“This is more like what I thought Bali would be about,” Amanda commented into her interphone head set.
“It is,” Harconan replied. “This is the real Bali. The sprawl on the southern peninsula is someone else’s idea.”
“Whose?”
“Let me give you a hint. One of Bali’s former Javanese governors had the nickname Ida Bagus, or Okay, for his propensity for authorizing any development project that would bring in fast tourist dollars.”
“And the Balinese have nothing to say about it?”
Harconan arched a dark eyebrow behind his sunglasses. “Of course they do. Just as much any other non-Javanese in Indonesia. ‘We are many, but all are one,’ as our national motto says. Only somehow the one from Jakarta always seems to end up giving the orders to the many.”
“And this status quo is accepted?” Amanda probed.
“For the moment. The Balinese are by nature a mystic people, spiritual and artistic, until the gods tell them to be otherwise.”
“The gods?”
“Quite so. Look back over your right shoulder: See that tallest mountain to the northeast?”
Amanda studied the impressive volcano with its snowy cloud cap through the cockpit bubble. “Yes, it’s beautiful. What about it?”
“It’s called Gungung Agung. Back in 1965, during the last days of the Sukarno regime, a great religious ceremony was held here on Bali, the Eka Dasa Rudra, purification and balancing to bring man and nature into harmony. It is only supposed to be held once precisely every one hundred years. However, Sukarno, in order to impress a convention of travel agents, ordered the ritual be held ten years early.
“In the middle of the ceremonies, Gungung Agung over there exploded in its most violent eruption in six hundred years, killing sixteen hundred people and devastating one quarter of the island. The Balinese saw it as a sign that Shiva was displeased with them for allowing outsiders—in this instance, the island’s Communist faction—to come among them and disrupt the ways of the gods.
“In September of that year, when the coup was attempted and the Communist party of Indonesia was outlawed, the Balinese turned on them as well. But here it was unique. Here it wasn’t a political massacre; it was an exorcism of demons as ritualized as any temple ceremony. For the most part there was no rampage, no mass slaughter in the streets, as there was elsewhere in the islands. The Communists were allowed to bathe and don white ceremonial clothing and were led politely and without hate to their execution. Fifty thousand of them out of a population of two million.”
“My God, and you think it could happen again?” Amanda’s own words reminded her of the conversation she had shared with Stone Quillain about Krakatau a few days before.
“Let’s put it this way, my good Captain,” Harconan replied. “Were I a Javanese official, a Chinese hotel owner, or an Australian tourist, I would look hastily to my plane reservations should old Gungung start rumbling again.”
He banked the helicopter out over the sea. “I’m taking us out over the ocean. We’re coming up on the West Bali National Park, and I don’t like to disturb the bird sanctuaries.”
A few minutes later they rounded Cape Lampumerah, at the north western tip of Bali. Two islands could be seen then off the north coast, emeralds in a sapphire sea. “The one to the east is Menjangan,” Harconan pronounced. “It’s part of the National Park. The one ahead is Palau Piri, and it is my home.”
The Island of Princes was far more impressive in real life than in aerial photography. As the helo angled toward the flashing reception beacons of the island helipad, Amanda could only gaze awestruck as the complex of elegantly modern buildings and golf-course-smooth lawns rose toward her. Ian Fleming should have seen this, she thought wryly.
An elderly yet straight-spined Chinese in a black business suit awaited them in the ivory-tiled entry foyer of the main house. “Welcome home, Mr. Harconan,” he said with a slight inclination of his head in a faultless and accent-free English. “And welcome to you, Captain Garrett. You honor House Harconan with your presence. May your stay with us be a pleasant one.”
“Thank you.” Amanda suddenly wished she were wearing a skirt in stead of slacks: A curtsy seemed the only appropriate response to such a welcome.
“Amanda, I would like you to meet Mr. Lan Lo,” Harconan said with real affection in his voice. “My factotum, main functionary, and the only reason I’m a millionaire.”
The expression of repose on Lo’s face didn’t alter. “That is, of course, a gracious exaggeration, Captain.”
