Slightly after three in the afternoon when I walk into the Tavern bar, seating myself beside the only other customer, a stranger. Casual appraisal suggests the man could be in his late forties, appearing, although seated, to be a tall, angular shape, with receding auburn hair, his brown eyes set in solemn face.


I order a beer, we eye each other over the rims of our glasses. His clothing from the ironed white shirt, creased slacks, right down to his polished shoes giving him a superior edge over my casual attire of short sleeved shirt, shorts and thongs, and I am made aware my grey hair, obvious ten years seniority do not impress him. "Are you a local?" he opens.

"Born and bred," I tell him, "Yourself?"

"I, Sir, am a cosmopolite,"

I had heard of, but never met, one of the species, so I play dumb. "A what?"

He looks at me with disdain before adding, in a patronizing tone, "In other words - a citizen of the world.."
I stick out my hand. "Tom,"

He stands up, gives me sceptical look.

Red in the face, I'm about to withdraw my proffered hand when he relents -

"Hubert," he says, offering a well manicured paw, while extracting something from his breast pocket, "My card," he announces, excusing himself to visit the toilet, purposely, I feel, leaving me to peruse, without embarrassment, his credentials. I reach for my bifocals, holding my hand, laminated card imbedded in palm, up for closer inspection, reading -

HUBERT FREEMAN Cosmopolite

Soldier Of Fortune

Impersonator Prolonger Of Wars Revolutions Started

Assassinations Plotted Tax Avoidance Planned Exclusive Money Laundering

My companion returns, I make to hand him the card, commenting, "You certainly are a man of the world, Hubert…"

"Keep it," he says, displaying no modesty over his unique achievements.

"And where, before here," I probe, "was your last port of call?"

"The United States."

"Oh," I'm thinking this guy can't be for real, "Did you know, Bill?" I bait,

"Bill?"

"Clinton?" I'm watching his face for reaction but Hubert's expression remains dead pan.

"I am not overly close to the President," he admits, "But I do have Madeleine's ear."

"Madeleine?"

"Albright," he offers, "American Secretary of State

I glance at the card, remarking. "Well, one thing about living in Australia - we don't have to worry about civil wars…"

"What?" he gives me a withering look, "I can see you're unaware that in the suburbs of Sydney and Melbourne there are different ethnic groups, supposedly under your national flag, continually waging war against each other."

"There are a few religious skirmishes," I concede.

"Ha," he sneers, "and what about your State Of Origin football? Queensland and New South Wales are on the verge of war every time the players trot out on the field."

He's gone from the absurd to the ridiculous here and, thinking the bastard's having me on, I emit a burst of laughter, but there's no flaw in that solemn expression, he glares at me -

"You seem to find the truth amusing," he accuses .

I take umbrage, wave the card under his nose. "You expect me to believe this crap about revolutions started? Assassinations plotted?"

He merely shrugs his shoulder, replies, "Believe what you wish, my friend."

Over the next hour we drink a few beers, sparring amiably, with myself, card in hand, questioning, doubting the authenticity of Hubert's claims but, the cosmopolite, it seems, an answer for everything, starting wars, plotting coups until, with a sense of frustration, I trot off to the loo and there, while urinating, continue to peruse his laminated credentials, all the while shaking my head -

Back at the bar, beer in hand, I challenge, "Look, Hubert, I may be a moron but I always associated a cosmopolite with a man of peace, totally without prejudice and, here you are admitting, actually boasting about causing global mayhem, while claiming to be a citizen of the world?"

"You are right about the, 'totally without prejudice,' bit - but please don't mention the word peace in my company and, may I ask, had you any one person in mind when you gave your impression of the species in question?"

I rack my brain. "I remember some years back when the Duke of Edinburgh was attending the Commonwealth Games and, when asked what country he thought was going to claim the most medals, the Duke replied, "It doesn't matter - they're all my boys," I look to Hubert for approval, adding, "The Duke, I thought, was a true cosmopolite…"

He shakes his head sadly. "I'm glad you mentioned the word games - because that's all they are. War is what the world's all about, my friend, W - A - R… Are you aware since the recording of time there have been fewer than three hundred years peace and, you can bet, although they may not have been categorised, there were a few squabbles going on then, too… In modern times war's become big business, with the making and selling of arms by the super powers and, believe me, they are all in it. That is why, when business becomes slack, they need someone like me to start a little war, preferably not in their own back yard - to achieve this they need an instigator, someone without sentiment, prejudice, animosity, revenge, to whom creed, colour of skin are immaterial, whose only motive - is greed…"

We continue to sit in the, almost empty, barroom as the clock ticks to and by four. Myself, card in hand, firing random questions at Hubert, with a skin-headed, eavesdropping barman hovering close, displaying a superior smirk.

