The Operators

by Barry Heard

  Many years later, Joko would remember one particular day when he and Gus had organised a rare catch-up. They’d met at an equestrian park near the animal-welfare administration, where Joko was now working for Rio. Gus had called after hearing their mother was moving in with Joko’s family. As they stopped to watch the showjumping, Hanif appeared out of the blue. Joko hurried over, but, after an initial greeting, Hanif apologised: he was busy, about to present the design of the new competitors’ riding coat for the next international event (yes, his restless mind continued to push him towards new tests of skill). Gus didn’t say a word, but Joko suggested a meeting with Hanif later, and the two exchanged phone numbers.

  They arranged a dinner that evening, just Joko and Hanif. As the night progressed, Joko realised something about his old classmate. Hanif was bored, yet again. And he missed the challenges of running computers, not just using them. Joko saw an opportunity to enhance his own standing while relieving his friend’s ennui. Hanif had a brilliant mind for numbers and algorithms, and the administration needed someone ‘different’ in the IT section to get a handle on their never-ending security issues.

  They gave Hanif a trial. The gamble payed off: Hanif not only improved security, but also very quickly displayed a flair for complicated formulas and analysis. A win all round.

  Soon, other opportunities arose — the ‘darker side’ of IT. Hanif was thrilled. Not at the prospect of joining Rio’s team, but at a challenge like no other he had ever encountered. In that hothouse criminal environment, it wasn’t long before he had helped develop the overall kidnapping scheme.

  Joko never told Gus about this work with Hanif. When the old friends had reunited that fateful day, Joko was surprised when Hanif mentioned how he had barely recognised Gus.

  ‘He just kept looking away,’ Hanif said during their dinner. ‘Like he was in trouble?’

  Joko simply nodded. Gus had always been like this, the worrier.

  ‘But he had a bad car accident, years ago. We didn’t hear about it until months later, and then he wouldn’t speak to me for months. He’s a weird one, our Gus. Lives alone, not far from us. I’ve his address, but he refuses visits, that’s about all I know.’

  Joko’s day job was managing the information pertaining to animal-welfare oversight. Today, equestrian horses — a vast field. His crew handled membership audits and maintained the details of the enormous numbers of registered horses worldwide. It was widely acknowledged that computer security was paramount in the equestrian industry, and ‘everyone is responsible for security’. Joko’s crew was very skilled, often applauded and admired.

  The crew’s search for potential victims to kidnap began where few people would guess. First, they visited travel agents’ websites. From there, with a password program written by Hanif, capable of processing twenty-five million passwords a minute, they were able to enter each company’s database — rarely did they hit a brick wall. Within minutes, the crew had the details of clients, bookings, times, destinations, and so on. If the travel agent worked very professionally and recorded all their clients’ details as required, the IT crew might have all they desired. From birthdates to driver’s licences, health records, and diligently typed-out warnings of medical requirements when overseas. From lists of medicines, dosages, and doctors’ names to the next of kin. Flight, accommodation, travel plans, and other key data were easy to retrieve, as were the details of the latest deposit or full payment from a traveller’s bank account. Phone numbers, mailing addresses, email addresses — need one go on?

  With these details they’d gathered, the IT men searched the internet to fill in any gaps. Sometimes they found a home page or details from their victim’s work, but social media was the goldmine. Facebook was a treasure trove. Photographs, friends, day-to-day events — such an insight into a person’s life. Facebook offered a wealth of personal information about their potential victims. From school to sport, work, organisations joined, and any interests, there were no limits to the material posted on Facebook. There was no need even to venture onto the dark web for their targets, though the crew were at ease there, too.

  Once the team had familiarised themselves with Joko’s handouts, he gave a full briefing. As always, he concisely detailed the current targets. PowerPoint slides appeared as if they were a recent life history of the target created by a friend or family member — like what one would see at a funeral. Next: facial photos, crowd shots showing the target’s body size, images taken from behind illustrating hair length, bald spots, and the shoulder slope. After perusing this presentation, any of them or their crews would be able to identify the victim from a distance, in a crowd, sitting, turning, or even asleep. The team applauded quietly after Joko finished. As always, he replied with, ‘You should thank Hanif.’