“Never argue with your employer, Lo. I say you are indispensable. Has everything been prepared for our guest?”
“Of course, sir. Luncheon will be ready in forty-five minutes.” Lo turned slightly to face Amanda. “Would you care to bathe first, Captain?”
It would have been a rather startling pronouncement anywhere but in Indonesia. However, Amanda had studied the task force’s cultural database enough to know that the Indonesians were both one of the cleanest of people as well as the best-versed in maintaining comfort in a tropic environment. Offering a visitor a chance to bathe after a journey was a courtesy. And the ride under the Eurocopter’s plastic bubble had been a hot and sticky one.
“Thank you. That would be very nice.”
If Amanda had been expecting one of the traditional Indonesian mandi scoop baths, she would have been disappointed. The sun-gold and ivory European-style bathroom she was shown to was alone larger than her entire flag quarters aboard the Carlson, and it opened off a dressing room and bedroom that were far larger yet. Amanda suspected that the cost of the furnishings and fabrics involved in the elegant guest suite probably could have effortlessly absorbed several years of her salary.
The suite also came complete with two pretty, skilled, and silent Chinese maids. It was the first time in many years that Amanda had allowed anyone to undress her, except for recreational purposes. However, the only way to maintain one’s dignity in such a situation is to flow with it. Amanda relaxed and accepted the pampering.
The bath products were Guerlain, the tub large enough to float in, Appreciative of a good deep soaking, Amanda could have luxuriated for a far longer period, but her maids were standing by with fluffy sheet-size towels, and her host awaited.
At the dressing table she found an array of expensive, tasteful cosmetics matched to her complexion, and she found that one of the maids also doubled as a skilled hairdresser.
She didn’t realize the trap that had been sprung until she returned, towel-wrapped, to the bedroom. Her uniform and every other stitch she had worn had been taken, no doubt for cleaning. Replacing them were a set of ice-blue lounging pajamas, obviously from one of Bali’s finest fashion houses and made of silk so fine that it flowed like water. It made a person feel cool merely to look at them.
Amanda recognized the deft move. She could make a fuss by yelling for her own clothes back or she could wear this elegant, expensive, and exotic outfit, no doubt chosen by Harconan himself, that was simply screaming to be tried on.
Two minutes later she was examining herself in the triangular mirror. The effect worked well with her amber hair and golden eyes. It worked very well indeed. And the incredible feel of the silk … Just wearing these garments was an erotic experience.
There was a discrete knock at the bedroom door, and Amanda nodded to one of the maids. It was amazing how rapidly a person got used to having such handy individuals around.
It was Lo. “Luncheon is ready, Captain.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lo. I think I’m ready as well.” She slipped her feet into the soft golden sandals that had been provided with the outfit, shot a final glance into the mirror, and set forth.
Flag Quarters, USS Evans F. Carlson
1233 Hours, Zone Time: August 17, 2008
“Understood, Frank. I agree with Admiral Sonderburg that getting a sound profile on the new Indian nuclear attack sub is important. I just disagree about how important.”
The d
istant voice of Maclntyre’s chief of staff sounded in his ear. The admiral’s chair creaked as he tilted it back to stare at the cable clusters overhead. Beyond the Sea Fighter task force and its current mission, he still had the remainder of Naval Special Forces to run. Today, with the Lady away, he made use of Amanda’s office and workstation for his daily bout of teleconferencing with NAVSPECFORCE headquarters.
“You can point out to the admiral that currently I have two—count them, two—dedicated Raven subs in the Pacific,” he replied into the phone. “If COMSUBPAC wants to park one of his own attack boats off Madras for the next six months, fine, I wish him luck. I’ve got too many other missions for my hulls to leave them loitering around in the Bay of Bengal, waiting for New Delhi to run trials with their new nuke. Hell, Frank, we can track this guy down and lift a sound profile on him after he’s operational and at sea…. I’ll do better than that, Frank, I’ll say I’m sure Admiral Sonderburg isn’t going to like it, but that’s my call.”
