That weekend Aris was due to leave for Melbourne, where discussions were due to be held with Soetopo Jananto, an Indonesian Chinese, who controlled Australian Minerals Pty, one of the biggest mining companies in the Pacific Rim. They had just turned in a huge rise on their pre-tax profits, bringing earnings to over one-and-a-half billion dollars for the first time. Its board of directors had decided for a major expansion in West Kalimantan, in a company called Borneo Gold Corporation, together with an Australian Israeli investor, Gary Solomon, where they planned to produce about eighteen tons of gold a year, the equivalent to several hundreds of millions of US dollars yearly for ten to fifteen years, based on the fixing for gold at that moment, and was rising.
Aris was somehow involved with Solomon, but Fitznorman was not sure exactly how, but he did know Aris had supplied Borneo Gold with the services of Indosatmap, his mapping company.
Solomon was a mining engineer whose family had immigrated to Israel when was a child, but he preferred the open spaces to fighting with the Palestinians, and after graduating he quit the country and returned to Australia. He qualified as a mining engineer, and profitably turned his knowledge to exploring for minerals, and developed new projects in New Guinea and Indonesia, building a fortune in mining investments.
Aris had persuaded Fitznorman to join him in Australia, as Soetopoe Jananto was a collector of Chinese porcelain and antiques whom Fitznorman had always found very friendly, but had done little business with him.
It suited Scott, as it coincided with a symposium held by the Australian Archaeological Association, at the University of New England, on the subject of new anthropological discoveries in Oceania.
More than two hundred delegates from all over Australia, as well as from the UK, France, Indonesia and Canada, were expected, giving him the possibility of meeting leading anthropologists from the University of Wollongong, whom Pierre Rossard had often talked about, known for their extensive work on Indonesian and Australian prehistoric sites.
The Borneo Gold development lay in a zone north of Lanjak, not far from the borneensis discovery site. It was in Pontianak that Fitznorman had been present when Soetopoe had declared to the press, ‘We will grab any opportunity that fits our strategy and helps in the development of West Kalimantan.’ It was also a good moment to diversify his operations as his nickel interests had been in difficulties due to political unrest and strikes.
Scott had first met Soetopoe at the Hilton in Jakarta, when he and Aris had dropped in on a party with Solomon.
Borneo Gold planned to mine almost twenty million tons of ore annually with a yield of two grams per ton of ore. But before they started there was thirty million tons of overburden to be removed to get to the ore bearing rock.
The mine would be open cast with operations on three sites, covering several thousand hectares, including areas for mine rejects. There were no access roads and they planned to cut one through the jungle to the site. The ore was to be crushed and ground using a cyanure separation process and production was scheduled to start the following year.
Soetopoe was in a delicate situation as the crisis threatened the whole Indonesian economy. The problem was the financial guaranties for his projects, it was not that his companies were unprofitable, on the contrary they were very profitable. But the crisis had led to desperate free for all. The Indonesians authorities, discovering the high projected profits from the mine, wanted bigger royalties and the lenders took advantage of the turmoil by calling for a delay and supplementary guaranties.
They arrived in Melbourne on the Qantas’ overnight flight from Jakarta. It was almost ten in the morning when they were picked up by a car laid on by Australian Minerals to take them to their hotel. It was hot and the car’s air-conditioning had broken down, the driver, a Serb, drove with the driver’s window open. He spoke to them over his shoulder, from time to time turning his head, he was over inquisitive, where had they come from, and how long were they going to stay. The car weaved dangerously with the driver’s lack of attention making Fitznorman nervously as he watched the huge wheels of a truck thundering hauling at least three trailers loaded with live sheep for Melbourne’s slaughter houses.
They were booked in at the Hyatt on Flinders where a Soetopoe had a vast suite. During the overnighter from Jakarta they had over indulged in the excellent first class bar service on Qantas and had only managed a couple of hours sleep. Their plan to relax for a couple of hours was quickly forgotten as they were informed Soetopoe was waiting for them to join in his suite on the 18th floor for lunch.
The weather was fine, it was one of those balmy Melbourne summer days, and from his room window Fitznorman could see the bay in the distance and the sails of the windsurfers speeding across the waves between the dinghies. He hoped he would find time to get to an evening session of the Australian Tennis Masters and enjoy a few hours of relaxation, maybe he could even get to the England-Australia test match.
The skyline never ceased to amaze him, from his side of the Hotel he could see at least a dozen high-rise office buildings under construction, adding to the Manhattan style skyline that had grown up over the previous twenty years.
