by A P Bateman
“And the Foreign Office has granted General Soto an Executive Order?” Stewart shook his head. “That is extremely unusual, Sir.”
“What do you want? Would you like to see the bloody directive?” McCullum opened the drawer of his desk and snatched out a typewritten sheet. He dropped the sheet just short of Stewart’s hand, forcing the man to lean across the large mahogany desk. “First I have Alex bloody King questioning a legitimate operation, now I have you doubting an order from the bloody top!” he paused as he watched the Scotsman read the Executive Order. “Should we be watching out for your security blanket as well?”
Stewart calmly replaced the paper and smiled. “I was merely intrigued that there should be an order on such a prominent figure.” He shook his head and stared at both men suspiciously. “The last one I saw for such a figure was Saddam Hussein. Bin Laden’s was different, he was a terrorist. I take it that Alex King will soon be on a little trip to warmer parts?”
“You guess correctly,” Arnott said. “That should give you enough time to seize all the components of his security blanket, shouldn’t it?”
“I should think so,” the Scotsman stared at him coldly, then turned to the Deputy Director General. “You obviously want me to brief King on the mission. When do you want him to go?”
“We’ll give him a day to recover, then send him on his way. He can stay in service accommodation. I don’t want him traipsing down to Cornwall and chancing him knowing someone’s been eating his porridge and sleeping in his bed…” McCullum replied, smiling at his own wit. He turned his attention to another sheet of paper. “Oh yes, before I forget…” He rummaged through a pile of paper files on the edge of his desk, then smiled when he found the relevant folder. “We have a suitable liaison officer for him, it should enable him to find his way around a little easier.” He opened the folder and extracted a large photograph and two typed sheets. “This is his dossier, it’s slim, but we have used the man on several occasions and he is extremely reliable.”
Stewart picked up the photograph and briefly studied the man’s nondescript face, then turned his attention to the two typewritten sheets.
“He serves with Indonesian Internal Security, but also keeps us in the know for a retainer. Barely enough to live on, but he’s an idealist. Anti-communist to the core so doesn’t have a problem helping us out, as long as Indonesia stays a democracy and we help maintain the status quo…” McCullum smiled wryly.
Marcus Arnott craned his neck to see the photograph of the man, then turned to Donald McCullum. “What’s the chap's name?” he asked casually, as he inspected an imaginary blemish on his well-manicured fingernail.
“His name?” McCullum frowned. “His name is Abdul Tembarak.”
56
The night air was stiflingly hot and the mosquitoes gathered around the single dim light bulb in the middle of the ceiling, as if taking a well-earned rest before preparing for another relentless attack on his neck.
The room was much as it had been left and even now, two days after he had returned, he could not bring himself to tidy up and put his life back into some sort of order. What would be the point? The two most important details, the only details which really mattered, were missing. How could he put his life into order without the two people who had made his life complete?
Abdul Tembarak walked through the lounge and into the small bedroom. He stared at the motionless mobile which hung directly above the empty cot. It was made from Javanese shadow puppets, the guardians of family and loved ones. A present from Abdul’s mother. He watched it hang still, then felt a sudden eruption of bile in the pit of his stomach. He turned and ran, hobbling as best he could on his bandaged knee, into the adjoining bathroom, where he vomited violently into the sink, heaving uncontrollably as he strained the very last of it out. He panted, gripping the edge of the basin, then looked up and stared at himself in the mirror. He was dead. There was no other description more fitting, or better suited to his appearance. His eyes were deeply sunken in their sockets, and his hair was matted with sweat, blood and his own vomit. He turned on the cold tap and washed the vile, fetid smelling liquid away then bent down and splashed the refreshing water over his face. It felt cool and pure and he took large mouthfuls in an effort to rid his taste buds of the burning taste of bile in his mouth. The cool water stung at the ulcers at first, but soothed his throat of the dryness which had stayed with him since he had been released from the military compound.
It was almost too easy to forget. To push the whole trauma from his mind and forget that it ever happened, forget to do as he was ordered. To go on with his life, safe and never fearing the fate which was so forcefully promised. But then there was Wyan and their little baby son, Numan. He thought of his wife and of the terrible treatment she had suffered at the hands of General Soto and that hideous monster Sergeant Grogol. How could two men be so fundamentally evil? He stared into the mirror and felt himself drifting back to the compound, and to his wife. His beautiful young wife. The mere the thought of her, spread out for the soldiers to feast their eyes on her most intimate nakedness, made him want to vomit again. He suppressed the feeling and limped out to the narrow hallway and into to their bedroom, his knee was bandaged well, the wounds expertly tended to, but still the joint was stiff and painful. Two shattered teeth had been pulled, and two more filed and filled. His lips were cut and swollen.
The bedcovers had been ripped and the mattress had been overturned, slashed open and discarded against the wall. Everything that the couple owned had been discarded on the floor and most of their valuables had found their way into the soldiers’ pockets. Tembarak stared around the room then stopped when something caught his eye. He looked at the frame, then walked over to crouch on the floor beside it. The glass had been shattered, but the photograph was blissfully still in one piece. He clutched the frame to his chest then looked down at the picture and stared tearfully at his wife. She had been so beautiful on their wedding day and had worn the long flowing dress that her mother had bought for her especially. She had been so pleased, especially as her family was so poor. Tembarak looked at her; young, innocent and beautiful. How easily innocence could be violated, and had been.
