The Contract Man

by A P Bateman

  Charles Bryant remembered the incident well. He had boasted unduly, hoping to impress his new-found business associate. It was true, he had been owed a favour, but as circumstances had played out, the two men had lost the Sekampung Dam contract to a very dubiously priced tender submitted by a Dutch construction company. The need for the satellite footage never arose and the conversation had receded from his mind. He turned towards the little Indonesian and smiled. “My word Junus, you really do remember every little snippet, don’t you?” he stated flatly, as he picked up his glass and sipped a deliberate mouthful. “What use do you think I can be now? To be frank, I haven’t spoken to my contact for quite some time, he may no longer have any influence.”

  “Believe me, he will. You see, remembering our conversation got me thinking… Many companies have satellites, they are merely necessary tools for information. Mobile telephone companies could not operate without them, nor in fact could the media. But answer me this, who numbers a camera-operated satellite among his facilities? Unless your contact works for a weather station, then I suspect that he is working within the government,” Kutu paused, watching Bryant’s expression intently. “The thing is, if your contact were a politician, then his influence is all but extinct. I mean, since we last spoke of this matter, a new government is at the helm, steering your country towards similar mistakes,” Kutu smiled wryly. “So if your contact has any influence whatsoever, then maybe he holds a more tangible position, a Civil Servant perhaps?”

  Bryant folded his arms defensively, and stared icily at his host. “Go on,” he said, with a sardonic smile. “You’ve obviously given this plenty of thought, don’t let me interrupt your flow.”

  Kutu ignored the remark and looked at him heavily. “You see, I have carried out some extensive research. Any intelligence retrieved from your government’s satellites is directed straight to GCHQ in Cheltenham. Depending on its sensitivity, it goes via certain departments and is duly processed and sent to the body who needs it most. Analysts from every British intelligence organisation are on the staff of GCHQ, to see that all intelligence remains strictly confidential.”

  Bryant shifted awkwardly in his chair, then held up his hands dismissively. “What the Hell do you want me to say?” he asked, somewhat perplexed at the situation. “You’ve done your homework, I’ll give you that. But, what the Hell has any of this got to do with my contact? I’m not going to divulge the position of my contact to you, besides, I was talking about satellites, you are talking about an assassination!”

  Junus Kutu smiled wryly and continued to pontificate, unaffected by Bryant’s outburst. “That is how the government and all its departments receive their information. However, I have it on sound information that the Secret Intelligence Service, or MI6 as it is better known, can operate its own satellites and process all intelligence exclusively,” he paused, picked up his Martini glass and sipped a small, delicate mouthful of the now tepid liquid. “There is only one way in which your contact could off-load satellite data and that is certainly not through the red tape and protocol of GCHQ.”

  Bryant gave his friend a contemptuous look, furious that he had pressed a delicate matter so far and so indiscreetly. He knew for a fact that Junus Kutu would never have allowed such probing into his own contacts. “Okay,” he paused, glaring angrily at his host. “You’ve got me. Why don’t you finish your speech? I can see that you’re simply dying to draw a conclusion.”

  “My dear friend, I am sorry if I got carried away, I did not mean to offend.” Kutu shook his head dejectedly, as if he were the wronged party. “Perhaps it would be more seemly for you to tell me about your contact, if you don’t mind?”

  Bryant looked away. “Well I bloody do!” He glared back at the little Indonesian, unable to hide his rage. “Who was your Golkar contact who allowed you to build three hotels on a holy burial site in Bali? Who was the Japanese businessman who paid you to pull out of the electronics deal in Sumatra?” Bryant stood up suddenly and stared down at him. “See? How do you like it?”

  “The Japanese businessman was called Suzuki Tomatzo and my Golkar contact was none other than President Suharto himself. He hated the Balinese and their separate principality.” Kutu rose to his feet and smiled, gesturing for Bryant to return to his seat. “Please, Charles, bear with me on this. I need to know two things.”

  Bryant grudgingly returned to his sun lounger and shrugged. “All right, I’m listening.” He glanced at his wristwatch, then looked impassively at the Indonesian. “Not for long though, I have a meeting later this afternoon.”

  Junus Kutu knew that this was merely an effort to save face, but he acknowledged Bryant’s change of heart with a nod of appreciation. “I will not take long, and I do apologise for my lack of discretion,” he hesitated, pleased to see that Bryant was relaxing a little. “Firstly, is your contact working within one of the intelligence services, say, MI5 or MI6?”

  Bryant nodded. “What’s the second thing?”

  “Is he still influential?”

  Again Bryant nodded. “Now, I think you had better tell me what you have in mind.”

  Kutu leaned forward in his seat and smiled. “Gladly,” he smiled. “But first let us have some more drinks, and Marie is standing by with some chilled lobster salads. If you’re hungry?”

  Bryant nodded. Kutu rung a nearby bell and within a minute his maid was walking down the steps with a tray of prepared dishes. Kutu asked for more drinks and she dutifully nodded. The lobster was thick and juicy, only just cooked, and was served with a variety of dips, crisp salad leaves and a tasty salsa of cucumber, tomatoes, coriander and chilies.

