A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul

by Shamini Flint

  It might be the news Bronwyn had broken to him about Wayan. He had lost his job at the villas where Sarah and Richard Crouch had stayed. Occupancy was almost zero – only Sarah’s enforced, extended stay kept the place open. But there was no money for a full complement of employees in this post-bomb Bali landscape. The young man who was regularly prevented by the police from doing his job was the first casualty in the pursuit of a trimmed down workforce. He had come to see Bronwyn that evening, almost in tears, hoping she would help him keep his job or find a new one. Singh had forbidden her from leaning on the hotel. There was no point, he explained. The police might have contributed to the promptness of Wayan’s dismissal but the underlying reason was the absence of tourists. In those circumstances, there was no point bullying the owners.

  Bronwyn’s expression had been rebellious.

  Singh had asked, ‘You don’t agree with me?’

  ‘It is partly our fault.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Singh patiently, ‘but mostly the bombers’.’

  ‘It just seems so unfair …’

  Singh could not tell if she was referring to Wayan’s predicament or that of Bali more generally.

  He answered, ‘It isn’t fair – but there are worse hard luck stories than Wayan’s. There are families the length and breadth of this island that have lost not only their livelihoods but family members.’

  ‘I know, but you should have seen his hands.’ Bronwyn’s voice caught in her throat with sympathy.

  ‘His hands?’

  ‘Yes, they were all cut and bruised. He’s gone back to working on his father’s paddy field. His hands aren’t used to the hard labour. He was a mess and in quite a lot of pain too.’

  ‘He’ll get used to it.’

  ‘That’s what his father told him. That he just had to keep at it, his hands would toughen up.’

  Bronwyn was annoyed at the advice but Singh thought it was sensible and practical. A young man like Wayan would soon get used to his new life.

  Indeed, it was not Wayan who interested him but Ramzi. He asked, his tone staccato and impatient, ‘No sign of Ramzi?’

  The pen did not stop moving but Bronwyn said evenly, ‘No more sign than about five minutes ago when you last asked me …’

  ‘Shouldn’t you call again and make sure that the cops haven’t wandered off for dinner or something?’

  Bronwyn was firm. ‘No – they know that the scary policeman from Singapore will have their badges if they screw up.’

  Singh grinned, baring his small brown smoker’s teeth. ‘Really? Excellent!’

  ‘What about Sarah Crouch?’

  ‘Agus will get her for you in the morning.’

  When he got to the safe house, Ramzi was already there.

  Ghani walked straight up to his brother-in-law. The young man grinned at him. ‘I got the van, boss. Just as you asked.’

  Ghani hit him. With all the power his squat strong body possessed channelled through one angry clenched fist, Ghani struck Ramzi on the chin. The young man rocked back on his heels in shock, tried to recover his balance, failed and fell heavily against the explosives-filled plastic cabinet nearest to him.

  Abu Bakr screamed, ‘Be careful! You’ll set it off.’

  Everyone froze. It was as if someone had pressed pause on the video player in the midst of an action film. Ramzi lay motionless on the ground, his back to the cabinet. Ghani, who had taken a few angry steps forward, anxious to continue his assault, stopped – his fists still raised. Yusuf dropped his Quran, which he had been reading feverishly, and stared at the others in open-mouthed confusion.

  The silence and the stillness lasted for thirty seconds. It felt like an eternity to the men in the room.

  Abu Bakr said, in a voice several octaves higher than usual, ‘Ramzi, move away – slowly.’

  Ramzi did as he was asked. Still on the ground, he inched away from the device.

  Ghani allowed his hands to fall to his sides. He was still panting. The look in his eyes suggested that Ramzi should opt for maximum prudence.

  Abu Bakr asked, his voice back to normal, ‘What’s the matter? What has Ramzi done?’

  Ramzi was irritated that his brother had assumed that Ghani’s anger was justified. He said peevishly, holding his jaw, ‘I haven’t done anything.’ He stopped, winced in pain and spat a tooth into his hand. ‘Now see what you’ve done,’ he continued in an aggrieved tone.

  Abu Bakr ignored his younger brother and asked, more insistently this time, ‘Ghani – why are you so angry? Ramzi has performed well. He has brought us a van.’

