The Contract Man

by A P Bateman

  Rocky got the Land Rover up to about thirty miles per hour and drove over both casualties and dead bodies alike. King was getting low on ammunition and started to rattle off three round bursts at anything that moved. It was difficult standing in the tiny loading bed of the pickup as he had to step over Ozzy and balance as best he could as Rocky drove erratically towards the jagged hole in the fence. Bodies lay strewn everywhere, but soldiers were massing and regrouping quickly. Many of the soldiers had unloaded and made their weapons safe after arriving back to the compound. They had been surprised, but it wouldn’t last long. King could see weapons and magazines being distributed and with every yard they drove more and more shots pinged past them or hit the ground around them throwing up dust and gravel. They would soon find their mark or give pursuit and would be on top of them. They had overwhelming numbers.

  King sat down and pushed up against the rear window of the cab. “Get us out of here Rocky!” he shouted through the glass. He put down the empty PKM and picked up Shameel’s AK47. The soldiers were almost one hundred and fifty metres away, but bullets were starting to get close to them as they fled. Some were hitting the tailgate and both wing mirrors were shattered. King fired single shots at the regrouping men, he wasn’t sure if he hit, nor was he really trying to. He just wanted them to keep their heads down and make them reconsider fighting. Most soldiers when faced with a surprise attack and without clear objectives or orders set out for them will concentrate on keeping their heads down and getting through the battle unscathed.

  Rocky drove through the hole in the fence with King ducking down to avoid the shredded and twisted wire, and they were soon out of range, both by a combination of distance and the bend in the road which took the camp from view. The great orange glow from the fire still lit the night sky and as they approached a mile and a half distance from the compound a tremendous explosion detonated and the ground shook the Land Rover momentarily off the road. King felt a wave of heat envelop him like opening an oven door. The entire southern sky lit up as bright as day and a mushroom cloud plumed skywards throwing up an enormous ball of black, acrid smoke. Slowly the light dissipated leaving a bright orange glow which pulsated like a distant strobe.

  King knocked on the window and signaled for Rocky to stop. The Kurd pulled the Land Rover to the side of the potholed road and King stood up. Ozzy was stirring and groaned. King leapt over the side and opened the passenger door. “Right, nobody’s going to follow us with that tanker going off like that. Let’s get going but take it steady. Ozzy needs to see a doctor. Over the border is the best bet,” he paused. “About twenty miles North East will give us a few options.” He changed over magazines on the AK47 and put it muzzle downwards in the foot well. He did the same with Rocky’s weapon. They were going to go through the heart of Islamic State held territory, but at least the border would be unguarded on the Iraqi side.

  Rocky nodded and pulled away. “Is your friend okay?”

  King glanced back at Ozzy. He didn’t have any friends. Never needed them. He was stronger on his own. He’d loved and lost and he’d promised himself no more ties. But then why in Hell’s name had he risked his life to get a man back? A man he’d known for only one night? He looked back at Rocky. “He’s injured from the crash and they’ve beaten him up pretty well, but I think he’ll be all right.” He looked out of the window, thinking about Shameel and Akmed. “I’m sorry about your friends. They were brave men.”

  Rocky looked tearful as he drove. “They were lucky,” he smiled. “They got to die like lions. Not like lambs…”

  55

  Charles Bryant closed his eyes and rested his head against the corner of the wall. His mind was buzzing and the musician’s bad rendition of Barry Manilo’s Copacabana only made matters worse. He was sure that the man had only recently seen a sheet of the words and his timing was that of a drunken karaoke contestant. Perhaps there was an ironic comedy angle that he was failing to appreciate.

  Bryant opened his eyes and reached forward for his gin and tonic, taking a deep, refreshing mouthful as he looked around the quiet bar and studied the clientele. He had not even known of the establishment’s existence, let alone visited the place and was surprised by the number of attractive women lining the bar. They were mainly Indonesian or Filipino, although there were plenty of western women, dressed to the nines, perched elegantly on raised barstools, sipping elaborately decorated cocktails. Bryant listened to the chatter which was suddenly audible, as Copacabana came to an end, and he quickly realised that one of the women was speaking to an Indonesian man in English with a heavy Germanic accent. He listened intently, but the snippet of conversation was soon drowned out at the adaptation of New York, New York. Frank Sinatra was not being given justice either. He wondered if the playlist contained anything from the past three decades.

  Bryant sipped another mouthful of his drink then noticed Junus Kutu walk into the bar and glance casually around. His eyes suddenly met Kutu’s and the little Indonesian smiled as he walked hastily over to the quiet corner table.

