by A P Bateman
“As the Republic of Indonesia is spread over such a huge area, with over six thousand inhabited islands, the nation is divided into twenty-seven governed provinces. These provinces are ruled by separate local governments, who are required by the constitution to operate the philosophic concept of Pancasila, or the five principles. These principles are - the belief in one supreme god; just and civilized humanity; the unity of Indonesia; democracy; and equality. With a population of almost two hundred million, three hundred and thirty ethnic groups, two hundred and fifty distinct languages and practicing believers in every religion on Earth, it is easy to see how ineffective the concept of Pancasila really is.” Junus eyed the room carefully, then stared at Bryant. “I also have a great many friends in the military. There is unrest within the ranks. It would appear that it is not just the civilians who yearn for change. Sure, the president ousted many of Soharto’s old chiefs, but their replacements are merely glove puppets for the old regime.” He looked nervously at his friend, then sipped another mouthful of Bintang. “There is a man who can threaten the current state of Indonesia, perhaps even the entire Malay Archipelago. The government know about him, but they are too scared to make a move. They cannot even use their own security service, for the fear that the man’s agents have infiltrated it, along with a great many departments within the government.”
Bryant looked at him nervously and frowned. “I don’t understand Junus, I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing, just listen. This country is on borrowed time. The PKI, the Communist Party was banned in the sixties, but like most such organisations, it did not die but merely slept. Now, it is ready to awaken and with a paymaster who can make a difference,” Junus paused, then anticipating Bryant’s question he leaned forwards in his seat until there was barely a hand’s distance between them, and whispered quietly into his ear. “China…”
5
Junus Kutu dropped a ten thousand rupiah note into the copper bowl on the small round table beside the exit. The old woman smiled a toothless grin of appreciation, then nodded to the tough-looking man at the door. The muscle-bound Indonesian nodded his own silent thank you, then opened the door and let the two men out into the busy street.
Bryant felt the humid wave of overheated air suddenly engulf him, as he stepped from the comfort of the air-conditioned bar and into the density of the crowd. He smelt the pungent mixture of aromas which is almost any town in Southeast Asia. Fried rice, chilies, ginger, garlic, tamarind and a host of exotic spices mingled with sweat, urine, excrement and vehicle fumes, all combined into a single nauseating miasma which can half paralyze the primary senses. In essence, the smell of Asian towns and cities.
“I hope you don’t mind talking out here?” Junus Kutu smiled at his friend as they negotiated a narrow side street and stepped into a dimly lit walkway. “I feel it would be safer if we kept on the move.”
Bryant frowned, sensing that his companion was enjoying the situation of secrecy and conspiracy perhaps a little more than he should. However, even Bryant had to admit to himself to an unsettling sense of danger and intrigue.
Kutu stopped at the entrance to the next street, which fed onto the main road. He looked at Bryant, then nodded towards the cluster of tiny stalls to the side of the pavement. “Hungry?” he asked.
Bryant studied the selection of stalls against which he habitually warned all his young executives, explaining in lurid detail the dangers of hepatitis through to botulism and salmonella. He watched as the men and women cooked over fierce propane flames, using woks and thin bottomed pans, turning the food over with large wooden tongs, as the oil spilled out and ignited in the heat. Every so often a lorry or bus would rattle past, spilling fumes into the midst of the ramshackle kitchens and season the mix of frying spices, ginger and garlic with a note of imperfectly burnt diesel.
Bryant looked further down the street towards the air-conditioned mall, and its selection of western fast food restaurants, including a Wendy’s, MacDonald’s and Pizza Hut then turned back to his friend, not wishing to hurt his feelings or to insult his judgment. “Sure, I could do with a bite.”
Junus Kutu smiled. He led the way towards the group of canvass coverings and browsed over the produce on offer. Bryant followed the man’s gaze, forcing himself to ignore the food, which was a little too heavily garnished with flies for his own taste.
Kutu smiled at Bryant and shook his head. “You come to my country five or six times a year but insist on eating from only the most expensive restaurants in Jakarta. Or the fat and sugar rich junk food of the West! You are seriously missing out, my good friend!”