  Bryant put down his fork and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “I went to school with him. We weren’t all that close, but we wound up at the same university. We attended the same lectures. Well, some of them anyway. We both took a business degree. We became close during Freshers Week, familiarity I suppose…”

  “And you kept in touch afterwards?” Kutu asked through a mouthful of lobster.

  Bryant nodded. “We played rugby for our school and then for our college. People who play a sport together tend to socialise together. We got drunk a lot at uni… A lot of us kept in touch.”

  “So what is his position within the intelligence service?”

  Bryant shook his head. “No way! I’m not telling you his position, or his name!” He reached for his drink. The ice had already melted away in the heat.

  “I could find out, I already know that you studied together, and it would not be difficult to search your former university for records of the rugby team.”

  Charles Bryant tensed. Kutu was sharp, he would have to be more careful in future. He looked at the Indonesian and faked a smile. “I know Junus, but let’s be fair, you sought my help. So far, I have given it. If I walk, you will be no better off, it’s not you who has the contact.”

  “Very well, perhaps I have been a little overzealous. But tell me, how do you come to have something over this man?”

  “I haven’t, I just did him a big favour some time ago, the sort of favour which can be called in, if the need arises,” Bryant paused. “Let’s just say, thanks to my advice, he made an awful lot of money. We both did.”

  Junus Kutu smiled. He had also partaken in many such arrangements. “Well, Charles, I may just have a suitable proposition for both you and your intelligence service friend.”

  Bryant laughed raucously. “I don’t see how! My contact is far from James bloody Bond, in fact since our rugby days, I don’t think he’s done anything more strenuous than shuffle papers, along with most of our Cambridge counterparts! Really Junus, you have been watching far too many films!”

  “I am not ignorant though,” the little Indonesian commented flatly. “I know for a fact that the intelligence services employ such people. People who are capable of killing the likes of General Soto. I know that there are not many but they still exist in that rather murky world of intelligence.”

  “I have a friend who ca
n re-task the odd satellite, perform an in-depth company search, or look into someone’s banking records, not assassinate third-world Generals!” Bryant paused, very much aware that he had probably caused the man great offence at classifying his growing country as third world. “Look Junus, I am a businessman, I have never thought about killing another man in my life. What’s more, my contact is a pen-pusher, a paper-shuffler of the first order.”

  Kutu smiled. “It is because you are a businessman that you are here. It is because I am a businessman that I speak with you at this very moment. And if your contact is open-minded, then we can all be in business together,” he paused staring at the Englishman intensely, perhaps with the most intense stare that Charles Bryant had ever experienced. “Just answer me one question; can your contact act on his own, make his own decisions?”

  Bryant nodded. “Pretty much, he is high up the ladder.”

  Kutu smiled triumphantly. “Then, my friend, we may well be in business!”

  “That is assuming one Hell of a lot!”

  “Allow me to explain,” Junus Kutu leant back against his chair and smiled at his potential partner. “As I mentioned earlier, certain influential people have taken it upon themselves to rid Indonesia of the tyrant, General Madi Soto. Because of my renowned and I must say, deserved reputation, I have been tasked with hiring an assassin for the job. The payment is to be no higher than the equivalent of five million pounds. To the consortium, it is an affordable amount, a necessary expense. However, I am a businessman, and five million sounds an awfully large amount of money just to pull a trigger, don’t you think?”

  Bryant nodded courteously, but remained silent.

  “If your contact could arrange for a British agent to eliminate Soto, then perhaps the five million could be put to better use?”

  Bryant smiled, suddenly very much on Kutu’s wavelength. “How would you suggest the money be spent?”

  Kutu sucked air through his yellow teeth and grinned. “Say, two million apiece for both you and myself, a tax free one million for your contact and a hearty thank you and a well-deserved pat on the back for the assassin?”

  Bryant laughed heartily. “Sounds acceptable to me!” He picked up his glass and shook it gently, letting the slice of lemon bounce off of the sides. “What say we have another drink, before we put the wheels in motion?”

  31

  General Soto stood before Abdul Tembarak and shook his head regretfully. He held himself as if posing for a dictator’s political portrait, with his legs shoulder-width apart and his fists resting against his hips in a posture of stylised defiance.

  “I am told that you are ready to speak.” He glanced at Sergeant Grogol, then returned his eyes expectantly to his prisoner. “Let there be no mistake, if you do not speak the truth, I will have every man in this battalion use your wife like a cheap, desperate whore. Afterwards, I will have Sergeant Grogol take out his plastic surgery implements and skin her slowly, from her toes to her pretty little head.”

  Abdul Tembarak felt himself start to shake uncontrollably. He tried desperately to quell the emotion, but understood that he now had no control over himself. He had been told of General Soto’s fearsome reputation and had been told that the man had no mercy. Although he had doubted much of what he’d heard as scaremongering and exaggeration. The man could not operate like this. Indonesia was a democracy. There had always been talk of human rights violations in the judicial system and inside the prisons, but not within the military. The military could only act by instruction from the government. The police were in command until superseded. Only now did he grasp that every word had been true. Soto was operating within his own remit. He was nothing more than a criminal with the military behind him.

