The Timor Man. Kerry B Collison

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СКАЧАТЬ was the abbreviated form for the Hotel Indonesia and that not knowing so identified one immediately as new blood in town.

      “My name is Geoffrey Dickson, Dicky to my friends, and I am the Consul in this fine establishment. You, of course, must be Stephen Coleman!”

      Stephen smiled and immediately relaxed at the warmth of the man.

      “Yes, and thank you Mr Dickson, Stephen Coleman is correct,” he said extending his hand to those of the Consul.

      “Dicky, man, Dicky,” he intoned, taking Stephen’s right hand between both of his, pumping ceremoniously and beaming sincerely.

      “I will take you around this fine establishment and introduce you to its erstwhile tenants,” the jovial Consul announced, sounding more and more like Robert Moreley.

      “That’s very kind of you, er, Dicky,” Stephen responded, his left arm now under the control of the surprisingly strong grip of his escort.

      “No need to worry about registration and all of that nonsense right now, old chap, you will have ample time to complete the formalities tomorrow. Come along now,” he ordered, almost lifting the taller man off the ground with a sudden spurt of speed Stephen would not believed him capable of making.

      “This is Bobby; he is the Assistant Consul. Totally superfluous in my opinion but the Post staffing requirements demand that his position be filled even though he has less than nothing to do,” he said, his twinkling eyes and trace of a smile showing that he was not serious. “Bobby, say hello to our newest addition, Stephen Coleman.”

      The junior stood with an outstretched hand while removing his glasses for the introduction.

      “Robert, Robert Thornton. Welcome to Dicky’s Den,” he said. The emphasis on the Consul’s name indicated that this part of the complex really did belong to the fat career civil servant.

      “Thanks, Robert, look forward to having a chat with you later. Maybe you can help me unscramble some of my advances and docs. Okay?”

      “That’s what we’re here for, mate, that’s what we’re here for. Come back when you’re settled and we’ll have a look at what you’ve got,” with which Bobby sat down again and resumed his examination of the long list of financials in front of him.

      They continued on through a lengthy corridor, down the centre of which was a length of thick wine red carpet, held in place by highly polished brass strips.

      “You must close your eyes now, my dear,” Dicky joked, as he extracted a large ring of keys from his back pocket attached to which was a chain tied carefully to his belt.

      The door was unlocked, and again Stephen was speedily lifted off his feet by the Consul as he ushered his new man inside, Dicky ceremoniously re-locked the doors with a double turn of the strange looking keys. Stephen was surprised, as all that was visible was another corridor. He had expected something quite different, not sure exactly what, but certainly not just corridors! Dicky increased his pace and Stephen was a little troubled by Dicky’s vice-like grip, which had remained on his arm since they were outside in the foyer.

      “Won’t be long now,” he said, and suddenly propped before pushing at the wall between photographs of Her Royal Highness and Sir Robert Menzies.

      Stephen was mystified. Why was there no handle on this door that had been made to appear to be part of the wall? He didn’t ask. They entered another corridor, and now Stephen began to feel as if Dicky was playing some practical joke on him, a common trick back home when someone commenced their first day in a new job. Dicky sensed the younger man’s resistance to continue and moved his grip further up Stephen’s arm closer to his shoulder, without reducing his incredible speed.

      “Ah, here we are,” he announced, coming to the end of the corridor and opening yet another door with one of his countless number of keys. He pushed the door ajar, gestured with his left hand and, with a slight mocking bow, indicated that the newcomer should enter. Stephen did so, amused by his escort’s antics.

      They had entered the second level of security. The first had not been obvious but did, in fact, include the reception and the entire consulate area. Systems had been put in place to ensure the safety of the personnel and the security of the embassy’s contents; however, these were deliberately not evident to the eye of the casual visitor. There were six or seven offices directly off to his left as he had entered, the upper sections of their partitioning constructed with glass to permit visual contact between the offices while affording soundproof cubicles.

      “Why all of the subterfuge, Dicky?” he asked, not yet comfortable with the first name basis this man had insisted apon.

      “Riots, my man, riots,” he answered as if Coleman would automatically understand, but before he had the opportunity to delve into the idiosyncrasies of the passages with their strange access, Dicky was already opening the doors to the cubicles and introducing him to the officers at their desks.

      “This is David, and that empty seat belongs to Alex Crockwell,” he indicated with another wave of his hand. “They are with the remnants of the Colombo Plan section and assist with Australian aid and information. I believe you have already met Alex. Where is Alex, David?” he asked, lips pursed not expecting more than a token response, and then deciding he would answer his own question.

      “Of course,” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers, “you have already met our Alex. He was rostered as the duty officer to pick you up from the airport. I trust he took good care of you?”

      “Yes, thanks Dicky, I certainly appreciated being met and assisted with the hotel check-in,” he lied, but somehow feeling that this man already knew more about Crockwell’s attitude than he let on.

      The introductions continued as they passed from office to office, most offering no more than a cursory polite ‘welcome’ and displaying impatience at wanting to return to whatever they were engrossed in doing before being interrupted by the gregarious Consul.

      “Well, that’s about it for here. Except, of course, your desk, which is over there next to the First Secretary’s. You can have Alex’s when he leaves. Bit cramped here, I’m afraid, but you’ll soon get used to the hang of things and once the new Embassy is built then we won’t have these problems of space, will we?”

      “Where are the Military Attachés’ offices?” Coleman asked.

      The Consul snapped his head ever so quickly back and his eyes narrowed considerably. “We will come to that shortly,” he answered, as if miffed.

      Coleman immediately regretted his question. He should have remembered that the consulate section had limited security access and this had always been a bone of contention between the diplomatic service and consular offices since the first overseas emissaries were sent from country to country eons ago.

      Consular officers were basically there to care for the citizens of the country they represented, whereas the main body of the Embassy housed not only Aid and Trade offices, but also sensitive sections such as the Military Attachés representing army, navy, and air force contingents. Even Federal Police sometimes maintained a presence as part of the international effort to prevent the flow of drugs from country to country.

      The Ambassador, of course, as formal etiquette required, was equated to the rank of a Four-Star General in the host country. His authority was final. This is why the position was designated Ambassador, Extraordinary СКАЧАТЬ