Monroe followed the PFC as he wound his way through the harrowing scene towards a man wielding a saw behind a jury-rigged curtain of opaque plastic sheeting. He looked up. ‘CIA?’
‘Yes, sir. Atticus Monroe.’ It wasn’t necessary to present identification.
‘Captain Stokes. I won’t shake your hand.’
Monroe nodded. The doctor’s hands were sheathed in gloves streaked with gore.
‘Someone over here you should talk to,’ said the doctor.
Stokes handed the saw to his assistant, an Indonesian, and moved to another gurney. A woman dressed in filthy battle fatigues lay on it, both legs ending in bloody cotton gauze dressing just below the knees. A morphine drip fed into her arm.
‘This is Sergeant Jane Hennert. She was on the front entrance when the bomb went off. Whoever did this went through her.’
‘Sergeant…’ said the doctor quietly. The woman opened her eyes.
In a whisper, she said, ‘Cameras…cameras.’ The woman’s eyes closed, moistened with tears, as the morphine took her away.
The doctor peeled off his gloves and dropped them in the bucket under the gurney. He put a hand on her forehead and stroked it. The sergeant’s conscious mind had retreated way back from the light, where it was dark and cool and safe.
The doctor looked up. ‘She didn’t want me to give her morphine,’ he said, indicating the drip, ‘but the shock of the injuries would have killed her. She told me she let the bomber in, a photographer. Something about the feel of the cameras. It’s not much…’ he said again.
‘Okay, thanks, doc,’ said Monroe. ‘Will she live?’
‘Hard to say,’ said the doctor. ‘Four broken vertebrae, broken arm, her legs gone. She also has a sub capsular bleed in her spleen.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Monroe.
‘It’s not as bad as a ruptured spleen, but almost. Extremely painful and dangerous, but,’ he said, taking a deep breath, ‘we’ve got worse on our hands and she’ll have to wait. As to whether she survives or not…’ The doctor looked her over as if considering the verdict. ‘Well, she’s fit, but…who knows? A lot depends on her mental fitness. If she holds herself responsible for this…I don’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘Sorry, Mr Monroe. Gotta get back to it. Find your own way out?’
‘Yeah, thanks.’
‘If we get anything else, I’ll send for you,’ said the doctor behind him as he walked off to settle a man who had started screaming.
An Indonesian nurse scurried past carrying a bucket of water with a hand towel in it. Atticus stopped her and took the towel, squeezing the excess water from it. He wiped the streaked dirt from the sergeant’s face and whispered. ‘It’s not your fault…not your fault…’
Townsville, Queensland, Australia
Annabelle Gilbert prided herself on her detachment when reading the news, but as the report she read revealed the deterioration in Indonesia, her stomach began to churn.Tom will be leaving again soon, I know it…
The news service footage from Indonesia and Malaysia was frightening. Jakarta and Kuala Lumpur, the capital cities of both countries, were filled with demonstrators burning and looting in support of the US Embassy bombers, whoever they were. The governments of these countries were doing their best to contain the anger — armoured vehicles, army and police were on the streets — but it was difficult for them to stamp hard on the demonstrations because the uprisings appeared to be mainstream rather than promoted by fringe elements.
She watched as an Indonesian policeman fell under a charge from people wielding sticks, their faces covered by handkerchiefs and balaclavas. They kicked and beat him brutally until other police could come to his aid. Then the tables turned and it was the civilians’ turn to receive a hammering. People were throwing Molotov cocktails at the police line and several cars were burning fiercely.
The autocue on the clear glass plate in front of the camera rolled forward and Annabelle read, present in body but not in mind: ‘Similar demonstrations in apparent support of the bombing have broken out in many other major cities in the region, but nowhere more so than in Indonesia. Australian authorities have reiterated that travel warnings are in force for Indonesia, Malaysia, Vietnam and Thailand, as well as for Great Britain and the United States. The United States as well as Britain and the Netherlands have issued similar alerts, including Australia in their assessment of high-risk countries. To find out how the US is reacting to this latest outrage, we’ll be back after this…’
The program producer cut to an ad break featuring several sporting personalities singing badly about the virtues of a particular breakfast cereal. It was banal but reassuring at the same time, a superficial reminder of what the world used to be like. A movement in the corner of Annabelle’s eye caught her attention as she shuffled the papers in front of her. It was Tom, smiling, but rubbing the top of his head with his hand. Shit… She knew he hated coming to the studio, and he only came when he had to depart in a hurry — it was better than leaving a note.
Wilkes looked at his fiancée. Even under the hot television lights she seemed calm and cool. He shuffled uncomfortably, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He’d have been more comfortable on his belly, wriggling through the bush under a stream of machine gun tracer than in this place. He felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘Hey, Wilko, how’s it hangin’, dude?’
Wilkes knew who it was before he looked. Barry Weaver, the producer.
‘New Guinea rocked, eh?’ he said.
‘Hi, yeah. How’s it going?’ said Wilkes, making a supreme effort to be polite.
‘Sweet. So, still saving the world?’
‘Oh, you know…’ Wilkes didn’t have a clue what to say. He couldn’t relate to some of these people on any level and he prayed for rescue. Just as the thought formed, he felt a pair of lips on his cheek and a familiar perfume enveloped him.
‘Hi, Tom,’ Annabelle said, slipping an arm through his. ‘Barry…’ And just like that, the man was dismissed. Annabelle had that kind of power. ‘Let’s get out of here and get naked,’ she whispered in Wilkes’s ear.
Warrant Officer Tom Wilkes looked at the digital clock beside the bed. It was just before midnight. He and Annabelle had argued back and forth for most of the evening. The subject of the argument had once again been his job, that he regularly put his life on the line any time his superiors deemed it necessary to do so. Nothing new there, but the disturbing twist was Annabelle’s attitude, her moral upper hand in the discussion. They were getting married and that meant she now had a say. In him, what he did. Wilkes lay in the darkness, looking at the ceiling, and thought about the not-so-subtle shift in the dynamic between them. It occurred to him that the older he became, the less he was his own man. He’d seen this happen often enough to others in the regiment. Things went reasonably well until a man got married, and not particularly well after it. Annabelle’s point was a common refrain: she wanted him to get a regular job, whatever that was. Wilkes knew what it wasn’t — jumping out of planes, storming buildings, his usual nine to five. Annabelle hadn’t been able to tell him what kind of job she thought would be regular, probably because she knew him well enough not to suggest the ones on the tip of her tongue. The discussion had progressed to argument and then on to a full-blown fight, which had become pretty heated. Things had been silent for five minutes, but he could hear Annabelle breathing and see her ribs expanding, rising and falling. She was sucking it in, pissed off.