Bali Bule Hunter

by Michael Powers

  “When you talked about sex terrorists the other day, you were referring to Michael?” Greg guessed.

  Budi nodded slightly. “Couldn’t trust anyone for a long time, but I trust you, Greg. I see how much you care for your uncle, and know you are one of the good bules. I want us to know each other forever, but I’m scared of losing you when you leave Bali.”

  Greg pulled Budi into his arms, hugging him tightly. Tears spilled down Greg’s chest as he comforted Budi.

  “This isn’t right,” Budi murmured. “You’re the one who lost someone he loves. I should be comforting you.”

  “It’s okay,” Greg disagreed. “It hurts to lose someone whether they’re dead or alive. There’s a kind of symmetry in all this. I lost Uncle Ted, but I found you, which is very comforting. I won’t abandon you, Budi. That’s not the kind of man I am.”

  “I believe you, Greg, and I’m sorry for being such a baby. No more tears, promise.”

  Squeezing Budi’s shoulder, Greg nodded, then turned to Donny and Rial. Donny was placing flower petals around Ted’s bamboo cage. He kissed Ted’s hand, bowed his head, and then stood. Greg was beginning to believe Donny really cared for his uncle and never intended him any harm. “You boys ready to go back?” Greg yelled.

  Donny and Rial nodded, heading toward the gate.

  As they walked, Greg said, “Donny, I read some of the e-mails you sent my uncle. Where did you learn to write such romantic letters?”

  Embarrassed, Donny lowered his head. “Yanto brother copy many love letter from English website. He change words little bit for old bule. Then we paste words into e-mail. We can send many long e-mail to many bule same day, even our English not so good. Understand?”

  “I understand,” Greg muttered, growing angrier with Jaya for his role. “So, you two are lovers?” he nodded at Donny and Rial.

  “No!” Donny and Rial shouted. “We no gay.”

  Greg was puzzled. Were they lying or in denial? “But you have sex with men and seem very fond of each other.”

  “Not gay!” Donny cried. “Bule sex is job. I sleep with Rial, but no sex. We best friend, but no marry like man and woman. Understand more better now?”

  Greg smiled. “Much better, thanks. Hey, Donny, when my uncle checked out of his hotel, why did he leave his luggage behind?”

  “My idea,” Donny grinned proudly. “Yanto call hotel. Say Ted want check out. Yanto tell me pack Ted suitcase, then sell everything at open market on Kerobokan Beach. I never do that thing. Hope someone notice.”

  “Very clever,” Greg smiled. That one small clue had made a difference. It brought Greg to Bali.

  Rial and Donny fell in behind Budi and Greg on the way out of the burial ground. When Liana spotted them at the gate, she jumped out of the boat and ran to them.

  “What did you find?” she gasped, slightly winded. “You were in there a long time.” She noticed Donny with Rial. “Who’s this?”

  “This is Donny, my uncle’s friend,” Greg replied. “We found them both locked in bamboo cages. Uncle Ted must have died from dehydration last night. They left Donny without food or water for four days, but he seems to be doing okay now that he’s had something to drink and eat.”

  Liana grasped Greg’s hand. “Greg! This is so awful! Please don’t hate all Indonesians for this terrible tragedy.”

  Greg shook his head. “I know, Liana. It’s only a few bad guys. This is a crime scene, so we’ll have to leave Ted here. Let’s go back to Denpasar. I’ll report to the police and the American consulate and let them decide what to do after they see the pictures I took here.”

  “We should leave right away,” Liana warned quietly, pulling Greg toward the boat. “I don’t like the looks I got while I was walking around the village. No one asked me to buy anything. Nobody begged for money. They just glared at me, or turned away. There’s something very wrong here and these people know it.”

  Greg nodded, then herded everyone into the boat. Still shaken, Greg and Budi helped Donny into the boat, then Rial helped Liana, and they headed back to the southern shore. The hour-long boat ride was quiet, each lost in thought. Greg’s emotions flip-flopped from sadness to anger, finally settling into a mild melancholy.

