It seemed so callous. War widows must have felt the same, she reasoned, although dying for some great principle must be more honourable than dying for money.
It numbed her to see Keith Copeland shake hands with the Indonesian ambassador. Their smiles, the togetherness …
In the back of her mind she’d always harboured the naïve concept that life was sacred and beyond price. Wrong. Every man had a value – and Stephen’s was not high enough. Friendship meant nothing either. Stephen and Keith, buddies since Cambridge – irrelevant when the chips were down.
There was another numbness inside her that came from not being sure of her own feelings. She herself had wished Stephen dead in recent years – and meant it. What the kidnappers had done to him however was worse than death and she feared there’d be more to come before the end.
She rested her chin on her knees. Then she strained forward, peering at the screen. How could he smile at a time like this? Suddenly she was angry.
Why? Why so satisfied? Why not more regret at what he was having to do?
She reached a hand to the sofa table and picked up the small piece of oblong card she’d found tucked at the back of Stephen’s desk drawer that morning. Was this why? This airline boarding pass? She’d been clutching it for hours, staring at the words written on it, debating whether to hand it to the police.
Impossible! A man who’d risen so high could never be so low … But she couldn’t but wonder what he would have said if she’d mentioned it when he rang … Might it have changed his mind?
‘Oh God!’ she gasped. Perhaps the evidence she held in her hand could have saved Stephen’s life …
The flight had been to Zurich, two months ago.
The words written on the boarding pass were perfectly legible and in Stephen’s hand.
Keith’s account: N465329.
Fourteen
Over the Kutu Sea
18.45 hrs (10.45 hrs GMT)
A PATTERN WAS emerging at last. For the first time Randall felt on the track of something more concrete than a mirage. The breakthrough that mattered was the discovery by the French 6ième Division that the Bowen video-tapes had been airfreighted to Paris from Bali. Just five hundred miles from Kutu, Bali was the nearest point with flights to Europe. If the tapes were sent from there, the kidnapped minister could not be far away.
In his phone call from Darwin airport to the unlisted number at Scotland Yard they’d also told him about Ricky Smith and the possibility that he might have been recruited by a middle-aged Australian. Randall had shipped the cassette of photos he’d taken at Sawyer’s house on the evening flight to London, so the Dugdale and Sawyer shots could be shown to witnesses.
The setting sun streaked fire across the horizon and bathed the wings of the Premati Air 737 in pink light. To their right, looking east, the distant rim of Kutu’s solitary volcano thrust up through the low cloud, its crater smudged with smoke. Then the view was gone as the airliner dipped through the grey into the dusk below.
Although encouraged that his mission had some purpose, Randall felt deeply uneasy. Charlie sat beside him with her head resting against the window, her face grey with terror. Mad to have involved her in this mission. Working with a woman always made him jumpy. And a woman journalist … But there’d been no alternative. Not if he wanted to avoid being kicked out of Kutu as soon as he arrived. Kept telling himself that Charlotte Cavendish was a grown-up – big enough to know what she was doing. Here at her own risk. If things went wrong she could take care of herself.
Three rows in front sat Brad Dugdale and Teri. No contact on the flight, just like he’d told them when they’d met at Sawyer’s place. The Australian had the aisle seat, his tanned, bald crown showing above the seat back. Randall was sorely tempted to go and ask what he’d meant by his odd question earlier – if you learn something in Kutu about Bowen, will you pass it on to your PM? Innocent curiosity? Or a probe to gauge whether beneath their guise as journalists, they’d been sent by HM government to make contact with Bowen’s kidnappers?
Dugdale knew something. Randall felt it in his bones. But now was not the time to press him. They were being watched.
Time. That was the trouble with this job. Running out fast, yet everything he did took loads of it. Thirty-six hours to get here. Forty-eight hours since the kidnappers wired Bowen up with electrodes. For all he knew, the man might be dead by now.
A ping from the overhead loudspeaker made Charlie look up. The seat-belt sign had come on. She wished to God she’d taken the other plane. Any plane, so long as it was bound for a country where they didn’t burn men with cigarettes and rape their wives for disobeying orders. Her heart was jumping about like a demented butterfly.
