Mister Bagus

Prologue

Part one

Work could be so dull. Bambi lost concentration. Her schedule was wrecked. Pumping the shaft faster to counter a discernible loss of pressure, she stopped sucking the knob to talk. You couldn’t stop halfway. It wasn’t done. In vain, she searched for rousing words to help get another disgusting chump over the line. She wondered how to move up the pay curve.

Bimbos were in oversupply and cheap. Despite excellent technique, after one fuck, even a good one, Johns wanted a new shape or colour, anything really, to conquer boredom with a fungible commodity. Bambi needed pricing power if she was going to properly punish the sex addicted losers for staying alive.

Old guys beat younger cheapskates but the extra time they needed undermined unit profitability. Worse, being late meant lost revenue. If she didn’t turn up without calling she was flaky. Naturally, if she did call she never said the last fool couldn’t come but clients thought it. Suggesting dick after dick fucked her relentlessly wouldn’t fly, certainly not first class. Not even premium economy. Yet she needed all of them. Acting schools weren’t cheap. She wanted a big life. To make a difference, Bambi had to be famous, like an actor.

The elderly market required a strategy or she’d fuck longer for less. Economics was real. Maybe it was everything and that Milton Friedman guy was right, there was no free lunch. If geriatrics were the ones who could pay, well, that was it. You can’t ignore market forces.

For this client Bambi offered a simple and primitive service, one in which women knew their place and by leaning forward onto the patterned wallpaper the relic managed to poke her in the eye. He relieved some weight from his knees which straddled her to find a mirror confronting his sagging face. It reflected a television from across the room. Although it was muted, Fox News helpfully displayed pithy captions. One hijacked his attention. Unfortunately, the effort of reading backwards distracted him.

Colorado was taking in more tax revenue than it could spend. In a stroke of administrative genius the state was the first to license recreational marijuana shops. A flood of enthusiastic stoners had rescued the budget. Crime plummeted. Tourism boomed. Domestic violence fell too on the back of crashing booze consumption, or so commentators said. Politicians cut police and prisons to spend on health, rehabilitating druggies and education.

Other states were looking at the model. Editorially, Fox News was incensed. You couldn’t ever find and lock up enough criminals. Besides, for Fox, a law of nature decreed social engineers couldn’t be trusted. Dutifully, the Senator agreed. The whole country was on a slippery slope to hell and as Fox said, the evidence was right there on TV, plain for all to see. It was an emergency.

Bambi sensed the emergency too. Men believed in pursuing power as an end in itself. It could easily distract them. She knew what to do, talking dirty worked. Come bad boy, come now. Blow my face big star, like that stud in your favourite movie.

The prompt renewed the sixty five year old’s focus on the job at hand. His mind’s eye replayed Debbie doing Dallas. Bambi pouted provocatively at the tip of his penis and licked it, concentrating on encircling the reddening glans. She pulled his scrotum, tickled his anus with a glossy pink fingernail and locked onto his eyes, Does wifey do this bad boy?

Still it was a struggle to wrestle his thoughts away from his beloved party and the looming political catastrophe. He thanked a merciful god when he won the battle, Oh Lord. Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He ejaculated an unimpressive dribble. Semen dripped haphazardly into a sticky pool in the hollow between Bambi’s breasts. One feeble squirt lobbed tentatively towards Bambi’s face although she anticipated the pasty missile and evaded it deftly. It landed on the fine cotton pillow case. To Bambi, the episode exemplified the battle for primacy between the two halves of man. One focused on how much he meant to the world and the other how much he meant to himself.

I’m late. Gotta shower and split.

Bambi slipped from between flabby legs, wiped her chest on the top sheet and reached for a shoulder bag on the bedside cabinet. She took a small flat metal tin from her purse. A manicured pinkie flicked the lid open and extracted a sniff of white powder. Maintaining energy was the signature quality of her product. A tired or bored performance was as down market as the idea of a high volume offering.

With fifty for the face shot, it’s four hundred all up.

