Mark Lee - The Canal House

I left the hotel and walked through Darwin. It was a small, compact city that had been built on a plateau above the harbor. A cyclone had knocked down most of the historical sites in the seventies and the replacement buildings were clean and blandly modern. Aside from a cluster of government offices, it was a tourist town. Big chain hotels that looked like stacks of poker chips stood next to smaller restaurants and hostels set up for the backpacker crowd. September was supposed to be the beginning of a quiet time for the locals, but now Darwin was filling up with journalists and aid workers and soldiers from twenty countries. I could tell right away that the people I passed on the street weren’t there to take a tour of the crocodile farm or the pearl-diving exhibition. The United Nations had abandoned East Timor and now an international peacekeeping force was going to invade the country. Everyone seemed to be talking on mobile phones or hurrying down the sidewalk carrying manila envelopes.

I took a taxi to the airport to meet Daniel. Drivers from relief organizations were filling out greeting signs for their workers and a Portuguese army captain paced in front of the gift shop. Daniel’s plane arrived carrying business travelers and a platoon of Portuguese soldiers, nice young men who looked like they expected to go snorkeling. The soldiers were followed by a UN contingent, and then Daniel appeared carrying a single travel bag and his laptop computer.

“How’s the hotel?” he asked.

“It’s small, but okay. The air-conditioning works and the TV has CNN.”

“I got a message from Julia before I left Rome. She’s in Darwin Harbor, on a boat called the Seria.”

“And where’s Richard?”

Daniel glanced at me and forced a smile. “I’m sure he’s on the boat with Billy Monroe and a few Australians.”

“Right. They probably hired some local thugs.”

“Don’t be so harsh, Nicky. Put a necktie on a thug and he becomes a security consultant.”

Daniel checked into his room, then followed me down Mitchell Street through the city to the edge of the plateau that rose above the harbor. It was late in the day and the sun was low on the horizon. We could see nine military ships anchored in deep water, seven from the Australian navy, one from Britain, one from New Zealand—all part of the military task force that was going to take control of a very small country.

Stokes Hill Wharf was on one side of the harbor. It was a tourist destination with souvenir shops and restaurants. Fort Hill Wharf was a few hundred feet away. It was a fenced-off industrial area with a massive crane that was unloading twenty-foot-long cargo containers. Daniel and I followed a concrete walkway that led down the slope through some palm trees. We crossed the harbor road to Fort Hill Wharf, passed through a security gate and approached the Seria .

The ship was painted dark blue and rust marks trickled down from the scuppers. Seria was a city in Brunei, but the ship used an Indonesian crew and was flying a Liberian flag. If I had three or four years to waste I probably could have figured out who actually owned the ship. Later I learned that it was controlled by corporate shells within corporate shells, like a financial matrioshka doll.

We walked up the gangplank and an older Indonesian man with a wispy mustache appeared at the railing and spat blood into the water. He reached into a bag hanging from his belt and I realized that it wasn’t blood at all, but the brick-red spit from chewing betel nut. Some Indonesians believed siri pinang returned the blood of your birth back to the ground, but as far as I could see, it just made your teeth rotten.

“Not permitted,” the old man said.

“We’re looking for Dr. Cadell.”

“Must go way!” He spat again.

“Hello, there! What’s the problem?” An older European man with a Dutch accent appeared on deck. He wore leather sandals and dirty tennis shorts. “May I help you gentlemen?”

“We’re looking for Dr. Cadell.”

“Ahhh, you mean Julia. Pak only knows the first names of our passengers.” He spoke quickly to Pak using an island language. The Indonesian spat one last time, then turned and walked away.

“Sorry, gentlemen. Pak is rude as hell, but he’s a good first mate.” The Dutchman unfastened a rope and allowed us to come aboard. “Welcome to the Seria . I am Captain Peter Vanderhouten. You work for Hand-to-Hand?”

“No. We’re journalists.”

Vanderhouten rolled his eyes. “Please don’t mention my name in your articles. I’m neutral about everything. No politics. No opinions. I do a lot of business with the Indonesians and they’re angry about East Timor.”

“We’re friends of Dr. Cadell,” Daniel said. “Is she on board?”

“Yes. She just came back from Government House with Mr. Seaton.”

Vanderhouten led us down the port side of the ship, past the loading crane and the open cargo bay. I looked into the hold and saw pallets holding sacks of cornmeal and bottles of cooking oil.

“What do you carry when you’re not working for Hand-to-Hand?” Daniel asked.

“Coffee beans. Tea. Dry squid. Cloves. We’ll go anywhere. Load anything.”

“Ever been to East Timor?”

“TimTim? Sure, lots of times. There’s a sand bar at the east entrance to Dili Harbor. You have to come in slow through the channel, then turn west toward the wharf.”

We reached the starboard side and saw Julia, Richard, and Billy standing near the railing. All of them wore blue T-shirts with the Hand-to-Hand logo. Billy had gotten a sunburn and the skin on his head was red and peeling.

“Good evening,” Daniel said. “Anyone want to be interviewed?”

“Daniel! Nicky! Welcome to Australia!” Richard smiled and shook our hands. “When did you get in?”

“Just a few hours ago.” Daniel was standing near Julia, but they avoided looking at each other.

“Where are you staying?” Billy asked. “The Carlton or the Saville?”

“The Top End,” I said. “It’s over by the Holiday Inn.”

“Right. I know where it is.” Billy didn’t look impressed. “That’s the one near Lizard’s Bar.”

“Billy and Richard are staying at the MGM Grand Casino just outside of town,” Julia said. “It’s a perfectly hideous place with ugly old people tugging at slot machines.”

Richard looked amused, as if he had just encountered a child who hated ice cream. “It’s quiet, comfortable, and everything works.”

“It doesn’t make any difference where anyone stays,” Julia said. “I doubt if we’re going to be here long.”

Any sign of government control had vanished in East Timor, and Dili was being looted. After the independence vote the militia began forcing people onto boats to take them down the coast to the Indonesian province of West Timor. Julia described the violence as calmly as a State Department spokesman, but her hand trembled slightly when she pushed back her hair. Daniel began staring at her and that made me nervous. I still remembered Richard bursting into my bedroom at Westgate Castle.

“Well, I better get back to the hotel,” Richard said. “Time to catch up on e-mail and see what’s going on back in London.”

“You’ll check at the airport for the next shipment?” Julia asked.

“Of course. We’ll go there tomorrow morning.”

Billy winked at me like we were fellow conspirators. “Come and have dinner at the casino,” he said. “Wednesday is lobster night.”

The moment they left the ship, Daniel stepped forward and embraced Julia. “I missed you,” he said.

“Missed you, too.” They broke apart, still holding hands, and Julia smiled at me. “Sorry for the public affection, Nicky. Haven’t seen this one for a few months.”