The Scottish Banker of Surabaya - By Ian Hamilton Page 0,31

said. He was in his early thirties, she guessed, tall and slim, his dark hair slicked back. He was in uniform, not plain clothes as Uncle had said, a gun on one hip, a phone and truncheon on the other. The bars on his shoulders indicated he was a lieutenant.

“I’m Ava Lee.”

He looked down at her. “You aren’t what I expected. Younger, and a lot more informal,” he said in excellent English.

She looked down at her training pants and Adidas jacket. “These are my travelling clothes. I need to shower and change into something more professional. And I’m older than I look.”

“Let’s get out of this place,” he said. “The air conditioning hasn’t broken down yet but it does most days, and then these people in line start getting really cranky. You almost need riot control sometimes.”

Ava fought back a sarcastic comment. “I’ll follow you,” she said.

They walked into an arrivals hall that was filled to bursting. He pushed his way to the far end, Ava tucked in behind him. There was an empty booth with the words DIPLOMATIC CORPS above it. Tran stepped into the booth and asked for her passport. She passed it to him and then watched with bemusement as he opened it and stamped it with a flourish. “You have that authority?” she asked.

“They know who I am,” he said.

They had to fight their way through the throng waiting for the arrivals. It was hot, and as they got close to the door, hotter still. She could only imagine what it would be like for the people inside if the air conditioning did pack it in.

Tran had come in a police car that was parked by the curb. He opened the trunk and she put her bags inside, directly on top of two shotguns. “Front or back seat?” he asked.

“I don’t want to pull up at the Park Hyatt looking like I’ve just been arrested,” she said.

He opened the front door and then walked around to his side before she got in.

“I’m not sure what your schedule is,” he said as she sat next to him.

“Hotel, shower, change. And then I want to go to the house where Lam is.”

“The place is only about a fifteen-minute drive from the hotel, in good traffic.”

The words good traffic were delivered the same way they were in Bangkok, Jakarta, and Manila — as wishful thinking. “You don’t have to wait for me,” she said.

“I know, but I will anyway. Your boss in Hong Kong is well connected here. I’ve been told to make sure you get everything you want, within reason.”

“Define within reason.”

“Lam’s brother is a doctor, a famous surgeon, actually. He should be treated with respect.”

“I know of no other way of dealing with people,” she said.

“Good.”

He pulled away from the terminal and started to drive towards the city. The Hyatt was almost in the middle of District 1, only about six kilometres from the airport. Ava saw at once why he had mentioned the traffic. It was brutal: what seemed like thousands of motorbikes, cyclos, and bicycles in one steady, impenetrable stream, cars crawling along in their wake. She remembered the motorbikes. They never seemed to stop coming, and in a city with hardly any traffic lights, crossing the street took agility, guts, and good luck. Ava had quickly learned to attach herself to locals and to follow their every bob and weave. “We may be an hour or so getting to the hotel,” Tran said.

“No rush.”

“Wouldn’t matter if there was, though I could put on the siren and save us ten minutes.” He laughed.

“Where did you learn English?” she asked.

“Here. My mother was a language teacher and she taught me French and English at home. I went to university in Australia, so that helped as well.”

Ava sat back in her seat and watched the more nimble motorbikes dart around them. Some of them were taxis and had girls perched on their back seats, looking elegant in their ao dais and ao ba bas. It amazed Ava that so many women wore traditional clothing — the ao ba ba like silk pyjamas; the ao dai a high-necked, long-sleeved, fitted silk and cotton tunic with a mandarin collar and slits down each side, worn over long, wide-legged pants. There were more Japanese and German cars on the street than she remembered from her first trip; fewer of the cars were old Renaults, a hangover from the French colonial days.

They skirted the Reunification Palace, which had been the presidential