  “My good friend, how are you?” Junus Kutu sat down and smiled at the Englishman. “Pleasant journey? You are back so soon…”

  Bryant shrugged. “What can I say? I have only just stepped off a plane, why could we not talk somewhere a little quieter?” he asked, rubbing his temples with both index fingers. “Frankly, I feel like warmed up shit…”

  Kutu signaled to a waiter at the bar, then turned to his companion. “You don’t look so hot either…” He smiled, then glanced up at the little Indonesian who stood at his shoulder. “Bintang, terima kasih.” He glanced at Bryant, who simply held up his half-empty glass and nodded. The waiter ambled his way back to the bar and Kutu looked at Bryant and smiled. “I trust London was a success? You seemed in the best of spirits when you telephoned.”

  Bryant leaned back against the wall and rested his elbow on the back of the next booth’s seat, then smiled wryly. “A positive result. My contact will call me when the arrangements are definite.”

  The little Indonesian smiled triumphantly. “Excellent!”

  “One minor hitch though.”

  “Which is?”

  “He wanted more money,” Bryant paused, watching Kutu’s eyes for any sign of doubt. “I agreed to one and a half million for his cut. I trust that will be acceptable?”

  Junus Kutu stared at him coldly then smiled. “I think we can meet his demands,” he said, keeping his small, piercing eyes firmly locked on the Englishman’s. “I suppose it was only to be expected…”

  Bryant knew that the Indonesian was aware of his little ploy, but had no choice but to continue with the charade. Cutting his contact out of half a million pounds was one thing, but cutting Junus Kutu out of a further half a million was quite another. He shook his head theatrically and shrugged his shoulders. “I tried my hardest, but he was most insistent, he made it quite clear that unless I bumped up the fee, there would be no deal.”

  “Of course he did…” Kutu seemed uninterested as the young waiter arrived with a bottle of cold beer and another gin and tonic. He took a long pull from the neck, then looked coldly at Bryant. “So what are the arrangements?”

  Bryant glanced at a pretty blonde at the bar, then looked back at Junus Kutu. “It will go ahead, simple as that,” he paused, unable to look his friend in the eye. “Payment will be made in two instalments, half before the hit and half when the job is done.”

  “And what are the payment arrangements?” Kutu asked curiously, although he felt that he already knew the answer.

  “Cash. I have to make the payment in person.” He looked away again, turning his attention back to the good-looking blonde, who was now talking to another Indonesian businessman.

  “You have to take two instalments of seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds to England,” Kutu stated dubiously.

  “I have to pay him in cash. I plan to wire it from here through my accounts and draw it in Britain in dollars, pounds and euros.”

&nb
sp; “I trust the money will arrive as planned?”

  Bryant looked back at him and frowned. “What the Hell do you mean?”

  The little Indonesian smiled. “Oh come now, you don’t think you can play your little games with me, do you?” he paused, staring coldly into Bryant’s eyes. “What’s half a million between friends? I’ll tell you, it’s peanuts to men like you and me.” Kutu took another sip, then placed the bottle on the cardboard place mat. “We both play with the figures from time to time. I’m making more out of this deal than you are, even with the half a million you fleeced from both ends.” He smiled knowingly, then shook his head slowly. “But if the money does not arrive, or if this deal does not come off, I will see to it that you do not reach your next birthday. Believe me Charles, you will discover that my reach, particularly in Indonesia, is very long indeed…”

  ***

  “But I don’t understand why I was called back,” Stewart protested. “Surely locating the final segment of King’s security blanket means that we can go forward and put the retrieval stage of the operation into action?”

  McCullum nodded. “Of course it does, old man. However, we are faced with a somewhat unexpected problem…” he paused and smiled wryly. “But what’s more, an unexpected solution.”

  Stewart leaned forward in his seat and looked at Donald McCullum intently. “And what is that?”

  “The problem or the solution?” the Deputy Director smiled. “I think I should explain a little more about the problem first.” He glanced across at Arnott, then looked back at Stewart. “I called you as soon as we found out. King’s insertion into Iraq had not gone quite according to plan…”

  “Now there’s a surprise,” Arnott mused.

  “Quite,” McCullum nodded. “There was a problem when he made the jump, and to cut a long story short, the plane crashed.”

  Stewart sat up in his seat, a look of concern on his haggard face. “Did King make it?”

  “He would seem to possess an annoying penchant for survival,” Arnott commented flatly.

  “Yes, he did.” McCullum nodded. “But the Turkish pilot was captured by the Iraqi army. Fortunately, he was not privy to the operation, he only knew about the insertion aspect.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Stewart asked, dividing his stare between the two men. “Did King do the job or not?”

  “Yes, it would appear so,” Arnott nodded. “Osman Emrie, the Turkish pilot, verified that both brothers were killed.”

  Stewart frowned. “But he was…”

  “Captured, I know,” McCullum nodded. “King rescued him from the military compound at Zakho, used the two Kurds to help him but they were both killed in the rescue. The Turk has filed out an extensive report on the whole affair.”

  “Incredible. That compound is a forward operating base for the region. Very well equipped and heavy on personnel.” Stewart mused. “So what’s the problem?”

  “King is on his way back,” McCullum paused, glancing at the brass wall clock to his right. “He’s in the air as we speak. If he were to arrive back to discover that his security blanket had been raided, well you know how he would react...”