Fitznorman, still phased out after the flight, grabbed a shower, he didn’t really feel like eating, and headed up to join Soetopo. His stomach lurched as when looked at the array of steaming Chinese dishes set out on the dining table. That was the problem of dropping out of the sky into another time zone and culture, especially at meal times when those already adjusted were hungry, responding to their daily biological clock.
He decided he would take something light, he could see from the look on Aris’s face that he felt the same, whilst Soetopoe looked at the food with relish. The best antidote in those circumstances, was a good stiff drink, he opted for a scotch as a starter as Soetopoe poured himself an XO cognac.
‘So, Aris,’ Soetopoe opened. ‘What’s the news?’
Aris looked into his orange juice with that inscrutable face, Scott knew he was dramatising a bit and maybe he had something up his sleeve.
‘I’ve talked to you know who’s son, he’s suggested that foreign investors should be prepared to allow a greater local participation, or a fairer distribution of profits. The government is promoting a new policy directed against the high concentration of wealth among businessmen and industrialists, this means mostly Chinese,’ he sniggered and pushed his glasses up his nose, ‘At the moment, with all the troubles, it’s popular if they take a strong position, defending the country’s resources, especially when it comes to our groups.’
‘Sorry we have to talk about business Scott, it won’t take long,’ said Soetopoe excusing himself, then turning to Aris, ‘Why are they getting involved in our business?’
Just looking after the family business I suppose.’
‘Okay then, but is their position flexible, I mean accept a compromise?’
‘At present they have a royalty of two point five on gold and one on silver and other metals, you could give one point more on gold and half a point on silver without seriously affecting the viability of the project,’ Aris suggested.
Soetopoe nodded and then changed the subject.
‘Tonight we’re invited to the Department on Foreign Affairs and Trade, a top level cocktail for promotion of bilateral relations between Australia and Indonesia, I think it will be interesting, come along, you should meet them,’ Soetopoe said addressing Fitznorman.
The reception was held at the Westpac Banking Corporation building just a few blocks down from the hotel on Collins. Westpac was the lead banker in pool financing the gold mine.
Fitznorman realised Australia’s political relationship with Indonesia had always been a very up and down affair, a densely populated country of over two hundred million, many poor and underdeveloped, lying just some hundred miles or so away across the Torres straits, or the Timor Sea, facing an empty continent with its small population concentrated in its southeast corner, thousands of kilometres away from the vulnerable northern shores.
He couldn’t help thinking, it was probable those same shores that had seen early man arrive tens of thousands of years earlier.
Australia had never hesitated, with its strong democratic traditions, to criticise Indonesian politics since independence, over half a century earlier, from the time of Sukarno and his politics of ‘Confrontasi’ with British Malaysia, then the annexation of East Timor, and more recently the question of political prisoners and human rights.
The Australians were probably the keenest observers of Indonesia from a Western point of view, it was in their interest, with Indonesian studies being highly developed especially at Brisbane University.
When Soetopoe’s Australian mining group became interested in the newly discovered gold deposits in Borneo, the government was enthusiastic to provide assistance for the development of the project, and it was soon written into the protocol for economic cooperation between the two countries, signed some eighteen months previously at the start of a cyclic warming of relation between the two countries.
It was not until the top politicians in Jakarta realised that the deposits were real and confirmed and that the commercial exploitation was extremely feasible, that they started to apply pressure for a larger share in the production royalties. Certain ministers saw it opportune to press arguments in the traditional style against foreign exploitation, reminiscent of the start of oil operations many years before.
But the objective of the Borneo Gold promoters was to get into production as quickly as possible, avoiding fruitless delays, thus the visit of the Foreign Minister Suripto was the moment to get the business under way. Suripto was an aggressive go getter who could apply a great deal of influence to unblock the situation, and avoid Australian investors from bailing out as the Indonesia became mired in its difficulties.
The Foreign Minister was a small man, even for an Indonesian, but he was a bull terrier, as round and solid as he was high, he did not have the charm and grace of a typical foreign minister, but he was immensely pragmatic. He laughed loud and easily, he was not shy about making direct statements, sometimes in conflict with his role as foreign minister, but above all he had the confidence of the family and its clique, and could be relied on to push through ideas and policies, if he was convinced of their validity.
Fitznorman had been introduced to Suripto at a French Embassy reception in Jakarta and remembered by him for explaining the meaning of ‘ubiquitous’, a word used in the Favitski’s long winded speech, and had remembered him for that and the joke that they shared.