The casual exposure to her drug habit was viscerally offensive. He felt tempted to slap her but of course it was just one sin of so many. Besides, he was distracted and even a little too hurt by the extra fee to worry about it.

What? It missed. You said you liked it?

A professional, Bambi suppressed a spontaneous urge to laugh so as to enjoy some derision later. She inflated ego bubbles, she didn’t burst them. She smiled demurely. It’s all part of the service big boy. Maybe you’ll get me in the mouth next time. She poked out her tongue, very slowly, to make the point a little more clearly.

He smiled. She was hot. Also, she always got him to the grand finale which was quite a relief at his age. Besides, there was no time to argue over fifty bucks. He dropped four crisp notes on the bed, well aware it was worth it to keep his illusions in place for next time, and put his trousers on.

After checking himself in a full length swivel mirror he forgot Bambi and stepped into the hotel corridor as if he owned the place, heading for the lifts in a hurry, to save a legacy. There was an opportunity to enlarge his faction’s influence instead of watching it shrivel. It was time to strike and steer the party to the further reaches of the right at last. He pressed a tiny phone to his ear. A minion soon answered, Yes Sir?

The Colorado thing. Hey, even some party faithful are thinking to support it. Cutting back on policing and even shutting fuckin prisons? What is this? This is precisely why we pay you Raymond. Do something.

Yes Sir, we are. But what more can we do? They’re cutting taxes despite extra spending on education and health. Business likes it and the courts are de-clogging. It’s dividing our base. Some are debating the war on drugs as if there really are policy options. Should we risk making the split permanent this early? Before we see how it plays out?

If we fragment any more we can kiss the next two elections goodbye. That’d screw the party forever. Hell, divisions on abortion and marriage equality are killing us. The war on drugs is the only uniting thing we’ve got left. We don’t do politically correct debate on evidence based fuckin policy. What about the word of god, remember right and fucking wrong? Our brand is hard right. Fuck Raymond, if we’re not certain about this war nobody is and voters don’t need us anymore. It’s about backs against a wall, moral guardians and fighting the good fight. Otherwise, we’re nothing but pinko fuckin socialists.

Sorry Sir, I get it. We do have something underway. Our man in Indonesia is onto this. We’ve tracked a guy there who can be the perfect untraceable intermediary.

That’s exactly what we need, but we need it now, some righteous fear, to unite folks and line them all up behind god’s will, before it’s too late. He moves in mysterious ways, in a dangerous world and we surely need him. That’s our message.

Right Sir. We need the right angle. Something that’s big enough to do it has to come from outside. There can’t be any strands leading back to us. But we can speed the project up if you want. Everything is in place.

Will it give us something solid, an outrage linked to the evil traffic?

We’re going to spark the biggest cartel war ever, close to the border. That will do it Sir. Who knows what those fuckers will do, other than it will be crazy bad. It’ll probably leverage the unchecked immigration thing as well. We’d grab back some momentum in the south.

Do it now, don’t wait. Amen soldier. He flipped shut the phone and waved to the concierge as he stepped up to the hotel’s massive revolving doors.

The concierge followed him around the airlock and stepped out into cold Washington air. In an expert and fluid movement he swiped a twenty, hailed a cab and opened the rear door as it pulled up, Thank you again for your custom Reverend. I hope we see you again the next time you visit the capital Sir.

The Senator shook the man’s hand through the cab’s half open window as the driver released the brakes, God blesses you son. Thank you. As the window closed against a cold rush of air he wondered, in the manner of a mortal god, about the distant events he had set in motion.

Part two

On the other side of the globe events were already going awry in a labyrinth of commonplace disorder. Sunlight rained down on Jalan Medan Mederka through a freakish break in the thick cloud cover. Powerful rays bounced from a large rectangular blue pool and into a square white building. Stately gardens ringed an imposing building which was deliberately set well back behind high masonry walls. In the time honoured colonial tradition the rendered walls hid enough reinforcing steel to build a battleship.

Across the road in Mederka Square an aspiringly impressive monument celebrated the hopes of nationhood in the form of a sate stick skewering the sky. The enormous masonry spike stood at the centre of the grassy quadrangular greens to mark the epicentre of Indonesian government.

