A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul

by Shamini Flint

  Singh said, ‘Well, the half-wit looked scared enough!’

  Bronwyn feigned ignorance of whom he meant – she did not approve of the inspector’s terminology for Yusuf. She asked, ‘Whom do you mean?’

  Singh ignored the question. He continued musing, ‘I’m sure that Ramzi guy knows something.’

  ‘The hot-tempered, handsome one?’

  ‘Hot-tempered certainly. I didn’t notice that he was good looking.’

  ‘Drop dead gorgeous.’

  ‘All right, I’ll take your word for it. But did you think he was hiding something?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  Singh snorted. ‘Well, my long experience of this job tells me that something is amiss with that fellow.’

  ‘I thought the girl was the most peculiar.’ Bronwyn made the suggestion with some trepidation. Singh was clearly in a mood to shoot down anyone’s ideas except his own.

  ‘She was odd – how is it that she knew that his name was Richard Crouch and the rest didn’t? And what was all that fainting about?’

  Bronwyn said, ‘She was really out of sorts, poor thing. She smelt like she hadn’t bathed. Her hair was none too clean either. She was dehydrated. Her lips were dry and chapped.’

  Singh added, ‘And she really caught the others by surprise, even her husband, by knowing that Crouch and Abdullah were one and the same person.’

  ‘Which means that she was better acquainted with the dead man than the rest of them …’

  Singh clapped his hands together. It was a sudden, sharp sound and Bronwyn jumped. She asked crossly, ‘What is it?’

  ‘I think our good Moslem was having an affair with that young lady.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘Why do you dismiss it? He was unhappy with his wife. Nuri is young and, I expect, under all that grime, quite attractive. She knows more about him than is easily explained away. She acts like someone with a broken heart. It makes perfect sense!’

  ‘But …’ Bronwyn was struggling to articulate her doubts.

  ‘But what?’

  ‘But they seemed like such a religious bunch – they met Abdullah at a mosque – I thought Moslems really frowned on adultery.’

  Singh chortled, a hearty, cheerful sound. ‘My dear girl – in my experience, the lusts of the flesh trump God every single time!’

  After the police left, there was a hush in the room. Nobody had the courage to break it. Nuri, who had swooned like some character from a soap opera, thought Ghani in disgust, had been carried to her room and laid on the bed. Ghani was anxious to talk to her. It was exceedingly odd that she should be the only one to know that Abdullah’s original name, before he converted to Islam, was Richard Crouch. Why would he have confided such a thing? And to his wife? He had not thought that they were close. He was not aware of any private conversation between them.

  He cast his mind back to Abdullah’s visits to their apartment. He had come by a number of times. Nuri had been present. She had served the food and drinks in her normal quiet, even subservient, way. He had not noticed her, which meant that her behaviour had not been out of the ordinary. If she had been chatting to Abdullah about his past life, he hadn’t been present at the conversation.

  Abu Bakr broke the silence. His tension was visible in the sinews of his neck, which were stretched taut and painful. He asked, ‘What now?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Ramzi.

  Abu Bakr ignored him and said again, turning his body slightly so that the question was directed at Ghani, ‘What now?’

  Ghani was irritable. His leg shook furiously, up and down, up and down as he sat in the only armchair in the room. He said, ‘I have no idea what you are asking me.’

  Abu Bakr flushed. The red blood suffused his face, the high tide at the apex of his cheek bones. He stood his ground. ‘Do we cancel our plans?’

  Ramzi shouted, ‘Of course not.’

  This time his brother could not ignore him. Still red, but this time in anger, he whirled around on the ball of one foot. ‘Who appointed you the boss, younger brother? Your job is to wait for instructions and carry them out. Leave the decision-making to your elders … and betters!’

  Ghani intervened. ‘Why should we cancel our plans?’ he asked. His voice was cold and brittle.

  ‘Why? You ask why? Did we not just have the police at our door, in our flat, asking us questions about Abdullah?’

  ‘Yes, they were here about Abdullah. Not about us! They know nothing about us. Why should we stop?’ Ghani’s voice grew steadily louder like someone turning up the volume button on a stereo. He finished near a shout. His face was crimson except for the pale rings around his eyes and his mouth.