"Impersonator? Prolonger of wars?" I inquire.

Freeman's face lights up, I can see he's on familiar ground. "I have worn many disguises," he starts, "dyed my skin many colours, been in many strange, and far lands. My stamping grounds included some of the world's most famous and populated cities, the vastest deserts, densest jungles. I have had secret dealings with such men as Uganda's - Idi Amin. Libya's - Colonel Gadafy. Yugoslavia's - Slobodan Milosevic…"

I sip my beer, inviting, "Some of your more recent exploits?"

"There have been many - far too many for me to put in their proper sequence, but I was in the border region between Indonesia and Timor during the latest dispute, alternating my disguise between oppressor and oppressed, keeping the pot boiling, so as to say."

"Before that?"
Hubert drains his beer, bangs the empty glass on the counter. The skin-head, curious now, not wanting to miss anything, hurries to comply. "In Yugoslavia," continues the narrator, "I was able to help the weaponry makers get rid of a lot of their stockpile, especially when NATO started dropping bombs - in the trouble between Pakistan and India I again enjoyed dual roles… Yes I have made myself become whatever, and whoever the occasion required at the time…"

"Tell me," I interject, "How does one go about starting a war?"

Hubert takes a sip of beer, clears his throat. "There are many subtle ways by which one can start a war but I've always found the simplest, most effective way, to position oneself near a border and pot a couple off on the other side. Then slip across and do likewise from there…"

By this time I'm feeling both enraptured and depressed, awed and envious of this great soldier of fortune, depressed by the comparison of my own insignificance as humble council worker…

I am aware, because of the barman's frequent absence, the bar is filling with patrons, but remain oblivious to their presence, caught up in the aura of Freeman's exploits. "Of all your many adventures, Hubert," I implore, "What was the one that stood out?"

The cosmopolite's eyes go all misty. "I once got a letter from Colonel Gadaffi, urgently requesting my presence at his residence in Libya and, knowing this meat big money, I responded immediately, within twenty four hours I'm sitting at his dinner table, we complete the meal, while conversing in small chat, then start on the wine -

"You will be aware, Hubert," opens the Colonel, "the Tanzanians have invaded Uganda?"

"You are proposing a very hazardous, if not impossible mission for me, Colonel," I caution.

Gadaffi, looking confused, murmurs, "But I haven't told you what it is - yet?"

"You want me to go to Uganda and get your mate, Idi, out - right?"

"Mr Amin," admits Gaddafi, "has gone into hiding - is in deadly fear of his life - will you do it, Hubert?"
"Yes," I reply, adding, modestly, "Who else could?"

Hubert takes a long pull on his beer, sighs. "Within twenty four hours of departing Libya I'm in war torn Uganda and, after following Gadafy's directions, in the jungle hideout of one, Idi Amin - the most wanted man in the Country and, the big question is, how do I get him past the Tanzanian army?"

Hubert indulges him self with some more refreshment, continues his reminiscences, "The solution to the problem, although simple, quite preposterous… On my way in through a neighbouring Country I observed a team of Japanese Sumo wrestlers on tour…" Hubert pauses, looks at me to ensure I understand the significance of what he is saying - then goes on -

"So I dig out my paint brushes and dye and go to work. At first Idi's indignant, resentful but, understandably, being in great fear for his life, submits… Several hours later I sit back wiping my hands, admiring my work. Amin, always a big Negro, now grotesquely obese, and painted yellow, looked more like a Sumo - then a Sumo."

"That's all very well," I protest, "but how did you get him across the border? And into what Country?"

"Neither of those questions are of any consequence now," dismisses Hubert, with a wave of his hand, "Needless to say, I got him across the border and, after greasing a few Jap palms, into the wrestlers camp…"

"Just like that?" I'm disappointed, sound it.

"There was one little hick-up," admits Freeman, "one of the Sumos, resenting Idi, challenged him to a wrestling match and I, fearing if they came to grips my handiwork would be destroyed, Amin's true identity revealed, consulted him - however, there was no need for concern. Idi, being three times heavyweight champion of the army, dispensed with Jap in a few seconds…"

"And where did you go from there?" challenges the skin-head, ignoring the pleas of thirsty customers.