  ‘Too easy,’ said Rio. ‘I will be coming with you, Bagus. Your man needs a medico to keep an eye on him. The other victims will all be okay. You or anyone have questions?’

  No response, just movement. As the meeting continued, all stood and formed three smaller groups, one at either end of the large table and one at the table in Rio’s office. The fine details were repeated, meeting places arranged, a list of minders or heavies to be hired drawn up. They finalised who would contact those in the outer circle, such as security people, cruise stewards, and train conductors. Outsiders were necessary, but never hired permanently or given any information that didn’t concern them directly; they never met more than two of the twelve, and often none. Secrecy was Rio’s highest priority.

  In all, the meeting took over two hours.

  When each man left, his briefcase locked, he ordered his armed chauffeur to drive him to his favourite expensive restaurant in the city for dinner.

  Victim number 2

  The following day, with all his immediate office tasks completed, Rio made a phone call to Bagus. Bagus confirmed his whereabouts and assured Rio he was only thirty minutes away. After speaking to Bagus, Rio hung up his phone and again read the folder of their victim, Mr Wally Flannagan, an Australian, from the southern state of Victoria, currently staying with a family contact in Jakarta. Twenty minutes later, about to leave, Rio told his secretary to inform his staff that he had business to attend to and would not be available for some time. He would confirm the precise time and date of his return soon. They were only to text him on his office mobile if it were urgent. He left the office, and entered the waiting chauffeur-driven taxi, paid for by the administration. He texted Bagus: On my way.

  The ocean breeze flicked Bagus’s hair as he sipped his black coffee. He was sitting in the outside bar-lounge of a six-star lakeside hotel on the outskirts of South Jakarta. The view from the balcony, two storeys above ground level, was simply breathtaking. Bagus frequented the hotel regularly; two floors up from where he sat was his own lavish private room, one of his several ‘other’ places, used for a quiet drink, meeting with women, Rio, or politicians, and other shady get-togethers. His real-estate syndicate paid for the room, over four times what a traveller might pay for what they judged to be a top room.

  At the lake’s edge, the hotel offered a manicured beach for the wealthy. It boasted clean sand, umbrellas, and waiters half-jogging with balanced trays carrying an assortment of fruit juices and cocktails. The alcohol restrictions were complicated in this Muslim country, but the many tourists, visitors, and subtle local demands ensured that laws meant — well, nothing much … The glorious vista was filled with distractions, and Bagus reached for his binoculars to examine the brief bikinis of sunbakers and swimmers below.

  The palms swayed softly as Bagus turned away from this scene and glanced towards the foyer, looking for Rio. Bagus rarely just sat; he would lean forwards, his chin resting on his right thumb, his hand balled in a fist. Few women could walk past this man without a moment of hesitation, an instant of lost breath. Many in this hotel must have imagined themselves in Bagus’s arms, many convinced he was a film star.

&n
bsp; He waved his hand and ordered two juices as Rio walked across the marble floor and sat in the luxurious leather armchair with his back facing the ocean. After some light banter, it was down to business.

  ‘Everything done,’ said Bagus. ‘I just spoke to the security guard and the station boss, all set. The manager will phone the station where Mr Flannagan is to meet his travel group, and apologise on his behalf, stating he is unable to attend. You all organised for tomorrow?’

  Rio nodded his readiness, adding that he would bring the usual injections in a small medical bag, along with a painkilling patch. He confirmed the time, place, and other minor details.

  ‘I’m not a doctor, but why the patch?’ Bagus asked.

  ‘Good question. That man, Wally Flannagan, our target, has a bad lower back. Joko underlined this in his latest medical update. This back problem, it causes him a lot of pain and has bothered him for decades. His medical documents read like a book when it comes to his lower back. Sure, the injection will put him into a dream world, a heavy semiconscious trance, and it will take a lot to arouse him when he does nod off. However, as a precaution, I will add the morphine patch to subdue any pain he may experience if his back is accidently twisted or jolted. A safety measure. Better to be sure than sorry.’

