by Don Brown
He buried the cigarette in the white sand, and in one huge gulp, downed his third glass of wine.
She sipped from her glass and scooted closer to him. “You are so knowledgeable. So confident.” Her adoring eyes gazed at him for a moment. “You are the most amazing man I have ever met, Hassan. You are destined for greatness.”
She fell into his arms once again. She closed her eyes, her lips found his, and their long kiss fueled the chemistry between them. She was right about one thing. He was destined for greatness. And his greatness would bring about more opportunities with beautiful women like this.
She knew nothing of the assassination plan, he now decided. She would be good to keep around, as a paramour if nothing else. After all, the general had his paramour. Men of power needed women at their disposal for their pleasure.
He, Captain Hassan Taplus, had become a man of power. And he would rise as a comet streaking through the sky to even greater heights.
“I think I will need air soon,” she said flirtatiously, beaming with adoration as she allowed their lips to separate for a moment.
“What’s the matter?” He stroked her chin. “The air here isn’t fresh enough? We are forty miles across the sea from all the fumes and smog in Jakarta.”
She ran her hand through the back of his hair. “Oh, by the way, the television people came by before I left.”
“The television people?”
“Yes. From TVRI.”
“What did they want?”
“They wanted to come into the general’s study to set up television cameras.”
“And you let them?”
“Yes. They said Colonel Croon had ordered it. They even showed me his signature on the authorization form.” She massaged his shoulders. “Come, my dear Hassan. Can’t you tell me what is going on? They wanted to transform the general’s study into a television studio.” She poured another glass of wine, handed it to him, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Maybe the general is going to address the nation on television? No?”
An instant sensation of hot and cold flushed through his body. His neck was still hot and his head was swirling, but at the same time, his shoulders felt as if someone had just dumped bags of ice on them.
He glared at her. Her pretty face bore a dazed smile. “Why would you say something like that?” he demanded.
“Ahh, Hassan.” She kissed him again and rubbed her soft hand on his thigh. “You are so cute when you are angry.” She sipped more wine and smiled even wider. “You mean, why would the general go on national television to address the nation, when we already have a president who goes on national television to address the nation? Hmm…Now come, my Hassan. Your secret will always be safe with me.”
He leaned into her and kissed her again. She pulled herself to him, but for him the chemistry had fizzled. He faked the kiss for a moment longer, then pulled away. “I have an idea, my dear.”
“Really? And what might that be?”
“The sun is setting. Why don’t we take a stroll in the surf? And maybe, just maybe, I will tell you all the secrets you wish to know.”
“That’s a great idea,” she said.
He stood, took her outstretched hand, and pulled her up.
The water was warm and refreshing to their feet. He put his arm around her shoulders and led her into the gentle, lapping waves until they were about knee-deep.
Then he put his arm around her waist, holding her tight, and pulled her with him down into the water.
She popped up for a moment, giggling. “You are such an animal.” She giggled with glee and tried to thrust her face toward his.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I am.” He cupped her mouth and nose with his hand, and pushed her head under the water.
Her body began to squirm and struggle. He heard her desperate screams, muffled but clearly reaching the surface.
She kicked and screamed and scratched. Her head popped out of the water. “Hassan!”
He pushed her back down again. She fought for her life. But her physical resistance lessened by the second.
The fight left her limp body.
With his hands around her throat, Hassan held her down. Just to be safe. Out loud, he counted. “One thousand one. One thousand two.”
Three minutes had now passed. All her resistance was long since gone. He pulled her to the surface, cradling her in his arms, and sloshed over toward the speedboat.
He lifted her up and dropped her into the boat. He would take her out about twenty miles and dump her into the Java Sea, then return to Jakarta Bay.
Custodians and housekeepers were easily replaceable. He would fill the position immediately and tell the general that she had quit.
Hassan jogged back to the beach, gathering up all evidence that anyone had been there-the picnic basket, the blanket, the wine bottles, even the cigarette butts. He tossed everything into the boat.
She would have a proper burial at sea, he decided, and these items would go with her.
He hopped into the boat, then pulled up the anchor. A minute later, the twin inboards ignited. With the sun now halfway down on the westward horizon, the boat sliced at full speed south across the Java Sea back toward Jakarta.
Delhi Muslim Kali Restaurant
Karachi, Pakistan
6:15 p.m.
The white, wrought-iron table located on the back veranda of the restaurant overlooked the gentle, lapping waters of the Arabian Sea.
At the edge of the sea, the sun was now a large, orange ball, setting on a deep, bluish-green watery horizon. From it, an orange glow swept inward across the water extending from the horizon to the shores of Clifton Beach, where a few women clad with Muslim headgear waded in the surf. Three camels, seemingly unattended, meandered in the sand on the landward side of the seawall not far from the women.
Next to the table where General Perkasa sat alone, a sign proclaimed in English, “Reserved for Private Party.” Perkasa checked his watch. Ten minutes ahead of schedule.
The sounds of traffic could be heard, faintly, along the roads in front of the restaurant. But out here, except for the sounds of the evening sea breeze rustling a few canvas umbrellas on the canopy and the giant green-and-white Pakistani flag flapping atop a huge flagpole down on the beach, all was quiet.