Fitznorman persuaded Aris to walk over to the Westpac building enjoying the fresh air and chatting as they strolled down Collins, they had plenty of time as long as they were there before the minister arrived.
It was Friday evening and there was a good crowd of people out on the streets as the trams clanked slowly by down towards Swanston and Elizabeth, before climbing the hill on the other side. It was warm and pleasant, they relaxed, looking forward to meeting all the friends and acquaintances who usually turned up for that type of reception, almost anywhere Indonesian business and politics was rather esoteric, and the uninitiated stayed away. It wouldn’t last more than a couple of hours and after they decided to get in a late dinner and discover nightlife in Melbourne.
The Westpac building was one of the highest in the city, and the reception was on the 42nd floor in the boardrooms and salons of the bank. In the main entrance hall a receptionist was checking the names of the guests and then directing them to one of the lifts, which would take them directly to the 42nd.
An attractive blond, looking like the kind of Australian brought up on fresh air and fruit juice, was involved in a seemingly complicated explanation with the receptionist. She had forgotten her invitation and the receptionist could not find her name on the guest list.
‘How do you spell it?’
She spelt her name.
‘Sheldon, hmm,’ she looked down the list again, ‘we have a director who’s name is Shelbourne.’
The blond fidgeted and started to look a little desperate just as Soetopoe arrived and announced with an exaggerated display of gallantry to the hostess, “This young lady is my guest,’ with a broad friendly smile, puffing on his Kretek cigarette.
‘Oh how are you Mr Jananto? It’s been a few weeks hasn’t it,’ the receptionist said with a splitting smile.
‘Yes it’s been a couple of months, how are you keeping Susan?’ he said turning up the charm. Susan and one of her girl friends had been guests to one of his parties at the Hyatt, a pleasant evening with a bit of flirtation.
‘Good, okay if Miss Sheldon is going up with you then there’s no problem.’
They walked over to the lift with Soetopoe’s new friend, Rachael, looking a little bit embarrassed and flustered.
‘Thanks very much, I’m feeling so stupid, I must have left his invitation in the car and it’s parked a good couple of blocks away.’
‘Well you’re in now, I’m Soetopoe Jananto and these are my friends, Scott Fitznorman and Bak Aris. ‘
‘I’m Rachael Sheldon as you now know, I’m supposed to be writing an article on Kalimantan.’
‘Oh, so you’re a journalist then.’
‘Not exactly, I’m a Geologist, I also write for the press and anything like this interests us.’
Fitznorman could not help thinking how attractive she was, clear blue eyes and perfectly shaped teeth, which had probably set her parents back a packet, he guessed that she was probably about thirty maybe a little less.
The lift arrived at the 42nd and a chime woke him out of his daydream, the doors opened and she stepped out before them into the lobby. It decorated with floral tributes, the kind that Indonesians always send for special occasions, SELEMAT DATANG MENTRI, welcome minister, with the name of the company who had sent it also spelt out in flowers. The bank’s PR manager together with a couple of attractive hostesses were there to welcome the guests and guide them to the bar, sumptuously laid out with a wide variety of European and Indonesian cocktail delicacies with waiters standing by to serve drinks.
They started with the drinks then filled a plate with cocktail snacks.
‘Well let’s start with this,’ said Fitznorman, looking around at the same time, to see who was who.
There were fewer interesting people than expected, it was a typical reception, just lots of hellos and polite exchanges. Fitznorman quickly agreed with Aris that they should get out as soon as it was reasonably possible.
In a corner two or three people watched the TV news, an Indonesian general was being interviewed by a reporter from the Sydney Morning Herald. Fitznorman caught part of his words, ‘I am afraid there will be bloodshed.’
He then saw Rachael Sheldon out of the corner of his eye, she was alone at the bar, if he was quick she could make the evening more interesting.
‘So you’re interested in Geological studies?’ he asked arriving as casually as possibly, asking the barman for a refill of the excellent Australian sparkling wine.
‘Yes, that’s right, and you? You’re not from these parts!’ she said alluding to his accent.
‘No, I mean I’m not from these parts, my speciality is Antiques and Fine Arts,’ then if that was not enough he added, ‘I’m also involved in anthropology.’
‘Oh, so you must be interested in Mungo Man!’
‘How did you guess?’
‘You’re not involved in the find in Indonesia by any chance?’
Fitznorman was surprised. After several months work on the site their information black-out seemed to be leaking, obviously news had reached certain circles in Australia.