‘What happens when we land, Nick? Tell me again,’ she flapped.
‘We go with the flow. We’re tourists,’ Randall said, giving her hand a reassuring little squeeze. She’d be OK, he told himself, so long as he kept her calm.
Their cover story was sketchy. Known each other three months – married in London just two days ago – he in the travel business, she a teacher.
‘I’m sure we’ve forgotten something,’ Charlie fretted, fiddling with the plain gold ring they’d bought in Darwin. They’d had to begin their newlyweds impersonation straight after take-off when they noticed one of the cabin crew kept looking at them and dropping things as if serving coffee wasn’t his normal job. They’d kissed and cuddled a bit. Not a problem. Acting. Like Nick had said.
‘There is one thing,’ he remembered. ‘I don’t even bloody know how old you are.’
‘Twenty-nine. You?’
‘Thirty-seven. Any brothers and sisters? Parents alive?’
‘Only child. And yes. But my father’s dying from a brain tumour. They live in Devon.’
She’d phoned them from Darwin airport a couple of hours ago. Her mother had cried. Told her Ambrose had lost his will to live. Just sitting there waiting to fade away. Wouldn’t even speak to her.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It happens,’ she replied, needing not to think about it just now. ‘Yours?’
‘Fit as a fiddle. They live in the Dordogne now. Not real parents. I was adopted at birth. They had two natural kids as well. Two brothers.’
‘Oh. Anything else I should know about? Fatal diseases, scars – unpleasant personal habits?’
‘No to the first two. Have to make your own mind up on the last.’
She managed a smile. That’s better, he thought.
‘Look. You can see the ground.’
In the purple evening light the soil was red-brown, dotted with small, rusty-roofed houses amongst sparse palm trees. Beyond, a darker, denser vegetation clung to the land, here it rose steeply away from the coast. The sight of it sent a new stab of terror through Charlie’s innards.
When she’d phoned the newsroom to say she was defying orders and staying, she’d experienced a few seconds of power-crazed exhilaration before panic had set in. Her decision to go to Kutu with Randall had been spur of the moment, not thought through. The more she did think about it, the more she realised the perils. Her worries about Randall weren’t professional. Not scared he’d hold the camera the wrong way up or anything like that. The trouble was quite simply that he was a bloke and he had a different agenda. No loyalty to her or to news. When the chips were down, he’d revert to being a cop and forget her needs as a journalist.
She glanced sideways, head pressed back into the seat so he wouldn’t see her looking. He was staring in front, preoccupied, keeping his thoughts to himself. He’d made a long call to London from the airport but wouldn’t talk about it, a silence that irked her and did not bode well for her hopes of getting an inside track from him. He was clearly a man used to taking care of number one. But then, what man wasn’t? Thoughtfully she put her fingers to her lips. If she was to get him on her side, she would have to work at it.
Through the window she saw the ground approaching fast. Her heart leaped again.
&nb
sp; ‘God, here comes the part I really hate,’ she whispered, tensing for the landing.
The wheels touched smoothly and the engines roared into reverse. Randall leaned over. She realised he was nervous too.
‘Just play girly from now on, OK?’ he murmured into her ear. ‘Leave the talking to me.’
As the machine taxied to the terminal, Randall saw military jets on the far side of the field and two sludge-green army helicopters.
No more than thirty passengers on the flight, mostly Indonesian businessmen and ex-pats like Dugdale. Tourism was down as a result of Kutu’s unrest. As they stood up to retrieve bags from the lockers, Randall caught Dugdale’s eye for an instant. A nervous, knowing look from the Australian before he turned quickly away.
On the tarmac the hot, damp evening air glued the shirts to their backs. Hibiscus and bougainvillaea bushes flanked a small, brightly-lit terminal, but any impression of island paradise was dispelled by the sight of soldiers on the half-dark tarmac ringing them and the plane in a loose cordon. At ease but alert, the men held automatic weapons across their midriffs, watching that none of the new arrivals should escape the scrutiny of the immigration process. The knot in Charlie’s stomach grew to the size of a brick.