Tembarak walked tearfully out of the room. He had no idea where he wanted to go, nor would he feel any better once he got there, but anywhere would be better than the couple’s bedroom, where so much love and intimacy had passed between them. He stood in the middle of the room, then decided to sit on the bare floorboards. He could not sit in comfort, not while his wife and child were incarcerated. To do so would be disrespectful of Wyan’s suffering, and she deserved so much more.
The announcement had caused him a great deal of confusion at first and almost as much confusion later. General Soto was not only cunning, his idea of irony was certainly well honed. The Indonesian General had cut Tembarak’s bonds, given him his clothes and told him that he was free to go. Of course, Abdul Tembarak had regarded this as a trick; after all, it was standard procedure to keep a prisoner off balance, and Tembarak was certainly learning fast.
Then came the bombshell. Wyan Tembarak would not be leaving with him. She would be staying as General Soto’s personal guest. She would be extended every courtesy but would not be able to leave until the Indonesian intelligence agent had completed certain tasks. If he did not perform these tasks, she would become the camp whore and he would never see her again. Unless, he did as he was ordered. His son would be sold to a childless couple and he would never see him again. Unless he did as he was ordered…
Tembarak would have to return to Yogyakarta and go back to work at The MB&C Bank as usual. He would then have to contact his control in Jakarta and report back in, after which he would start to send back information. However, this information would be different. This information would come direct from the mouth of General Soto.
Disinformation.
***
The woman continued to whisper softly into the man’s ear, but the intimate erotic desir
es to which she laid claim did nothing for him; nor for that matter, did her gentle, experienced touch. He sipped another mouthful of his drink, then turned his head casually and watched the westerner leave. The man was tall, fit-looking and had an air of authority about him, quite frankly more his type than the woman who paid close attention to waking his flaccid manhood.
He set his glass back on the glass table, then took out a thick wad of American five and ten dollar bills and dropped them into the young woman’s lap. She looked up in surprise, then pocketed the money before any of the other girls at the bar had chance to see. Then she turned her eyes back to the somewhat effeminate-looking man and smiled, before leaning forwards and whispering into his ear. The man listened to her suggestion, humoring her at least, then shook his head and silently rose to his feet.
***
Charles Bryant stepped out of the air-conditioned building and into the stifling heat of Jakarta’s rush-hour, which, for reasons best known to the locals, seems to last from midmorning to sometime just before dawn. He walked down the concrete steps, then dodged his way through the hordes of pedestrians and stood at the side of the road with his hand outstretched to signal for a taxi. Within seconds, a blue Toyota Corolla pulled across the road, cutting in front of a bus and narrowly missing a collision. As the taxi characteristically held up the rest of the traffic in the lane behind. Bryant opened the car’s rear door and dropped down heavily onto the seat, which for reasons he would rather not know, was covered with a hot, damp plastic sheet.
***
The effeminate-looking man casually stepped out from the air-conditioned foyer and like so many Indonesians, paid no heed to the dramatic change in temperature. He watched Charles Bryant get into the rear of the taxi, then looked further down the busy street and signaled to the scruffy-looking Javanese, who was seated on a motor scooter smoking a cigarette. The man held up his right hand in acknowledgement, then started the scooter’s tiny engine. He casually flicked the cigarette onto the pavement, then rode off slowly, weaving his way erratically through the traffic, until he was only two car lengths away from the blue taxi.
57
“So, Donald...” Martin Andrews looked across the desk at his opposite number and smiled. “When on earth are you going to get some decent brandy in?”
McCullum sipped from the crystal tumbler and frowned. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Where did you get it?”
McCullum continued to frown, a little perplexed. “At a local off license. Why?”
“An off license!” The man’s angular features gave way to surprise and he chuckled out loud. “One would assume that a man about to take the service’s helm and mix with a whole new social circle, could tell a good brandy from off license rotgut, would one not?” Andrews sipped another mouthful of the disagreeable spirit and looked at him seriously. “Come over to the house for some supper one evening next week and I’ll treat you to a guided tour of my cellars. I’ll even put you in touch with my wine merchant.”
McCullum nodded politely and smiled. “I’d like that very much, shall I bring the wife?”
Andrews thought for a moment, then nodded. “Why not, indeed? Carol has recently had the decorators in and she’s simply dying to show off to someone. We’ll leave them to it, while I take you on the boys’ tour,” he paused and smiled excitedly. “Just bought myself a rather attractive Holland and Holland, side by side, with fully engraved side plates. What say we dust a few clays with it before supper? Providing there’s enough light, of course.”
McCullum hid his thoughts as best he could behind a fixed smile. He made a mental note to arrive late, in the dark maybe. He had never been into guns or shooting and the prospect of clay pigeon shooting with a marksman as skilled as Martin Andrews filled him with dread. He knew that Andrews always took August the twelfth off to go to Scotland for the start of grouse season. He also took off the first and last days of pheasant and partridge season, but he couldn’t recall the dates. There was also deer stalking around Christmas with some Lord and Lady somewhere or other, who always held a Boxing Day pheasant shoot. “Sounds marvelous,” he replied emphatically. “Can’t wait.”