‘Well, in fact I was in at the very beginning,’ he replied coyly, feeling very pleased with himself and feigning a little embarrassment.
‘That’s incredible, look we must get together, I’d like to write an article, you know the geological context of Flores.’
‘Flores?’ exclaimed Scott puzzled.
‘Of course, the site,’ she said laughing.
The hotel Tour Hassan had been built at the beginning of the century, it was about ten minutes walk from what is now Avenue Mohammed V that ran from the Palace grounds down to the Medina. Wisecracks said the slope was designed to slow down the king’s subjects whenever discontent broke out and the mob headed for the palace, it also helped the palace guards when they charged downhill to break a few heads and restore order.
At the outset the hotel had been built for the visitors from France to came to inspect their recently proclaimed protectorate, and Rabat its capital. The Tour Hassan was of course in keeping with the life style of the administrators of empire towards the end of La Belle Époque.
The establishment was discreet, its entrance and lobbies decorated in Moorish style, there were no large grounds or gardens. The doorman and bellboys were dressed in the traditional costume in keeping with the Cherifian Kingdom, ruled by Mohammed VI. The king stood at the head of a state possesses of the means and methods to keep its citizens in their place, if the became unruly, according to age old usage.
Fitznorman together with Pierre Rossard and two CNRS specialists arrived from Paris on a Royal Air Maroc flight. After clearing formalities they loaded their baggage into one of the airport taxis, a Mercedes that had definitely seen better days, and ordered the driver to take them to the Tour Hassan.
They were to be met by Christian Charles, who for some unknown reason was not at the airport. Charles was the resident representative of the CNRS natural history section and the linkman in the different scientific programmes between France and Morocco. Fitznorman had been introduced to him in Paris, he was a Frenchman who had lived in Morocco for several years, in spite of his small stature and habit of chain-smoking Marlboro in a grubby cigarette holder, he was charming and cultivated.
Why on earth Charles had chosen Morocco was not very clear to Fitznorman. Marrakesh was fine for a couple of weeks in the sun, but apart from a passing interest in the souks and bazaars, he couldn’t for the life of him see why anybody in a reasonably state of mind would choose the country as their permanent residence. However Charles felt at home in Morocco and had been successful in a number of important finds and was apparently ‘well-introduced-at-the-palace’.
Morocco had become a renowned centre for palaeontology after the discoveries of some extraordinary specimens of dinosaurs, amongst which were some of the largest specimens ever discovered. The sites were centred around the High Atlas Mountains, where palaeontologists had uncovered the bones of sauropods with names like carcharodontosaurus, spinosaurus, tazoudasarus and atlasaurus, beasts of up to fourteen metres long.
The government, through the Ministry of Mines, planned to build a museum and a geopark between Marrakesh and Ouarzazate, to which they hoped to attract hundreds of thousands of tourists each year, and had invited the French Museum of Natural History to participate, as a joint partner with financing from the French government along with the King Abdul Aziz al Saoud Foundation, a purely financial partner.
The rooms were comfortable, but as in such hotels the functioning of the telecommunication systems often corresponded with the vintage of the hotel. Fitznorman quickly regretted not being booked in the new and luxurious Hyatt. Charles had insisted their presence be discreet, at the Tour Hassan they ran little risk of being ‘spied’ upon which seemed a curious idea to Fitznorman.
Charles had made all the arrangements with Ashraf Ghali, an ex-minister, head of a vast state owned chemical company, Office Marrocaine d’Industries Chimiques, the world’s largest exporter of phosphates and fertilisers, representing several billion dollars a year in revenues, a welcome revenue for a country that had no oil and very little other natural mineral resources. The company owned many open mines and quarries that had been the source of rich fossil finds.
Once settled into their rooms, Pierre Rossard called Fitznorman, who joined Gil Bruno, the specialist who had discovered the jaw bone, to look over the geological survey maps he had brought from Paris. His room door was open, Fitznorman knocked and walked in. Bruno’s bed was covered with papers and the room was full of smoke from the cheap cigarillos that he smoked. His assistant, Lejeune, was sitting in an armchair, also smoking and in the process of pouring a couple of glasses from a bottle of duty free Cognac.
‘Hey, have a drink,’ he said offering him one of the glasses. The CNRS men had both downed a good amount of free Cognac on the flight from Paris.
‘Not just now,’ Fitznorman said declining the offer, ‘I’ll wait until Pierre is here.’