  ‘Mr Flannagan will be most grateful,’ Bagus said with a smirk. ‘He would have to be one of the most interesting people we have ever kidnapped. An intelligent person with uncommon hobbies, and part of a worldwide forest-science group. But for all of this, he works as a cow farmer.’

  They laughed and clinked their glasses together. A woman sauntered past, and Bagus made a crude comment to Rio.

  After two drinks, Rio glanced at his watch. ‘Time to leave.’

  Bagus stood, confirmed yet again that he would not only pick up this man Wally Flannagan tomorrow, but also transport the drugged man and Rio to the next checkpoint, a train station some distance away.

  Both men stood and high-fived. All the boxes ticked — what the hell, they sat and had another drink. Finally, Rio left.

  Bagus spent the next twenty minutes leaning on the balcony rail, sunglasses lodged on his forehead. Several women waved to him. He left a generous tip at the bar and walked out of the fancy hotel, his Italian-leather sports vest hanging by one finger over his shoulder. Once outside, standing at the top of the wide marble steps and pausing as if for a camera, he snapped his fingers at the concierge. The concierge opened the door to Bagus’s classy black Audi. Humming softly in tune with the stereo, Bagus reminded himself, ‘Tomorrow, pick up Wally Flannagan. For now, last call of duty, Azka Batak. What a surprise that man is.’

  Chapter 7

  It was a forty-minute helicopter flight to Bandung, where Bagus would meet up with Azka Batak. Much faster than the three hours by train or even car, but long enough. Fortunately, he had another special hotel in that city, located close to the Bandung Zoo. He visited this hotel regularly, as it was close to a five-storey block of units he owned.

  The young man Azka Batak was married with three children. The family lived in a narrow two-room lean-to in a large slum area in outer Bandung. Several weeks back, Azka had gained a job as a conductor on a train — quite an achievement for this underprivileged man.

  From the day he took his first breath, hunger, rootlessness, and day-to-day survival had been the only life Azka knew. As a five-year-old, he began begging, pickpocketing, working in disgusting, harsh conditions — the norm for his class. There was never a stable income, job, education, or direction. Then, as an adult, naturally or finally, he married. As always, the slum community managed to help Azka procure a small shelter for a home, and subsequently his children began to arrive. Somehow, he earned a tiny income or gave of his time for food. The unemployment rate for males in this slum area was over 50 per cent, for females 80 per cent (some guessed; there was nothing official here, certainly not statistics).

  Yes, to have a regular job was a real accomplishment. Yet before he’d been given the job, in a life filled with sadnesses, he’d experienced the saddest day of his life. His oldest child, twelve years old, a daughter, Layla — disappeared. She had been working in a rubbish tip, collecting plastic, her small income most welcome at home. But that day, she hadn’t returned home. In despair, Azka looked, asked, and spread the word — ‘Where is my darling angel?’ It became an obsession. He made simple handwritten posters, asked other friends to help. Instead of seeking work, he walked, searched, enquired, and begged, until starvation at home forced him to find employment. Even then, he restricted his sleep to three hours a day; like a madman possessing endless energy, he refused to accept the loss. He would find her, whatever it took.

  At last, his devotion paid off. Someone believed or hoped they had seen her, in the main city. No details were given other than a hotel name and an address. It was just after midnight when Azka managed to hitch a ride, though he still had to walk for an hour to arrive at the hotel, close to the Bandung Zoo. He begged to enter, to meet the manager, but was denied. In the end, he handed over the smallest of bribes: his meagre week’s wages for the task of swatting flies away from meat carcasses hanging outside a butcher’s shop — a seventy-hour week. When he was admitted to a bar via the back entrance, he produced his one small, treasured photograph of Layla. Someone had told Azka, ‘Of all people, ask a barman — they will know.’

  The barman took the photo, gave it a brief glance, went to hand it back, then looked again, a little longer, and blushed. Azka’s eyes widened; however, on request, the barman refused to acknowledge any recognition or make a comment. Instead, he asked Azka for his contact details. Despite the man’s silence, Azka left knowing he had found Layla.

