The Kutuan’s face began to relax once more. Randall looked behind and saw that the fronds of the tree were still again.
‘Dedi, you have to help me,’ Randall insisted. ‘I have to find a telephone.’
Like asking for a drink in a desert.
‘OK, mister. OK, mister. I take you Piri in the boat,’ Dedi answered, recovering quickly. Randall could see he wanted to be rid of him. ‘I put you on town beach. No one see. Plenty telephone in Piri. Then I come back here. Tomorrow morning I drive back Piri in minibus and tell soldiers you not come back from mountain. OK, mister? Then they think you also dead up there.’
Late at night in Piri, on his own, he’d be picked up within minutes. And if he found a phone to use, one call to the Scotland Yard number he’d rung earlier and intel would nail him. But what else could he do?
‘OK, mister?’ the Kutuan repeated.
‘OK. But you’ve got to help me more than that,’ he replied gently. ‘I need to know about Brad. Where was he this morning?’
‘He gone to the boat, mister.’
‘The Morning Glory?’
‘Yes, mister.’
Another piece of the jigsaw clicking into place. Could Dugdale have been taking food there? For the hostage and his guards?
‘Dedi … who else is on that boat?’ Randall pressed.
‘Nobody, mister.’ There was surprise in his voice. ‘Boat empty. Waiting for salvage equipment from Australia.’
‘You sure? When did you last go on board?’
‘I don’t know. Not for many weeks.’
‘Well, I want to go there,’ Randall declared. ‘Right now.’
London – the News Channel
10.55 hrs
Mandy was finding it hard to concentrate this morning. A numbing lack of direction had pervaded the newsroom since Sankey’s sacking. She’d just put the phone down and had already forgotten what the caller said.
There was a lull in the newsroom. There’d been an early morning recap on the killing of the electricity boss yesterday, but little movement on the story. And on Bowen there were rumours of a man in custody about to be charged with some minor involvement, but no confirmation from the Yard. And nothing yet from Charlotte Cavendish. Now that the PM had refused to back off on the arms deal, the next break on the story was expected to be Bowen’s corpse turning up.
She had a need for more coffee. She pushed her chair back, stood up and stretched. She wore a loose-fitting black skirt that concealed her bulges, a black silk blouse and a cardigan. Halfway across the newsroom she stopped in her tracks.
Sankey walking in through the door. White coat over his arm, grey suit immaculately pressed, hair freshly trimmed.
‘Ted,’ she mouthed.
‘Find Angus for me, girl,’ he snapped, as if he’d never been away.
‘Angus Addy? Sure, but why? What’s going on?’
‘I’m back, Mand,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve just told the proprietors about an exclusive I’ve got. Back on the payroll. Calling me a consultant for now, but just you watch; I’ll have my office back by the end of the day.’ He winked hugely. ‘Now, I need somewhere with a phone to park my bum. Steve Paxton’s room’s empty, isn’t it?’
Mandy’s face widened into a grin. ‘It certainly is,’ she said.
They turned to look at the glass-walled editor’s office. The even pattern of the Venetian blind was broken by a hand parting the slats. Through the gap the bristle-headed accountant watched aghast.
Kutu – Kadama interrogation centre
19.05 hrs (11.05 hrs GMT)
A single bulb hung from the ceiling, dazzlingly bright.
Charlie kept her eyes on the floor in a yoga-like attempt to control pulse and terror. She’d been over five hours in the cell, petrified of the questioning that was certain to come, yet desperate to get it over with. She’d left the cell just once, to be taken to the toilet – a stinking pit overflowing with excreta. Afterwards, she’d resolved not to eat or drink again until they released her.
When Charlie had arrived there Teri had pulled faces to indicate that the third woman in the cell might be an informer, a thin sobbing Kutuan who made out she spoke no English. Then in stilted whispers, taking care not to be overheard, Teri had explained how two intel men had come for her at Captain’s that afternoon. Men she’d recognised. Men who’d been in the bar from time to time, drinking with Brad …
Three hours after Charlie’s arrival, Teri had been taken for questioning, her face bleached by fear and by the uneasy realisation that in some incomprehensible way she’d been betrayed by the man she lived with.
