The phone began to ring in Erina’s bag.
“Just drive,” Carter said.
She pulled her phone out and put it on speaker.
“Jacko,” she said. “I was just about to call.”
“Listen,” he said, “I received an email from Samudra half an hour ago.”
Carter looked at Erina. “What’s it say?” she asked.
The taxi swerved to the right, just missing a bemo, a mini-van used to transport tourists. A series of horns blared. Someone outside yelled, “Ngentot lu!” Fuck you!
Carter missed Jacko’s reply. He wound the window up.
“Come again?” Erina asked.
“Thomas and Wayan are alive,” Jacko said.
Carter watched Erina exhale, close her eyes and sink into the seat.
A wave of relief washed through him. Even though neither of them had talked about it, both knew Thomas and Wayan’s fate hung by the thinnest thread and there’d been every chance they were already dead.
“There was a photo attached,” Jacko said. “He’s definitely holding them prisoner on Batak Island.”
The taxi screeched to a halt at a set of lights, throwing Carter and Erina forward. The driver leaned on his horn.
“Mate, give it a rest,” Carter said. His meaning was clear, even though he spoke in English.
The driver stopped honking.
“What was that, Jacko?” Erina asked.
“He says if we contact the authorities, he’ll execute them immediately. If we do nothing, he’ll release them on the first of January.”
“In other words,” she said, “he’s sent us a written invitation to pay him a visit on Batak Island and will be expecting us.”
“You could say that. Listen, I’ve got another call coming in. I think it’s the helicopter pilot. See you at four.”
3
A couple of miles away in a cheap hotel on the main street of Kuta, eighteen-year-old Awan Darang had just vomited for the third time in an hour.
He’d been so proud when Samudra had chosen him for this mission. This was supposed to be the greatest day of his life. He’d been training for months for this opportunity to go all the way for God. But now the time was so near, fear wracked his body.
He rocked back and forth on a wooden chair, rubbing his sweaty palms over his thighs and inhaling deeply in an effort to stop the burning bile rising from his stomach into his throat.
His most esteemed leader, Samudra Sungkar, had departed an hour ago and was due to return any minute. Awan had been left alone in this sparse room on the second floor of the Hotel Maria, just a few blocks from Kuta Beach and overlooking a street choked with traffic. He wore a pair of black pants, a crisp, freshly ironed short-sleeved shirt and his best leather shoes, which he’d polished shiny for the occasion.
His attention darted around the room. The four white walls were bare except for a single photograph of two pink lotus flowers lying in a pond of green and orange leaves.
The flowers’ simple beauty reminded him of his home in Nalang, the tiny inland village in northern Java where he’d grown up in a strict Muslim family. He’d spent the first seventeen and a half years of his life sharing a four-room hut with his mother, father and two younger sisters. He’d attended the local school and been a good student.
Eight months ago he and a dozen other young men from his village had gone to a meeting at the local mosque to hear Samudra Sungkar speak. Up until that point, even though he’d received a good education, his life had lacked meaning and direction. Samudra’s sermon, concerning service to God, and its relationship to Islam and jihad, ignited a passion in his heart and imagination. For the first time in his short life a holy purpose inspired him and he knew happiness. He wanted to do something great for God.
He and four friends from his village had formed a young people’s mujaheddin group. They met every night to discuss the true meaning of the Koran and what it meant to be a good Muslim. After three months Samudra had invited them to his compound at Batak Island and their training had begun. It was the most exciting time of his life.
Samudra had explained many times how dedicating one’s life to jihad represented the truest path to God. It all seemed so clear and made perfect sense when Samudra spoke. But sitting alone in the unfamiliar hotel room thinking of his home and family made Awan question whether he was truly ready to give his life for God.
He turned toward the warm afternoon sunlight streaming through a half-open window, bowed his head and prayed. “In the name of Allah, the most beneficent, the most merciful. You alone do I worship. You alone do I seek for guidance.”
Outside in the hall, as if answering his prayer, footsteps approached.
His heart started to race. He stared at the door, feeling like he wanted to be sick again.
A key clicked into the lock and the doorknob turned.
A jolt of adrenalin shot through his body and he feared his bowels might open right where he sat. His legs went to jelly and he found it difficult to rise from the chair.
Samudra Sungkar stepped through the door wearing a short-sleeved batik shirt, slim black pants and leather sandals. He dragged a small businessman’s suitcase on wheels behind him. A leather satchel hung over his shoulder. Even though he was not tall, he had a very great presence. He was the most wonderful man Awan had ever known.
“Allah akbar,” Samudra said.
Awan repeated the greeting and dropped his head. Looking down at the table, he felt Samudra’s brown eyes fixed upon him, but he was unable to meet his master’s gaze.
“My young brother,” Samudra said in a soft, gentle tone. “We are all afraid. It is nothing to be ashamed of.”
Awan lifted his eyes. “Even you?”
“Yes, of course. Fear has a holy purpose. It reminds us of God’s presence and greatness. If you continue to pray and strive to do his will, he will always be with you, and when this great task is over, he will welcome you into paradise with open arms. You will be warmed by his embrace. As the great Osama once said, ‘To kill the Americans and their allies – civilians and military – is an individual duty for every Muslim who can do it in any country in which it is possible to do it. In our religion, there is a special place in the hereafter for those who participate in jihad.’”