Brun, an anthropologist specialised in on-site excavation, was fortyish, slightly podgy, and fond of cracking nervous jokes, which he thought were enormously funny. He wore a tobacco stained moustached and had a vague air of shabbiness about his appearance, as though he were struggling financially. Lejeune was younger and did not have much to say, he simply followed Bruno’s cues.
They had the look of debt collectors, rather than scientists. After glancing over the maps that meant little to Fitznorman, he suggested going down to the bar to wait for Charles and to escape the smoke and Cognac fumes. The bar was situated on the first floor level was deserted, normal, it was the middle of Ramadan and not yet sundown. The lounge bar typical of many hotels in the Arab world, furnished with very low couches and low tables. Pierre not seeing a waiter and as a typical Frenchman could not bear to sit before an empty bar table was about set off in search for one when Christian Charles appeared, his cigarette holder clenched between his teeth.
Stretching out his hand, he bid Fitznorman and Pierre Rossard welcome to Rabat and waited for him to present the others. Charles was excessively formal and polite, more than well brought up. Fitznorman suspected that Charles could be easily slighted if things were not done correctly according to his strict code of etiquette.
‘I’m really sorry I couldn’t get to the airport, I was called to the Ministry of Culture Affairs, over on rue Ghandi. You know it’s Ramadan and everything runs at half speed. Now the sun is now setting it’s the moment when everybody normally disappears to eat something quickly after their day’s fasting, that’s why you can’t see any waiters,’ he explained. ‘Well now that I’m here there’s no particular rush tonight. What do you say to a simple dinner, we can chat about our program tomorrow? There’s that small restaurant around the corner here, it’s called the Oasis and they serve typical Moroccan cuisine.’
Charles insisted on driving them there in his car, a not very recent Peugeot, even though the restaurant was not more than a few hundred metres away. The owner informed them that it was already full on the ground floor and a waiter led them to the first floor balcony. Charles ordered pigeon pastilla and lamb tagine with a bottle of ‘Cabernet du President’, that unfortunately tasted nothing like as good as it sounded, and a bottle of Sidi Ali mineral water.
‘So what are the arrangements for tomorrow?’ Pierre enquired.
Charles dropped his voice and with a furtive movement glanced around. ‘The meeting is at ten in the offices of the Musée Royal du Patrimoine et des Civilisations. Murad El Malik has organised everything, he’s the museum’s vice-president, and is also on the board of the Institute National des Sciences, de l’Archéologie et du Patrimoine.’
‘Excellent,’ said Pierre
‘It’s not far, on avenue Kennedy. Driss will also be there, you know him Pierre, be careful of him, he looks after all the details.’
‘Ghali will not be involved?’
‘No.’
‘How come!’
‘It’s like that, don’t worry. He doesn’t get involved in the details.’
‘Will we get to visit the site quickly?’
‘No problem, it’s about eight kilometres south-west of Casablanca, a quarry called Carrières Thomas.’
It was where Bruno had found his erectus mandible, the subject of a heated debate in Paris, when André Etxeberri had rejected the 15,000 year old estimate made by Bruno, to him a mere junior scientist. The outcome was the reclassification of the fossil as an archaic sapiens, which Bruno had silently accepted whilst waiting for new evidence. The site had also produced at a much lower level part of a skull and a lower jaw bone together with Acheulian stone tools, dating to around 400,000 years old and at a deeper level tools dating to 700,000 years old had been found.
‘What about the other sites?’
‘We have recently found a couple of others site in the Atlas,’ said Brun, ‘there is evidence of archaic Homo sapiens and Homo sapiens sapiens, first estimates indicate dates between 30,000 and 190,000 years old, we have only just started preliminary work there. For the moment I don’t know what the programme will be.’
‘Will El Malik allow us to visit the sites in the south, I mean there won’t be any problems will there?’ Fitznorman asked anxiously.
‘No, not if our friends from the CNRS have got all of the papers ready as agreed, then there should be no difficulties,’ Pierre said.
‘Our problem right now is that Ghali is 65 years old. He’s under pressure from his family and clan to make the most from setting up the new museum before being retired by the King.’
Fitznorman was up early, he was on edge, the telecommunications were so bad in the hotel that it was difficult to have telephone contact outside the country, he was worried about the situation in Jakarta. On the garden terrace in the warm morning sunshine that filtered through the ample leaves of a banana tree, he sat alone trying to relax and relished the taste of freshly pressed Moroccan oranges. He thought about the meeting with the Moroccans, he was unfamiliar with their methods, but suspected they could be difficult.
Morocco had many problems, like any other developing nation. Charles had told him over dinner the previous evening that there was a sl