After Teri had gone, Charlie had sought to control her own panic by constructing in her head the story she would write once she was free. A massive, angry story about the rape of an island, the crushing of a community by an industrial monolith, the cold-blooded murder of a peace-loving man, and – in the midst of it somewhere – the kidnapping of Stephen Bowen, but almost dwarfed by the wider abuse of human rights that she was witnessing.
That was the story she would like to write, but it wasn’t the one the Channel would take. They’d want Bowen, Bowen and Bowen. The Channel’s audience were assumed to care infinitely more about the fate of a single famous Brit than about atrocities on a faraway Pacific island.
The problem with the kidnap story was that she no longer knew what it was, now her assumption that Bowen had been taken by the OKP had been blown out of the water. And the Sumoto link was one she simply didn’t understand. Connected somehow – that was the implication of what Randall had said. But the kidnap and the helicopter raid on the OKP – all done by the same people? Couldn’t be. That meant the people were the Indonesian army, or a part of it. Surely not.
She kept thinking of Nick. Thinking of that warm, unconscious mound of muscle and bone she’d snuggled up to in bed last night. Yet all she could see now was a vision of him lying on the ground with his skull blown apart like Junus Bawi.
And she thought of Sumoto. Just a name – yet central to everything apparently. There was another name too – one belonging to Sumoto’s key man in Kutu – but she’d forgotten it.
Noises from the corridor. A woman whimpering. The barred door clanged open and Teri fell inside, pushed by a sweating guard. He shouted in Kutun as she sank to the floor, her blouse held together with two buttons done up in the wrong holes. The shirt tails hung loose over her skirt. She put a hand under the fabric and began massaging a breast. She seemed in shock, too shocked to cry, but quivering as she breathed.
‘Are you all right?’ Charlie asked lamely.
Teri looked down, panting. She stopped the massage of her breast but kept a hand over it for comfort. Then, slowly with the other hand she began to rebutton her blouse. ‘They make me undress …’ she gulped. ‘They bastard!’
Charlie’s stomach clenched. She’d rather die than have them do that to her …
She kneeled beside Teri and gave her a sisterly hug. ‘What … what did they ask you?’ she whispered close to her ear, hoping the other woman wouldn’t hear.
‘Ask if I know where is the kidnap Englishman,’ Teri muttered, not caring if the informer did hear. ‘Is stupid. Why they think I know…?’
Why indeed, Charlie wondered, increasingly confused. Unless she’d misunderstood him, Randall’s theory was that these people knew where Bowen was, because they’d got him …
Teri’s face crumpled. She covered it with her hands, then lay on the floor.
Ten minutes passed. It felt like an hour. Then the door clanged open again.
‘Cavendish!’
The guard grabbed Charlie’s arm and jerked her into the corridor. Heart hammering, limbs limp as putty, she was hustled to an interrogation room. Not as she’d expected. A small office with filing cabinets and a desk, behind which sat a stocky man in uniform. A round, light-brown face, oily hair and gold half-moon glasses over which he peered as she sat. The guard left them. They were alone.
Charlie quivered with fear but sat up straight
and took in a deep breath. The officer looked reassuringly senior and sophisticated.
‘I want to speak with the British Ambassador in Jakarta,’ she announced, a flash of courage returning.
Suddenly his benign expression turned to outrage. He crashed his fist on the table.
‘You think this is a Telkom office?’ he screamed.
Charlie flinched. ‘It … it’s my right, that’s all …’ she stammered, all courage evaporating.
‘Rights? Spies don’t have rights!’ He smacked the table with the flat of his hand.
Charlie gulped. ‘I’m not a spy.’
The officer looked sceptically at the folder on his desk. From it he took the immigration card she’d completed on arrival at the airport.
‘Charlotte Cavendish,’ he read. ‘Born in year 1967, profession teacher.’ He looked up quizzically. ‘True or untrue?’
Charlie didn’t answer.
‘They employ teachers at the News Channel?’ he goaded, holding up her notebook.
Her heart sank. She pulled herself up straight again. No point in bluffing. ‘No … I’m a journalist. I put teacher on the form because I knew if I wrote journalist I wouldn’t be let in. But that doesn’t make me a spy.’
