‘The driver involved gave a statement to the police in which he claimed that I was with him in the car at the time of the accident.’ Lombard said.
‘In actual fact, we were here, enjoying a quiet evening in each other’s company.’ Melanie Lombard continued. ‘I testified to this. Is the word of a minister’s wife not enough? People often talk about class justice, but here you’re seeing exactly the opposite happening. The chauffeur who admitted his guilt was set free and my husband is the one who …’
Here Melanie Lombard seemed momentarily overcome by emotions, which she managed to graciously control. With a look of intense compassion, Cathy Marant handed her a tissue, but the minister’s wife modestly waved it aside.
Cathy Marant said, ‘It must be hell –’
‘It’s unbelievable,’ Melanie Lombard sighed, ‘when you know for certain that it never happened. My husband was here with me. However, this hasn’t stopped the Amsterdam police from conducting a witch hunt against him. They even raided his apartment in The Hague where he often is for work.’
The director shouted, ‘Handheld two on Lombard, stand by.’
Cathy Marant turned to Lombard and asked, ‘What was the reason for this raid, sir?’
‘And two!’
‘Completely without my knowledge,’ Lombard said, in an unsteady medium shot this time. ‘While I was in Moscow attending an economics summit. According to the police, there were incriminating images on my computer.’
‘Go to camera one!’
‘But what does that have to do with the accident?’
‘Three!’
‘Nothing. As my wife already explained. A witch hunt against me is under way.’
‘And what kind of images are we talking about?’
‘Photos taken by a female artist that are hanging in my office at the ministry. Not only in my office but in the conference room where I meet with top officials from all over the world.’
The director shouted, ‘Stand by for stock shot.’
The same photo that had thrown Radjen the first time he’d seen it now filled the screen. The blonde girl with her half-open mouth, swinging back and forth, hanging on a dark rope that was tautly clasped between her legs. And while Lombard talked calmly about how any rational person would find it a complete mystery that, based on such artistic images, he was being accused of possession of pornographic material, Radjen realized that this media offensive had been put together ingeniously. He felt overwhelmed by a sense of powerlessness.
‘And one!’
Cathy Marant asked, ‘Is it a coincidence that these accusations come on the eve of the parliamentary elections?’
‘Three!’
With a trembling hand Lombard sipped some water from a glass. He then took his sweet time dabbing his sweaty face with a handkerchief.
‘He doesn’t look well,’ Esther whispered in Radjen’s ear.
‘It’s an orchestrated plot,’ Lombard stammered. Then he looked into the camera as if he were paralysed with disgust.
Melanie Lombard took over.
‘Two, zoom in to a medium shot.’
‘There is now an official police inquiry into the actions of the Amsterdam investigation team going after my husband,’ she said. ‘Not so long ago, members of that same team beat a handcuffed suspect to death during an interrogation.’
Meanwhile, Radjen saw that Lombard was writhing in pain.
The director shouted, ‘Handheld one and two on Lombard!’
Melanie Lombard seemed to be ignoring what was happening to her husband for the time being and was concerned only with her charm offensive for the media. ‘We have been so heartened in the past weeks by the incredible expressions of support we have received. From people who’ve said, “We believe in you, we have always believed in you.” That has helped us through this difficult period.’
Lombard seemed to be gasping for air. He desperately held out his arms, as if he’d gone blind and was grabbing for something to hold on to.
‘The guy can’t breathe,’ Esther cried, and she jumped out of the broadcasting van.
Cathy Marant started to scream as Lombard tried to stand up. Melanie Lombard remained frozen in her chair.
Lombard dropped to his knees in front of his chair and started to vomit.
On one of the monitors, Radjen saw Esther enter the image. She wiped Lombard’s mouth with a cloth, quickly laid him on his side in a stable position, shoved her hand into his throat, pulled out the phlegm that was impeding his breathing and indicated with a sweeping motion of her arm that nobody should come near them.
Like a madman, the director kept shouting commands to change the camera angles.