He extracted a Cuban cigar, struck his lighter, sucked in, and for the moment decided to enjoy the ambiance. The back door of the restaurant opened. A waiter walked out.
Blended voices of patrons inside poured onto the veranda, then subsided as the door closed behind the waiter. “Something to drink, sir?” the waiter asked in English.
“Water and hot tea, please,” the general replied in English.
“Right away, sir.”
The waiter stepped back into the restaurant.
The wind whipped into the large Pakistani flag again, unfurling the crescent moon and star, the symbols of Islam, glowing in white against the green background, and lit in the setting sun’s rays. The sight angered him, reminding him that the world’s largest Islamic country, his native Indonesia, had nothing on its flag to symbolize the Great Faith. Even the flag of neighboring Malaysia displayed the Islamic half-moon.
The Indonesian flag would change soon, if he had anything to do with it.
Perkasa nursed the cigar as the waiter returned with water and hot tea. “Your guest just called. He will be here momentarily, sir.”
The door closed, and Perkasa checked his watch again. Five minutes late. Suparman Perkasa did not appreciate waiting.
Once again, the door opened. A man stepped onto the veranda. He was of medium build, was dressed in a blue business suit with a red tie, and looked to be in his late forties. The door closed.
“It is beautiful out here this time of day, isn’t it?”
“Yes, indeed,” the general replied, again drawing on his cigar while eyeing the man.
The man nodded his head and pulled out an envelope. From it, he extracted a note card. “Zero-eight, one-seven, fou
r-five, zero-eight, onefour, four-seven, zero-nine, one-one.”
Perkasa set his cigar on a crystal ashtray and extracted from his inside jacket pocket the envelope that Captain Taplus had handed him in Jakarta. “Read those numbers once again. Slowly, please.”
The man did.
“The numbers match. And I believe that I have some numbers that you will need to hear?”
“Please, General.”
“Ah, you believe that I am a general, do you?”
“I suspect that you are a general, and I will know not only that, but I will even be able to verify your name…if you give me the correct combination.”
Perkasa raised his eyebrow and looked down at the paper, which was becoming slightly difficult to read because of the evening shadows. “Eight-nine, eight-seven, zero-one, four-five, one-seven, zero-one.”
Perkasa folded the paper and reinserted it in his jacket pocket.
“It seems that destiny has brought us here, General Perkasa.”
“So it would seem,” Perkasa said. “Destiny, or millions of American dollars.”
“Isn’t it fitting that their own dollars will eventually bring them down?” The man smiled. “May I join you?” He pointed to another wrought-iron chair across from the table.
“Of course,” Perkasa said.
“I am Nisar Sharif. I, too, am a general. I am chief of staff of the Pakistani Air Force.”
“I have heard of you, General.” Perkasa extended his hand across the table to shake the Pakistani’s hand.
“Tell me, General.” Sharif released Perkasa’s hand. “What can Pakistan do for our brothers in Indonesia?”
Perkasa sat back, puffed the cigar, and contemplated his words. “You have something that your Indonesian brothers need.”
Sharif laughed. “Everybody has something that someone else needs.”
“We are prepared to pay you one hundred million dollars, General, if you will help us.”
Sharif folded his hands on his laps. If the offer had any impact on him at all, his face did not show it. “As a high-ranking officer of the Islamic Republic, I still must be assured that whatever you need will not undermine the interests of my country. This you will understand.”
Sharif was playing it very closely to the vest.
Impressive.
“General Sharif, you have my word as an Islamic brother, sworn upon the grave of my mother, that what we need will never be used against Pakistan, but will, in fact, give Pakistan a geostrategic foothold in one of the most important regions in the world.
“In addition to the money, I offer Pakistan an air base and a naval base on one of our islands in Indonesia, to be leased for fifty years at a price of one dollar per year.
“Pakistan can extend her power and prestige to another point on the globe. Working together with the soon-to-be-formed Islamic Republic of Indonesia, we shall see to it that Allah’s will extends to the most important sea lanes in the world.”
Silence.
“You paint an interesting scenario, General.” Sharif scratched his chin. “I do not suppose that whatever else you want involves certain types of weaponry?”
Perkasa smiled. “We both know the answer to that, General Sharif.”
Another pause. “How many did you have in mind?”
Perkasa sipped his water. “Surely Pakistan could spare a half dozen? That would not affect your security. Would it?”
Sharif sat for a moment, his eyes transfixed by something down on the beach. “It’s a beautiful flag, is it not?”
Perkasa looked around at the giant Pakistani flag, fluttering gloriously in the setting sun. “Yes, it is, General. And with your help, the glorious crescent moon on your flag will be on our flag. And you, more than anyone else, will be the reason for a great, new Islamic Republic on the face of the earth. Join with us in making history.”
The generals eyed one another. “You are persuasive, General Perkasa.”
“I am only committed to what I believe in.”
More silence. “What about payment?”
“Fifty percent wired to any account of your choosing immediately. Fifty percent upon delivery.”
“You know,” Sharif said, “I see the passion in your eyes, and I hear your passionate voice for Islam, General. I feel that you are trustworthy. Perhaps we can do business.”
