Angel in the Shadows

by Walter Lucius

  ‘Forget a coffin, I want to leave this earthly realm in a rocket,’ Radjen said. ‘Be launched, up through the clouds into the stratosphere. And you?’

  ‘I want a boat: to go the way the Vikings did long ago. Float out to sea on a bed of branches. And then a fiery arrow is shot from the shore and in open water I go up in flames. I can’t think of a more beautiful ending.’

  She flicked her cigarette away, opened the door on the driver’s side, got in and punched Lombard’s address in Blaricum into the car-navigation system.

  To each his own, Radjen thought, as he collapsed into the seat beside her. He couldn’t shake off the despondency he felt in his chest. It was like all his energy had seeped from his body.

  This was exactly the reason why he never went to funerals.

  Dead bodies at a crime scene were never a problem. But as soon as they were laid out in a coffin and lowered into the ground somewhere, it became a totally different story. The same anxiety he had whenever he completed a case would come into play. Then he needed a new crime, a new violent death.

  Because any new case was better than facing the realization that he might actually need to stop and reflect on his own life, which had reached as much of a dead end as Thomas Meijer’s wooden Mercedes.

  14

  On the plane from South Africa to Botswana, Paul copied all the data from the USB stick to his laptop. Then he got to work on what would be his feature story in the AND’s international edition about AtlasNet’s illegal practices worldwide.

  The exposé would focus on Valentin Lavrov’s secret involvement in years of extensive research on thorium, a very profitable raw material. The name of the soft, silver-white metal was derived from Thor, the Norse god of thunder, and it was found in abundance in South African mines. Lavrov had acquired the patent for the latest thorium technology. He’d used bribes and blackmail to influence South African politicians. The objective: to acquire mining concessions for the thorium.

  But this wasn’t only about mining. The material was going to be used in floating nuclear power stations being planned off the coast of the Indonesian archipelago. If this succeeded, it would be the first step in building new facilities using this technology all over the world. A well-conceived and extremely lucrative plan.

  Paul realized that publicly exposing Lavrov’s bribery practices could well cause an international uproar, but the effect would undoubtedly be offset by the hype around this ground-breaking technology.

  Moreover, AtlasNet was a state-run company, and Lavrov enjoyed the personal protection of the Russian President. Whatever Paul or any other journalist had to report about Lavrov and AtlasNet, it would all too easily be dismissed by the Kremlin as slander from the West. Lavrov wouldn’t be hurt in the least. He would keep travelling the world unimpeded, victorious with his new technology.

  And as long as that was still going on, Farah had to stay under the radar. Even if it could be proven without a doubt that she’d had nothing to do with the hostage-taking at the Seven Sisters, she was still in danger.

  And that danger wouldn’t be over until Lavrov was gone. Not a moment sooner.

  Paul looked out of the window as the lights of Gaborone came closer and closer. He wondered if it was at all possible to eliminate Lavrov once and for all with the power of the pen.

  The answer presented itself sooner than he’d expected.

  Just before he entered the gate to catch his connecting KLM flight, he received a phone call from Anya. She’d never sounded as elated as this.

  ‘She did it. That star of yours has managed the impossible. She broke into the stronghold of one of Indonesia’s most powerful men. And got away with it. Thanks to Farah, we can now hack into Lavrov’s network via Gundono’s server.’

  ‘His personal network? Does that mean you can access his financial records as well?’

  ‘Should be possible, yes. Why?’

  ‘If certain cash flows within AtlasNet are not managed the way Moscow would like them to be –’

  ‘So you’re saying that Lavrov is doing what so many other oligarchs before him have done: stashing his funds in foreign accounts. Is that what you’re hinting at?’

  ‘Yep. Imagine if we could prove that – what would to happen to our friend then?’

  Anya burst out laughing. ‘He’d be hanged, drawn and quartered. Not publicly on Red Square – somewhere in a subterranean tomb. But his number will be up, that’s for sure.’

  Paul felt the adrenalin rushing through his body. ‘Find the evidence. Follow the money, honey.’