Radjen was interested only in the screen showing Melanie Lombard.
A shadow descended over her face as she observed her husband’s suffering with chilly detachment. She looked like a queen who’d thought she’d found her perfect match in the future Prime Minister of the Netherlands. Now, however, after he’d puked up his guts on the carpet, covered nationwide by five cameras, she couldn’t suppress her disgust for him. Was he even refusing to respond to the life-saving lips of a female detective?
Because of the wooded area surrounding the Lombard villa and all the vehicles on the driveway, it was impossible for a trauma helicopter to land anywhere close by. After seven endless minutes, Esther had Lombard breathing on his own, but he hadn’t regained consciousness. All that time Melanie Lombard had watched, seemingly unmoved, from a few metres away. Radjen didn’t see a trace of fear or despair on her face, not even a sign of gloom or acceptance in what fate had in wait for them. He actually thought he caught a hint of satisfaction in her expression. In any event, her response was not what you’d expect from a woman who’d shouted from the rooftops that she lovingly poured her husband a cup of sleepytime tea while statements from others indicated that at the time he was in a government vehicle that had run down a child.
Only once the paramedics arrived and fastened an oxygen mask to her husband’s face did Melanie Lombard finally stir into action. Two handheld cameras followed the stretcher with Lombard’s body being lifted into the ambulance. She got in uninvited and sat down beside her husband. She demonstratively took his limp hand and gave it a squeeze.
Cathy Marant took up position in front of one of the handheld cameras, and, as the ambulance raced down the lane with its blue lights flashing and the siren wailing, she flung her unparalleled conclusion at the world.
‘And thus the life and perhaps career of our future Prime Minister takes a new tragic turn. This is Cathy Marant for The Headlines Show.’
Euphoric cheers sounded from the broadcasting vehicle, followed by the doors being swung open and the director emerging, pumping his fists.
The media world had yet another scoop.
Radjen walked with Esther into the garden.
‘You okay?’
She just nodded, pulled a cigarette from her packet and lit it. He saw her hand shaking.
‘Well done, quick thinking,’ he said.
She inhaled deeply.
‘I just hope he makes it, the bastard,’ she said. ‘We want him in a prison cell, not in a coffin, right?’
Radjen reached for the cigarette packet she was holding in her hand.
‘Sorry,’ she said, handing him her cigarette instead, and then lit another one for herself.
Radjen walked away from her for a moment and dialled the number of the Public Prosecutor. In brief, he told him that there were still valid reasons to question the alibi Melanie Lombard had provided for her husband. The timing and numbers on the prepaid phones, which had to be somewhere in the house, might be crucial in that regard and he wanted a search warrant.
But the ambitious young prosecutor wanted to do it according to the book.
‘But didn’t you say that Mrs Lombard had already indicated she would hand over the phones voluntarily?’ he replied.
‘Given the state her husband was in when he left here, I think Mrs Lomba
rd will be occupied for the next few hours,’ Radjen said. ‘And because there’s a complete television crew wandering around the villa at this moment, the risk of things disappearing is not one I’m willing to take.’
‘Given the suspect’s influential position, I’ll have to discuss this with the Examining Magistrate,’ the Public Prosecutor said. ‘He’ll probably want to be brought up to speed on the matter first. You’ll have to be patient.’
Radjen hung up and returned to Esther, who had just stamped out her cigarette on the garden path and blew out a thin line of smoke.
‘I’m not waiting for anyone any more,’ he said as he brushed past her.
He’d been searching the first floor of the villa for half an hour before he discovered one of the prepaids. It was in the nightstand of a bedroom, which, judging from how it was furnished, belonged to Melanie Lombard. So the Lombards slept separately. Yet another home with two separate worlds, where very little was shared except the same roof.
He wrapped the prepaid in a handkerchief and went back downstairs, where Esther was on the phone in the kitchen.
He heard it in her voice right away. She’d asked Kramer to help them again.
‘We can be there in half an hour,’ she told him, and quickly hung up.
‘Am I invited?’ he asked.
