by A P Bateman
King could see the trader looking at him again. He turned away from the man, then caught sight of his towel, which was now nestled between two large groups of youths, who were playing overly loud music on an iPad with speakers and, judging from the empty bottles, knocking back enormous amounts of beer. He walked casually between the groups, picked up his towel and continued his walk up the beach. There were a few remarks behind his back, a few ultimatums and a challenge to anyone who didn’t like their music, but King had heard idle threats many times, shouted by men in large groups. Men who could not stand alone. He ignored the remarks, comfortable in the knowledge that idle threats only rose from idle throats. Besides, he was a trained killer; for him there was no fulfilment in a pointless confrontation which could go nowhere. The challenge had never really been there at all. He stopped walking, turned towards the shimmering ocean and stared out to the horizon. The light was inspirational, reflecting off the water and bathing the coastline in brightness. He had always found stimulation when he contemplated something beautiful; it seemed to open the gates to his mind, making him want to paint, or more recently to write. He had found writing cathartic. A way to unburden emotion, deal with what he had done for his country and the death of his wife.
He toweled himself off briskly, then walked towards the barrier of traders. It was time to return, time to convert his thoughts into action. He wanted some normality. He did not want to be alone anymore and was ready to open up to someone, to be with someone. He was ready to move on. His future was his own, and he suddenly realised there was no place in it for MI6 and the work he did. He had done his penance.
80
In his luxurious suite on the top floor of the Ritz Hotel, Charles Bryant turned the pages of The Times then froze as he saw the article. His hands shook, the nerves inside making him feel nauseous. He was excited, yet also fearful and full of regret as he read. He had not planned for this mixture of emotions.
A high-ranking Indonesian soldier was killed by arresting officers four days ago in Yogyakarta, Java. It was recently uncovered by Indonesian intelligence that General Madi Soto was planning a military coup and resisted arrest along with nine other soldiers. A small group of military intelligence officers loyal to General Soto were killed by security forces in a separate operation.
General Soto, 58, of the Republic of Indonesia Army was to be arrested for planning a hostile takeover of government as well as his alleged involvement in the disappearance of two Australian journalists two years ago. He was also to be questioned by police about the disappearance of Indonesian citizens near military bases in Java and Sumatra and the disappearance of over one hundred political prisoners from the on-going conflict in East Timor.
His openly communist views and recent anti-government comments as well as his alleged involvement with resurrecting the PKI, Indonesia’s communist movement are being investigated. Abdul Tembarak of the Indonesian Intelligence Service commented. “We are investigating thoroughly and looking into possible accomplices into General Soto’s attempt to destabilize a free and hard-working nation. The balance of our diverse country, its investors and fellow trading nations was at great risk because of one man’s own, outdated ideology.”
Bryant folded the paper, then dropped it lazily on the bed. It was over, he had nothing more to do in London except pay the second instalment to his old friend Sandy.
He reached for the tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and took a long sip, before eyeing the food on the silver breakfast tray. Somehow, after reading of the man’s death, breakfast was no longer foremost in his mind. Other men had died as a result of going after Soto. He had not been prepared for that. He felt numb, as if he had just been given the news of a loved one’s death, or that a good friend had been involved in an accident. He did not know the men, but knowing that he had played a part in their deaths, filled him with an almost unbearable feeling of regret. At first glance, the article had filled him with joy. The threat to his future business in the archipelago had been wiped out, for the time being at least. His offshore bank account in the Cayman Islands had never looked better and would soon be credited with a substantial amount, as would his accounts in Geneva and Panama as he broke up his fee. So why the regret? Why the overwhelming feeling of sorrow? Bryant wasn’t entirely sure, but at that moment, it felt as if he had pulled the trigger himself. Men were dead, had been deliberately and wantonly removed from existence, and the fact had made him feel sick to his stomach. He had taken away all the men had, all they would ever have.
His smartphone rang on the bedside table and he reached out, dismissing the guilt from his mind. He had known what he was getting into and it was too late to worry about the details. He pressed the green telephone logo on the screen and answered with his usual tiresome; “Hello?”
“Hello, Charles,” Sandy greeted him warmly. “Read the papers yet?”
“I have.”
“Like what you saw?”
Bryant paused, the guilt rising within him. “Yes,” he lied. “Your man did well.”
“So he did. Now we just have the little matter of my final instalment. Tonight all right with you?”
“Fine,” Bryant paused. “My hotel for a drink, and perhaps a bite to eat?”
“Lord no!” there was a long pause. “Jolly sensitive subject, this. Do you remember our first meeting venue?”
Bryant thought of the small unkempt park and the windswept bench where they had first discussed the arrangement. Not like such well-kept parks as St. James’s or Hyde, the area was far from desirable for a night time meeting place. “I remember the place, but I’m sure we can come up with a more civilized, if not warmer location.”
“Of course we could, old boy!” Sandy laughed. “But I have official business in Roehampton and have to be at a late night meeting soon after. The park is just up the road, I cannot disappear for too long.”
Bryant relented. “All right Sands, give me a time.”