  ‘What was that you said?’

  ‘Follow the money.’

  ‘No, not that Tom Cruise shit. After that!’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘You said “honey”.’

  ‘Yes, you are. If you pull it off, that is.’

  ‘I’m going to chase down that bastard’s money, even if it’s the last thing I do,’ she said, laughing. ‘And if I can prove that he has indeed been double-dealing –’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then I want you to come to me and say it again, but this time to my face. “Honey.” ’

  He didn’t get the chance to react. She’d already ended the call. But he knew he’d have to keep his word. He owed it to her.

  15

  The sun must have been high in the sky. It was bursting through the tiniest cracks in the door and the chinks in the closed shutters. It drew sharp lines across the mosquito net suspended over the bed.

  It was early morning by the time Farah went to bed. All night, Satria had made her perform the techniques she’d been taught by her father: no longer with physical strength, but with inner conviction.

  She had to learn to fight out of compassion instead of anger.

  At sunrise, they concluded their session by praying together. It reminded Farah of her first morning in the hotel in the old port of Sunda Kelapa, when she’d opened the shutters and the muezzin at the mosque had sung his call to prayer. She’d only turned to God once in all her adult life, and that was the day Uncle Parwaiz had died in her arms. At the time, she’d knelt down in his apartment and, despite her lack of faith, she’d asked Allah to accept her favourite uncle into His house. It never crossed her mind that one day she’d kneel down and engage in genuine prayer. But now, more than thirty years after her flight from Afghanistan as a ten-year-old, she’d joined an old Indonesian Pencak Silat master underneath a weeping fig. She and Satria faced Mecca, in sajdah position, then stood, raised both their hands and together recited Allahu Akbar.

  The shrill voices of children rattling off verbs could be heard in the classrooms, and mixed in with this was the monotonous whirr of sewing machines that came from the workshop, where the eldest girls were making new clothes from old remnants of fabric. In the carpentry workshop, meanwhile, the boys were hammering away like players in a marching band.

  Her laptop produced a Skype signal. She quickly wrapped a sheet around her body and jumped out of bed. Paul appeared on screen.

  ‘I was really worried about you,’ he said. ‘And, looking at you now, I’m even more so. You’ve not joined some cult, have you? You look like a young Indira Gandhi.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  ‘You should, you have her courage,’ he replied. ‘I spoke to Anya. She told me what you did. Jesus, Farah. I’m speechless. What a risk.’

  ‘What else could I do after Moscow?’ she said.

  ‘Well, then, I’ve got some news for you. Want to hear it?’

  ‘Sooner or later you’re going to tell me anyway,’ she said. ‘So go ahead.’

  ‘The Netherlands Forensic Institute has analysed all the photos I took in Moscow and passed its conclusions to the police. The Public Prosecutor is convinced they’re authentic and have not been doctored. Interpol, Scotland Yard and the FBI have since confirmed the authenticity of the photos as well.’

  He looked at her expectantly. ‘Do you realize what this means?’ he asked. ‘It proves your i
nnocence.’

  It was too much. She could barely take it all in.

  ‘Right, then,’ he said, ‘let me take it up a notch. The Dutch Foreign Minister has asked the Russian Ambassador for clarification and demanded that his government do everything within its power to remove you from the international list of wanted terrorists as soon as possible. All Western nations have already done so.’

  ‘What’s the likelihood of the Kremlin complying?’ she asked.

  Paul looked doubtful. ‘Potanin isn’t very receptive to appeals from the West. But we’ve got something that could exert extra pressure on him. Anya found another video file in the phone belonging to our so-called black widow – you remember, the one who filmed you on her mobile. In it, she talks about the hostage-taking in the Seven Sisters being a set-up, staged by the Kremlin as a justification for the military interventions Potanin is planning to consolidate his power. The hostage-taking was intended first and foremost to show the Russian people what can happen when homeland security isn’t up to scratch.’

  ‘The same strategy that was behind the explosives planted in Roman Jankovski’s building?’