  Abu Bakr took a deep breath. In another culture, one might have suspected him of counting to ten to keep a lid on his temper. He said now, slowly and pedantically, as if he was talking to children or fools, ‘Abdullah was shot. We do not know by whom and neither do the police. But they are not just asking us friendly questions, they are looking for a murderer. That is serious. They will investigate thoroughly. Look how they traced us – all because my fool of a brother likes big red bikes.’

  Ramzi glared at him.

  Abu Bakr reiterated, ‘I always knew that bike would be trouble! I still can’t believe you purchased it.’

  Ghani was calm. He said, ‘That is in the past now. Remember, the police know nothing. They are hunting for a murderer. We are just witnesses. We need to hold our nerve.’

  ‘Hold our nerve?’ asked Abu Bakr, his tone high-pitched with anxiety. ‘We have more to do than that, Ghani. Abdullah is dead. Our bomb-maker is dead!’

  Thirteen

  Singh was lying in bed fully clothed. He was on top of the covers, his back supported by a stack of three soft pillows. He lay at a slight angle so that his footwear was sticking off the side of the bed. Although his sneakers appeared fairly clean, he had no intention of letting them rest on his bedding. Brought up to go barefoot indoors, he found it difficult enough to wear shoes in a hotel bedroom. It seemed thoroughly unhygienic to walk up and down the pale carpets in his sneakers. Only the knowledge that every previous guest had done so prevented him from going unshod. He grimaced at what his mother would have said if she had caught him with shoes on the bed. He would have felt the bamboo cane she kept for situations requiring memorable discipline.

  Singh groped around the side table and found the television remote. He had been unfit before, he thought. If he spent much longer in this tiny hotel room where everything was within reach, from the fridge near his bed to the control panel built into the side table, he would get even fatter. As it was, his belly at its apex was obscuring the bottom of the television screen. Singh hitched himself up a bit higher on the pillows and flicked channels until he found a news programme.

  One of the Bali bombers, Amrozi, was being interviewed. Indonesian policing methods were still in the dark ages. But Amrozi didn’t look like he’d been at the receiving end of a thrashing. Despite this, he was singing like a canary. He seemed extremely pleased to be able to hold forth on television, laughing and joking and justifying his actions.

  The doorbell to Singh’s room rang. He dragged himself to his feet with difficulty. Bronwyn filled the entrance. She had showered and changed and looked re-energised. Her hair was damp and darker than usual, wet tendrils that looked like rat’s tails dripped water onto her shoulders. Singh wished that he had bathed rather than watch Amrozi explain why mass murder was acceptable. He did not feel fresh. He decided not to take his shoes off while Bronwyn was in the room. His socks probably smelt like belachan, the Indonesian prawn paste that caused white tourists to gag and clutch at their noses.

  Bronwyn said, ‘Well, may I come in?’

  Singh realised that he was still blocking the doorway while he considered the condition of his socks. He must be tired. He was not thinking straight. He moved aside to let the Australian enter.

  ‘Your room is bigger than mine,’ she remarked.<
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  Singh glanced around the room with a jaundiced eye. He was sick of the place. He was really looking forward to getting back to Singapore. Not even the presence of his wife with a month’s backlog of nagging could dull his longing to wander barefoot about his three-bedroom house. His home needed a paint job and a bit of fixing up but it was as familiar as an old blanket and just as comfortable. This hotel room was pastel and barren. Not even an attempt to incorporate Balinese features – carved teak chairs and frogs spouting water from their mouths instead of taps – could hide its essential soullessness.

  The television was still on. Bronwyn glanced at the screen in disgust. ‘I was watching a bit of that in my room,’ she said.

  Singh grunted. ‘I have no idea why they are parading this comedian on television.’

  ‘So that the locals can see that there was Indonesian involvement in the bombings – there’s been a lot of scepticism. ’

  ‘That makes sense, I suppose,’ he admitted reluctantly. He grabbed the remote and switched off the television. ‘Enough of that. Let’s make a plan for tomorrow.’

  ‘What do you want to do next?’