“You are kind, General.”
“In fact, assuming the proper financial arrangements are made as you have offered, we can deliver the weaponry as soon as tomorrow. Come. Let us take a walk on the beach and discuss the details of this newfound alliance.”
North Jakarta Islamic Hospital
12:01 a.m.
Because some of the equipment in operating room 3 was more antiquated than the modern, up-to-date equipment in operating rooms 1 and 2, the third OR was rarely used these days.
Dr. Anton Budi was counting on this fact, and on the fact that the surgery would be taking place under the cover of darkness, to pull off the plan.
Anton locked the door leading into the hallway, then pulled dark curtains across the glass windows, making the inside of the OR invisible to any duty nurses who happened to walk by during the night.
He donned a green surgical mask. “Are you ready, my brother?”
“I am ready,” Guntur said with a peaceful smile under the bright glare of operating room lights.
“I will see you when you wake up,” Anton said, hoping and praying that his brother would awaken after the procedure.
He placed the mask over Guntur’s face, secreting a combination of oxygen and nitrous oxide into his brother’s lungs.
Guntur coughed a bit, then closed his eyes and fell into the first stage of sedation.
Beep-beep. Beep-beep. The heartbeat monitor blipped a normal, sharply spiked green line across the black screen. Good. Now to make sure that Guntur didn’t wake up…
He lifted a syringe against the overhanging spotlight and worked the plunger slightly.
Here he had to be careful. The tranquilizer succinylcholine, which was in the syringe, had been used in euthanasia killings of horses around the world. If not controlled carefully, the drug could easily kill a man.
He held the syringe up again against the light, just to be safe. The bright light showed the standard dosage of 1 mg/kg in the barrel.
He plunged the needle into Guntur’s upper arm, then pushed slightly on the plunger…slowly…slowly…until a one kilogram dose of succinylcholine had oozed under the skin.
Beeeeep beep. Beeeeep beeeeep. Beeeeep beep. Beeeeep Beeeeep.
The beeps grew elongated as Guntur’s pulse slowed. Anton watched the heart monitor for a minute or two.
Good. Pulse, breathing, oxygen content in the blood had all stabilized. Anton buffed sweat from his forehead with his forearm.
Now for the next step.
He would employ a surgical procedure that was being used in the United States. Anton had read about it but had never performed it. He would access the lung by cutting an incision under the arm. Then, after cutting through cartilage, he would separate his brother’s ribcage at the entry point with a mechanical clamp.
From there, he would use probes, scalpels, and suction devices to remove the lung.
Although Anton had never tried this procedure, the techniques in the manuals seemed simple enough. So it was not the risk of trying something for the first time that concerned him.
Infection was always a concern whenever a foreign object was inserted in the body.
Guntur was going to die anyway. But Anton wondered if Guntur could live long enough to carry out his plan before infection would set in and either debilitate him or kill him.
Most foreign objects inserted by surgeons, whether shunts, prosthetic devices, or artificial kneecaps, were sanitized to kill germs and bacteria.
But there had been no effort to sanitize the considerable amount of C-4 plastic explosive that would be inserted in Guntur’s hollow lung cavity.
Nor had there been
any effort to sanitize the remote-controlled detonator that would be inserted into the chest cavity and would look like a pacemaker to any metal detector that Guntur passed through.
To counteract the certain onset of deadly infection, he would pump Guntur heavily with antibiotics and hope that a combination of penicillin and other drugs would keep him alive long enough to finish the mission.
Anton again checked Guntur’s vitals. All signs were still stable. Good.
He took his sleeping brother’s left forearm and lifted it up over his head, laying it at the head of the operating table. Next, with a flesh marker, he carefully marked off a line under the arm in the chest area where he would begin this incision.
Anton put down the marker. He took a deep breath. Turning to the table full of surgical instruments that was right beside him, he lifted a stainless-steel scalpel between his fingers.
Carefully, he brought the tip of the razor-sharp blade to the beginning of the line on his brother’s body. He pushed slightly, and the blade sliced through the skin, giving way to red, oozing blood.
It had begun.
Five hours later, Anton looped the last thread of suture through the incision. The surgery was now complete. He laid the forceps and threading needle on the instrument tray.
He checked the monitors for vital signs. Pulse. Body temperature. Blood pressure. Respiratory rate. All normal.
He adjusted the penicillin drip that was already flowing into Guntur’s body via intravenous administration. The key here, he again reminded himself, would be battling infection long enough to complete the deed.
Guntur’s pulse was starting to pick up. The effects of the succinylcholine would soon be wearing off.
Physically exhausted, Anton slumped into a hospital chair at the foot of the operating table.
He would be implicated in this.
He knew it from the beginning. Guntur had to know it too.
But what could he do? Refuse to do it because he was afraid of becoming an accomplice to the murder of the president? Guntur was right. The president’s Western-oriented army had killed their father.
It had always been about Guntur. And rightly so. Guntur was the brave one. The visionary. If Guntur would lay down his life to avenge their father’s murder, how could he not? He would be with his father…and his brother again soon, in paradise.