Rogue Element

General Suluang shook a toothpick from the holder. He dug out a piece of chicken that had lodged in the canyon left by a filling broken long ago. The waitress cleared away the meal eaten by the men hunched in the circle of dim light over the table. The general looked up when her scent reached his nostrils. She smiled. He admired the young woman’s body, momentarily diverted from the discussion.

‘Kalimantan is troublesome again,’ said Lanti Rajasa, the head of Indonesia’s security police. ‘We kill the terrorists but the burnings persist.’ His lips were stretched tight across yellow teeth, giving him the appearance of an animal baring its fangs.

The general nodded, relieved that the annoying piece of chicken had finally been dispatched. This was his favourite restaurant in Jakarta. The food was acceptable, the decor a mishmash of jungle themes and Indonesian mythology. The music softly piping through the restaurant’s speakers was a popular melody played on a continuous loop. The general found the familiarity of it reassuring. The room, though large, was dark and private. Thick brown carpet swallowed conversation and the muted light encouraged anonymity. It was the kind of place businessmen took their mistresses during the day, but it was one o’clock in the morning now and the last of the paying customers had long since left. He especially liked this restaurant because the owner was his cousin, a retired army major from a good regiment, so he didn’t feel that he had to guard his conversation.

Rajasa continued. ‘Aceh is worsening. The police chief there is missing. We don’t think we’ll find him alive. Several government buildings have been torched. The army is on the streets, but the looting, as you know, goes on. The students are the worst. The people no longer wait for the soldiers to turn their backs before they steal. The army doesn’t seem to be an effective deterrent any more.’

The general again nodded thoughtfully, ‘Perhaps we should have had our men remove their red berets way back in the beginning. It would have been helpful having supporters in the area working behind the scenes. We’ve let things get out of hand. Lack of respect is a disease, Lanti, and it spreads. Aceh, Ambon, Kalimantan, Irian Jaya.’

‘You mean West Papua, General,’ said Colonel Javid Jayakatong, commanding officer of a mechanised infantry regiment. ‘I still can’t believe the government caved in to pressure from a few natives waving spears and allowed the place to be renamed.’

‘They can call it what they like, Colonel. It’ll always be Irian Jaya to me,’ said Suluang.

‘Even Bali is proving difficult,’ said Rajasa, snorting in disbelief.

‘Yes, it has never really recovered from those fanatics,’ said Jayakatong, ‘The Balinese resent us. They think we allowed it to happen because they’re Hindu, rather than Muslim. Fools. Don’t all of us here have assets there that rely on the tourists? Why would we hurt our own investments? Still, there is a bright side.’

‘And that is…?’ Rajasa was intrigued.

‘The number of Australian flags burned across the country in support of the attacks,’ said Jayakatong.

The men laughed heartily.

The general waited for the laughter to subside and let his face assume a hard, conspiratorial mien. He leaned forward. ‘It started with East Timor. Now, every other island and province with the vaguest historical grudge against Java is moving towards secession. There are racial tensions, religious pressures. Gentlemen, we are sitting on the complete disintegration of Indonesia, nothing less.’

Blood flushed into Colonel Jayakatong’s head at the mention of East Timor. He had been chased through a jungle trail there, humiliated by Australian soldiers, and he hit the table with a closed fist. ‘Australians! Asia’s white trash! They are to blame for so much unrest within our country.’

Lanti Rajasa spoke in a low voice, ‘Many Indonesians feel as you do, Colonel.’