“Nine o’clock should do it,” he paused. “Listen, I’m short on time, must dash Okay?”
“Sure, see you later.” Bryant pressed the off icon and tossed the phone onto the bed. “Great,” he said out loud. “Twelve more hours to kill.”
81
The walk up the infamous lane Poppies II which cuts through the centre of Kuta to the beach, was much the same as it had always been. King thought it unchanged since his first visit to the town ten years previous. Street traders hassled for the weary tourists to buy their merchandise - some original and well-priced, but mainly poor copies of designer labels at knock-down prices. The heat was stifling, as the relatively shaded walkway picked up the fumes from passing vehicles and the heat which was trapped below the walls to either side of the narrow road.
King had stopped to buy a bottle of lemonade from one of the many traders and drank the refreshing drink as he walked the last few metres to his accommodation.
His chosen room was part of a growing complex catering for travelers of limited means, but King didn’t mind. He wanted to fit in and welcomed the hordes of tourists, which were now unwittingly providing the cover which he so desperately needed. The rooms, which were mainly on ground level, were arranged inside a walled garden. An open warong sheltered from rain by a palm roof offered a suitable dining room where a simple, inexpensive breakfast of green tea and toasted banana sandwiches was served on request every morning.
King walked down the narrow lane leading to his room, then noticed the tiny Balinese man who looked after the complex and was known to the tourists simply as Dan. King seriously doubted if that was his real name, but never questioned it. He sipped another mouthful of lemonade, then caught Dan’s eye. “Hi Dan,” he smiled.
“Ah, hello,” the man paused, picking up a small machete from the toolbox next to him. “Good swim?”
King nodded amiably. “Yes, a bit crowded though.”
“Busy, busy, busy!” Dan smiled. “You go to Nusa Dua, much quieter. Many sharks though.”
�
��Then I think I’ll pass, thank you.” King smiled as he sipped more of his drink. “I need to go to Sanur, to book and confirm my flight. I have an open ticket,” he paused. “Do you know where I can hire a cheap vehicle?”
The tiny Indonesian frowned. “You get taxi, or bus, much cheaper.”
King shook his head. “No, I want to drive myself, maybe have a swim at Sanur Beach.”
“Ah,” the Indonesian exclaimed. “You hire bike, motorcycle. Is cheap, I get you bike.”
“OK.” King glanced at his watch, then looked back at the man. “Will the Qantas office be open tonight?”
“Yes, yes. They close at seven o’clock, I get you bike now.” He dropped the machete back into the toolbox, abandoning his pruning efforts and trotted off down the lane towards the town.
King smiled, then turned back and walked through the gardens towards his room and the welcome fan, which had been taking the edge off the stifling heat all day.
***
The climate in this particular part of Indonesia seems strange to most visitors. The humidity is among the highest on Earth, yet at times the sun bakes the ground so dry that it could well be concrete. The rainy season is not like the driving monsoon season in India, or the wet season in the Caribbean. Bali’s rainy season is merely a pattern of weather, by which you can set your watch. By day, usually throughout the morning the sun shines, the clouds then cover the sun around mid-day and the humidity rises considerably. After that, generally between three and five the heavens open, the rain beats down like gunfire and the ground soaks into a quagmire of warm, murky water, and then mud. Lots of mud. Then the clouds move on, the sun shines once more and within minutes the ground is hard and the whole event easily forgotten.
Having forgotten about the late afternoon downpour and its predictability you could set your watch by, King had got caught in an almighty rainstorm, almost losing control of the Honda 250 cc trail bike. Fortunately he regained control at the last second and then pulled onto the side of the road, bowed his head and meekly waited for the drenching to cease. As the clouds departed and the sun bore brightly onto his soaked shoulders, he restarted the motorcycle’s engine and continued on his way, letting the warm wind dry his shirt and damp skin. The road dried quickly and before long King was riding the agile bike hard, leaning into the corners and banking all the way through the bends, until he corrected his weight and evened the motorcycle out into the opening straight. The air was now slightly cooler, but the sun baked his neck as he turned his back on it and rode into the small town of Sanur.
The town was barely a village, but was home to the most expensive hotels and private houses on the entire island, with abundant neatly mown lawns and private gardens. There were several golf courses nearby, all expensive, even by European standards. King slowed, keeping his eyes peeled for the Qantas offices. Personally, he had never heard of anything more ridiculous but then, this was Indonesia. It would be all too simple to locate an international airline’s office at the airport, rather than in a hotel some eight miles away. But then again, perhaps it had something to do with the expensive hotels located here.
He wove the motorcycle between two parked cars, then pulled in to the hotel’s entrance among a vast array of expensive cars. Finding a suitable parking spot was not a problem and he was glad he had agreed to hire the bike. A car was far too much hassle in the volatile traffic and he did not want to rely on Indonesian taxi drivers. For some reason, possibly connected with Abdul Tembarak and Soto’s military intelligence officers, King was now very dubious of Indonesian taxis.