‘You can come along for the ride, arsehole,’ she teased, grinning.
Radjen placed Melanie Lombard’s prepaid on the table. ‘It was in her nightstand.’
Esther pulled out the prepaid phone she’d found in the drawer of the antique kitchen table and placed it next to the device Radjen had found. They were different colours and different brands.
‘Perhaps this means that somewhere in the big bad world partners of these two are floating around somewhere,’ Esther speculated.
At that moment, Radjen’s phone rang; it was the Public Prosecutor.
‘In view of the situation you indicated to me earlier, the Examining Magistrate has approved the search warrant, provided it’s limited to the two devices you mentioned.’
‘Fine,’ Radjen said. ‘We’ll get to work.’ He hung up and looked at Esther.
‘Time for a cigarette, then?’
‘Not now, Sherlock, time to report to the cavalry.’
17
It was later than Farah would have liked. Much later. The sun had already sunk behind the weeping fig’s dense crown of branches.
She checked her watch. It was more than three hours since she’d last spoken to Anya. She’d begged her to use whatever means necessary to come up with something. Anything at all to present during this evening’s meeting between Hatta and the other members of Parliament.
But Anya had warned her. ‘I’m not a magician; I can’t pull a rabbit out of a hat.’
She and Lesha had been frantically trying to access AtlasNet’s financial files. Now, especially for Farah, Lesha was using spyware to get into Gundono’s network via the router in his compound. Once he was in, decoding the files could be a slow and laborious process. It looked as if she’d turn up empty-handed this evening.
She walked into the courtyard.
There was a sense of foreboding in the air that she’d experienced before, long ago, in the garden of the presidential palace in Kabul. At that time she’d been too young to recognize the threat. It wasn’t until the planes appeared overhead that she realized what was happening.
She looked up. The sky was empty. The sounds in the courtyard were familiar. The weeping fig stood perfectly still in the sweltering heat – like it always had, and always would. Children walked over to the canteen in small groups. Sounds and actions, everyday rituals that would normally be reassuring. But today they felt like a lie, as if impending doom was sneering at her from behind a mask of familiarity.
Her mobile rang. It was Anya. Lesha had managed to access Gundono’s financial files. In exchange for his ‘advice’ to AtlasNet on the installation of the nuclear power stations, Gundono had cashed slush money worth a cool 3.8 million dollars. The payments from AtlasNet were made via a shell company in Singapore, Mohana Consulting Ltd. Gundono had transferred the money to two different offshore bank accounts in Hong Kong.
Farah was sent screenshots of the bank statements on her mobile.
The road to Hatta lay open.
The youngster behind the wheel of the pickup drove into the labyrinth of Glodok, Jakarta’s old Chinese district, as fast as he could. The narrow streets were crammed full of stalls selling traditional medicine, alongside grey concrete shops filled with cheap electronics and small Mazu temples, half shrouded in clouds of incense. The whole scene was illuminated by a blinding spectrum of screaming neon. Through the chaos of hooting cars, cycle rickshaws, impatient pedestrians and pedlars trying to sell their wares, he tried to make his way to the old trading centre, where, as Satria had informed them, Hatta and the other members of Parliament were gathering tonight.
In the rear-view mirror, Farah saw a military jeep approaching at great speed. Its driver sounded his horn and furiously gesticulated for the pickup to move aside, but there was nowhere for the vehicle to go.
‘Lanjut!’ ‘Keep driving!’ Aninda shouted to the youngster.
They were approaching a junction. The traffic light changed to green, and he floored the accelerator.
The jeep behind them came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the junction. Armed soldiers jumped out, stopped traffic and directed a second jeep followed by an Army truck across the junction and into the street that the pickup had just entered. An Army helicopter whizzed over low in the direction of the trade centre.
Farah knew this couldn’t be a coincidence. The helicopter was part of a coordinated attack. Hatta and his close colleagues had been betrayed.