‘And Mr Randall – he is also a journalist?’
She hesitated, wondering if they knew the real truth about Nick. Wondering if it would help saying he was a policeman. Couldn’t risk it.
‘He’s a photographer,’ she answered simply.
The colonel looked down at the file again.
‘You tell a lie to come into Indonesia. You travel to part of this island that is forbidden to foreign visitors. And you meet with murderers in order to help them …’ His voice had a twang like a taut elastic band. ‘That makes you a spy. And dangerous.’
‘No,’ she answered defiantly. ‘It makes me a journalist trying to find the kidnappers of Stephen Bowen.’
‘And you did find them … Tell me, what did they say to you, Dr Junus Bawi and Mr Soleman Kakadi …?’
Charlie frowned. Did he believe this, or was it a game?
‘They are not the kidnappers,’ she answered flatly.
The intelligence officer laughed. ‘They tell you that? You make interview with them on your video camera?’
Charlie glared defiantly. ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘It’s all on tape.’
‘You have the tape? No.’ He answered his own question. She’d been searched. ‘Mr Randall – he has the tape, yes?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know …’ Her heart flipped, suspecting they’d caught him too. And that now there was no one to alert London as to what was happening to her. She bit her lip.
‘Well, I tell you – they trick you,’ the officer oiled. ‘Bawi, Kakadi – they think you foolish, ignorant foreigner who believe anything they say. But I know they have Mr Bowen. Very close to where we catch you today. Very close. I tell you little secret, Charlotte Cavendish, we nearly rescue Mr Bowen today. Those soldiers … that why they there.’
Charlie gaped. The gunship scytheing everything in its path, the cold-blooded execution of unarmed Junus Bawi, all that was part of a rescue mission? Disbelief was written on her face.
Seeing it, the officer’s eyes hardened again.
‘Under law of the Republic of Indonesia you can go to gaol for long time,’ he warned suddenly. ‘You understand me?’
Charlie didn’t doubt it. She nodded.
‘But maybe I can avoid that. You answer my questions?’
‘I’ll try,’ she replied meekly.
‘Where is your friend? Your husband?’
His eyes mocked her. She felt herself blushing, guessing he must’ve listened to the idiotic tape recorded in the hotel last night.
‘I don’t know.’
So they hadn’t found him. She didn’t know whether to feel relief or despair.
‘Where you arrange to meet if you get separate?’
‘Nowhere. You see we weren’t expecting …’
‘I think maybe he get killed by OKP,’ the colonel added as if it were a matter of supreme unimportance. ‘They do a lot of shooting. Kill one of our soldiers,’ he added, feigning outrage.
Killed many more than one, Charlie remembered.
‘So what they tell you about Mr Bowen?’ he continued. ‘Bawi – Kakadi – they tell you some story about who kidnap him?’
‘No. They seemed to have no idea who did it,’ she answered firmly, trying to keep her mind focused. ‘Dr Bawi thought Soleman was responsible until he found out Kakadi didn’t even know who Stephen Bowen was.’
The colonel pulled his face into a broad grin. ‘They very good actors. Should be in Ramayana!’ Then the grin vanished. ‘Why you go out from hotel last night? Why you want to talk with Mr Dugdale?’
Jumping about to confuse her.
‘For a drink. Captain’s Bar is listed in my guide book …’
Suddenly he slammed the table again. ‘You lie!’ he screamed.
Charlie quailed. ‘It’s not a lie. We … we went there for a drink.’
‘Ohhh … you very stupid woman, Cavendish! Teri tell me many things ’bout you … How they meet you in Darwin, how you come to Kutu on same plane …’
Charlie blanched. So this smooth, sophisticated man was the one who’d stripped Teri naked and done unspeakable things to her.
‘I ask you again,’ he snapped, standing up and walking round behind her chair. ‘Why you want to talk with Brad Dugdale?’
Charlie’s throat was as dry as hay. She swallowed, desperately trying to understand the drift of his questions.
‘For a chat. That’s all,’ she croaked.