  Ghani spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Did you kill him?’

  It was Abu Bakr who asked the question that Ramzi should have done. ‘Kill whom? Who do you think he has killed?’

  Ghani said, ‘He knows. Look at his face! He knows.’

  They all stared at Ramzi.

  Ramzi did not know it but his face was the spitting image of his sister, Nuri, when she had been speaking to the police earlier in the day. He had the same swollen jaw, split lip and expression that combined guilt and defiance.

  Abu Bakr asked in a voice barely above a whisper, ‘Brother, what have you done?’

  Ramzi stared down at his feet. Their relationship had suffered a terrible strain in the last few weeks but his brother was still the only one who could get through to him, make him revisit his actions with a critical eye. He muttered something inaudible.

  Ghani spat on the floor. ‘He killed the bomb-maker. That’s what he did – he killed Abdullah and led the police right to our front door.’

  Ramzi said, his voice thick and slurred because of his mouth injuries, ‘I didn’t mean to do that – lead the police to us, I mean.’

  ‘But you killed the bomb-maker.’ It was a statement, not a question by Abu Bakr. He continued sarcastically, ‘Was there any reason or did you just want your elder brother to construct an improvised explosive device without proper training?’

  Ramzi stole a quick glance at Ghani. He found the truth too difficult to explain to Nuri’s husband.

  Ghani said bitterly, ‘You are afraid to tell me that my wife was having an affair with this Richard Crouch? That fat policeman with the pointy turban was not so worried about my feelings.’

  In the corner, Yusuf yelped like a stray dog that had been kicked by a passing stranger. None of the others noticed.

  Ramzi said pleadingly, ‘They were going to run away together. She told me herself. I wasn’t going to kill him. I just took the gun with me as persuasion.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Abu Bakr.

  ‘I went to see him.’

  ‘Where?’ Ghani’s question had the abruptness and clarity of a gunshot.

  ‘The safe house of the first cell.’

  ‘But how did you know where it was?’

  Ramzi muttered sheepishly, ‘I knew one of the boys in the first cell, Iqbal. We were at school together. I know we were not supposed to communicate but we exchanged texts a few times – we were just so excited to be involved, I guess. When I needed to find Abdullah, I just asked him where they were. It was a house in Denpasar.’

  Ramzi knew that he had broken every rule in the book. He was struggling to maintain his usual sang froid. Killing the bomb-maker probably wasn’t as bad in the eyes of the others as communicating with the first cell.

  Ghani said in an even tone, ‘Go on.’

  Ramzi looked at him doubtfully. The quiet voice of the field commander was belied by the hands clenched into fists by his sides. Ramzi touched his jaw gently. He didn’t want to be on the receiving end of another blow. ‘There’s not much to tell. I confronted Crouch. He refused to leave Nuri. I was very angry. He was desecrating the family honour. I showed him the gun. He still refused – he said that he loved Nuri and planned to marry her. I lost my temper and pulled the trigger.’

  Ramzi shrugged to show that killing a man had not been difficult – omitting to mention that Iqbal had found him throwing up in the bushes. The sight o
f Richard Crouch lying on the grass with a smoking, bleeding hole in his forehead had been too much for the young jihadi.

  ‘What did you do with the body?’

  Ramzi ran his fingers through his hair and then yanked until his eyes watered. He needed a stab of pain to sharpen his senses – the sensation in his jaw had dulled to a low throbbing ache. ‘That’s what I don’t understand,’ he said plaintively. ‘Only Iqbal was there. The rest were out. It was his job to load the van with the bomb. I helped him and then we put the body in the van too. One of the others took the vehicle bomb to the Sari Club and detonated it. I can’t imagine how the police found enough of the bomb-maker to discover he was shot … you can understand that, right? I thought we were safe.’

  As the others stared at him in disbelief, he reiterated, ‘Don’t you see, the body was in the vehicle bomb. It must have been blown to bits.’

  Abu Bakr said wryly, ‘Well, when Ghani murders you for jeopardising the mission, we know what to do with your body.’

