The Contract Man

by A P Bateman

  12

  “So apart from the obligatory bollocking, what are you here to tell me?” King stared icily at his former instructor, then broke into a smile. “Am I finished in the service, has the firm taken exception to my first major mistake?”

  Stewart nibbled nervously at the inside of his cheek, then shrugged. “You made a mistake, Alex. At some stage or other, it was inevitable. You couldn’t buck the odds forever,” he paused, glancing away momentarily, though the motion was all too obvious. “The chiefs are in a stew. They are trying to wriggle out of the situation and if they can’t come up with a solution then they will have to come up with a scapegoat.”

  King frowned. “The odds have always been well stacked against me, but I’ve always managed to pull off my missions. Surely one mistake shouldn’t threaten my employment?”

  Stewart shook his head dejectedly. “That isn’t always the penalty. There are other solutions, as you know…”

  King glared at the Scotsman. “Are you threatening me?”

  Stewart shook his head dismissively. “No, not I, not personally.”

  “Then who?” King rose to his feet, stepped forward to pick up Stewart’s empty coffee cup. “Another?” he asked casually.

  Stewart nodded. “Yes, thank you.” He watched King walk to the kitchen, then turned his eyes back to the detailed coastal landscape as he spoke. “The top brass. They want you to go back to Iraq and clean things up. It’s not so much the missing equipment and finger pointing, it’s that you became too involved with an asset. Having a boy take such an important shot instead of an agent with a decade and a half operational experience isn’t sitting comfortably with them. As far as they’re thinking, what could you do next?” He smiled, relaxing a little. It had been much easier to pass the buck, let him know that the order came from the top, to tell him his orders while the man was in another room. “It’s as much about testing your commitment as anything else…”

  “Who gave the order?” King called, echoing from the tiny kitchen.

  Stewart grinned. This was becoming much easier than he had first anticipated. “Martin Andrews,” he replied casually, raising his voice a little. “He seems to be tidying the situation on behalf of McCullum, who is busy preening himself for the top job.”

  “Some things never change…” King had entered the room, standing at Stewart’s shoulder, holding a single mug in his left hand. “Here you go, white with one sugar, right?”

  Stewart nodded eagerly and reached up with both hands to accept the oversized mug.

  King moved fast, dropping the empty mug into Stewart’s lap then side stepping as the man made a desperate bid to dodge what he thought would be a shower of scalding coffee. By the time Stewart had realised that the mug had been empty, King had the small cook’s knife in place against the man’s throat, its razor-sharp edge resting gently against his carotid artery. “Is that what you came here to do, then?” King asked, staring coldly into his old friend’s terrified eyes. “Cleaning up the situation, were you?”

  “No! For Christ’s sake, Alex!” He shook a little, realising how quickly death could come if King chose not to hear him out. One slice and the carotid artery would be severed. Continue to drag the blade down and across, and so would the jugular vein. Unconsciousness would follow in less than a minute, death in another two after that. “Earlier… outside, I was just playing our little game. Testing your reflexes, that’s all!”

  King pressed the knife firmly against Stewart’s visible pulse, knowing that he was safe to press, as long as the blade did not actually slide across the skin. “Well they’re better than yours, that’s for sure. You should have given up as soon as you flushed that pheasant from cover. Too long behind a desk, you’re out of touch. I saw you coming from behind, watched you in the reflection of my car’s passenger window.”

  Stewart swallowed hard, moving the edge of the knife a little. He froze, waiting to feel the warm trickle of blood, then seemed relieved when none was forthcoming. “Take it easy, Alex. I’m unarmed and I’m just the messenger. You know that I don’t make the decisions. Christ! I even told McCullum that you were the best, that if you allowed someone else to take the shot, then you surely had good reason!”

  King smiled. “I know that I had good reason ...” His expression dropped, as he stared coldly into Stewart’s eyes. “But will the likes of McCullum and Andrews understand? Frankly, they won’t give a damn. As far as they’re concerned, they need the situation resolved immediately and without having anything smelly left on them.”