The intelligence officer stood close behind her. She could smell garlic on his breath. She flinched as his hands touched her shoulders.
‘We … we wanted to ask him what he’d heard about the OKP, about the kidnap …’ she stammered, a shiver running up her spine. ‘That sort of thing. Just gossip.’
His fingers closed on her neck, as if to caress. Or to throttle.
‘You think Brad Dugdale know something about the kidnap?’ The voice was gentle. Politely curious.
‘Well …’ she trembled, ‘Nick thought so. Thought he might be involved in some way …’
‘Oh?’ Gentle again. Ever so gentle. His fingers slipped forward, feeling the ridges of her collar bones and the ribs above her breasts. ‘Your friend, he think Brad Dugdale is one of the kidnappers?’
Mind racing. Trying to fathom the significance of this. Suspecting she’d said something she shouldn’t have.
‘Just a suspicion. No more than that. Probably totally wrong …’
Then it clicked. Clicked who this was. Clicked what these questions were about and why they’d asked Teri what she knew of Bowen’s whereabouts.
The hands lifted. Then a single finger pushed up under her hair and caressed the nape of her neck. She shivered. Slowly the colonel walked back to his seat. When he sat and looked at her his eyes were as cold as an executioner’s.
This was Sumoto’s man, she realised. He knew all about Bowen. What he didn’t know was how much they knew – her, Nick, Teri and Brad. That’s what the questioning had been about. To find out how much they knew. So he could decide who would have to be silenced …
‘Could I, I wonder … could I know who you are?’ she stammered hoarsely, dreading but needing the confirmation. She’d remembered it – the other name Bawi had mentioned.
‘I am Colonel Widodo,’ he said, unblinking.
Charlie closed her eyes. Inside her head she began to scream.
Nick! For God’s sake get me out of here – before they kill me.
Nineteen
Hot Rock Café, Jakarta
19.15 hrs (12.15 hrs GMT)
THE HEAVY RHYTHM from three hundred watts of music power throbbed through the throng like a communal heartbeat. The dimly-lit bar was already crowded despite the earliness of the hour. From the ceiling hung strobe lights, flashing to the beat.
&n
bsp; Maxwell stood close to the bar holding a tall, cold glass of lager, its sides wet with the humidity generated by the lissom bodies around him. He was tense with anticipation; London had been calling for news but there’d been little to give. Then Abdul had rung an hour ago. Finally.
Maxwell checked his watch. His source was late.
The Hot Rock Café was a Jakarta pick-up joint used by Caucasian ex-pats looking for sex with smooth-skinned locals, a place where Maxwell easily passed unnoticed amongst the dozens of sweaty white males. The feral atmosphere of the bar appealed – tense, jaw-flexing foreigners and watchful, smiling Javans who would make money from them.
Maxwell himself had scored here. Twice. Once with a woman, once with a young man. Both very clean, very anonymous, and very accommodating.
‘Hello, Harry.’
Abdul. Mouth close to his ear so he’d be heard above the beat, hand lightly touching his arm. Maxwell jumped.
‘Oh, there you are,’ he shouted above the din. ‘What d’you want to drink? Beer?’
‘No. Orange Fanta.’
Maxwell nudged his way to the bar then returned with a can. They pushed through the crowd until they found a corner where the music was less loud. Abdul upended the can as if he had no intention of staying long.
‘You hear about Mayjen Sumoto?’ he asked excitedly, mouth to Maxwell’s ear again.
There’d been a rumour the general had been summoned to the president’s palace that morning.
‘Nothing specific …’ Maxwell replied, cautiously.
Abdul turned to face him, watching for the impact he knew he was about to make.
‘The president,’ he announced, ‘he give Sumoto the sack! General been told to take his pension …’
‘Mother of Mercy!’ This was more than Maxwell had expected. Much more. ‘You sure about this?’
Abdul cast a nervous glance towards the door. The bar was still filling up, people queuing for hamburgers and steaks.
‘In Indonesia we never sure about anything,’ Abdul replied, his voice heavy with irony. ‘But yes. About Sumoto, my friends in ABRI say this is true. They very unhappy.’
‘Your friends in KODAM Twelve?’ Maxwell checked.
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