Nick slung an arm round her shoulders. His other hand clasped the grey holdall with the stud lens in the strap. The camcorder itself he’d removed from the bag and slung round his neck like a tourist. His own camera bag had been left in a locker at Darwin coach station after stuffing it with Vereker’s files, the Yard’s Nikons, and Charlie’s interview with the Kutuan couple at Sawyer’s place.
In front of the terminal a policeman checked faces, feet apart, hands behind his back, bull neck bursting from an immaculate uniform. Charlie avoided his eyes.
Just married, just married, she told herself, guessing at how it would feel.
Inside, ceiling fans stirred air that was heavy with clove-scented cigarette smoke. They joined the passport queue, conscious there were people in it with hard, piercing eyes who had not come off the plane.
Uniforms everywhere. Charlie’s knowledge that the men wearing them belonged to a force which regularly practised torture made her shudder. At the head of the queue pebble-eyed officials questioned the new arrivals.
A voice screamed in Charlie’s head. They’ll never let us through!
‘Hold the bag a tick,’ Nick whispered, standing back from the line and raising the Handycam. He sensed eyes turning his way, which was what he wanted.
From nowhere a uniformed arm grabbed his shoulder.
‘Mister! No picture!’
A round, brown face, black, suspicious eyes and a finger waving.
‘Yeah, but we’re just married,’ Randall protested, loudly establishing their cover. ‘Just wanted a shot of the wife. Can’t do any harm.’
‘Is forbidden. No picture in airport.’
‘Oh really? OK, chum. Sorry ’bout that. Fair enough.’ He stepped back in line next to Charlie. Understanding his purpose, but unnerved by the attention they’d attracted, she lit a cigarette.
The Dugdales had their papers stamped and walked through. Familiar faces, Randall guessed, judging by the way the officials beamed. He watched them disappear amongst the throng of prune-faced porters beyond the immigration desk. Dugdale must have the poise of a tightrope walker he decided, one minute supporting the Kutu rebels, the next glad-handing it with the military.
Soon it was their turn. Charlie clamped her jaws to stop her teeth chattering. The round-faced official who’d stopped them filming hovered behind the desk, listening and watching as the other man went through his checklist of questions.
‘Why you come to Indonesia?’
‘Tourists,’ Nick replied.
‘Show me return tickets.’ Routine – to make sure they intended to leave again. ‘How much money you have?’
‘Enough,’ said Nick, showing his travellers’ cheques.
The seated officer held their passports under a lamp. He had eyes like drills.
‘What work you do?’
‘Not work. We’re tourists,’ Nick stressed.
‘Yes work. When you home, what work?’
‘Travel business.’
‘And I’m a teacher,’ Charlie added.
‘We only got married two days ago, so her passport’s in her old name,’ Nick explained.
Round-face was unimpressed. He stepped forward, hand outstretched. ‘Show me video camera. You take picture outside?’
‘No. Nothing.’
He switched the camera to playback, rewound a few seconds of tape, then watched in the viewfinder – touristy shots Randall had taken back in Darwin of Charlie pulling faces outside the airport.
‘You be careful,’ he warned, handing back the camera. ‘No picture police or soldier. Where you stay?’
‘Cendana Hotel.’ The Cendana was a wind-surfers’ place down by the beach. Dugdale had recommended it. Almost empty at this time of year, he’d said. No need to book.
‘Cendana full, Mister. You stay at Touristik.’
Randall’s heart missed a beat.
‘Is that on the beach?’ he asked edgily, guessing the Touristik was where they put foreigners they were suspicious of.
‘Not far.’ The passports were returned with visa stamps. Round-face drifted away as they walked through the barrier.
‘They’re so bloody suspicious,’ Charlie whispered, trying to smile. ‘Wherever I turn there’s some little sod watching.’
One of the wizened porters touched Nick on the arm. ‘Tiket,’ he demanded. ‘Tiket, tiket!’ He pointed to where the cases were emerging. Nick gave him their luggage tags.