  Stewart did his best to nod in agreement then felt the cold steel as the blade moved ever so slightly and thought better of it. “They have a job to do, Alex. They’re not romantics, nor are they truly realists. They’re mechanical. They make decisions that affect many innocent people and they never give it a second thought,” he paused, as a bead of perspiration trickled down his brow and into his unblinking eye. “Alex, you work for the firm. You know the rules and the methods. Does it truly surprise you that they would resort to sacrificing you as a scapegoat? Of course it doesn’t. You knew as well as I that you would be called to go back and clean up the situation. You were waiting for the call.”

  King watched the tiny trickle of blood run down the side of Stewart’s neck and disappear inside his collar. Deep down, he knew that Stewart was right, he had expected that someone would come. There was no way that the situation would correct itself, they never did. Stewart relaxed with a great sigh, as King took the blade from his neck. He dabbed his fingers against the tiny incision, then frowned as he looked at the blood smeared on his fingertips. He pulled a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket, then stared angrily at King.

  “There was no bloody need to cut me!”

  “Teach you to talk with a knife at your throat.” He stared at the minuscule cut and laughed. “Don’t worry, you’ll live.”

  13

  Charles Bryant sipped from his chilled glass of gin and tonic, purely to steady his sudden, unexpected bout of nerves. He replaced the glass on the mirrored table, catching a brief glimpse of his own reflection as he turned towards his companion. The sight had troubled him. If he could see the worry in his face, then surely Junus Kutu would see it also.

  Kutu stared impassively at his companion and casually sipped from his cold bottle of Bintang. He had consumed quite a few beers throughout the evening and was now resorting to take slow and shallow sips. “What is the problem, my friend?”

  Bryant leaned forwards, resisting the sudden temptation to glance at his own reflection a second time. “What the Hell do you think? You are talking about assassinating a prominent General, a potential political leader!”

  “Exactly! Believe me, my friend if General Madi Soto becomes leader of this nation, then your business interests here are finished.” The little Indonesian looked icily at the Englishman and shook his head despondently. “That is your fate. Now, do you want to hear mine? For myself, and a great many people like me, our business interests will be dead in the water. You can trade elsewhere, you have other interests. Mine have remained exclusively to the country that I love. I have some interests in Malaysia, but not even ten percent of my business in real terms. If Soto challenges this coalition government and wins, which I think will be the case, then he will grant China a monopoly on Indonesia’s external business. All of her mineral contracts, certainly all of her defense contracts and most probably all of her other growth industries.”

  Bryant shook his head. “Come on Junus, you must be exaggerating! China is opening herself up, spreading her legs for the rest of the world to take a fuck. Look at the transition of Hong Kong. The take-over went smoothly. And now look at China’s footing on the industrial world stage. They couldn’t overstep the mark, if the rest of the world sanctioned China, who would they sell to?”

  “They still have the worst human rights record. And countries would be too scared to sanction her. Which is exactly what they know to be true. The world cannot function without
China. And if you turned on her, you couldn’t possibly win. Did you know they have more personnel in their military, both serving and on call-up notice than there are American and British people put together?” Kutu looked at Bryant expectantly, but the man said nothing. “You mention Hong Kong. There are practically no westerners left in corporate positions anymore. China appears to be breaking down her barriers, but she is far removed from her Russian cousins. The Soviet Union broke down the barriers, and has been in trouble ever since. Nothing but poverty or billionaires. Now they want their countries back. Look at the Ukraine. China is slowly opening the barriers, to become stronger. Beijing knew that she could not grow in strength behind closed doors. They took a different route, but they’re the same bastards as they always were.”

  Bryant shrugged benignly. “Fair enough. But what you are saying about assassinating Soto is ludicrous! Why should such a task be left to people like you and me? Why are you even suggesting it?”

