim nations of the world, they all like to know what we and New Zealand are doing because to a certain extent it gives them some insight as to what the Americans are thinking.’
He paused briefly then continued.
‘If they can pick up anything from us that conflicts with the usual red herrings flung at them by Washington and the CIA they consider that what they get from us could be the truth. So, we have to be careful and watch what we say and do.’
He paused to sip his coffee; each movement of his lips and hands was geared not to spill a drop, the cup presumably being tilted at the regulation angle permitted by the powers at Duntroon.
Wallace was beginning to like the sound of this less and less, but couldn’t think of any way of getting himself off the hook. Major Lincoln was assuming that he was going to do the job, which was probably his means of ensuring that Wallace did carry it out – once again the salesman’s assumed close.
‘We have arranged for you and our contact to meet in a setting somewhere in the city, where you can meet casually and exchange views – and the package. Then you bring it back here, and we place it in the Diplomatic Bag. Simple isn’t it?’
‘Er…yes,’ it did sound simple and confidence began to return. ‘I haven’t got to take it out of the country then?’
‘No. Leave that to us.’
Wallace raised one eyebrow. He seemed to recall that Diplomatic Bags were, by international protocol, not to be used for espionage or intelligence. He mentioned that to Lincoln.
‘This isn’t espionage, this is information inasmuch as it relates to Australia,’ Lincoln said somewhat curtly. Wallace pursed his lips and dismissed it, he didn’t want to become involved in an argument about semantics, presumably the diplomats knew the rules and it was not up to him to question it. Another thought occurred to him.
‘How do I meet this courier of yours?’
‘You will have an appointment with Mr Fernandes, he runs a theatrical agency style business, and he will allocate the assignment for you. All is taken care of.’
I bloody well hope so, Wallace thought bitterly, and cursed Bramble again.
‘One further point, if there are people watching the embassy, won’t they know that I’ve been to see you?’
‘No because you haven’t.’ Lincoln replied. ‘Your appointment was with the Commercial Attaché not with me.’
‘Is that why I wasn’t in the appointment book?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Is that why your receptionist couldn’t find my appointment in the book?’
‘It was in the book!’ Lincoln snapped.