Weakly filtered sunlight invited Eugene Caulfield to pause his interminable work of entering data into a thankless computer by reminding him he needed to wipe his brow. Beads of sweat conspired to pool and drip onto his keyboard. It was another hot and steamy day in Jakarta. The sun had found the perfect angle to shine onto the US Embassy’s ornamental pool and through an unprotected window to heat Eugene’s cubicle and thwart the vital work of empire.

For Eugene, another obstacle in Asia was nothing new. He simply hoped it wouldn’t rain again today to spoil his plans for lunch. With the endless heat it would’ve been nice to go for a refreshing swim first though. The pool he could see from his second floor window was far too shallow. It served no function other than to give an impression of cool relief where there was none. Rows of small fountains sprayed water droplets into the humid atmosphere shaped like balls down the centre of the pool as if they were suspended in mid-air.

A stack of surveillance reports remained steadfastly unread, clogging his in-tray. A pile of dreary infinity was the only constant in his new life. If he let it, the inevitability of a never ending In-tray made him feel utterly defeated. In this battle the big clock on the wall was his enemy. Ticks critically measured moments to report on the depressingly slow progress of his life. The big hand was stuck a few minutes before lunch-time. He gave up waiting for the clock to make its move and prepared to go out to his favourite restaurant.

It was the first day of his second year at the embassy. A small pay increment was due. For an ambitious young person with a degree in international relations, making it to Junior Analyst Grade 2 wasn’t something he planned to write home about. Still, moving up the chain was nice.

He’d been checking his email account every few minutes. It felt silly but he made up stories to pass the time. Sometimes they took on a life of their own to compel him as this one had. Confirmation emails usually took a week. If he got his any earlier he could take it as a sign of being noticed.

At twenty two his career was stuck in a painfully slow lane. All he could think about was someday being a real spy. If he really had to, he’d spend another year in a little cubicle extracting data out of routine reports, but thinking about it too much would drive him absolutely nuts.

Just when he was about to give up on one more obsession the email did come in early. Exactly as expected it boldly set out that his new pay rate had gone up three percent from a base of very little, by western standards anyway. Nevertheless, he looked up at the camera and smiled. Somebody up there was aware of him, he knew it. He logged out of his computer, took off his tie and headed for the heavily guarded exits.

He always smiled at the Indonesian guards as he passed through the heavy iron gates which formed the second last layer of security after the identity and screening checkpoint but behind the obligatory bollards. He wanted to see if he could get a smile in return. It never worked but he kept at it to hone his skills in noticing the little things. One day, he thought, acute attention to details might just keep him alive.

In the government precinct the wide streets weren’t overly crowded for such a densely populated oriental city but it was far too hot to walk all the way around the main roads to the Penang Bistro. There was a back way to get through to Jalan Kebon Sirih and that way was only about five hundred meters. Although abductions and attacks were very rare, they could happen and it wasn’t recommended for staff to take back streets. But he didn’t want to get too sweaty and even the shorter walk could sometimes be enough for a full body sweat to begin. Getting drenched in sweat always spoiled the ambience of lunch.

The Bistro had live music on Tuesday, Friday and Sunday nights. Eugene went there often to sit alone, drink beer and re-read his favourite English espionage novels. The English knew how to write spy stories with their naturally understated menace and the many subtle shades which separated loyalty from treason. There were cheaper places but the food was the best and with the rising American dollar everything was cheap to Eugene. Besides he had made it through a year and he thought he should mark the milestone with a little celebration. After all, some people would regard it as a promotion.

A waiter who knew him as a regular led Eugene to his usual table by the large glass windows. He arranged the angle of his chair so he could easily watch the street and the door. Then he set about studying the menu. He had his favourites and he knew he’d eventually opt for the Hong Kong style seafood Kway Teow. The thick rice noodles had a wonderful texture and the chef managed to get the dark sauce just right. They sprinkled finely chopped fresh coriander over it as well. As a celebration, today he would begin with some hot and sour soup because Eugene was fond of spicy broth and especially the slices of galangal which he chewed to extract their pungently bitter flavour.