  Stewart nodded, knowing full well that King would be more than a little put out. “I see, you’re right, that is a problem.”

  McCullum looked at Arnott and smiled wryly before turning his attention back to Stewart. “A problem indeed,” he commented flatly. “Now old chap, would you like to hear our little solution?”

  ***

  “So you need the money immediately?” Kutu sipped a mouthful of the warming beer, then held the bottle on the arm of the chair and studied his colleague’s expression. He turned his eyes to a smart-looking businessman, who was sitting down with an Indonesian woman at the next booth, then looked back at Bryant. “Let’s not play games with each other Charles, we both know that you have played with the figures at both ends, but just tell me how much you will need and when you will need it by. I am assuming you’ve added some on to your initial fee and trimmed a little off of your contact’s fee? So where are we? How much do you need? Let’s call your fee two million. That’s safe. What do you need for your contact’s first installment?”

  Bryant looked at him with contempt, then sipped some more of his gin and tonic. He placed the glass on the placemat with somewhat exaggerated precision, then looked back at the little man. “I will need seven hundred and fifty thousand for the first instalment, and the same again for the second,” he stated flatly. To Hell with Junus Kutu, the arrogant little man. He’d upped his fee and he’d have the half a million on top. “But he wants the first instalment in his hand before he sends someone to do for General Soto.”

  Kutu looked up at the man in the next booth, then glared venomously at Bryant. He leaned across the table conspiratorially and spoke in a low voice. “No more names, we cannot afford to get sloppy! And I don’t believe a word of it! But you’ll get it, and your renegotiated fee…”

  The Englishman turned around and looked at the Indonesian couple sitting in the booth behind him. The man was sipping from a glass, while the woman rested her head against his shoulder and stroked his crotch tenderly with her fingertips, talking to him softly in their own tongue.

  Bryant looked back at Junus Kutu and shrugged. “All right, I’ll be more careful,” he agreed, and grinned at his companion. “I shouldn’t worry about those two, he’s about to ask how much a blow job will be any minute now…”

  The Indonesian smiled and glanced across at the good-looking blonde at the bar, then turned his eyes back to Bryant. “It’s usually about thirty American dollars,” he paused, breaking into a wolfish grin. “Most of the western girls charge a little more though.”

  “You mean she’s a…” Bryant stared at the blonde in disbelief, then looked back at Kutu. “I had no idea that there were western women working here!”

  Junus Kutu smiled and sipped another mouthful of Bintang. “Why not? I mean, you like to come to my country and do more than your fair share of novelty fucking, why shouldn’t Indonesian men want the same?” he paused, glancing briefly at the blonde woman. “There are a few establishments in Jakarta with western working girls and the ladies are kept extremely busy indeed. I like to come every two or three weeks,” he smiled. “If you’ll pardon the expression?”

  Bryant remained silent, choosing to stare lecherously at the woman in question. He picked up his glass, downed the remnants, then turned to the Indonesian. “Another drink?”

  “No, thank you,” Kutu paused and stared at him. “So, when do you need the money?”

  Bryant shrugged. “When do you want business to commence?”

  Junus Kutu nibbled at the inside of his cheek while he thought, then looked at Bryant coldly. “As soon as possible,” he paused and rose to his feet. “I will make the arrangements first thing in the morning. Come to my house at around lunchtime, I shall have the money by then. I want things to get underway immediately.” He took out his wallet and dropped a handful of one thousand rupiah notes onto the table. “You had better book yourself onto another flight.” He slipped the wallet back into his jacket pocket and grinned at the Englishman. “I trust you can spare the money for the fare out of your little… Bonus?”

  ***

  Stewart studied the photograph carefully, taking note of the subject’s features and the way that he carried himself. Stewart knew that you could often tell a great deal about a person from the way they carried themselves. Judging from the man’s poise, he was prepared to bet that he was immensely powerful and self-disciplined. His uniform was well pressed, with blade-like creases ironed into his shirt and trousers and his flat stomach, straight back and broad shoulders indicated that he was in exceptional physical condition. Stewart reached forwards and placed the photograph on McCullum’s spacious desk. “Quite a memorable man.”

  “His name is General Madi Soto,” McCullum replied. “A thorn in the proverbial flesh, both to Britain and Indonesia.”

  “And if we
are not careful, to the rest of the western world,” Marcus Arnott interjected. “At the moment, he has his hand on China’s arse and he is stroking it very softly indeed.”

  “I’ve heard the name,” Stewart pontificated. “But until now, I have never seen a picture,” he paused, glancing at the two men. “So what has he got to do with solving our current problem?”

  “The Indonesian government want him assassinated. The directive landed on my desk this morning,” McCullum paused, glancing at Arnott. “It looks as if the British government has sanctioned our department to do the dirty work. We do a great deal of business with Indonesia, we need stability problems out there about as much as they do.”