  When they reached the southern shore, Budi paid the guide, adding a generous tip. The group trudged to the Kijang to begin the two-hour return trip to Denpasar. Liana offered to drive, but Budi smiled and insisted he was fine, remembering how his sister hated driving.

  Donny spotted a van parked by the Kijang, halted, then pointed. “Rial, Yanto van?”

  “Yanto?” Greg repeated, blood pressure rising. “The one who locked my uncle in that bamboo cage and left him to die?”

  Donny nodded, his large brown eyes wide with fear.

  Rial moved to inspect the van more closely, then Yanto appeared from his hiding place between the vehicles holding a pistol. Rial froze, too scared to speak. Another man circled around from the other side so the group was caught between him and Yanto. A third gunman joined them from the boat shack, shoving Kersen toward the Kijang.

  “Quiet!” Yanto barked. “Shoot anyone cause trouble.”

  The two silent gunmen worked quickly to restrain the group. One held their arms together while the other wrapped duct tape around their wrists. Cloth sacks were slid over their heads and pulled down over their eyes. Clothing and backpacks were inspected for weapons. Sharp objects, lighters, Budi’s taser, and all cell phones were confiscated. Yanto shoved Budi, Greg, and Liana into the van, then hopped in the front seat. Kersen was forced to drive the Kijang. Donny and Rial were shoved into the Kijang’s back seat. The van followed the Kijang north.

  “Where are you taking us?” Greg demanded to know, barely masking his hatred.

  “Two-hour drive,” Yanto replied curtly. “We let you go soon. No more talk!”

  Yanto’s command had an air of finality, so the rest of the trip was driven in silence. Traffic on the northern roads was much lighter since the bulk of the population lived on the southern half of the island. With nothing else to do, Greg, Budi, and Liana napped uneasily.

  Chapter 13

  The Kijang and van arrived at a villa on the north coast of Bali around five that afternoon. Cloth sacks were left on until the group was led into a large underground room. The duct tape and sacks were unceremoniously ripped off, then their captors left them alone to explore their new surroundings.

  “Any guesses where we are?” Greg asked, massaging his wrists.

  Donny and Kersen spoke quickly to each other in Bahasa. “Kersen say we ten kilometer west Singaraja,” Donny reported. “Kersen borned here. He know this place. Very big villa. Many building. Many men outside wear soldier clothes.”

  Greg nodded his thanks at Kersen the boatman, who bowed slightly in reply. “Having someone who knows the local area could be very useful. As for this place,” Greg continued as he scouted around, “there’s a table and chairs for dining, sofas and cushions to sleep on, and something that looks like a bathroom.”

  Budi joined Greg. “Whatdya mean looks like a bathroom? It is a bathroom!”

  Greg glared at the low, seatless toilet, water barrel, hose, and floor drain. “Not quite like home, but I guess it’ll do.”

  “What?” Budi croaked. “It’s exactly like home if you’re Indonesian. We don’t need water heaters for hot showers in this climate. We fill a barrel with a water hose, then scoop it over ourselves to bathe. It’s very refreshing. We use squat toilets with no moving parts. Costs much less than Western-style toilets. Simple, efficient, cheap, nothing to break or fix, and it gets the job done,” Budi claimed defiantly.

  “I meant no offense,” Greg assured Budi. “This is the first Indonesian-style bathroom I’ve seen.” Turning to Liana, Greg asked, “Unusual to have a basement in this climate, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but some places on north Bali grow grapes for wine, so maybe this was once a winery. They keep wine underground where it’s cooler. If Yanto is part of a terrorist grou
p with ties to ISIS or al-Qaeda, then Singaraja has the largest Muslim populations on Bali. The group would have more sympathizers in this area than further south.”

  Recalling homes with basements in the States had small windows near ground level for lighting, Greg tapped the cement blocks near the top of each wall, but each was solid. “I’ve never heard of Singaraja. How big is it?”

  “More than a hundred thousand people,” Liana replied. “Nearly half a million people live in the surrounding area. Many hiding places.”

  Continuing the search for possible escape routes, Greg kept tapping and prying every surface. “What’s this part of Bali known for?”

  Liana and Budi exchanged glances. “Mind if I take this one, sis? My turn to display my knowledge of history and geography to Professor Greg.”