“If you say so.” Bryant mused, as he stared at a large bowl of finely sliced lamb or goat, trying to work out what could possibly have been added to tint the meat green at the edges.
“If you like, I will order for the both of us,” Kutu announced amiably, sensing his companion’s indecision.
Bryant nodded, then turned back towards the hustle and bustle of the heavy traffic. He watched the scooters, some with three adults balancing on, weave between the cars and buses, then stared in horror as a blind woman stepped out into the traffic and proceeded to wave her stick at the fast-moving vehicles. The drivers responded by sounding their horns and launching into a crescendo of abuse. Still the woman continued on her path, unperturbed by the hazards, until she scuttled across both lanes and to the relative safety of the pavement. Bryant turned back to Kutu, then watched as a wizened old man arranged a selection of meat-filled skewers over a charcoal grill and dropped some blanched noodles into a wok of smoking hot peanut oil and added a handful of diced chilies. He worked quickly, tossing the noodles to keep them from sticking to the hot metal, then spooned a selection of fresh smelling spices into the pan, before adding a ladle of coconut milk. He reduced the mixture, allowing it to bubble furiously then stirred in a spoonful of fish paste, before taking the wok off of the blazing inferno and setting it down onto the pavement.
Kutu smiled. “Ah! Dinner is served!” He stepped forward and accepted the plate which the old man handed to him. “Here, my friend, take this.”
Bryant walked hesitantly to the stall, where he gingerly took the plate from Kutu, then looked for somewhere to sit. As if she had read his mind a haggard old woman who appeared to be in her late-seventies, walked out from the canvass covering and set a stool down in front of the stall. Bryant nodded a thank you and perched on the rickety stool, in the midst of the busy pavement.
“You like satay?” Junus Kutu held up the tiny skewer, then dipped the meat into a thick chili and peanut sauce.
Bryant nodded. He loved satay, but was used to eating it in expensive restaurants with pretty waitresses and credit card readers. He nodded, then took a bite of marinated lamb.
“Try the noodles, you’ll not taste any better, not in the whole of Jawa Baret.”
Bryant nodded and took a mouthful of the thick noodle mixture. Kutu was certainly right, Bryant had not tasted better in Jakarta. He placed the spoon on the rim of the plate then picked up another skewer and bit off a mouthful of the spicy lamb.
Kutu chuckled to himself, beaming brightly at his friend. “You have been missing out, admit it! You see, all these expensive restaurants employ Sri Lankan chefs. They have good training in Sri Lanka and the chefs learn all the cuisines. They are some of the best hospitality chefs in the world, but they do not know the basic, people’s food of Indonesia. Their satay is good, but not like the satay I grew up with. Not like my grandmother cooked.”
Bryant smiled, he had indeed been missing out. He had also missed out on stomach upsets and more serious illnesses, for which no doubt, he would soon be making up. He finished his mouthful, trying his best not to think about the green meat as he chewed, then stared intently at the little Indonesian. “You mentioned China,” he prompted.
Junus Kutu set his own plate on the pavement and edged his stool forwards, until he rested barely a metre away from his companion. He then took a suspicious, but
all too obvious, glance around and leaned forwards conspiratorially. “I did,” he stated flatly. “China has always wanted Indonesia. She has influence with Vietnam, Burma, North Korea, even the Philippines. All that separates Indonesia from China is fifteen hundred miles of ocean, with friends conveniently placed all along the way.”
Bryant nodded. “You’re quite right, but if China made a move towards Indonesia, the rest of the Western world would react immediately,” he paused, thinking of the consequences. “Where would that get them?”
Kutu shook his head. “Believe me, my friend, if China sneezes, the rest of the world will catch a cold.” He stared at Bryant, picked up his plate and took another large mouthful of noodles. “An invasion is not China’s plan. What they want to achieve is the governing of a country through dictatorship, by a leader and party completely loyal to Beijing. A sort of Chinese franchise, if you will. With the natural resources Indonesia has in abundance under Chinese control there will be no stopping them in business. They will bring their production costs down even further and be in control of at least a quarter of the world’s oil, gas and coal.” He spoke through his mouthful, but with the practice of a lifetime, spilt not the smallest morsel. “Tell me, have you ever heard of General Madi Soto?”
