Rogue Element

A-6 glanced down at her foot. Under it was a flyer with the large black headline ‘Traitors!’ in Bahasa. Moving her shoe revealed mug shots of several high-ranking officers. More tear gas canisters were launched into the student ranks. It quickly became difficult to see anything clearly, as much for the tears that filled her burning eyes and throat as for the thick white smoke that swirled in the square. Several cars attempted to gain access to the parliament. The students were gathering excitedly around one of them.

Jakarta, 0235 Zulu, Saturday, 2 May

Lanti Rajasa had woken around midnight with an uneasy feeling. He’d been expecting a call from Suluang with an update from the Kopassus at the crash site. The call hadn’t come through, leaving a sour lump in his belly that made sleep troubled. He gave up trying just after three in the morning, got up, showered and dressed, and left the car park of his apartment building in his black Mercedes. He had his driver cruise the hot, dusty sprawl of Jakarta, driving aimlessly for hour after hour with no set destination, while he pondered a course of action.

His initial thought was to go to the parliament, keep his ear to the ground, try to contact Suluang and some of the others and make a decision on the basis of what they told him. Then Rajasa suddenly realised the source of his unease: he was the head of the police but he did not know what was going on. That was unthinkable, and it set off an array of alarms in his head. There was only one possible reason for this lack of intelligence, and it didn’t bode well for his future health and happiness. Was he purposefully being kept in the dark, starved of information, cut off for a reason? How quickly things appeared to be falling apart.

Suddenly frightened by this insight, Rajasa changed his mind. He would go to the parliament as he’d planned, but instead of contacting anyone he would go straight to his office, shred anything dangerous, wipe his hard-drive and clean and trash his email folders. He would then get on the first plane out.

It was now morning, just after nine-thirty. The sky was grey and, as usual, heavily polluted. The sight of students clashing with police had become so commonplace that it scarcely raised his interest when he arrived at the parliament. The students manning obstacles, petrol drums filled with bricks and burning rubbish, were stopping the cars at the entrance gate. Several masked faces appeared in the windows and Rajasa saw their eyes bulge first with surprise, then with anger as they recognised him. The front passenger door was flung open and his driver was pulled from the car. A poster titled ‘Traitors’ with the faces of himself, Suluang and the others was placed against his window and the cause of the riot was now obvious to Rajasa. He was no longer disinterested, he was afraid.

The car rocked violently from side to side. Rajasa rolled about inside helplessly, screaming obscenities. Young faces were pushed against his window yelling, spitting. A brick crashed into the bulletproof glass window beside him and bounced harmlessly off. Rajasa felt reassured by that. But then the Mercedes was pushed up onto its balance point and rolled over on its roof. He could feel and hear the bodywork being pounded by bricks and sticks. Rajasa smelled petrol and any feelings of invulnerability he may have had evaporated. Somehow the fuel tank had been punctured. One of the students lit the petrol and the flames spread quickly.

The students pulled back as the fire took hold and the heat became intense. Rajasa could see the orange tongues licking at the windows outside while inside, the car’s interior filled with smoke. The fuel tank exploded, sending a shockwave through the vehicle that killed Rajasa long before the flames reached him.

* * *

A-6 had seen enough. Through her hacking cough and watering eyes, she’d witnessed the mob burn a man alive in his car. She wondered who the victim was. It was getting impossible to breathe and the widening melee, increasing in ferocity, made it likely that sooner or later she’d be dragged off by the police or hit by student missiles filling the air. She staggered down a side street, gagging, eyes weeping uncontrollably from the gas, more than ever ready to leave the espionage business, and Indonesia, behind her.

Sydney, 2315 Zulu, Wednesday, 6 May

The radio journalist sat in the press lounge at Kingsford Smith Airport. Other journalists from across the media spectrum surrounded her. This was the best show in town, without a doubt, and there was genuine expectation in the room.