  “Because, my friend, you seem to think that somebody else will do it. Do you know that in every major catastrophe that mankind has ever known, somebody has always thought that somebody else would deal with it? Think about it,” he paused, the seriousness in his face almost disturbing in its intensity. “The Indonesian government is weak. The leader is merely another Suharto glove puppet threaded neatly in by Golkar, yet lacks the man’s distinctive qualities of leadership. The government is terrified that if they put together a plan to remove Soto, then Soto will hear of it and counter their move with the full support of the military. They know that the people are ready for change, maybe even an extreme change. A full one hundred and eighty degrees. If somebody does not take extreme action, then Indonesia will soon be merely a name, directly answerable to Beijing.”

  “Then what can I do?” Bryant looked at the Indonesian and frowned. “What do you want from me?”

  “Just your support, for now. Just the knowledge that you would be behind me and represent Indonesia’s best interests,” he paused, slowly picking up his beer. “You are well connected my friend. You know people outside this country, as I do not. At a later date, that may prove invaluable.”

  “What do you mean?” Bryant stared at him warily.

  Kutu smiled. “My friend, I think that I have indulged quite enough for one night.” He looked at the diamond-encrusted Cartier on his wrist, then glanced casually back at his companion. “It is getting late. I think it would probably be for the better if we talked tomorrow. Shall we say, midday at my house? We could have lunch by the pool.”

  Bryant picked up his glass and drank the last remnants of his gin and tonic surprised at the abrupt end to their meeting. It was as if the cunning little Indonesian wanted to leave him hanging. He replaced the empty glass on the table and smiled at Junus Kutu, deciding to play along. “Sure. I have some business to attend to first thing, but I shouldn’t be much after twelve, say... twelve thirty?”

  Junus Kutu left through the automatic glass doors of The Emperor and the thick wave of heat engulfed him as his foot touched the first of the marble steps. He smiled for a second, thinking of Bryant’s imminent discomfort when he would walk out into the night after he had finished his newly ordered drink.

  He walked tentatively down the slippery-looking steps, then stepped onto the uneven pavement, dodging the hordes of pedestrians and street traders who hustled their way to and fro, attempting to sell cheap Chinese made wares and tourist souvenirs.

  Kutu looked around for a taxi then grinned with relief when he noticed a blue Toyota crawling by the roadside with a brightly illuminated taxi light on its roof. He made a dash for it waving frantically, knowing full well the difficulty in finding a vehicle at nearly two in the morning. To his relief, the taxi slowed to a halt and waited beside the pavement with its engine idling. He knew the firm. It was a good one he could trust. Kutu stepped forwards, opened the rear door and flopped exhausted and weary into the back seat.

  He did not notice the slightly built Indonesian man watching him from across the street. The man was wraith thin and wore cut-off jeans as shorts and a torn vest. He ran a hand through a thick mane of long, greasy hair then dropped his cigarette stub to the pavement and ground it under the sole of his thin bottomed sandal. He smoothed his thumb and fore finger nervously over his wispy moustache and then swung a leg back over the saddle of his motor scooter and kick started the engine.

  He waited for a moment, allowing the taxi to enter the steady stream of traffic, then slowly drove the scooter off of the pavement and followed the taxi from a discreet distance.

  14

  The hood blinded not only his vision but the rest of his senses. He remembered reading somewhere that the remaining four primary senses are accentuated by the loss of another, but this case seemed altogether different.

  He felt the weight of the man’s heavy boot resting against his left kidney. He had taken a severe beating less than an hour ago and the pain had not yet subsided. His only fear lay in the uncomfortable knowledge that there was almost certainly more to come.

  The exhaust fumes seeped through the truck’s wooden floorboards, making him nauseous close to the point of vomiting. He tried to turn onto his stomach to relieve himself of the toxins but instantly felt a sharp pain against the side of his knee as the guard delivered yet another blow, forcing him to cry out in protest.

  “Abdul!” the woman cried out in response to her husband’s shout.

  The second guard kicked out, from where he sat on the truck’s bench seat, catching the woman in the face. She screamed, then lay still, sobbing, her face pressed against the solid wooden floor.