Bryant frowned and shook his head.
“No, I didn’t think that you would have. Few have, even the government keeps his exploits quiet, but of late they have been having great trouble keeping a gag on him. Especially through mediums like Facebook and YouTube.”
“Why, what is he saying?”
Junus shook his head dejectedly. “It’s what they can’t hear him saying that is causing the greatest problems. Nobody can get near enough, or if they can, they are found out and are ‘disappeared’. The government is petrified that Soto’s actions will cause a revolt among the people. He openly speaks of high minimum wages and guaranteed work for skilled positions, using retraining programs. He promises to keep unemployment down by using only Indonesian labour.”
“Why don’t the government just arrest him, lose him in the judicial system for a while?” Bryant asked, knowing full well that such things happened every day in Indonesia. Its record on human rights was among the worst in the world, but when a country produces useful minerals in such quantities, the rest of the world can afford to turn a conveniently blind eye.
“It’s not as simple as that. The government can’t get anywhere near him, he has growing support among the military, the police and key civil servants. Believe me, General Soto is becoming untouchable. If the government makes a move too soon, Soto is likely to become a political martyr, the people may start to revolt again. Lord knows, they cost us enough last time. However, if they do not act, then the coalition government’s days are numbered. And believe me, a coalition is always what’s best for Indonesia.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” Bryant frowned. “What do you think I can do?”
“You?” Kutu smirked. “My friend, you can do nothing. I can do nothing, people like me can do nothing. But, if we get together, then we may just have a chance to rescue this situation.”
6
Peter Stewart pulled the Vauxhall Vectra across the road and eased to a halt on the well-worn grass verge. He switched off the ignition, but waited for a moment before getting out of the car allowing himself to take note of his surroundings.
The weather was mild for the time of year, although the past few days had witnessed the sudden chill in the air which means that autumn was just about here. The leaves had long since begun to darken, and it would not be long before they started to fall.
He looked at his watch, pleased that he had made good time. Having left London at midday, it had only taken him just under five hours to reach his destination. He had arrived in Cornwall at a little after four and had taken another hour to thread his way down the A30 and then the A39 towards Falmouth. He had now lost count of the myriad roads he had now taken, each one looking the same as the last and all too narrow. The satnav had told him he was two hundred metres from his destination. He opened the door and stepped onto the muddy verge, careful not to step into the tiny network of puddles in the potholes which skirted the fringe of the quiet back road.
To his right, the autumnal-tinged foliage spread into a small copse, then petered out in a series of overgrown fields, which had clearly been neglected for some time. Across the narrow country road, matters were quite different, with neatly trimmed hedges and a huge expanse of cultivated fields, spreading out to the brow of a hill a mile or so distant, beyond which he could see a huge expanse of water with many yacht sails gleaming white in the autumn sun.
Stewart locked the vehicle, then dodged across the puddles and into the belt of overgrown foliage. He carefully pushed his way through and stood at the hedge studying the property ahead of him.
The cottage was set in a thicket of trees and perennial shrubs, hiding all but the roof and chimney, which emitted billows of dark grey smoke.
Stewart scrambled up the hedge, snagging himself in the clutching thorns of the thick brambles. He gently disentangled himself from the sharp claws, taking great care not to let the natural barrier rip his clothing, then jumped down into the field below.
The sudden sound caught him completely off guard, making him flinch involuntarily. His heart leapt as he moved out of the way, his reflexes taking over. Having almost flown into Stewart’s face, the cock pheasant darted to its left, continuing its panic-stricken call, as it flew out over the road and into the neatly kept fields beyond.