  Distressed, Azka hid in one of the hotel’s large dumpsters, in a laneway near the main entrance. For what remained of the night, he peeped from beneath the closed lid. Nothing. No Layla. Many young girls, but no precious angel. The following day, as he continued his screening of passers-by, Azka fell into a heavy sleep. An hour later, a very angry young man woke him with abuse, claiming that he, not Azka, had the right to this territory. Azka apologised and attempted to explain, but violence quickly entered the scene. Azka ducked a brick thrown in his direction — his exit from the bin was lightning fast.

  He returned home, slept for six hours, then went about his weekly ordeal of finding an income, as the butcher had dismissed him for missing a day’s work. There was no work to be had and he had no luck. Yet something unusual happened when, exhausted, Azka returned to his tiny home. In a most unexpected encounter, a strange man approached Azka. Azka was just about to open the canvas entry to his home when this immaculately dressed man asked a simple question. He wanted to verify he had the right man — Azka Batak.

  Azka, surprised but curious, remained cautious. Well-dressed men hired people from slums to do ‘bad’ work, criminal jobs. But this man asked him to come, meet another man, and receive some good news. Hesitantly, Azka followed the stranger on a long walk to the edge of the slum. On reaching a prominent market often visited by tourists, the man indicated for Azka to stop beside a parked car, a classy black sedan. The tinted window on the driver’s side wound down a fraction. As Azka edged his way towards the car, he couldn’t see inside the vehicle. A voice from inside the motorcar spoke slowly but was too muffled to understand. Azka frowned and was about to speak when the driver wound down the window a fraction more. He asked Azka to confirm that he could read and speak several languages. When Azka acknowledged he could, the man handed him a thin card, the size of an envelope, along with a folded sheet of paper. Azka turned the card. It was a photograph. A colour photograph. It was his daughter Layla. Yet the photograph bewildered him. The picture was all wrong. His angel was wearing a dress, make-up, and cheap jewellery. Her long eyelashes aged her three years, and, though she smiled, her face somehow looked different. Her face … her face …

  She looked in a trance, just woken up, daydreaming perha
ps? Then it dawned on her distressed father — she was drunk or on drugs. He grasped his forehead and collapsed on the kerb, his knees jammed against the concrete. They had his angel. It was too much. He began to sob. Too often Azka had heard of a daughter taken this way. The sob changed to a cry, then a loud wail. Suddenly, a voice, sharp and powerful, issued from the car:

  ‘Shut up, you fool. Stand up and read the sheet of paper.’

  Shivering, Azka jumped to his feet. Quickly, he turned the page the right way up and began to read:

  Your daughter, Layla. She is good, has a job and wants you to leave her alone, make no enquiries. Say nothing of or about her whereabouts. Her job is well paid, and she will visit you in a few months with an armed escort. You will have her back home permanently within two years. Through your daughter, we have arranged for you to have a job. You start work next Monday at Bandung Station. The manager, Mr Gupta, has a position for you as a train conductor. You require no training. Occasionally, my own business will ask you to help us during your train duty as conductor. For this, you will receive extra pay. You will have a one-month trial on this job. If successful, your employment becomes permanent.

  Azka handed back both the photo and the page, said nothing, and waited.

  Sure enough, the voice behind the dark window spoke. ‘You know the station. You have a meeting on Monday. Mr Gupta is expecting you, at 8.00 a.m.’

  Azka nodded. The man who had drawn him from the slum, who had stood nearby during this entire exchange, handed Azka a business card. On it were the station manager’s name, his contact details, and the station’s address. The man got into the car, the driver’s window slid closed smoothly, and the sedan somehow backed into traffic and drove off.

  Azka walked home leadenly.

  His other two children were, as they were every day, happy to see their dad. His wife hugged him, and asked how his efforts had gone and whether he had managed any work today. Azka said he had run an errand; some passer-by had begged him to deliver a package, and he had just returned.