A knock at the door straightened him up behind the desk. “Enter.”
Christine Rendino hesitated in the entryway, a file folder of hard copy under one arm. MacIntyre gestured her into the chair across the desk from him as he finished his call “Right … that should just about do it. Forward me the after action report on the last SEAL ops cycle in northern China and lean on the yard problems with the PC rebuilds. I’ll catch you tomorrow at oh-eight for the morning sitrep. Later, Frank.”
He returned the phone to the desk communications deck and swiveled the chair around to face the intel. “What do you have for me, Chris?”
She held up the hard-copy file. “Latest operational intelligence updates. Would you like the file or would you prefer a fast verbal?”
“Both. Let’s start with the latest from the dungeons below. What’s the status on our prisoners, and have you gotten anything more out of them on the location of the INDASAT?”
“They’re doing fine, sir. We’ve got them out of isolation and time disorientation. They’re eating like horses and watching Baywatch reruns in six different languages. When they go back to their village, they aren’t going to be able to live without satellite television. As for intel, we’re getting all sorts of casual stuff on routine raider operations. I can already give you the names of half a dozen other major base villages on Sulawesi and Ambon and maybe twice that many raider schooners and their captains. Apparently Sulawesi is a hotbed of both piracy and Raja Samudra nationalism. No surprises there. But so far we’ve picked up nothing on the upper cartel echelons or the INDASAT.”
“Any explanation for that?” MacIntyre grunted.
“Supercompartmentalization. Harconan understands his people and the tribal culture form. He knows the propensity for gossip to disseminate rapidly within a fluid, mobile culture like the Bugis.
“If the INDASAT were being held at one of the Bugis colonies on Sulawesi, our prisoners probably would have at least a hint of something especially big going on. As we aren’t seeing this, it suggests that Harconan’s probably keeping our satellite in the hands of a special team of somewhat more sophisticated personnel at a location outside of the usual Bugis operating areas.”
“In other words, the damn thing could be anywhere.”
Christine perked up. “No, sir, the satellite is still somewhere in the Indonesian archipelago. It is in Harconan’s hands and he is in the process of selling it off to the highest international bidder.”
MacIntyre brought his chair upright. “What have you got?”
“We scored on our systems invasion of Makara Limited, sir. Just a little bitty bit of a score, but it’s given us six critical names.”
She opened a hard-copy file and selected a sheet from it, passing it across the desk to MacIntyre. “Dr. Chong Rei,” he read aloud. “Mr. Hiung Wa, Mr. Jamal Kalil, Mr. Hamad Hammik, Professor Namgay Sonoo, and Dr. Joseph Valdechesfsky.
“Who are these gentlemen when they’re up and dressed?” MacIntyre inquired, looking up from the paper.
“Aerospace specialists, sir, satellite operations, cybernetics, space industrialization, the best their respective corporate entities can field. Rei and Wa are with the Yan Song combine out of Korea. Hammik and Kalil are with the new Falaud Industrial Development Group based in Saudi Arabia and the UAE, and Sonoo and Valdechesfsky, an expat Russian, are with India’s Marutt-Goa. All of these guys have enough of a reputation in their technologies to be worth the NSA keeping an eye on them. All six of them have arrived in Singapore within the last seventy-two hours.”
“What’s the tie-in with Harconan?” MacIntyre demanded.
“All six of their names were pulled out of a Makara Limited data file. Not out of one of the primary business or accounting blocks: There’s no mention of them or of their parent firms in any of the Makara primary files. We lifted these names out of the day work log of Makara Limited’s director of public relations. She hard-linked her palm pad computer into her workstation terminal at just the right time, for us anyway. We have a list of flight arrivals, hotel reservations, limo service, meal and entertainment expenses, all the nickel-and-dime stuff that goes along with wining and dining a body of valued corporate clients.”
Christine held up a finger. “Here is where it gets interesting. Inspector Tran has confirmed the arrival of these men through Singapore customs. We have also verified that rooms are being held in their names at various four- and five-star hotels across the island. But the listing of entertainment and support expenses cuts off abruptly about twenty-four hours ago.”
