of the personnel and the security of the embassy’s contents; however, these were deliberately not evident to the eye of the casual visitor. There were six or seven offices directly off to his left as he had entered, the upper sections of their partitioning constructed with glass to permit visual contact between the offices while affording soundproof cubicles.
“Why all of the subterfuge, Dicky?” he asked, not yet comfortable with the first name basis this man had insisted apon.
“Riots, my man, riots,” he answered as if Coleman would automatically understand, but before he had the opportunity to delve into the idiosyncrasies of the passages with their strange access, Dicky was already opening the doors to the cubicles and introducing him to the officers at their desks.
“This is David, and that empty seat belongs to Alex Crockwell,” he indicated with another wave of his hand. “They are with the remnants of the Colombo Plan section and assist with Australian aid and information. I believe you have already met Alex. Where is Alex, David?” he asked, lips pursed not expecting more than a token response, and then deciding he would answer his own question.
“Of course,” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers, “you have already met our Alex. He was rostered as the duty officer to pick you up from the airport. I trust he took good care of you?”
“Yes, thanks Dicky, I certainly appreciated being met and assisted with the hotel check-in,” he lied, but somehow feeling that this man already knew more about Crockwell’s attitude than he let on.
The introductions continued as they passed from office to office, most offering no more than a cursory polite ‘welcome’ and displaying impatience at wanting to return to whatever they were engrossed in doing before being interrupted by the gregarious Consul.
“Well, that’s about it for here. Except, of course, your desk, which is over there next to the First Secretary’s. You can have Alex’s when he leaves. Bit cramped here, I’m afraid, but you’ll soon get used to the hang of things and once the new Embassy is built then we won’t have these problems of space, will we?”
“Where are the Military Attachés’ offices?” Coleman asked.
The Consul snapped his head ever so quickly back and his eyes narrowed considerably. “We will come to that shortly,” he answered, as if miffed.
Coleman immediately regretted his question. He should have remembered that the consulate section had limited security access and this had always been a bone of contention between the diplomatic service and consular offices since the first overseas emissaries were sent from country to country eons ago.
Consular officers were basically there to care for the citizens of the country they represented, whereas the main body of the Embassy housed not only Aid and Trade offices, but also sensitive sections such as the Military Attachés representing army, navy, and air force contingents. Even Federal Police sometimes maintained a presence as part of the international effort to prevent the flow of drugs from country to country.
The Ambassador, of course, as formal etiquette required, was equated to the rank of a Four-Star General in the host country. His authority was final. This is why the position was designated Ambassador, Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary. The Military Attachés naturally resented having to report to a civilian who probably did not understand their world of armaments and fighting, and often the mood during briefings reflected these differences.
When the need for the first Ambassadors became apparent more than a millennium before, they were sent as emissaries bearing gifts, offering peace and goodwill. They were trade representatives, not political officers. Somehow the two became confused as one, and this made it necessary for Ambassadors to carefully juggle the needs of both their country’s merchant houses and the militant forces waiting impatiently behind them.
“Another officer will take you through,” Dicky pouted, leaving the surprised Coleman uncomfortable, standing alone not quite sure of what he should do next.
As the door was pulled tightly closed by the departing Consul (if he could have slammed it, he would have happily done so!) another man appeared through yet another access adjacent to the last cubicle.
“Coleman?” was all he said, holding the door slightly ajar assuming the gesture was sufficient for him to follow.
“Yes,” was all he had the opportunity to say moving quickly to follow the man with the serious face.
He stepped inside and once again he heard the familiar click of another exit being locked behind him.
“I’m Peter Cornish,” the man stated, not extending his hand very far from his body.
“Stephen,” he responded. His surname would surely be known in here.
“Okay, Stephen, let’s go. I’ll introduce you around. Hope you smoke, everyone here does and there’s one hell of a lot of pressure
on right now.”
Coleman nodded, quickly evaluating what he saw.
There were five Australians present. Two were women. The outer section was relatively small. It was effectively a barrier. Keys were required to pass through the mini-reception which consisted of an observer’s window so that the inner-sanctum officers could identify the visitors without their being aware that they were being observed.
Past the double locked security door and to the right were a number of telex machines. All clattered away, out of synch with each other, creating a staggering amount of mechanical noise as they force-fed themselves information that had been retyped and converted through the deciphering monsters buried further inside, locked away from the scrutiny of even these operatives.
He passed several desks and continued down through a maze of filing cabinets into an area which housed two large refrigerators and an electric stove. Stacked to the ceiling on both sides of this walled-off section were cases of malt whisky, Jack Daniels Bourbon, Gordon’s Gin and Bacardi Rum. There were no soft drinks or sodas evident.
Squeezed into this already tight area was a desk on which a new Remington blazed away at unbelievable speed, its extended carriage holding oversized pages unlike anything Coleman had seen before. The young woman operating the machine, a desk officer, momentarily looked up and smiled before returning her attention to whatever it was at hand that demanded her full attention.
“This is Margaret. She knows who you are. Margaret is the senior secretary in this section,” he said, his voice almost monotone. “This is the First Secretary’s office.”
Coleman followed him into a cramped twelve-square-metre box. The desk, small as it was, carried more paper than Stephen believed possible. He looked around and asked, “Where is the First Secretary?” raising his voice more than he wanted, out of nervousness.
“That’s me. I’m the man,” Cornish answered, almost impatiently, then continued, “and you didn’t actually get off to a good start in this city did you?” he snapped, gesturing to Coleman to sit on the typist’s chair, which doubled for guests, rare as they were in here.
Coleman responded, surprised, “What the hell do you mean?”
The other man had by now taken his position behind the mound of files and, swivelling on his chair, lit a cigarette without offering one to his visitor, then swung back and hit the small cleared space over the blotter with his open hand.
“What the hell do I mean?” he shouted, then repeated himself, “What the hell do I mean? For Chrissakes, you haven’t been in town more than twenty-four hours and already you’ve been out humping around with this lot!”
Stephen was stunned. Cornish didn’t even bother closing his door as he continued.
“You young bastards come up here, full of your own shit, and forget everything you’ve been taught as soon as some tart opens your fly!” He flicked the imaginary ash onto the floor. “What’s more, weren’t you bloody well briefed by that little cock-sucker Crockwell when he picked you up from the