The Timor Man. Kerry B Collison

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      When the need for the first Ambassadors became apparent more than a millennium before, they were sent as emissaries bearing gifts, offering peace and goodwill. They were trade representatives, not political officers. Somehow the two became confused as one, and this made it necessary for Ambassadors to carefully juggle the needs of both their country’s merchant houses and the militant forces waiting impatiently behind them.

      “Another officer will take you through,” Dicky pouted, leaving the surprised Coleman uncomfortable, standing alone not quite sure of what he should do next.

      As the door was pulled tightly closed by the departing Consul (if he could have slammed it, he would have happily done so!) another man appeared through yet another access adjacent to the last cubicle.

      “Coleman?” was all he said, holding the door slightly ajar assuming the gesture was sufficient for him to follow.

      “Yes,” was all he had the opportunity to say moving quickly to follow the man with the serious face.

      He stepped inside and once again he heard the familiar click of another exit being locked behind him.

      “I’m Peter Cornish,” the man stated, not extending his hand very far from his body.

      “Stephen,” he responded. His surname would surely be known in here.

      “Okay, Stephen, let’s go. I’ll introduce you around. Hope you smoke, everyone here does and there’s one hell of a lot of pressure

      on right now.”

      Coleman nodded, quickly evaluating what he saw.

      There were five Australians present. Two were women. The outer section was relatively small. It was effectively a barrier. Keys were required to pass through the mini-reception which consisted of an observer’s window so that the inner-sanctum officers could identify the visitors without their being aware that they were being observed.

      Past the double locked security door and to the right were a number of telex machines. All clattered away, out of synch with each other, creating a staggering amount of mechanical noise as they force-fed themselves information that had been retyped and converted through the deciphering monsters buried further inside, locked away from the scrutiny of even these operatives.

      He passed several desks and continued down through a maze of filing cabinets into an area which housed two large refrigerators and an electric stove. Stacked to the ceiling on both sides of this walled-off section were cases of malt whisky, Jack Daniels Bourbon, Gordon’s Gin and Bacardi Rum. There were no soft drinks or sodas evident.

      Squeezed into this already tight area was a desk on which a new Remington blazed away at unbelievable speed, its extended carriage holding oversized pages unlike anything Coleman had seen before. The young woman operating the machine, a desk officer, momentarily looked up and smiled before returning her attention to whatever it was at hand that demanded her full attention.

      “This is Margaret. She knows who you are. Margaret is the senior secretary in this section,” he said, his voice almost monotone. “This is the First Secretary’s office.”

      Coleman followed him into a cramped twelve-square-metre box. The desk, small as it was, carried more paper than Stephen believed possible. He looked around and asked, “Where is the First Secretary?” raising his voice more than he wanted, out of nervousness.

      “That’s me. I’m the man,” Cornish answered, almost impatiently, then continued, “and you didn’t actually get off to a good start in this city did you?” he snapped, gesturing to Coleman to sit on the typist’s chair, which doubled for guests, rare as they were in here.

      Coleman responded, surprised, “What the hell do you mean?”

      The other man had by now taken his position behind the mound of files and, swivelling on his chair, lit a cigarette without offering one to his visitor, then swung back and hit the small cleared space over the blotter with his open hand.

      “What the hell do I mean?” he shouted, then repeated himself, “What the hell do I mean? For Chrissakes, you haven’t been in town more than twenty-four hours and already you’ve been out humping around with this lot!”

      Stephen was stunned. Cornish didn’t even bother closing his door as he continued.

      “You young bastards come up here, full of your own shit, and forget everything you’ve been taught as soon as some tart opens your fly!” He flicked the imaginary ash onto the floor. “What’s more, weren’t you bloody well briefed by that little cock-sucker Crockwell when he picked you up from the flaming airport?” he demanded.

      “No,” Stephen stammered, “he didn’t brief me on a damn thing except the fact he would rather be away for the bloody weekend than have to escort someone from the airport.”

      Anger now pumping the necessary amount of adrenalin, he continued. “Who the fuck are you to get on my case anyway?” he demanded, his hackles rising as he started to move out of his seat; aware that his temper had taken control of his better judgment but did not care, as his head ached, his stomach was in turmoil and now he was faced with some sanctimonious bastard who was having a bad day and quite obviously prepared to take it out on the new boy. It was not lost on Stephen that part of his response was in retaliation to being reprimanded within earshot of the young woman just outside the Secretary’s door.

      Suddenly, he was determined. ‘If this arsehole wants to get his jollies off berating others within earshot of his staff then he can find someone else to take a shot at, and now!’ he decided. He leaped to his feet and started to leave the office, when the secretary outside leaned across and closed the door brusquely, not even giving him a second look.

      “Get back here, Coleman!” the voice barked. “Sit down and shut up.” He was about to respond when Cornish raised his open palm and glared at the newcomer not to talk. “Just shut up and listen,” he said.

      Shaking with anger Stephen turned and glared at the First Secretary who was standing behind his desk, his anger obvious. Moments passed. He shook his head in disgust and returned to the seat.

      “I am sick to death of seeing you young upstarts coming up here and carrying on as if you were the proverbial gift to whatever it is these days. You have only been here two days and already you are in shit up to your eyeballs.”

      Coleman sat still, listening partly out of shock and partly also because he was captivated by this man’s performance.

      “What the hell,” the First Secretary continued and then, with a sigh of exasperation, pulled a cigarette from the box of Rothman filters and offered the packet to his new assistant. “Man, did I cop a bollocking because of you when I came in this morning,” he said, his voice having dropped its venom. “Ten minutes with the boys out the back threatening to down grade our security in this section did not, I assure you young Coleman, offer the best start to my day!” He leaned back in the chair, placed his hands behind his neck and, with the cigarette still hanging from the side of his mouth, blew smoke from the other side contemptuously. “They will want to see you in fifteen minutes so I guess we’d best get on with the rest of the introductions.”

      Stephen still sat there, stunned. He didn’t even know what the hell he had done but decided to wait for the ‘boys out the back’ to enlighten him as the СКАЧАТЬ