Having completed the Lok Kok report in Davidson’s office – a version that emphasised South African mercenaries and Korean duplicity – they set out shortly before 10 am and were driven into the underground security area of Parliament House, a strange-looking building that sat inside a hill in the middle of Australia’s capital.

‘I’m not sure about this, mate,’ said Mac as they accepted lanyards and were shown into the bowels of the building. They were heading for a meeting of the National Security Committee in Cabinet – the Prime Minister, Deputy Prime Minister, Minister for Foreign Affairs and Minister for Defence. The NSCC was briefed regularly by the peak intelligence body, the Office of National Assessments, and often the ONA briefers held experts in reserve in case the politicians wanted more detail.

‘Start getting real sure, real fast,’ said Davidson as they swept into an anteroom filled with intelligence analysts from ONA, Defence and Treasury. ‘Because I told John you were the best on Indon political economy – you’re standing in for Karl Berquist.’

‘What?!’ said Mac, still wondering what the Gleeson meeting meant for his career. ‘I’m standing in for a director?’

‘Yeah – and one who listens more than he talks, okay?’ said Davidson, turning to leave.

The meeting was held on the other side of the closed doors and Mac found himself sitting in the anteroom, pondering East Timor and Indonesia. In December 1975, the Indonesian military had launched Operation Lotus, which saw elite soldiers and paratroopers invade the tiny remnant of the Portuguese empire after the local commies and non-commies had screwed up Portugal’s handover by fighting among themselves. Australia had turned a blind eye to Soeharto’s lightning raid on the territory; Catholic East Timor became the twenty-seventh province of the world’s most populous Muslim nation and was plunged into almost constant war between the local Falintil guerrillas who had taken to the hills, and the Indonesian Army, which quickly claimed all trade concessions in the province’s economy. Now, Soeharto had been gone for eighteen months, full democracy was on the horizon for South-East Asia’s largest nation and the new president, BJ Habibie, had acceeded to the Australian Prime Minister’s request to allow the East Timorese to vote for independence. The Indonesian Army had responded by creating proxy militias which were intimidating and killing pro-independence activists on the island. Looming over the whole scenario was the Asian economic crisis, which had drastically devalued the rupiah, ruined a lot of banks and plunged Indonesia into virtual bankruptcy.

He turned to the man sitting next to him, Colonel Sandy Beech, a military intelligence officer Mac had met in England nine years ago. ‘What you up here for, mate?’ said Mac.

‘Fucking Timor – but they won’t ask me in there,’ Beech said, flicking his thumb at the heavy wooden door of the meeting room. ‘It’s a waste of time coming down for this.’

‘Why?’ said Mac, as both of them checked to see if the Treasury girl typing on a laptop was listening.

‘Government’s in a holding position on East Timor – doesn’t suit them right now to hear about the village clearances and the intimidation of the UN ballot workers.’

‘Greater good, right?’

Snorting, Beech shook his head. ‘I’m in the UN crew in East Timor, right? And I tell you, Macca, those people are not happy campers.’

‘UN’s not protected?’ said Mac, surprised.

‘Lot of AFP women up there, mate, out in the boonies, and they are getting the creeps – these militias are using rape to terrorise the pro-independence villages.’

‘And they can’t carry arms?’ asked Mac.

‘Ha!’ said Beech. ‘I told my command that we needed some support up there, and they gave me a satellite phone.’

‘What – to call Mum when you get macheted?’ said Mac.

‘It’s turning to custard, Macca – if we have a ballot, it’ll be a miracle.’

It was almost 1 pm when the big door swung back and voices flooded into the anteroom. Feeling the pangs of hunger, Mac assumed they were going to be dismissed for lunch.

‘McQueen?’ said a smiling bureaucrat, and Mac found himself on his feet, walking into a large meeting room dominated by an oval table with no centre to it. The politicians sat at the head of the table, the ONA analysts at the other end, with a long table behind them staffed by assistants with files and laptops.

Taking the seat offered among the ONA hacks, Mac sat down. The Minister for Defence looked at a silver pen he tapped on the desktop but he was addressing Mac.

‘There’s some debate about this Wiranto chap,’ said the minister, referring to the commander of the Indonesian armed forces and Minister for Defence, General Wiranto. ‘We’re fairly sure he’s coordinating the Timorese militias responsible for all this violence. But you’re actually on the ground up there, Mr McQueen – how do Wiranto’s political ambitions fit with the Timor situation?’

Leaning forward, Mac kept Davidson’s warning in mind. ‘Sir, I don’t know.’

The room broke into laughter, the Prime Minister finding that particularly funny. But beside him Mac felt the ONA leader bristle.

‘Could I ask it another way?’ said the Minister for Foreign Affairs, whose jolly round face belied a great intellect. ‘How does politics in Jakarta relate to Timor – in your opinion?’

‘I don’t think you can separate the economy from what’s happening in East Timor.’

‘You can’t?’ asked the Minister for Foreign Affairs.

‘Well, the Asian economic crisis has uncovered institutional and sociopolitical cracks that were papered over by the trappings of middle-class success. The economy meant the end of Soeharto, the economy started the street riots and the capital flight of the Chinese business elite, and the economy is also seeing the rise of Megawati and the interference of the IMF…’

‘And?’ asked the minister.

‘Well, General Wiranto runs one of the largest financial institutions in Indonesia – the military – and at a time when the rupiah is fifteen per cent of what it was worth two years ago, export resources such as those on East Timor are not to be relinquished lightly – they represent earnings in US dollars and deposits in Singapore bank accounts.’

‘You’re saying this is about money?’ asked the Minister for Defence.

‘I’m saying that Wiranto is stuck between a president who wants the East Timorese to vote on independence, and a general staff that doesn’t want to lose income and power. The claim that it’s all about Wiranto making a run at the presidency – well, he’s had opportunities for a coup, and he hasn’t taken them; he was offered the powers of dictatorship by Soeharto. Most Indonesians think he’s a constitutionalist.’

‘What about Wiranto’s role in this violence? In East Timor?’ said the Minister for Foreign Affairs, looking out the window.

‘Can’t comment, sir – all the intel I’ve seen says the militias are controlled and funded from Jakarta,’ said Mac.

‘That what the locals are saying?’ asked the minister.

‘No, sir – the locals are worried about jobs, mortgages and prospects for their children, not a bunch of communists running around in the hills of a province that they couldn’t even find on a map.’

The meeting ended forty seconds later and Mac noticed the ONA guys sulking while the politicians smiled at him.

As Mac exited through the anteroom, Sandy Beech was still seated, talking on his mobile phone. The one Australian who was actually on the ground in East Timor was not going to be heard.