  Seventeen

  Yusuf knew that Ghani would have him flayed if he found out that he had snuck out of the safe house after telling the others he was having an early night to prepare for his role the following day. He was risking the success of the plan for personal reasons. It would be unforgivable in the view of the others – perhaps even in the eyes of Allah. He hoped his martyrdom the following day would be sufficiently exculpatory. But he found that he could not – just could not – leave Nuri without saying goodbye.

  She was at the apartment in Denpasar – on her own. She must be wondering – worrying – where they had all gone. Or perhaps she was still mired in the terrible sorrow he had sensed in her these last few weeks – a sorrow which had sharpened into an anguish so intense when the police had broken the news of Abdullah’s death that Yusuf had feared for her sanity. He vaguely understood that she had fallen in love with the bomb-maker. He knew in his head that it was a terrible betrayal of her husband. But he could not find it in himself to condemn her. After all, sometimes the heart was difficult to control. He, Yusuf, had found a way out of his troubles. He was lucky that it was a method that also reflected the greater glory of God. But what of Nuri? She had not been given the option of martyrdom as a cure for a broken heart.

  A small part of Yusuf was envious of the affection that Abdullah had inspired in Nuri. But it was not his predominant emotion. Mostly, he felt wretched that this girl whom he had adored for so long was suffering and that he could do nothing to alleviate her pain. He, Yusuf, had never stood a chance with her. He understood that instinctively and completely. There was no way a creature like Nuri would ever feel anything stronger than pity for a man like him. He had been content to be her friend – he had wished her nothing but happiness.

  Yusuf tugged on his beard and remembered that Ramzi had mocked him for doing so. He shoved his hands into his pockets. It was a shame, he thought bitterly, that Ramzi had not been selected for a martyr’s role. Yusuf blinked rapidly, trying to dismiss such thoughts from his head. He reminded himself that it was a privilege to lay down his life. The imam at his mosque in Sulawesi and Abu Bakr had both explained that the scriptures valued jihad above all else. To wish such a fate upon Ramzi as a punishment was to wilfully misunderstand everything he had been taught.

  Yusuf let himself into the apartment. There was a fetid damp smell that he had not noticed previously. The place was in darkness, only the dim glow of distant street lamps created shadows and silhouettes. Yusuf felt his heart turn over – it caused him a physical pain – perhaps she was not there. Perhaps Nuri was not there and he had come all this way for nothing. He flicked on the light switch.

  Nuri was curled up in a corner of the moth-eaten sofa. She stared directly at him, but he had the sense that she was almost looking through him, past him. Yusuf thought sadly that it was the dead man, Abdullah the bomb-maker, who loomed large in her mind’s eye.

  He said tentatively, ‘Nuri?’ and when she did not respond, a little louder, ‘Nuri!’ Yusuf’s hand went to his beard again. He whispered, ‘Nuri, I have come to say goodbye.’

  Ghani and Abu Bakr stood on the porch of the safe house. Abu Bakr was smoking a cigarette. He was not a heavy smoker but after a day spent handling high explosives followed by the revelation that his younger brother had killed the bomb-maker, he felt he deserved one.

  Ghani asked, ‘What is the status of the explosive devices?’

  Abu Bakr sucked on the end and exhaled a white cloud of smoke through his nostrils. The heavy scent of cloves mixed with night jasmine from the garden. It was a heady, romantic scent – coupled with the clear skies and twinkling stars, it made for a beautiful night on the Island of the Gods. Neither man noticed. They were both concentrating hard on the mission. There was hardly any time left to get everything in place. Ghani felt the pressure as a physical force bearing down on him. He dared not fail.

  ‘The big bomb is ready to be loaded into the van. The aluminium nitrate and diesel fuel are mixed and I have packed it with shrapnel – mostly nails that Yusuf bought at a hardware shop in Sanur,’ said Abu Bakr calmly.

  ‘Detonation?’

  ‘The primary explosive is PETN. I’ve wired it to be triggered by mobile phone, and added a manual switch as well.’

  Ghani’s brow lightened somewhat. ‘That sounds good.’ He continued, ‘And the backpack?’

  ‘There was half a kilogram of C4 in the stuff shipped over from Java. I was going to use it as the detonator … after you asked for a portable device, I used the plastic explosives for that.’