He could have both for only eighty five thousand Rupiah. With a beer and a water he’d make it under one hundred thousand. That was around seven dollars and he could afford to spend triple that every day for lunch if he wanted. He studied the menu in case there was a better combination but his thoughts drifted. He was so intent on imagining what his bosses were thinking of him in their exclusive top floor lair that he forgot to keep track of people coming and going in the street. He was cursing a lapse of effective street craft and when a beautiful blonde Caucasian woman stepped into the restaurant he didn’t notice her.

It got worse for Eugene when she stepped up to his table so close that she pressed her elegant skirt against the white cotton tablecloth and startled him. Her smiling face belonged to a person he suspected of being a senior attaché to the Embassy. He’d seen her hanging out with all the big bosses. Eugene never got close enough to a person like this to speak to them.

Hi Eugene, I’m Taylor Lawson from upstairs. What a surprise to see you here. Hey congratulations on your promotion. Do you mind if I join you?

She sat down opposite Eugene without waiting for his reply. The waiter hurried over with another menu. Taylor waved it away, Shark fin soup please, and a small beer in the bottle.

The waiter turned expectantly to Eugene, The same. Thanks.

Taylor smiled sweetly, We’ve had our eyes on you young man. It’s lucky to see you here, I rarely come here anymore. You know I’ve been planning to invite you for an informal chat about how you’re going. Is it ok with you to have a chat now?

Eugene’s frustrated ambition spilled out as a desire to please, Of course. Yes I’d love that Taylor, can I call you Taylor?

Great. Yes, please call me Taylor.

Eugene knew this was the seventh heaven without thinking for a moment about what might be in the other six. It was enough to know he was having lunch with a real spy and chatting about work.

I’m sure you’d like to get into the more interesting stuff, isn’t that right Eugene?

I really would Taylor. Anything at all. I won’t let you down.

We do need some more good people who know their way around down here. Hey, you should take a holiday. It’s real important to get to know the place. You should go to Bali. That’s what the locals do.

Eugene smiled, I’d like that. I’ll definitely make plans for my next block of leave. I haven’t got a whole week up at the moment.

Eugene, don’t wait, just go. Hell, I’m sure a person of your ability can work something out.

I suppose if I could get two days off without pay I could go for nine days?

Good thinking. It’s quiet there this time of year.

Eugene felt the conversation stall and in the void he wondered what to say. Before he could make up his mind Taylor lent forward so that her face was uncomfortably close to his and she smiled. In a husky whisper she surprised him when she said, Can we really trust you Eugene?

Eugene had waited all his life for words like these. He was being sized up. It was a test. He swallowed and nodded his head, Yes you can Taylor.

Off the grid? This is for real Eugene. No going back. So you need to tell me right now if you want to stay as a desk jockey. And of course that would be perfectly fine for you to choose that option. Ok?

Sure Taylor, no going back.

Taylor leant back again and took a thin file and two brown envelopes out of her bag. She opened the file and placed a thin and elegant pointer finger on a man in a photo of an immigration queue. Rainer Bayer, a German travelling under a different name arrived in Denpasar yesterday. It’s all in here.

She closed the file and pushed it over to Eugene with the envelopes.

After some recent ructions he’s probably the head guy of a global Ayran bikie gang. He’s just a basic crim but his group may be able to help us with something highly sensitive. We need someone to watch him for a few days and maybe give him the bigger brown envelope if things stack up. No records. You get it?

I get it Taylor.

The other envelope is for your expenses. You’re on holiday. Take this phone, leave yours in your desk. Definitely don’t use it. No names. Get a flight after work. Someone will call you.

What should I say on my leave application?

Don’t disappoint us Eugene. How do you think off the grid works? I hope I wasn’t wrong about recommending you for this. It isn’t going to be too hard for you to work it out is it? Maybe your mother died again, who knows? Just get to Kuta Beach tonight.