  ‘Exactly. If Anya and I hadn’t found those bags with RDX the building would have been blown to pieces, and of course the Chechens would have been blamed. But, anyway, thanks to our material, the whole hostage-taking has become rather an embarrassment for the guys in the Kremlin. No doubt they’ll be trying to spin it massively in their favour again, but I have a hunch it might work out favourably for you as well. What you need to do now is to report to the Dutch Embassy in Jakarta. Whatever happens next, you’ll be safe there.’

  Paul’s hands disappeared from view. ‘But I’ve got more. Are you ready?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He brought a little boy into view. As soon as she saw the look of wonder and the pleasantly surprised smile on his face, her eyes filled with tears.

  Sekandar brushed his hand across the screen as if he hoped to touch her face.

  ‘I can fly like an eagle,’ he said in Dari. ‘Every night, I fly to you. And then I protect you.’

  ‘It helped, Sekandar. Tashakor.’ ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Why are you crying?’

  ‘They’re tears of joy.’

  ‘I have no more tears.’

  ‘I promised to stay with you. But I’m somewhere else now.’

  ‘When are you coming back?’

  She looked at him, slightly flustered. ‘Can you keep a secret?’

  He nodded.

  ‘You can’t tell anyone that you’ve seen me. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  She smiled through her tears.

  ‘Tu ba khatar dega nesti.’ ‘You’re safe now. And I’ll always be with you.’

  ‘I made Sekandar’s transfer to the farmhouse a condition for sharing the information from Jo’burg with the police,’ Paul said.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’

  ‘I didn’t want to disappoint you, in case it fell through …’

  ‘What will happen to him now?’

  ‘He’ll be given a temporary residence permit based on his medical condition, but then we’ll have to find out whether he has any relatives left in Afghanistan and, if so, whether they’re prepared to take him in.’

  ‘What if we can’t locate his relatives, or if there aren’t any?’

  ‘Who knows … maybe he’ll be eligible for a residence permit on humanitarian grounds.’

  An image flashed across her mind – as sudden as it was joyous: Paul, Sekandar and herself, gazing out over the Dutch landscape together.

  ‘So you got your information in Jo’burg?’ she asked.

  He nodded.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Our Russian friend has a pretty firm hold over the man who looks set to be South Africa’s next President. Lavrov started corrupting Nkoane years ago through secret arms deliveries. That’s his method. He homes in on a politician in a key position who can give him access and a leg up in a country where AtlasNet sees a potential for profit or where it can extract raw materials. He makes sure that the official becomes vulnerable enough to blackmail. In Nkoane’s case, it was done through money, lots and lots of it, which ended up in Nkoane’s Swiss bank accounts via all kinds of clandestine channels. And to put the squeeze on him, Lavrov fed info about how Nkoane came by that money to certain bodies. In this specific instance, the information didn’t go to the press, but to the Scorpion Unit, a special crime squad that’s investigating Nkoane’s cash flows.’

  ‘Now I understand what Lavrov was talking about,’ Farah said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When I was in Gundono’s office, I heard him Skype with Lavrov, who threatened to send information about him to the Jakarta Post if he failed to take the necessary action to push the Sharada Project through Parliament.’

  ‘Same strategy, same methods, different country,’ Paul said.

  ‘Gundono also said that the Army has always determined the course of events here. And that the implementation of the Sharada Project would prove no exception.’

  ‘Sounds like he’s planning a coup,’ Paul said. ‘It would be a bold move. Imagine if the Army were to step in and declare a state of emergency now, with all the unrest and anti-government demonstrations. All they’d have to do is to dismiss Parliament and there wouldn’t be any need for a vote.’

  ‘A win–win situation,’ Farah reacted. ‘Lavrov gets what he wants, but so does Gundono. He’d declare himself President. It’s a horror scenario.’

  ‘But listen, Farah, your job is done. You did what you had to do. It’s time for you to go to the embassy.’