One of the most pleasing features of the tropics has to be the advent of modern air-conditioning to just about every major shopping centre or office. The icy air hit him like a blast from a freezer as he entered the building, relieving him and relaxing him in one sudden wave of coolness. He paused underneath, making the most of the experience. He could feel his damp shirt cooling quickly under the air. Soon it had chilled him too much and he set out in search of the airline’s elusive offices.
***
Across the road, parked on the grass verge and out of the way of any traffic, a man in a black Nissan Patrol four by four replaced the A4 photograph to the centre console, then frowned at the man next to him. “Was that him?”
His companion hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “I’m not sure, it’s hard to tell. We’ll need to get confirmation. Give him a few minutes, then go inside.”
***
King waited patiently for the German couple to complete their booking to New Zealand then smiled at the pretty Indonesian woman, as she beckoned him forwards to take a seat in front of the large desk.
“Hello, how can I help you?” she asked in perfect English.
King smiled and handed her his passport and return open tickets to Heathrow, via Bangkok. “I need to confirm my flight,” he paused. “I understand that you confirm open tickets approximately twenty-four hours before the flight, but would it be possible to be on a flight tonight?”
The woman smiled, then sat down behind her computer terminal and started to type the details onto the screen. “You don’t have to confirm from here, but I can book and confirm if you wish. Or you could do it online. If you have a smartphone you can download the app.”
“My boss told me I had to confirm flights from here.” King said, somewhat irritated.
“That’s not necessary, Sir,” she said as she typed. “It used to be, but changed quite a few years ago. But as you require a flight tonight it’s probably best to do it from here,” she said pleasantly. King frowned. That wasn’t what Stewart had said. The woman looked up as an Asian man entered the office and sat down on one of the comfortable waiting chairs against the wall, he picked up a Qantas magazine and started to read. The woman turned her attention back to her screen and read the relevant information. “Yes,” she paused. “The flight is quiet tonight, you can leave on a flight from Denpasar at twenty-three hundred, which gives you an hour and a half at Bangkok, before departing for Heathrow.”
“That will be fine,” King smiled. The world has many worse airports than Bangkok, and an hour and a half could be easily killed browsing in the many shops.
The woman started to fill out his flight details on the screen, then glanced up and frowned as the Asian man stood up and walked out through the open doorway. She turned back to her booking form, then looked up and smiled warmly at him. “You must check in at least three hours before the boarding time.” King nodded, familiar with the formality. He picked up his passport, then stood up as the woman handed him his tickets. “Have a safe journey,” she smiled.
King slipped the documents into his back pocket, then returned the woman’s smile. “Thank you,” he said. “I certainly hope to.”
***
Outside the hotel and the Qantas offices King looked at the deep blue cloudless sky and decided that he would get another swim in before returning to Kuta and getting ready to leave. He didn’t have much luggage to pack, but wanted a long shower and an authentic Indonesian meal at a decent restaurant before heading to the airport at Denpasar. He swung his leg over the Honda’s frame, then felt the hot plastic seat burn into his thighs. He flinched momentarily, then grit his teeth against the discomfort, as the heat of the saddle became more bearable.
The ground had dried in the short time since the downpour and in places where the overhanging trees sheltered the road from the sun’s rays, the ground steamed as if it had been drenched with scalding water. King watched, marveling at the sight. He pressed the motorcycle’s start button, then kicked the stand away as the engine fired into life. As he slowly pulled away from a standstill, he noticed the large Nissan Patrol and its three occupants across the street. Each of them wearing dark aviator style sunglasses. Not that there should be anything suspicious about wearing sunglasses in the tropics, but the vehicle’s windscreen was slightly tinted, and had been parked in the generous shadow of one of the huge trees lining and shading the road. King studied the vehicle out
of the corner of his left eye, using his peripheral vision. He paused at the entrance of the hotel, then rode carefully out into the road and gently accelerated along the quiet tree-lined avenue.
The Nissan Patrol rocked as it dropped hastily off the curb and filled his near-side mirror, then accelerated after him, allowing nothing like a safe distance between them. King changed up through the gears and settled the speedometer at around sixty miles per hour. The four by four followed, dropping to a distance of approximately thirty metres. King’s heartbeat raced, as he was suddenly aware of the impropriety. The man in the passenger seat looked like the man who had walked casually into the Qantas office, but had only stayed for a moment. He accelerated heavily, putting a further fifty metres between himself and the Nissan, but looked into his mirror in horror, as the big off roader quickly shortened the gap.
There was no question of this being a moment of paranoia. King knew that he was being followed, but what concerned him the most was the blatancy. There was no finesse, no covert attempt to watch him, it was a simple case of high profile intimidation.
King concentrated on the road ahead. His motorcycle was severely out powered with top end speed. King would be able to accelerate twice as quickly, but the vehicle would soon catch up. However, King was wearing cargo shorts, trainers and a T-shirt. The last thing he wanted to do was fall off on the rough, hot tarmac. For now, he would have to use his acceleration to keep ahead. Fortunately there were many bends and corners to slow the big Nissan down.