Crocodile Tears by Alan Carter

Author:Alan Carter
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fremantle Press
Published: 2021-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

João Ximenes lived in a villa up in the hills behind Dili. He wasn’t that far from Xanana Gusmão’s place according to Sam. Xanana – Timor’s Che Guevara, now comfortably semi-retired. Far below them, the city sat hunched on the shore, shrouded in a light sea mist.

‘My parents came up here in nineteen seventy-five,’ said Rosa. ‘They watched the Indonesian ships bombard the city. Saw the paratroopers floating out of the sky. Watched our homes burn.’

‘Does anywhere in this country not have a history lesson attached to it?’ wondered José.

‘Nowhere,’ said Rosa. She looked ahead. ‘Next left. The high gate and the guard dogs.’ There was an intercom at the gate, she spoke into it: a brief exchange with a man’s voice. Rosa’s tone became terse then the gate slid open.

‘He’s home?’ asked Cato.

‘And happy to chat,’ said Sam. ‘He’s always been a publicity tart. Puts out a press release when he takes a dump.’

That fitted with the brief internet search Cato had conducted. The man enjoyed the limelight. Maybe he felt untouchable and maybe he was right. Or maybe it would be his undoing. They drove up a steep driveway past two chained and barking Dobermans. Another fifty metres or so on and the vegetation was more lush, well-watered and tended. Some vivid tropical flowers, the kind that might eat a small animal. Ximenes himself was there to greet them at the top of the drive accompanied by a young woman in a bikini. He was wearing sunnies, dressed in shorts, thongs and a Bintang singlet, holding a machete.

‘That for us?’ whispered José.

‘It’s his trademark, what he’s famous for,’ said Sam. ‘Think Clint Eastwood and his Magnum, Gary Ablett and a Sherrin.’

‘We’ll do the talking,’ said Rosa. ‘Don’t speak until we tell you.’

They all shook hands. While Rosa and Sam explained their business in more detail, Cato took stock. Ximenes looked all of his fifty-odd years. Since the last business photo Cato had seen of Ximenes at the oil and gas conference in Perth, the hair had been allowed to grow out again, covering his ears and creeping down the neck in reminiscence of his famed mullet of twenty years ago. There was grey at the temples and in his unshaven stubble. A man on the slide, or just on holiday? The once gym-honed body had paunched out but still looked like it harboured great strength. The sunglasses turned out to be self-tinting prescription spectacles. He kept them on as he invited them all inside and back through to the rear patio and pool.

They took their seats at a poolside table and the young woman in the bikini went to bring some refreshments.

‘Her name is Felicity,’ said Ximenes, noting José’s appreciative gaze. ‘So,’ he turned to Cato, ‘You have questions for me? Ask away, my English is very good.’

‘Thank you for taking the time to see us,’ said Cato.

He beamed. ‘Australia is a good friend of Timor-Leste. I am happy to help.’

Rosa showed great interest in the tiling around the pool.

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