  Ghani nodded in agreement. ‘Good move. It will be lighter and much harder to detect. Same trigger?’

  ‘Yes – a manual switch and a mobile phone detonator.’

  ‘That should be all right,’ said Ghani. He looked at the other man, debating whether to raise his doubts. At last he asked, ‘Yusuf?’

  Abu Bakr understood the question. He sighed. ‘I’m not sure. He is acting very peculiar. Not speaking much. Jumping at shadows. That’s the main reason I wired the devices with alternative triggering mechanisms.’

  ‘In case he chickens out?’

  ‘In case he chickens out, yes.’

  Ghani kicked a stone into the shrubbery in disgust. ‘We’re supposed to be God’s warriors – instead, we seem to be a bunch of cowards and idiots.’

  Abu Bakr did not disagree with the harsh characterisation of Yusuf and Ramzi. He said reassuringly, ‘We are almost there, Ghani. Tomorrow we will strike a blow that this island will not forget for a thousand years.’

  ‘I don’t believe you!’

  Yusuf blinked rapidly. He said, ‘It is true, Nuri. God has selected me to be a martyr.’ When she did not respond, he continued, his tone tentative, desperately seeking some acknowledgement of his sacrifice but too afraid to ask for it directly. ‘I could not leave you without saying goodbye.’

  Nuri’s stomach was clenched as if she was preparing for a body blow. Her hands were trembling. She had been such a fool – believing everything she had been told by Ghani about their visit to Bali. It had seemed so plausible that they were there to set up a religious school. She knew that Ghani was devoted to the cause of oppressed Moslems everywhere. He had spent years fighting in Afghanistan. But she had not even suspected that he had turned his attention to Bali.

  She asked, her voice a whisper, ‘My brothers?’

  Yusuf said, ‘We are all in this together …’

  Nuri’s face, already pale and drawn, blanched white. Her thin fingers gripped the arms of the chair like a nervous passenger on a turbulent flight.

  The bespectacled young man leaned forward and spoke hurriedly. ‘But don’t worry, I am the only martyr. Your brothers are not in any danger.’

  Her first exhalation of relief was immediately replaced with fear – not in danger – how could he even say that?

  ‘But why did nobody tell me? Why was I brought along?’

  Yusuf’s face was blank. Nuri felt a hysterical desire
to laugh. She bit it off with difficulty. Her husband might not have seen fit to share his plans with her, but she doubted that Yusuf would have been privy to much information either. She supposed her role was a combination of comfort, convenience and cover. No one would suspect the menfolk of being terrorists if they had a dutiful wife and sister in tow.

  Terrorists – it was the first time she had used that word to describe her family’s activities, even in her own mind. She had shied away from the thought – focusing on the facts, the bizarre, shocking facts that had been recited nervously by Yusuf, his eyes fixed on her face, seeking to read her reaction from her expressions.

  She remembered that her own father had clapped and cheered on September 11th. She could remember him crowing and cackling, ‘The infidels have suffered a blow they will never forget!’

  Ghani had insisted that the victims of the Bali bombings deserved to be punished. ‘Allah be praised,’ he had said and she had not disagreed – after all, she too had been shocked by the unruly, unholy decadence of Bali.

  Yusuf interrupted her reverie. ‘Nuri?’

  She looked at him. His hands were clasped together. He seemed to be praying for forgiveness, for understanding, or maybe just for a bit of attention.

  Nuri whispered, ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow …’

  They both sat in silence, trying to absorb the enormity of his statement.

  It was Yusuf who spoke first. He said, his voice barely audible, ‘I know that your heart lies with Abdullah – and I understand that. But I just wanted you to know that I have always been here for you. I am sorry that I have to leave you now – when you are so troubled in your heart.’

  It was the longest speech Nuri had ever heard from him. But she had stopped concentrating from the moment Abdullah’s name had crossed his lips. Images were flooding through her mind. Abdullah’s visits to the apartment. The numerous discussions amongst the menfolk when she had been told to wait in the bedroom – and the quiet single-minded devoutness of her would-be lover that had appealed to her even as she had been triumphant that she was his only weakness.