  “Well?” General Soto asked quietly. “I am waiting. Start with your name, age, rank and the objective of your mission. Understand me Tembarak, I have many contacts within the government, I will know when you are lying.”

  “Let my wife go first,” Tembarak pleaded. “When she and our child our safe, I will tell you everything.”

  General Soto laughed out loud and shook his head. “No, I have another idea. You think you can bargain with me?” He turned to Grogol with a sadistic smile. “Sergeant Grogol, kindly remove one of the woman’s toes.” He turned back to Tembarak with an impassive shrug. “You had your chance. Now, you can listen to your wife’s pain…”

  It was all over quickly. As Grogol had selected the set of snips Tembarak had struggled to get the words out of his mouth. He begged and pleaded, but General Soto had held up a hand, indicating that it was too late for talking and that nothing Tembarak said now would matter. She had struggled desperately, but as the snips went over her toe she had ceased for long enough for all in the room to hear an audible snap as the blades sliced cleanly through the joint of a toe. Her screaming was frantic and Tembarak sobbed as Grogol held up the toe and smiled at him. By way of final humiliation, General Soto had ordered the two young soldiers to hold Tambarak still, whilst Grogol had forced the severed toe into his mouth, then wrapped a length of duct-tape across his mouth and face to keep his lips together. Tembarak forced himself to resist the urge to vomit as he felt the toe with the side of his tongue. He felt the wetness and could taste the saltiness of his wife’s blood at the back of his throat. He breathed deeply through his nostrils, knowing the importance of refraining from vomiting. If he did so with his lips fastened, he might well drown.

  His wife continued to sob, as she writhed awkwardly on the bed. He glanced at her for a second, then turned his eyes back to the floor. He felt the tiny toe roll forward slightly, then completely helpless, he lost all self-control. He felt the bile rise from the pit of his stomach and fought for air as it surged against his breath and retched into his mouth. There was no way that he could fight the inevitability of the situation and within seconds he found himself completely starved of air. He struggled in his seat and wrenched his hands up in a frantic bid to free the tape from his mouth. The bindings held firm, and his hands remained involuntarily in place.

  General Soto smiled and bent down in front of his prisoner as he convulsed frantically on the straight-backed wooden chair. “Would you like me to remove the tape Abdul?”

  Tembarak could not hear the man’s voice, only his own heartbeat as he fought in vain for the slightest amount of precious air. General Soto wrinkled his nose in disgust, as he caught the edge of tape, ripped it from Tembarak’s face and stepped back just in time to avoid the eruption of vomit which spilt out onto the concrete floor. Tembarak spat onto the ground and took in deep mouthfuls of stale air. He panted frantically, then relaxed a little, relieved to be alive.

  “Are you willing to talk now?” General Soto paused and glanced briefly at the naked woman. “Or do we have to remove another piece of your wife first?”

  Tembarak shook his head frantically. It was no good, nothing in his training had prepared him for this, all he wanted to do was co-operate. If it gave him the slightest chance of survival, the slightest chance to save his wife from further torture, he would tell them everything. Any man would do the same. He looked up at General Soto. “My name is Abdul Tembarak. I was am thirty-two years old,” he paused, blinking away a tear from the corner of his eye. “And I am a field agent with The Republic of Indonesia, Internal Security Service…”

  32

  Alex King was used to the Secret Intelligence Service’s approach to its more diverse work. There were no regular offices for agents like him. No secretaries to chat-up between missions. Not even a chance to talk shop with other agents. All he ever saw were functional, plain rooms with MDF tables and plastic chairs. A place where a projection screen could be pulled down or sometimes an interactive whiteboard used and a laptop powered up and the details of an operation discussed. After the briefing with his operation liaison officer he was on his own again.

  He followed Stewart into the tiny room and shivered involuntarily as he closed the door behind him.

  “It is a bit
chilly in here, isn’t it,” Stewart agreed. He walked over to the old fashioned radiator and placed his hand on top. “Typical, the budget doesn’t seem to run to heating for our department anymore.” He bent to adjust the thermostat then turned and smiled. “That should do it. By the time we’ve finished our briefing, the place should be just about tolerable.”

  King nodded and sat down on the nearest chair. The cold did not bother him, he hadn’t even noticed the room’s temperature. The involuntary reaction had stemmed entirely from what he knew lay ahead.

  Stewart dropped the file onto the nearby desk then perched himself casually and somewhat selfishly on the warming radiator. King stared at the red file and felt a sudden, rising anger. He knew the SIS colour coding system and realised that the entire operation was now a giant hot potato. The files had always been designated into three categories: buff or manila indicated a present, highly sensitive matter. Red was for ongoing situations, so far unresolved or needing further attention. Completed assignments were blue. The fact that Colonel Al-Muqtadir was dead was insignificant; the operation was now seen as a failure.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Stewart stated flatly. “Well, between you, me and a Hell of a lot of people, the operation has been hailed as a success. If your GPS had never been found, then it would have been tea and medals all round.”

  King nodded. “Yes, but I don’t see the significance. So the Kurds had a GPS. You can buy similar in camping and outdoor leisure shops.”