“Have they left the island?”
“Not according to Singapore customs, but the expense trail ends cold. Harconan Limited has stopped spending money on them, at least in Singapore.”
Christine produced a second sheet of hard copy. “I had cyberwar service the problem from an Indonesian angle. Their government systems are steam-age stuff, a walk in the park to hack.”
“And?”
“And yesterday the Indonesian customs station at Pekanbaru in the Rau Island group listed two Koreans, two UAE nationals, one Indian, and a Russian coming in from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, on a passenger hydrofoil. The names are different, but the racial grouping and the physical descriptions match.
“The Indonesian polisi at Pekanbaru also issued these individuals with extensive surat jalan letters of passage, a kind of an internal Indonesian visa granting them free passage to just about anywhere in the archipelago.”
MacIntyre scowled. “Any chance we could be looking at a coincidence?”
Christine shook her head decisively. “Uh-uh, not when you consider that a quick dip into the Malaysian customs-control database indicates that they’ve never heard of any of these guys, at least as listed. It’s questionable if they were even on that hydrofoil. They just needed some kind of official entry mode to list on the paperwork.
“To me, Admiral, sir, it’s apparent these three major international industrial combines, Yan Song, Falaud, and Marutt-Goa, have taken Harconan up on the INDASAT offer and he’s ghosting their inspection teams into Indonesia to look over the merchandise.”
“ls there any way for us to track them?”
The intel shook her head. “I’d doubt it. I suspect they’re already long gone en route to the location of the satellite base. Harconan is probably moving the inspection teams covertly via his own ships and aircraft. They probably won’t be a blip on anybody’s scope until they magically reappear in Singapore, ready for extraction.”
MacIntyre studied the hard-copy sheets, finding no point of disagreement with the intel’s assessment. “Well, this was something, at any rate. It’s a hint we aren’t barking up the wrong tree, but it’s also not a smoking gun. It wouldn’t be hard to come up with a justification for those expense accounts. What else do you have?”
“Two other factors, sir,” Christine replied, “both of which are really interesting.”
“Explain.”
“For one, we’ve completed the analysis on the weapons w
e captured from the Piskov boarding party. The report has a disturbing bottom line—to me, anyway.”
“Disturb me, Commander.”
Christine took a deep breath. “Okay, sir, but this is sort of complex. I have to walk you through it. First, there was no big surprise with the Uzi machine pistols we captured. They were license-produced Uzi clones manufactured here in Singapore, part of a two-hundred-gun shipment to the Philippine government taken by pirates about two years ago.
“The automatic pistol we took from the prizemaster was a different matter. It was an inexpensive Beretta 92-F knockoff produced by Helwan of Egypt. The serial number indicates it was one of a five-hundred-unit shipment supposedly bought and paid for by the government of Vietnam for their national police. However, the Vietnamese claim to know nothing about buying or paying for such a shipment of handguns.”
“Go on.”
“The medium machine guns mounted on the Bugis Boghammers were South African MG-4s, an unlicensed 7.62 NATO variant of the old American Browning M 1919. We have no idea where they came from, except they all have similar series ID numbers, and one of our specialists thinks he recognizes Israeli-style refurbishment work.
“Things really get interesting with the assault rifles. They were a short-barreled folding-stock variant of the AK-47, ex-Hungarian army issue. A few years back, when Hungary went to NATO standard with their small arms, they took all of their old 7.62mm Warsaw Pact stuff, refurbished it, and put it on the international arms market for resale. Last year a Thai arms dealer purchased a block of six thousand rifles, theoretically on speculation. The paper trail on that arms shipment leads from Budapest to Bangkok, where the weapons are supposedly sitting in a locked warehouse, gathering dust.”
“And the reality?”
“All that’s left in the warehouse is the dust. The arms and the arms dealer have both disappeared. Six thousand assault rifles, Admiral. Enough to equip two entire infantry brigades.”
Target Lock Page 26