  Singh rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. ‘Julian Greenwood first, I think. We shouldn’t forget the earlier suspects just because we’ve had an influx of new ones. Agus called and said Greenwood owes some local gangster a fair amount – a gambling debt. He might have been tempted by all that money Crouch was pocketing at the bank.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Get the girl alone!’

  ‘Which girl?’

  ‘The Indonesian who was in love with Crouch.’

  ‘The Indonesian who might have been in love with Crouch,’ said Bronwyn. ‘Do you want her arrested?’

  ‘No, not yet. Get someone to watch the flat tomorrow. When the menfolk go to work, we’ll pay another visit.’

  ‘Even if she was having an affair with him, you don’t think she killed him, do you?’

  Singh shook his head. ‘The news of his death came as a complete surprise to her. She wasn’t faking that collapse.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Oh, it’s quite easy to shut one’s eyes and slump to the ground – but it’s not possible to turn pale on command. She was as white as a ghost.’

  Bronwyn twined her fingers together and leaned her chin on them with a resigned air. ‘All right, we question her. But if she didn’t do it, what are we hoping to prove? We’ll just upset the girl.’

  ‘You need to get over this reluctance to distress people in the midst of a murder investigation,’ said the inspector pointedly. ‘Treating witnesses with kid gloves isn’t going to help us find a murderer.’

  Bronwyn sighed. ‘It just seems cruel – that kid is suffering. ’

  ‘Richard Crouch is dead.’

  ‘I guess you’re right.’

  ‘I am right! Think about it, if this girl was having an affair it opens up whole new avenues.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘It gives Sarah Crouch another motive – jealousy. That girl’s husband could have done it. He looks like a tough cookie.’ Singh grinned broadly, forgetting his homesickness and smelly socks. ‘Bronwyn – we’re making progress!’

  Bronwyn looked embarrassed. ‘I was wondering whether I could have some time off.’

  ‘Time off?’ Singh’s eyebrows almost met in his consternation. ‘Why do you want time off?’

  ‘Just the day after tomorrow …’

  ‘Planning a picnic? Going for a swim when we’re on the verge of a breakthrough?’

  ‘No,’ said Bronwyn, laughing. ‘There is that purification ritual for the blast victims outside the Sari Club. I just feel I ought to go.’

  ‘You honour the dead by finding their killers – not sitting around chanting and burning incense,’ said Singh curtly.

  Bronwyn was adamant. ‘I would like to go.’

  ‘Well, I can’t really stop you. I’m not actually your superior officer. But if I crack the case and take all the credit while you’re wasting your time, don’t blame me.’

  Ghani gazed at his foot soldiers, the foot soldiers of Allah.

  There was Yusuf, nervous and doubting, sitting cross-legged on the floor. His eyes behind his big glasses flickered from side to side as if he was watching an imaginary tennis match.

  Ramzi, at least, looked the part. Tall and handsome, he was leaning against a wall, arms folded in front of him. He was less on edge than the rest of them, thriving on the adrenaline of danger.

  Ghani was painfully aware that Abu Bakr was his only reliable ally. He had great faith in the judgement of Abu Bakr. He had proved himself in the fighting in Mindanao and he was competent to advise young volunteers, quoting carefully chosen passages in the Quran to great effect.

  And then there was his wife. Ghani had decided against letting Nuri in on their plans. He was not convinced that she would understand that the wave of attacks against Bali was a natural extension of the war against the infidels waged in Afghanistan and Iraq. It was better for all concerned that she believe that they were in Bali to set up a religious school.

  Ghani felt a flash of impatience as he remembered how Nuri had fainted when she heard that Abdullah was dead. She was going to have to pull herself together or she was going to be a real burden to the team.

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’ asked Ramzi, cracking his knuckles as if he anticipated a fistfight.

  Ghani said heavily, ‘Let us sit at the table.’

  Ramzi was not showing him enough respect. It was not a foot soldier’s place to stand tall while the field commander sat on a creaking rattan chair or to question him before he was ready to speak. Ghani decided to hold his peace. They were a small group. He could not afford to lose anyone now. He would rein in Ramzi when he had to – but not before.