‘Keep an eye on the bugger while I change money,’ he murmured to Charlie.
Waiting at the exchange window for the clerk to complete her work, he noticed round-face slip through the exit doors.
By the time Randall was done, a customs official was already searching their rucksacks. When he finished, he pointed to the grey shoulder-bag. Nick slung it on the counter. Involuntarily Charlie put a hand to her mouth.
The official pulled back the zip and a handful of condoms spilled out.
‘On honeymoon,’ Nick grinned sheepishly. Charlie looked away. Randall, she’d decided, had all the subtlety of a carthorse.
Mildly amused, the official put the contraceptives to one side, then pulled out the flippers, snorkels and beach towels they’d bought in Darwin. He probed the lining that concealed the camera cables. Charlie held her breath, but he found nothing and pushed the bag back towards them.
Randall refilled it and pulled shut the zip. A cursory scan with a hand-held metal detector and they were through the exit doors into the open air.
‘Where you go, Mister?’ A Melanesian gestured towards his battered blue taxi.
‘Cendana Hotel,’ Nick replied, optimistically.
‘Cendana? No. Cendana full. I take you Touristik.’
Round-face had done his work. The porter loaded their bags in the boot then held out a hand for payment.
The road into Piri was potholed and pitted, the sky now purple and black. Where the scrub ended and the town began, night food stalls sold fried rice and chicken legs under the glow of oil lamps. Ancient buses rattled past, horns blaring, their fronts ablaze with coloured lights. Along the banks of a drainage ditch, lines of tin shacks jostled for space. Through the open window came the aroma of food, tainted by sewage and the pungent smoke of rubbish fires.
The smells stirred memories he’d tried to forget, like a postcard from the past that he’d hoped would never come. The twang of the voices, the lurching trucks draped with Christmas lights – and the smoke. His mind jerked back.
1988 in Malaysia. He’d been hunting drug pushers trying to sell smack to squaddies on R&R after jungle training. Up to his neck in a nightmare operation run jointly by the SIB and the Malaysians. They’d had some success, closing in on the top man. Nearly close enough to nail him, but then Randall’s buddy on the SIB team
had gone missing while posing as a buyer.
He’d volunteered to go find him, but had been told no. Fears it would wreck the investigation. Squaddies were getting hooked – too much was at stake. He’d been ordered to leave his mate to take his chances. The man had known the risks, they’d said.
Balls to that. Randall had gone secretly and alone to the village where his partner had disappeared. The smell the same as here. Fires of wood and rubbish. Inside a house of bamboo and thatch he’d found four thugs trying to club his mate to death.
He’d got him out. Saved his life. But used the Browning to do it. Had to shoot one of the dealers.
He shuddered at the technicolour memory.
‘You all right?’ Charlotte whispered.
‘Yeah.’ He puffed out his cheeks.
He’d saved his mate, but got hauled across the carpet for compromising the investigation. Then lady luck had stepped in; the man he’d killed was the kingpin they’d been after. The peddling ring fell apart, so the grownups back home gave him a medal.
He shook his head like a wet dog, booting the memories back to the mists.
Charlie saw his jaw clench with tension and didn’t like it. She wanted him strong, confident, one hundred per cent, because everything she saw through the taxi window scared the pants off her. In one short plane hop they’d moved from a world she understood to one she didn’t.
‘Where you from?’ the driver asked, turning his head.
‘England,’ said Nick.
‘Ah! Inggris. You speak Indonesian?’
‘No.’ No mention of his rusty Malay. The driver was bound to work for intel.
‘What your name, mister?’
‘Nick. And this is Charlie.’
‘My name Toni. You want, I your guide.’
‘We’ll see …’
They were into the town proper by now. Wider streets, official-looking buildings. A square dominated by a fine Dutch colonial mansion.
‘Governor palace,’ the driver announced. ‘Vehry old.’
Nick spotted two jeeps parked at the side of it, stuffed with troops.
Java Spider Page 21