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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,