  Ghani hauled himself out of the deep chair and led the way to the dining table. He sat at the head and Abu Bakr sat down to his right. Yusuf hesitated painfully. Even the decision of which chair to take at the small table was too much for him. He settled tentatively on the chair at the tail, opposite Ghani. Ramzi strode over and managed, by twirling his chair around so that he was sitting with his legs spread and his arms resting on the back, to make the act of sitting down an expression of individuality.

  Ghani said, ‘We are in the countdown to the next attack.’

  Ramzi slammed his fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘It’s about time! What’s the target?’

  Ghani ignored him. He continued, ‘We need to assemble the bomb.’

  Complete silence greeted this remark. Abdullah the bomb-maker, who had disappeared without a trace after preparing the explosives for the first blasts, had turned up dead. They were going to have to manage without him.

  ‘Abu Bakr has been instructed in bomb-making techniques at the Afghan military training camps. He will construct the bomb.’

  Abu Bakr said, ‘By the grace of God, I will find the strength and knowledge to do it.’

  Again, it was Ramzi who interrupted. ‘Where is the equipment?’

  Ghani explained, ‘In a safe house.’

  ‘Why not here?’ asked Yusuf curiously, his first contribution to the discussion.

  Ramzi snorted. ‘Because it is better that we don’t spend time with stuff that is designed to blow up!’

  Yusuf retracted into his shell. It was a visible process. His back hunched, he pulled in his neck and ducked his chin – his mental retreat from the aggressive Ramzi was reflected in his physical behaviour.

  Abu Bakr interrupted the fractious conversation. ‘How will we deliver the bomb?’

  ‘A closed vehicle of some sort …’

  ‘And is young Yusuf here going to be the driver?’ asked Ramzi.

  Ghani said quietly, ‘Yes, Yusuf has been selected by Allah for the ultimate sacrifice and the ultimate reward.’

  Yusuf smiled weakly. It seemed as if he was about to speak and then changed his mind and stared down at the floor.

 
Abu Bakr said gently, ‘Yusuf, we are happy to hear your words.’

  Yusuf mumbled something that no one could make out.

  ‘Speak up, Yusuf. No one can hear you! You need some self-confidence. At this rate even the seventy-two virgins waiting for you in heaven won’t be interested!’ Ramzi laughed loudly at his own joke.

  Ghani said angrily, ‘Enough, Ramzi. My patience is wearing thin. Allah will reward his martyrs as they deserve.’ He turned to Yusuf and asked, ‘What did you say, Yusuf?’

  Yusuf whispered, ‘I hope there are more Americans this time than in the first bomb.’

  Ghani nodded. ‘We hear your request, Yusuf. We will look for such a target.’

  Ramzi asked eagerly, ‘What should I do? Can I look for a target too?’

  Abu Bakr and Ghani looked at each other.

  Ghani made up his mind. He said, ‘Ramzi, use some of the ill-gotten talents of your youth – steal an unmarked white van.’

  Ramzi asked, ‘May I take the bike?’

  ‘All right.’

  Abu Bakr grumbled, ‘I just wish that bike was not red.’

  Ramzi said cheerfully, ‘Nonsense, I love red bikes. Besides they don’t sell them in Islamic green.’

  Ghani groaned inwardly at this flippancy but did not argue.

  Abu Bakr said, ‘Be careful, brother. That bike which you bought has already caused us a great deal of trouble.’

  Ramzi saw that there were lines of real concern on his older brother’s face. He said, ‘Do not worry. I will be as prudent as you would be.’

  Ghani said, ‘We cannot ask for more than that.’

  Abu Bakr said, ‘Very well, field commander. If it is your decision that we proceed, we will do so. I will construct the bomb tomorrow with Yusuf’s help.’

  ‘You see, we never needed the bomb-maker!’ Ghani was exultant.

  ‘Just as well as someone appears to have shot him in the head,’ remarked Abu Bakr. ‘I wonder who did it?’

  Ghani was not interested. His mind was completely on the job at hand now. He said dismissively, ‘We will never know.’

  Ramzi was not willing to let the subject drop. ‘It is curious though. Why would someone do that? Do you think it was the first cell? Perhaps he let them down somehow or they thought he was a security risk?’