Andrews leaned back into the comfortable leather chair and smiled. “That’s settled then,” he paused, then added in a concerned tone. “How’s the delicate situation going? Can’t say I’ve heard any whispers about our American cousins along the corridors.”
McCullum stared at him for a moment, then took another sip of cognac. “It’s quietened down. The whole business seems to have sorted itself out.”
Andrews nodded. “Good. I take it Iraq was a success then?”
“Yes, it was.” McCullum picked up a copy of The Times from the desk in front of him and waved it triumphantly. “Nothing in there, for the first time in over a fortnight!”
Andrews smiled. “Old news then?”
“It would appear so, yes.”
Andrews smiled. “Of course not, but I have heard something on the wind. Voices tend to carry a little further at my end of the building.”
“And what would these voices be saying?” McCullum smiled. “Or were they not awfully clear?”
“The CIA are missing a prized agent,” Andrews shrugged. “It was only a whisper, but they tend to carry the furthest of the lot.”
“That’s why they’re always more dangerous…”
“Word is, Alex King arrived back, safe and sound,” Andrews paused, picking up his glass. “An American contact is asking a couple of questions already. ‘Where is their missing agent?’ is one question. ‘Where is the confirmation of the Faisal hits?’ is another…”
McCullum leaned across the desk, placing his elbows down carefully on the polished wood as he stared at him. “The Faisal brothers died in a raid on the nearby military base to liberate an agent of ours captured when King’s plane went down. I haven’t had the chance to debrief King as yet, but one of our top agents in Turkey, the downed pilot himself, has verified the Faisal deaths,” he frowned as he watched the man’s beady, penetrating eyes. “Peter Stewart is on his way to meet King as we speak. King trusts him and fortunately for us, Stewart is batting on the same team. Our team. Any impropriety on King’s part will soon reach our ears.”
“Only too glad to hear it,” Andrews stated flatly. He sighed and shook his head in deliberation. “Who gave King the order to mount a rescue mission?”
“Nobody,” McCullum paused. “He acted on his own.”
“Interesting. On the whole though, it would appear that Alex King is fast becoming a liability,” Andrews sighed. “If agents just act on their own making key decisions, then what is to become of people like us?”
McCullum nodded. “The feeling’s mutual.” He looked at the man carefully, deciding just how much he should to know. It always paid to play one’s hand close to one’s chest, but certain matters were often worth another’s input. However, this was the SIS and sometimes it paid to keep even the most trusted ally in the dark. He smiled wryly at his opposite number and held up his hand as if to silence him before going any further with the subject. “Alex King’s operational future is soon to come to an end. He’s too much of a liability…”
Andrews nodded, understanding that McCullum’s reply meant that his point had been duly noted, but the matter was already in hand. “Just thought I’d add my two pennies.” He drained the remnants of his cognac, and replaced the crystal tumbler on the mahogany desk. “Retiring, is he?”
“Yes,” McCullum nodded. “Something along those lines.”
58
“Take a seat.” Stewart waved towards the three piece suite in the middle of the cosy lounge. “I’ll get us some coffee. Black with two sugars, right?”
King nodded silently as his host walked out to the kitchen, but declined the man’s offer of a seat, preferring to stand and pace casually round the room, admiring the series of water colours which lined the pale magnolia walls. He appreciated a wide range of art, landscapes in particular, but
did not recognise the style as that of an established painter. He looked closer, noted the name, but could not recall having ever heard of the artist.
“Adrian B. Pollock.” Stewart walked into the room and leaned against the back of the tan leather sofa. “He’s a local chap, lives near Guildford. Margaret knows his sister fairly well and bought one of the chap’s paintings as a token gesture when he started working commercially. She liked it, and has been collecting them ever since.”
King nodded and studied the second painting. “Nice. Simplistic at first blush, yet with some fine details at a second glance. Rewarding.” He turned round to smile at the Scotsman. “Where’s the coffee?”
“Give us a bloody chance, the kettle hasn’t even boiled yet!” He pointed to the nearest seat and grinned. “Now take a seat, you’re making me nervous.” He walked out into the kitchen, then shouted back through the open doorway. “Pull the chair round to face the sofa if you want. It’s Margaret, she’s into all this Feng Shui bollocks! The chairs have to face the compass points to be in line with your ‘spiritual self’, or some shit like that…”
King looked at the seating arrangements and smiled. He had known Margaret Stewart for almost as long as he had known her husband and had given up counting how many fads and phases she had been through. Feng Shui was obviously the latest and would no doubt last until the next weird and wonderful life-enhancing revelation.
“Here, take this…” Stewart handed him the steaming mug of coffee and smiled. “See what I mean? We have four chairs and a sofa. The chairs face the four compass points, with the sofa in the middle. The idea is that you can chose the direction you face, depending on the mood you are in, or the mood you may turn to. I just want them to face the bloody TV.”