  Abdul Tembarak grit his teeth in frustration. Calling out her name would only give the guards another excuse to administer further punishment. He thought of her, spread against the floor of the truck, with no protection from the bumpy road, her limbs tightly bound together, the hood pulled over her face, fastened around her neck with plastic duct tape. He could hear her struggling to breathe through the thick fabric, the heat was intolerable and the air in the fume-filled vehicle felt so thick, he could almost feel it pressing against his flesh. He felt the urge to call to her, to calm her, to let her know that everything would be all right. Only he couldn’t. He couldn’t lie to her anymore. Her innocence would be her undoing. She knew nothing, how could she tell them what they wanted to hear?

  The truck slowed dramatically, its engine straining as the inexperienced driver dropped through the gears too quickly. Abdul felt himself slide slowly along the wooden floor, until he encountered his wife’s legs, then blinked a tear, knowing that this would be the last time he would ever touch her.

  The truck swung in a tight arc, stopped suddenly, then shuddered backwards, as the driver attempted to reverse in a straight line. After several attempts, the driver switched off the engine and started to shout instructions to the other soldiers.

  Abdul heard the heavy wooden tailgate drop, then felt somebody catch hold of his ankles. He knew where he had arrived, knew the fearsome reputation of the Yogyakarta Military Installation and Intelligence Centre.

  With a sudden, overwhelming disregard for his own safety, he took his last chance to speak to his young wife, the mother of their baby son. “I love you, my darling! I always will!”

  “Abdul! Abdul! Where are they taking us?” She sobbed uncontrollably, then cried out as the guard kicked her again.

  He heard the guards laughing as he was pulled out of the truck and dropped heavily onto the gravel. He knew what was in store for his wife, what they would do to her before the morning came. His mind started to fill with the graphic visions, the crystal clear images, as recounted to him and many others, by those who had been fortunate enough to leave.

  Abdul Tembarak started to sob for his wife, knowing that the gentle, sheltered life which she had lived up to this point, would be no preparation for the night which lay ahead.

  15

  Stewart paced over to the lounge window and stared out at the fields beyond the fr
ont garden. There were no other houses for as far as he could see, only patches of woodland and row after row of hedges crisscrossing the fields like the stitching on a patchwork quilt, until they met the sea beyond. He walked into the kitchen and peered through the tiny window. The view was much the same, apart from two similar cottages that were visible approximately half a mile away.

  “See anything of interest?”

  Stewart flinched visibly; he had been convinced King was still upstairs packing a travel bag. He turned around, somewhat irked by the way the man had entered the room so silently. “No, just nosing about. Not many neighbours to disturb you,” he commented.

  King nodded. “It’s nice and quiet, that’s what I like about it,” he paused, glancing out of the window towards the nearest cottage. “But there are more houses nearby than you’d think. Much of Cornwall is like that, there’s no wilderness down here. There’s probably ten houses within a two and a half mile radius.”

  “But no nosy neighbours,” Stewart said, almost enviously.

  “No.”

  “What about girlfriends?”

  King looked at him sharply. “What the Hell do you mean by that?”

  Stewart held up his hands defensively. “Nothing, I was just asking. You haven’t had a relationship since… I was just wondering Alex, it’s been three years…”

  King walked over to the back door and quickly turned the key. “Well, it’s none of your business.” He reached up and slipped the key on top of the door frame, then turned to stare at Stewart. “Do you think it’s easy to meet people or hold down a relationship in this profession? You’ve been there you should know. I’m not ready for all that, haven’t felt I can move on yet…” King paused. Stewart could see the man’s eyes were suddenly glossy, moist. Not cold and hard as they had been earlier. “Jane was MI5. She knew the score, knew the job. Alright, she was a liaison officer and not in my game, but she knew the hours, the commitment and the need for secrecy. That’s why we worked as a couple. How do I start up something with somebody else? How do I explain my absence, my need to take off at a moment’s notice? Besides, it doesn’t seem right…”