  ‘No, Paul. There’s more for me to do here. Time will reveal what it is …’

  ‘Leave it to Anya and me. We’re really close. Let me tell you what Anya and Lesha have been up to. Via Gundono’s router, they were able to carry out a digital raid on AtlasNet’s central server and install spyware on Lavrov’s network. It’s only a matter of time now. You mustn’t take any more risks, especially not after that break-in.’

  ‘When it’s all done, Paul. Only then will I be safe.’

  At that point the door was flung open and Aninda came flying into the room like a whirlwind.

  ‘I’m going to take you to someone,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Who?’

  Aninda’s smile became broader still.

  ‘I can’t tell you that. Please, no more questions. Satria has arranged it. Come with me.’

  Less than fifteen minutes later, Farah threw her right leg over the crossbar of an old Batavus bicycle, plumped down on the saddle and followed Aninda into the street, which was now full of warungs and street vendors, mostly women, preparing food. Everybody was sitting crouched down by the side of the road, laughing and talking to each other. In the dense smoke of cooking oil and frying fat, people were eating off plastic plates and out of small bowls.

  She cycled after Aninda, who skilfully dodged lorries, pickup trucks, buses and SUVs, and weaved in and out of the spaces between cars.

  They rode past a market where live frogs and birds were tied together like garlic bulbs. And everywhere you looked were tanks with all kinds of fish, cages full of birds, wildcats and tree shrews, as well as crates filled with poultry. They were all more dead than alive. In and among the thundering traffic, sinewy men pulled their carts laden with fruit, fabrics, boxes and sometimes even more caged animals. At each traffic light, barefoot street urchins thrust bottles of water, small bags of roasted peanuts, newspapers and cigarettes at Farah and Aninda.

  Through a thick haze of exhaust fumes, they cycled past skyscrapers, through slums, along wide boulevards, and over bridges and viaducts under which entire families lived, right beside open sewers full of floating debris.

  At first she’d wondered why they were doing this by bike, but, as traffic became increasingly gridlocked they, the motorbikes and the scooters were able to swerve past the stationary vehicles. Meanwhile, sweat gush
ed out of each and every pore, and her shirt was nothing but a large wet rag flapping shapelessly about her body.

  They carried on cycling through a gently sloping landscape with kampongs that went on for miles, until they ended up in a long line of idling, stinking lorries.

  Then a dark mountain loomed up ahead of them.

  It was at least twenty metres high and made of waste that was being pulled apart by big fluorescent-yellow cranes. Hundreds of masked men, women and children were crouched down on its edges. With iron sticks they prised the plastic loose, which they then deposited in baskets on their backs.

  ‘Welcome to Bantar Gebang,’ Aninda said. ‘Indonesia’s largest landfill. You’ve told me your story; now I’ll show you part of mine.’

  They cycled around the mountain. A black fluid seeped out of it, bubbling and emitting fumes. Walking among the stray pigs, chickens and rats, which she’d initially mistaken for small dogs, were mothers carrying babies and men also lugging large baskets with debris on their backs. Metres-high piles of sorted rubbish were stacked up in front of shacks made of sheets of corrugated iron, tin and cardboard.

  When a wooden cart full of plastic got stuck in the mud, the women dismounted, rolled up their trousers and, together with a few men, tried to pull it out. The stench was almost unbearable. By the time Farah got back on her bike, her eyes were burning and her nose was running.

  ‘How do people live like this, in this terrible stench, among the filth and the flies?’ she asked.

  ‘I was born here,’ Aninda said. ‘I thought the whole world looked like this. When you grow up here, you picture the world as one big rubbish dump. I didn’t know any better. Besides, I hardly had any time to think. I spent all day collecting plastic. Everybody you see here, working on this mountain, will do the same for the rest of their lives.’

  Farah braked. Her eyes were burning so badly she was seeing everything in a blur.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Aninda asked.

  ‘I feel so ashamed.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I always thought I had it tough. But I had a happy childhood. I practically lived in a palace. And to think you were born here … it almost makes me weep with shame.’