Agus accepted that in this bittersweet transitional period from despotic rule to the promise of some semblance of democracy, he and others of his ilk would remain in financial jeopardy. Indonesia had flipped from being an international destination for fund managers, to that of pariah, the flood of investment funds exiting the republic fueling the crisis.
And now, the Brobdingnagian Bimaton conglomerate was, incredibly, perilously close to collapse. A two-billion-dollar satellite city development now valued at five-hundred million due to the Rupiah’s collapse had been the primary cause – Agus Sumarsono’s personal guarantees now threatening his core wealth.
Faced with the disconsolate economic landscape Agus recognized that his salvation would depend on frustrating the creditors until he could successfully restructure his conglomerate in such a manner as to attract further investment funds. Amongst the group assets that remained viable was his indirectly controlled construction company P.T. Young & Budiono which, due to its turnkey-oil and gas activities, continued to pump desperately needed cash flow into the Bimaton Group.
In ruminative mood Agus considered the expatriate, Greg Young, whose management skills and single-mindedness had guided the construction arm through the economic downturn. Young had remained at the Y & B company helm since going public and Agus would not have it any other way. The London-born engineer had proven an invaluable asset and, although Agus had seriously strained their relationship with demands on Y & B’s cash flow, he expected that Young would continue to toe the line.
Encumbered with the mounting pressures of the moment Agus gazed out through the office tower’s double-glazed windows, the city’s panorama impaired by haze. Even the majestic peaks of Gunung Salak and the Gunung Gede mountains were hidden from view, the momentary sense of isolation adding to his dispiritedness. Agus exhaled slowly; he had never felt so alone. He leaned over and touched an intercom button. ‘Call Greg Young and Andrew Graham and ask them to meet me at the club. Have the driver bring the Rolls to the front of the building then ring the course manager and tell him to book my foursome for a one o’clock tee-off.’
* * * *
Andrew Graham arrived half an hour before the others, eager to limber up on the driving range before the game – and to ensure that his customary caddy was available. Reminded of Agus Sumarsono’s competitive nature, Andrew relied heavily on the bare-footed Sundanese caddy to compensate for Agus’ natural swing. The caddy had saved the day on many an occasion with his enormous, splayed feet by simply picking Andrew’s golf ball from any impossible rest, and repositioning the cus-tomized Wilson unseen, in a more favorable lie.
Sitting, sipping an iced tea and observing other golfers going about their game, Andrew recognized David Shaw, an Australian diplomat who had only recently taken up the post of First Secretary, Political Affairs. Andrew knew from his own masters that this man headed the Australian Secret Service operations throughout Indonesia. The American’s interest grew when he identified General Suharman waddling off the eight-eenth green with Shaw. Minutes later Greg Young arrived.
‘Getting in some practice?’ Young asked.
Andrew chuckled. ‘And I have my usual caddy.’
Greg waved at a waiter then sat down, lowering his voice as his face became serious. ‘What’s up?’
Andrew sighed heavily. ‘Who knows with Agus? Maybe he’s just looking for some consolation in the company of those who can’t break his balls.’ Then, ‘Is he still bleeding your group’s cash flow to keep the rest of Bimaton afloat?’
Young shifted uneasily in the rattan chair. ‘Y & B can’t keep on going like this, Andy.’ A fleeting look around confirmed that none were within earshot. ‘We might not be in a position to post a performance bond for the next project.’
Although au courant with the kind of chicanery Agus Sumarsono practiced, Andrew’s brow corrugated with surprise. ‘I’m really sorry to hear that, Greg,’ he empathized, ‘I didn’t realize your situation was that tight.’ Andrew spotted Agus strutting into the clubhouse. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Can’t do much, unfortunately. I’m locked in. I’m still holding most of my original stock.’ Young shook his head despondently. ‘Fuck it!’ he cussed bitterly, ‘If I’d bailed out three, four years back I could have walked away with thirty million. Now, with the Asian markets deflated as they are, my holding isn’t worth shit; especially with Agus continuously milking the company’s coffers.’ He flicked an ant that had courageously ventured onto the glass-topped table. ‘Besides, with the stench of corporate Indonesia’s death driving would-be-investors even further a field, who in their right mind would even consider throwing capital into the country at this time?’ Young leaned back tilting the chair, crossed his arms and slowly filled his lungs. ‘And, as if we didn’t have enough to worry about, there’s rumor that before the end of the month Habibie’s going to cave to international pressure and permit a referendum in East Timor!’ Anger rising, he leaned forward and clenched fists under the table. ‘That should see an end to all offshore negotiations until the outcome is known.’
Andrew knew there was little of any consequence that his companion could do to prevent Agus from siphoning funds. ‘What will you do?’
The British engineer cum entrepreneur straightened his back. ‘Not much choice but stay in for the long run and just hope that he doesn’t suck the well completely dry.’
Andrew threw Greg a warning look. ‘Speak of the devil.’ Then, ‘isn’t that Mulyadi from the Bank of Asia?’
Greg swung his head around. ‘Surely is,’ he confirmed, sotto voce, ‘ the senior creditor in person.’ Disguising his concerns he winked at Andrew. ‘Lay you fifty to one Agus has him in his pocket by the end of the game.’
Andrew’s mouth curled at the corners. ‘If he hasn’t already…’
Bogor – Indonesia
Al-Faruq shuffled down through the sleepy village of Cijeruk with his wife Mira Agustina at his side. Arriving at the intersection he bid Mira farewell, reminding her of their pact, that if for whatever reason he did not return she was not to go searching for him. Armed with his recently-acquired ID card stating he was an Indonesian citizen and resident of Ambon, he hailed a minibus, offered his blessing to those already on board then, because of his limited Bahasa Indonesia lay back and closed his eyes pretending to sleep to avoid being drawn into conversation.
Following his exploits in the Philippines, the CIA sleeper had been ordered to Indonesia where he covertly established his credentials with local militant groups. Al-Faruq had blended in well by keeping a low profile, marrying locally, attending the mosque, and generally maintaining the appearance of a reserved, ungregarious person – his fellow villagers incognizant that there was an American spy in their midst. The former Kuwaiti terrorist’s long-term brief was to exploit his connections with al-Qaeda and infiltrate Indonesia’s emerging, militant Islamic organizations at every opportunity. And more recently, as a result of the 1998 bombings of U.S. embassies in Africa, he was also directed to gather intelligence regarding Saudi charities, such as the Al-Haramain Islamic Foundation, suspected of operating in Indonesia through fronts to disguise al-Qaeda’s inwards capital flow.
As the minibus continued on its way to Jakarta, al-Faruq appeared outwardly calm, his demeanor belying the bizarre situation in which he now found himself, actively participating as a terrorist in order that the United States remain informed. At times, his role playing became all too real, such as when along with an Indonesian trader by the name of Agus Dwikarna, he secretly co-founded a paramilitary group called Laskar Jundullah, the ‘Fighters of God’. Al-Faruq deliberated upon the discombobulated outcome his relationship with the Americans had generated and the absurdity of it all; that the United States was now providing him with the very means to further the terrorist cause – his activities