Awan nodded.
“And of course,” Samudra said, “you will bring great prosperity and honor to your family. You want them to be proud of you, don’t you?”
Awan nodded again.
Samudra placed his hand on Awan’s shoulder. “But you must do this for the right reasons. Not to be a hero or to be seen to be courageous or to gain my respect or for any other bad reason. You must do this only for the glory of Allah.”
Awan’s spine straightened. “I understand.”
Samudra’s familiar smile lit up his face. “Very good.”
He produced a pad and pen from his satchel and placed them in front of Awan on the table. “Now, please write to your family and tell them of your great legacy.”
As always, Awan did what he was told. He sat down at the desk, closed his eyes and asked Allah for guidance, that he might find the right words. After a few moments he picked up the pen and started to write, shakily at first, then faster as the ideas started to flow – ideas Samudra had introduced him to.
I am so blessed and grateful to do God’s work. Holy Jihad. I thank Allah for this opportunity. I ask you, my beloved family, for your prayers and support in carrying out the great cause. There is much work that must be done for the sake of the struggle against the infidels.
America and Australia and all their allies must be destroyed. Even if it takes a hundred years, we must keep fighting until we win.
We must all sacrifice ourselves and spill blood that we may return Islam and our brothers to glory. I pray that my martyrdom may inspire others to do great deeds that will trigger the growth of the fellowship of mujaheddin.
What good is a life that does not involve love and sacrifice? We must not
live a life that will shame us before Allah. Jihad is my divine purpose. My destiny.
So, please, shed only tears of joy for me.
I love you.
Allah akbar.
He signed his name, placed the letter in an envelope, sealed it and handed it to Samudra, who slipped it into his bag.
“Thank you,” Samudra said. “Now please stand.”
Awan did as instructed. Samudra opened his suitcase and extracted a vest packed with four six-inch sticks of dynamite in the front pockets and two in the back.
The boy stood still as Samudra slipped the lethal garment over his shoulders and secured the plastic buttons at the front for him.
A shiver ran through his body from head to foot. He was a mujaheddin, a holy warrior for God. This was his destiny.
Soon he would know glory and enter paradise.
God was great.
Samudra reached into his suitcase, held up a casual black cotton jacket, presented it to him and smiled.
Awan slipped his arms through the sleeves.
The great man’s tenderness gave him strength.
He hoped Samudra would not notice the sweat trickling down the side of his face.
Samudra zipped up the jacket’s front and adjusted the collar, reminding Awan of how his father had dressed him for school as a young boy.
Samudra held a phone in his right hand. “All you have to do, my brother, is walk into the cafe. I shall do the rest.”
4
Carter paid the taxidriver and they negotiated their way along one of the cluttered streets that led to Kuta Beach and the Green Monkey, where they were due to meet Jacko in less than twenty minutes.
They turned into Legian Street, the main drag of Bali’s central tourist district, and walked toward the site of Paddy’s Pub, one of the two targets in the 2002 terrorist bombings, the other being the Sari Club. They stopped in front of an intricately carved stone monument, created to honor the victims of the bombings.
He scanned the pedestrian traffic but couldn’t see anyone watching them.
Across the street a neon sign read: Pirates, Dance Party, Bounty Discothèque. Despite the brutal tragedy, the party continued unabated in Kuta. The nightclubs still attracted plenty of hedonistic young western backpackers and high-school graduates. Another bar, Paddy’s Reloaded, had opened down the street.
Jacko claimed he loved the life and energy of Kuta, saying it made him feel young at heart. Carter found the pollution, congestion, constant noise and swarms of tourists intolerable.
For their current purposes, though, Carter had to admit that Kuta had a few things going for it. It allowed them to blend into the background without attracting too much attention, and police officers patrolled the streets regularly, meaning an attack in the open was unlikely.
Erina bought a small bunch of white flowers from a street vendor and placed them on the monument. They then resumed their walk down Legian Street, heading in the direction of the Green Monkey.
They didn’t speak, each too busy scanning the streets as they walked. They moved at a leisurely pace like a couple of tourists, passing shops selling low-priced T-shirts, pirated CDs and DVDs, and tiny restaurants serving cheap food and booze.
Traditional gamelan music competed with hip-hop and classic rock. That, combined with the constant tooting of car horns and revving of motorcycle engines, made it too noisy to think let alone talk.
They’d just passed a dress shop when Carter noticed two young men loitering in front of a music stand set up on the sidewalk on the other side of the street. The Doors’ “Light My Fire” blared from a set of cheap speakers.
Erina turned toward him. She’d spotted them too.
He gestured toward a Starbucks fifty yards down from them, across the street, and said, “Let’s grab a coffee.”
They navigated their way across the sea of idling traffic and belching gasoline fumes.
A stone statue of Kali, the Hindu goddess of time and change, stood outside the cafe. Flowers and burning incense lay at her feet. Similar offerings could be seen outside practically every Balinese-owned shopfront, demonstrating the reverence most Balinese practiced in their daily life. The simple everyday spirituality was something Carter loved about the place.