  Liana bowed deferentially.

  “Singaraja was once the capital of Bali,” Budi began. “Traders from all over Asia have come here for centuries, bringing weapons and opium in exchange for fresh water, food, and slaves. In the 1950s, Denpasar became the capital. Most development has taken place on the southern half of the island since then because it’s more suitable. Better beaches and easier to build roads. The terrain is a lot rougher up here than the southern half of Bali. Lots of rocks and caves, and more quakes. Singaraja is a busy commercial center for the northern part of the island, but people from the south have little reason to come up here. Some Singaraja merchants trade with the pirates who hijack ships in Indonesian waters. There’s even a place called Smuggler’s Cove.”

  “Another dubious distinction for my country,” Liana admitted sadly. “Last year there were about five hundred attacks on commercial shipping worldwide, and a quarter of them happened in Indonesian waters, making this area the most dangerous in the world.”

  “You must be so proud,” Greg chuckled as he bent down and carefully pried an air duct cover from the wall with his fingertips. He wondered why Liana had so many facts and figures about Indonesia at her fingertips. Was she more than an art dealer with extraordinary civic pride? “If pirates can move so freely, I’m beginning to understand why Indonesia is such a hotbed of terrorist activity. Too many places to hide, even for a government that wants to find them!”

  Greg motioned Budi and Liana to join him, raised his index finger to his mouth asking for their silence, then pointed to a tiny microphone inside the air duct. They nodded their understanding, realizing their conversation was being monitored.

  “I bet all that piracy doesn’t make you very popular with your neighbors,” Greg guessed. “With global trade between East and West increasing each year, they must be furious.”

  “Patrolling seventeen-thousand islands,” Liana replied, “is a monumental task. Malaysia, Singapore, Thailand, and America have all offered help, but my government has refused so far. That may change if the hijacking grows worse,” Liana speculated as Greg and Budi hunted for other devices. They checked behind pictures, under lamps and furniture, and in the bathroom. When they finished their search, Greg signaled with his index finger and pointed to the air duct, indicating there was only one bug in the room.

  “We’re probably lucky to be here,” Liana continued for the benefit of anyone monitoring their conversation. “They could have stuck us in some cave and left us there.”

  Greg smiled at her. “I love your optimism. I want you with me every time I’m abducted!”

  Liana scowled. “Let’s hope this is our last time.”

  A tall, dark man around forty with flowing white tunic entered the room, followed by two armed soldiers. Wearing a traditional Saudi kufiyya headcloth, his face was covered with neatly trimmed black hair. Bowing at the waist, he welcomed the group. “I am Aji Hassim Mohammed, your host. You may call me Aji.” He pointed to the sofas lining one wall. “Please be seated so we might get better acquainted.”

  Greg sat in the middle of an ornate sofa, flanked by Liana and Budi. Donny and Rial huddled on a sofa next to them. Kersen sat by himself on a third sofa. The group remained silent, waiting for their host to speak.

  “I grieve at the death of your uncle,” Aji addressed Greg in perfect American English, with no hint of any regional accent. “His death was tragic, but it was the path he chose, rather than cooperate with us. I hope a younger, more enlightened man might be more reasonable.”

  “What do you want from us?” Greg asked defiantly.

  “What I want from you is access to your uncle’s bank account. We persuaded him to sell his stocks, so we know there’s fifty million dollars sitting in his Bank of America account. As you may know, there’s a three-day waiting period after stocks are sold before cash can be transferred. We waited patiently for the three days to pass, but he refused further cooperation. Since you are listed on your uncle’s account, we know you also have access. I’m hoping you aren’t as attached to his money as he was. I’m also hoping you value the lives of your friends more than you value your uncle’s money.”

  “You expect me to log in to Ted’s bank, enter his ID and password, and then transfer his money to you?” Greg scoffed.

  “Yes, it’s just that simple,” Aji smiled graciously.

  Greg frowned. “Why should I do that?”

  Aji shrugged whimsically. “Why not? The money serves no purpose while you’re my guest. After all, it’s not like you’ll miss it since you never had use of it anyway.”