Taylor stood up and left several large denomination notes on the table. Eugene motioned to stand but she put her hand on his shoulder, No, we leave separately. Good luck Eugene.

Eugene was left to wait for their drinks and food and pay the bill. He considered staying to luxuriate in his joy at being a spy at last. It was always going to be just a matter of luck and time. Now that the time had come Eugene gave his inner spy’s instincts full rein. The number one rule is to stay calm so you can get to rule two. Number two, consider all the angles. So that was what he did as he glanced inside the file to read some of the intriguing text and wondered if things felt right. But, of course they didn’t. If things had he wouldn’t have been a spy and all this wouldn’t have been a matter of espionage.

Instead of congratulating himself and enjoying what was now going to be an expensive lunch, he pushed his chair back and planned his exit just as the waiter brought two cold bottles of Bintang to the table. He checked the camera in the mobile phone and left without eating lunch to follow Taylor. He imagined it was what she would have done if she was him.

Chapter one

Hello Bule. Do you need a hat? Maybe you want a rip off, like a watch, sunglasses or something else? An ‘I love Bali’ t-shirt? Of course not, you already have these things. Yet another thing isn’t what you need when your bag is full. So don’t worry. I’m not selling anything. My name is Ketut and there is big trouble in Bali. Your people brought it here I think. It all got stirred into the Bali cooking pot to make a complicated mush indeed.

A crowd had gathered at the end of the lane we call Poppies One. That’s not unusual, it is a very busy place. The lane leads into Jalan Pantai Kuta, the narrow road leading all the way along the beach which separates a dense and exotic coterie of buildings, businesses and sweat from the long flat beaches we call Kuta and Legian. It’s where the beating heart of Bali meets the sea.

I was sitting on the bottom marble step of the Maharini Beach Hotel smoking one of the Gold Medal Bali brand cigars. They are more expensive than the Bali Lugong brand being so much thicker and more luxurious as they are. At that moment my inclination was to say what the hell to the extra expense. In this painful life what point could there ever be in scrimping and saving. I tipped my head back and blew a big cloud of the rich tobacco smoke into the air through my nostrils. It is the way I savour all the smoky flavours. It was a huge nicotine rush for me. I don’t smoke tobacco much.

Floppy yellow police tape held the crowd back as if it had some sort of magical repellent power. It dangled in the limp air. I’m sure if it was more substantial everyone would have pressed against it. As things stood, people who I knew were full of grog, and no doubt plenty of other dodgy stuff, showed the flimsy obstacle an unusually morbid respect. We are definitely improving our crime scene techniques and while the yellow checker tape looked sort of professional in this instance it was holding as many people in as out. I certainly couldn’t see the point of putting it there, at the end of the lane because on this side there are more hotels and businesses than you could count.

Anyway, somehow on the outside they knew it separated them from macabre and unnatural death. One of my men stood there just in case a gawker had to get through to go to their hotel. We always have to be practical in Bali. There is never any point in spoiling anyone’s cheap holiday if you don’t have to.

I remember noticing Plumeria flowers were doing their utmost to attract unwary sphinx moths. Through a considerable smoke plume, amongst other less than beautiful sensations, I could still smell their insistent fragrance as it mingled with salt and humidity to produce the unique smell of wet season Bali. White flowers with yellow flames in the core of each petal littered the ground. Most tourists just step on them and it’s odd. I’d only just noticed the frangipani tree as well. It was growing so happily across grey concrete paving of the narrow laneway right in the middle of an asphalt and concrete jungle. The flowers seem to produce extra fragrance at night to deceive the moths. They don’t have any nectar but I don’t think the moths have worked this out yet. Either that or they love the smell just like I do.

Some idiot had chosen the base of the tree to deposit a foul smelling spew, probably pizza and beer although it could have been noodles and bourbon for all I knew. Fragrant flowers are provided to help us cope with things like that. I didn’t want to think any more about the puke and instead I concentrated on listening to hear the waves breaking behind the brick wall dividing the road from the beach. The still air was steaming and humid under a black moonless sky. Heat from