In a flurry of gravel and sand, the pickup came to a halt in front of the old building. The helicopter was hovering overhead. Farah shouted at the young man, telling him to drive around to the back of the building, and then she ran inside.
In the stairwell, she saw Hatta coming down the stairs flanked by two bodyguards. Behind them were about ten other men, presumably members of Parliament. She heard the screeching brakes of the jeep and the shouts of the soldiers outside the front entrance.
‘The rear exit,’ she yelled.
A strident voice shouting through a megaphone out front ordered everybody to vacate the premises.
‘One at a time. With your hands on your head.’
Don’t think now – act, run!
Head for the light flooding through the door at the rear.
The pickup was parked at the end of an alleyway. Aninda was leaning out of the driver’s cab, telling them to hurry up. Hatta was hoisted into the bed of the pickup by his bodyguards, who jumped in after him. Farah followed suit, and grabbed hold of the edge of the truck to pull herself up. She’d just managed to place her left foot on the towing hook when the young man stepped on the accelerator and drove out of the alleyway. As the pickup swerved into the street, the rubber sole of her trainer lost its grip on the towing hook’s ball and she started to fall.
For a split second she hovered in mid-air. Then someone grabbed hold of her.
Hatta.
The second arm that grabbed her belonged to one of his bodyguards.
She flung her right leg over the edge of the tailboard and rolled on to the truck bed, where she lay down, gasping for breath.
The Army helicopter hung right above them. The pickup’s engine growled. Then she heard shots and the pickup swerved to the left and clipped a moped with a crate full of chickens on either side. One of the crates came loose and flew through the air amid a furious cackling and a cloud of swirling feathers.
Then there was a second burst of gunfire. Instinctively, she ducked. The rear window of the driver’s cab shattered. The pickup skidded to a halt crossways in the street.
All was silent for what seemed like eternity. Then came Aninda’s screams. Along with the bodyguards and Hatta, Farah jumped out of the pickup. A gleami
ng black SUV screeched to a halt beside the vehicle. The doors were flung open. Hatta and his guards jumped into the car, which then tore off again.
Farah yanked open the pickup’s passenger door. Aninda was covered in the blood of the youngster, now lying lifeless in her lap. The SUV had already reached the end of the street when they heard the rattle of machine guns. She pulled Aninda out of the cab and dragged her into a nearby alley.
‘Lari!’ she shouted. ‘Run! Run as fast as you can.’
As if it were all they’d ever done and would continue to do for the rest of their lives, they ran through the narrow alleys of the kampongs. Until they paused for breath in a muddy passageway and Aninda started to vomit.
Sirens could be heard in the distance. An Army helicopter searchlight swept over the rickety corrugated-sheet roofs.
‘He was only seventeen,’ Aninda said. ‘He came from Bantar Gebang, like me.’
Farah put her arm around her as she watched the helicopter fly off in the direction of the city centre. Paul’s voice echoed in her head.
Your job is done. You mustn’t take any more risks.
‘We’d better get back,’ she said.
The usually teeming streets were now deserted. Restaurants and shops had rolled down their shutters. Army jeeps patrolled the area.
They flagged down a motorized taxi. The guy at the wheel managed to skirt the checkpoints at the major junctions, all the while keeping an old-fashioned transistor radio clasped to his ear.
‘The Army is occupying the Parliament building, Medan Merdeka and the television studios,’ he shouted as if providing live news coverage.
In another part of the city, where there was little or no sign of police or soldiers, the nightlife was still in full swing. They stopped outside a restaurant where on several television screens they saw Gundono against the backdrop of the Indonesian flag declaring a state of emergency.
‘After weeks of street protests, demonstrations and violence, Indonesia is balancing on the precipice. The arson attacks, vandalism and other disturbances of the peace in our capital are part of a Communist conspiracy. The conspirators are thought to have congregated within the PDI, the Indonesian Democratic Party, led by Baladin Hatta. Since the current government has proved incapable of maintaining order, henceforth the National Council to Restore Order will govern the country and issue new laws. Parliament will be dissolved.’
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