"As was the agreement with Gaddaffi," divulges Freeman, "I took Amin on to Saudi Arabia where King Faisal was offering him refuge, and where we were met, in Jeddah, by both the King, and Colonel Gaddaffi - and where, too, I was handsomely, and appreciatively rewarded for my endeavours …"

"Ah," gloats the barman, " So that's where the bastard is,"

"Was," corrects the cosmopolite, "Since then King Faisal has died, his replacement, King Fahd, who was never in favour of the arrangement, and who, after discovering Amin trying to smuggle guns into Northern Uganda, expelled, and isolated him to the holy city of Mecca…"

At this point Freeman concludes the narration and, I must admit, you could hear a pin drop, his audience, the whole room by now, in awe… But somewhere in the back of my mind the seeds of doubt are germinating. "Assassinations plotted?" I fire at him.

Hubert's response rather startling, his body stiffens, his eyes becoming wary, he's all of a sudden resentful, making me aware I'm on touchy ground. He sighs, relaxing in a despondent attitude, pain mirroring in those brown eyes -

"Unfortunately," he recalls, "my most memorable plot was an unsuccessful one. I was approached by a certain super power to terminate the existence of one, 'Saddam Hussain, the Iraq leader,' for a fee that, I assure you, was quite substantial, so much so, I was able to employ an assistant," the narrator pauses, consoles himself with a large pull on his beer -

"We spent many months of careful planning and this, leading up to the Gulf war, at a time when he was at the height of his notoriety, and were eventually rewarded by contacting and bribing one of his aides, the one who arranged his schedule and, on the eve of, what most certainly would have been Hussain's last day on earth, we get a telephone call from the aid informing us tomorrow afternoon Saddam is going, of all things, swimming with some of his disciples in the sea," he pauses, takes another refreshment.

Around him the bar-room hushed, expectant, patrons, thirsts forgotten, crouched over empty glasses, none wanting to miss a word -

I have observed a growing tenseness in Freeman's voice, dilation of his eyes, the assassin reliving the event. "Now," he reveals, "we secure an apartment in a High-rise building overlooking the spot where Saddam and entourage are to bathe and when, in due course, he arrives I'm looking at him along the barrel of a high powered, telescopic sighted rifle. I witness the great man disrobe, pat himself on the chest, walk into the sea, see him frolicking like a five year old. Then he is still, staring, it seems, straight at me -

I take sight on his wide forehead but, deciding to take no chances, move down over his moustached upper lip, centering on his broad, hairy chest, my finger caressing the trigger. Suddenly I feel my accomplice, who's been in the next room taking a telephone call, gripping my shoulder. "Don't do it!" he blurts.

"Why - for Christ's-sake?"

"Because they've withdrawn our fee…"

"Why - for Christ's-sake?"

"Because they've decided to assassinate Hussain will only serve to make a martyr of him - and they want to avoid that at all cost…"

"Never," declares Freeman, vehemently, "have I been so disappointed, so destructively angry. After all the work we'd put in. I take another bead on Saddam, deciding 'I'll shoot the bastard - anyway.' And I can tell you if my accomplice hadn't restrained me - I most certainly would have…"

There is an audible groan in Tavern and Patrons, although disappointed by Hussain's reprieve, are soon, good humouredly, ribbing the skin-head for his laxity. "Can't complain about the service," growls one joker. "No," responds his mate, "there isn't any,"

Who?" I inquire of Hubert, "Was the super power?"
The would be assassin clams up on me. "I am not," he says, "at liberty to disclose that information. You must understand my livelihood's dependant on discretion…"

Rebuked, I take another look at his card and, remembering another claim, about to ask of his dealings with Slobodan Milosevic, but I see, with a start, it's gone six O'clock, and I have a previous arrangement. "It's been very interesting talking to you, Hubert - but I must run. Next time you're in the States give Madeleine my regards - will you?"

"Madeleine?" Hubert's confused and, being so enthralled with his adventures? Or dreams? Obviously forgotten Albright, the American Secretary Of State.

I reach out, pinching the lobe of his hearing apparatus, chiding, "Your ear - remember?"

"Oh," exclaims the Cosmopolite, looking more like kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar than a soldier-of-fortune, "You mean that Madeleine?"

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