  “That money’s serving at least one useful purpose for me right now,” Greg disagreed.

  “And what is that purpose?” Aji inquired, with irritating politeness.

  “Keeping me alive. As soon as I transfer that money to you, my friends and I are as good as dead.”

  Aji appeared deeply offended. “Why should I kill you, Greg? If you help me, you are my friend!”

  “Friend or witness?” Greg countered. “You can’t afford to let us walk out of here, free to tell the media and government what you’re up to.”

  “In a few days, it won’t matter who you tell,” Aji insisted.

  “What happens in a few days?” Greg asked innocently, certain Aji would never tell him.

  “Perhaps if you understand what I’m trying to achieve, you will have more sympathy for my cause,” Aji suggested.

  Greg unfolded his arms and tucked them into the sofa cushions, indicating a willingness to listen. “Okay, tell me about your cause.”

  Aji warmed to the task ahead. “I was born in Gaza, the poorest stretch of land in the world. I never knew my father, and my mother died when I was three. I was raised by a series of poor relatives and neighbors. The one constant in my life was Allah. He was in every home where I lived. The writings of the Prophet Mohammed shaped my life. When I was 12, I moved to Riyadh to work for a great man. He sent me to school in London, where I received a degree in economics from Cambridge. I continued my formal education in Chicago and received an MBA from Northwestern University, but my real passion was history. I began to see the world as a struggle of good versus evil, Islam versus Christianity, a continuation of the great crusades which began in 1095.

  “Most history books claim the crusades lasted about two hundred years. Eleventh century Europe was a patchwork of feuding principalities. A great cause was needed to unite them, so the Roman Catholic Church created a threat which all of Europe could rally around. A series of popes persuaded Western leaders they must stop Islam or it would devour Christianity. Most historians agree the crusades were a military and economic failure since Muslims kept control of the Holy Land. That’s true only if you believe the crusades ended in the thirteenth century.

  “I believe the crusades were a spectacular success for Christianity, never really ending. They triggered an age of discovery in the Western world, with advances in art, science, trade, medicine, and warfare. An age of conquest lasting five hundred years saw the flags of Europe planted on every remote corner of the globe. One of Europe’s colonies even became greater than all the Old World powers combined. That great success is the United States of America, a
land which is eighty percent white and Christian according to your own Census Bureau. For many centuries, Christian Europe and its colonial offspring ignored the Middle East and Islam. Then oil was discovered on the Arabian Peninsula. Western nations looked hungrily at the Middle East again. Instead of sending armies, they sent businessmen. The greatest wealth transfer in history took place in the twentieth century as Muslim lands shipped oil wealth to the West at bargain prices. How did the largest swindle in history happen?

  “Islam became weak under Turkish sultans. For hundreds of years, the Middle East was ruled by Ottoman sultans in Istanbul, but their empire was stagnant. When the Ottoman Empire crumbled after WWI, many weak states were created by Western powers. Families with shaky claims of royalty used Islam and oil to cement their control, entering into agreements with the West to help them hang onto power. Quite a shrewd bargain for the West. Cheap oil in exchange for supporting a handful of dictators.

  “The result? After nearly a century of transferring oil from East to West at artificially low prices, Euro-Christian nations control the global economy. Most of the top oil importers are the richest nations in the world......the U.S., Britain, Germany, France, Italy, and Japan. Most of the top oil exporters are among the world’s poorest nations......Nigeria, Indonesia, Iran, Iraq, Egypt, Venezuela, Mexico. According to your CIA, there are two-hundred-thirty sovereign nations in the world, excluding some tiny island nations. When ranked by Gross Domestic Product per person, sixteen of the twenty-eight Islamic nations fall in the bottom half. All of the Western-Christian-oil importers rank in the top half.”

  Impressed with Aji’s historical and economic knowledge, Greg wanted him to know he wasn’t buying everything. “Isn’t it a bit simplistic to explain economic differences by pointing the finger at cheap oil? The West invested heavily in factories, education, transportation, and technology long before importing a single barrel of oil from the Middle East. Climate, geography, and government policy have a lot to do with the differences in wealth, too.”