He followed Erina into the cafe’s air-conditioned cool. Except for the Balinese serving staff dressed in black, they could’ve been in a Starbucks anywhere in the world. If they weren’t being followed, he’d take the opportunity to try to get Erina to talk about what was bothering her.
A quick study revealed nothing out of the ordinary. The cafe was full of westerners, except for two young Indonesian women sitting with a group of western backpackers.
Carter said to Erina, “Get me an espresso and I’ll check the back exit.”
She looked at him for a moment as if tossing up whether to do what he asked and then walked to the counter.
He made his way to the back of the cafe, past the bathrooms, and headed down a narrow hallway, stopping in front of a door that stood ajar with a key in the lock. He checked behind him to make sure no one was watching and opened it a little wider. It was a walk-in closet half-stocked with cleaning products. He left the door ajar as he’d found it and continued on to the back exit.
He pushed the rusty iron door open and looked outside. A shaded alley ran down the side of the restaurant and intersected with a main road about a hundred yards away.
Satisfied there was no immediate danger and having established a clear exit route, he headed back inside.
Erina stood at the counter, placing an order. He chose a table set against the back wall and waited. They’d have their coffee and, if no one suspicious turned up, leave through the back lane.
The front door swung open.
Two elderly female tourists with pale skin and bright red, sweaty faces entered. They wore matching blue and white Hawaiian shirts and their bodies visibly relaxed in the air-conditioned cool after the heat and humidity outside.
They headed for the counter, passing Erina, who was making for Carter’s table carrying a tray with two takeout coffee cups and a white paper bag.
Behind her, two teenage girls with long blonde hair pushed through the entrance wearing sarongs and bikini tops, listening to their iPods.
Erina placed his coffee in front of him, sat down and tore the bag open. Inside was a coconut and palm sugar slice, her favorite.
The front door of the cafe swung open again and the two young Indonesian men they’d spotted on the street came in. They stood at the entrance, scanning the room. One of them looked over at Carter, leaned close to his mate and whispered something.
Carter and Erina stood up at once and walked toward a sign that read Rest Rooms. Five yards past it, they turned down the hallway and broke into a jog.
When they came to the cleaning closet, Carter grabbed Erina’s arm and then glanced behind him, checking that the two men weren’t yet following them.
No one was watching. He opened the door wide for Erina. She stepped inside. He took out the key, squeezed in beside her and closed the door, locking it.
A dim light leaked under the bottom.
He grabbed the smooth handle of a mop in his left hand and listened. The distant hum of the cafe echoed through the thin walls.
For twenty seconds they stood absolutely still, breathing in the sharp smell of bleach. At first Carter heard nothing out of the ordinary, but then the sound of two sets of footsteps walking on concrete came toward them.
The footsteps stopped outside the closet.
A shadow blocked the light coming under the door.
Carter clenched his right hand into a fist and shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet. He felt Erina tensing beside him, controlling her soft breath, preparing herself to strike.
Someone turned the doorhandle back and forth twice and pushed against the door.
Time crawled by. Then the footsteps started up again, moving down the hallway away from them, gathering speed as they n
eared the back exit.
A door opened and then slammed shut.
Carter waited a few seconds. He then unlocked the door, pushed it open and looked up and down the deserted hallway. The two Sungkar clan spies had obviously headed straight for the back alley, thinking he and Erina had exited that way.
They stepped out of the closet and walked at a brisk pace back into the cafe. Before heading out the door, they grabbed their takeout coffees and the coconut slice, which were still sitting at the table.
Outside in the street Carter turned toward the shrill ring of a bell. A bright red three-wheeled motorized taxi was heading toward them.
He hailed it and they slid onto the seat, under the shade of a cloth canopy. It wasn’t a perfect hide-out, but it’d do for now and get them away from Starbucks.
Erina leaned forward and said to the driver, “Terus sitir.” Just drive.
5
Carter and Erina stepped out of the vehicle and headed toward the Green Monkey Cafe, one of a string of thatch-roofed coffee shops and restaurants that lined Kuta Beach and attracted a young backpacker crowd.
They entered via an alley that ran along the back to reduce the likelihood of being seen. Once inside, Carter saw no sign of Jacko, even though he and Erina were ten minutes late for their 4 p.m. meeting.
He looked through the front opening and onto the beach, where a dozen men and women in their late teens and early twenties sat in a circle on white plastic chairs under raffia beach umbrellas, playing a drinking game. The Eagles’ “Take It Easy” rang out from a set of speakers outside.
The song transported him back to the fibro shack he’d lived in with his mother in Lennox, back when he was a kid. She’d loved seventies music. He remembered her sitting on the back porch of their house when he was around six years old, singing along with the Eagles on the radio while smoking what he now knew was a marijuana joint.
“You want me to call Jacko?” Erina asked.
“Let’s give him a few more minutes.”
One of the backpackers, a young blonde guy with a goatee and frizzy hair, lifted a coconut to his mouth, threw his head back and drank to the chant of “drink it down, down, down.”
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