Stewart sighed deeply, as his heartbeat quietened. He glanced up at the distant cottage, then started to pick his way through the waist-high thistles which marked the perimeter of the overgrown field. After he had covered about sixty metres he stopped walking and studied the building a little more attentively. It seemed larger than he had first thought and upon closer inspection he could see that the rear of the cottage had been extended into some form of conservatory, though constructed in such a way as to remain in keeping with the rest of the property. As he eased forwards he could see that the conservatory took in a view of a nearby creek. The tide was out, exposing thick muddy banks with ducks, geese and swans feeding in the mud.
Stewart caught sight of the man and quickly crouched down amongst the tall thistles. He peered through his makeshift barrier and watched intently as the man walked from round the side of the cottage and stopped at the entrance of a small tool shed. The man disappeared inside, to emerge seconds later carrying a large axe in his left hand. He walked back towards the cottage, swinging the axe playfully, then turned the corner and disappeared from Stewart’s view.
Stewart moved fast, leaping over the clump of thistles and running to the far hedge, skirting the border of the garden which unsurprisingly, was no less overgrown than the field. Stewart knew the man’s schedule, knew that he did not spend much time here. The cottage looked in good condition, but regular gardening was not on the agenda. He paused for a moment and listened, straining to hear above his own, rapid heartbeat. Stewart smiled. To his distinct pleasure, he could hear the heavy axe thudding into a log. He peered over the hedge to make sure all was clear, then nimbly slipped over the obstacle and rested quietly in the overgrown grass. The axe’s reports were still clearly audible as the man continued to work on a difficult log, raining blows with what sounded like considerable force. Stewart edged his way out of cover, moving quickly towards the far side of the garden. He stopped at a row of untended rosebushes and smiled to himself as he watched the man deliver another heavy blow to the stubborn log. From his position, Stewart could clearly see the man’s shoulders, as he worked energetically with his back towards him. All that separated the two men was Stewart’s barrier of rosebushes and just over twenty metres of flat ground. Stewart breathed steadily, deliberately calming his nerves, smoothing the flow of adrenaline. He stood up slowly, extracted the length of cheese wire from his pocket and gripped the specially adapted rubber handles firmly with both han
ds. Slowly, cautiously, he stepped out from the row of bushes and made his way across the stretch of flat ground towards his target.
The man lost his patience with the stubborn log and dropped the axe like a pendulum allowing the blade to slice into his well-worn chopping log. Leaving the axe embedded where it fell he stepped around the small pile of logs and made his way towards the front of the cottage.
Stewart moved quickly, expertly, making lightning progress across the flat ground, but making next to no sound as he closed on the unsuspecting man. He tightened the length of cheese wire, holding his left hand higher than his right, ready to wrap the thin line around his victim’s neck, then pull down with all his might. His right knee would hammer into the base of the man’s spine, giving him extra leverage and if it worked well to that point, he would also put his foot into the back of the man’s knee to drop him and gain even more leverage and pin the man’s leg to the ground preventing a counter attack. Attack cleanly and swiftly, and the target would die within seconds with the garrote; get it wrong, and it could take up to five minutes.
He closed in, now only five or six paces from the man, who was strolling casually towards the front door of the cottage. He tightened the wire, grit his teeth in an act controlled aggression then moved in for the kill.
The man moved gracefully, dropping low to the ground and spinning in a tight arc, his extended right leg catching Stewart’s left leg, as he raised his right knee for the attack. It was a fluid motion, supple. The back of his calf catching Stewart at the back on his knee, forcing the joint to give instantly. Stewart was taken cleanly off his feet. He dropped heavily on his rear, releasing the handles of the cheese wire in a desperate bid to break his fall.
The man wasted no time, dropping down onto Stewart’s chest and straddling him, each knee resting on one of Stewart’s outstretched arms. He caught hold of the cheese wire, ran his right hand around the helpless man’s neck, then pulled tight, keeping his hands pressed firmly against Stewart’s chest. Stewart made a bid to inhale as the wire pulled tight, restricting his airway but not yet slicing into the flesh. Stewart looked up into the man’s eyes and could not help but shiver as the man stared down at him, the icy glacier blue eyes piercing into his own.
