by A P Bateman
“Do you know him?” Pryce asked, keeping his eyes on the stretch of road ahead.
Holmwood shook his head. “No. I’d heard of him though, before we started searching for his security blanket, but only the usual canteen gossip. He’s been a bit of a legend, almost a myth within the firm,” he paused, turning towards Pryce as he spoke. “There aren’t many of them left. I don’t know how many, just a handful. It’s all tech now, satellites, airstrikes and Predator Drones. We used to call these guys reapers, but ended up being told not to. Fucking priceless, being told not to call someone something, then being told that people like that didn’t exist in the modern MI6.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Those guys built the bloody service. Nothing like James Bond and all that suave and sophisticated bollocks. These guys were a different deal. They never lasted long, the risks were too great. MI6 has always had agents who work alone, especially during the Cold War. Sometimes they’ve had to kill. We’ve never called them assassins, but everybody knew what they were. But King is a separate entity. He’s used when there’s going to be a killing. Then he’s put back in the box. The thing is, since Al Qaeda and ISIS raised their heads the few men like him have been used a lot,” he paused. “Perhaps too much. They’re prone to burn out, to paranoia, to make mistakes. At the moment he’s an effective tool. He doesn’t spy, he doesn’t inform, he doesn’t process intelligence or run assets. He kills, plain and simple.”
“What happens if he burns out and starts making mistakes?” Pryce asked.
Holmwood stared out of the window across the valley and towards the sea. He remained silent for a moment, then said quietly, “You don’t want to know…”
20
General Soto stood a few feet in front of Tembarak, smiling with a terrifyingly sadistic menace in his eyes. Tembarak knew at that moment that there was madness in there somewhere.
Soto’s immaculately pressed olive uniform was emblazoned with a vast array of military ribbons, as well as the general’s gold insignia on each lapel. Slung low on his right hip he wore a western style cowboy holster which housed non-military issue revolver, nickel-plated and finished with ivory grips, interwoven with thin threads of silver. On his left hip, he wore a large Bowie knife, with equally decorative hilt and handle.
Tembarak looked up at the man, realising that he was even more imposing in person than in the photograph which he had been given at intelligence headquarters in Jakarta. At over six feet tall, General Soto was unusually tall for an Indonesian and weighing at least thirteen stone, he was also extremely powerfully built in comparison to the vast majority of his fellow countrymen.
Soto squatted on his haunches, so that his eyes were at the same level as Tembarak’s, then spoke in a low voice, slow and deliberate, as if addressing a naughty child. “What… is… your… name?”
Tembarak looked away, turning his eyes to the floor. “Tembarak. Abdul Tembarak.”
Soto smiled, then stood up straight. He walked around his prisoner and bent down and picked a large manila envelope off the floor. He opened it, then walked back around into the man’s view. “Well, Abdul Tembarak…” He slid a large colour photograph out of the envelope and looked at it disapprovingly. He turned it around for his captive to see. “What I want to know, is why did you have this photograph of me in your possession? And who are you working for?”
Tembarak stared at the photograph in dismay, realising his grave error in keeping it. No amount of pleading innocence would remove him from this situation, but he would have to play the game for as long as he could. For as long as he held information, he would be kept alive. Long enough for his controller to realise that something had gone terribly wrong? He hoped so…
Soto lashed out suddenly, catching Tembarak across the cheek with the back of his hand. “I asked you a question!” He bent down and caught hold of Tembarak’s ear, wrenching his head violently towards him. “Who are you working for?”
Tembarak’s mind raced, working through the few options open to him, trying to think back to his training for this sort of scenario. But that was exactly what it had been; training. No amount of training could ever have prepared him for this, knowing that his life really was in danger. His overwhelming desire was to plead his wife’s innocence, to tell General Soto that she knew nothing of his work. However, if he jumped straight in with this revelation, Soto would be all too aware of his weak spot. He would have played his hand too soon. What he needed was to buy some time. Enough time to get his head straight and work out his cover story, even if it meant taking a beating. General Soto released his grip on Tembarak’s ear and slapped him hard across the face. “Who are you working for?” he asked quietly, yet with an underlying impatience in his tone. “Believe me, what you feel now is nothing compared with what you will encounter later. If you cooperate now, things can soon be comfortable once more.”
Tembarak knew better than to be sucked in by the sort of promises that are the small change of every interrogator’s stock in trade. The promise of the beatings to stop, the promise of food and water, the promise that things will return to normal - all simple variants on the game of stick-and-carrot. However, if he didn’t give Soto something, it would not be long before the interrogation became much harsher.
General Soto stared down at him and shook his head in dismay. “I was hoping that it would not come to this, I do so hate unnecessary violence.” He reached down to his belt and caught hold of the butt of his revolver. He drew it quickly, western style, with practiced grace. Tembarak stared at the revolver, unsure of Soto’s intentions. Surely death would not come this quickly? His mind raced, as he watched him spin the gun around his index finger by its trigger guard.
“Just like Clint Eastwood, no?” He smiled ruthlessly, then in an instant, he spun the weapon around, caught it by the barrel and brought the butt down across the side of Tembarak’s knee.
Tembarak screamed as never before. He had heard the bone crack upon impact and had to fight an overwhelming desire to vomit. He closed his eyes as he wailed, unable to bring a comforting hand to the wounded limb.
Soto tutted, then shook his head dejectedly. “I was hoping to refrain from this sort of treatment. You are obviously an educated man, you do work in a bank after all. Talk to me. Talk to me, and then you can go home.”
Tembarak grit his teeth together, trying to quell the agonising pain, and the accursed frustration that he could not defend himself. There was only one option left open to him. He decided to stick closely to the accountancy story. With any luck, he would be able to create the impression that he was in fact investigating the MB & C Bank of Indonesia’s Yogyakarta branch and had stumbled across General Soto’s involvement with the bank by pure chance. If he could prove that he truly knew nothing of the general’s business, then perhaps he could protest his wife’s innocence later.
21
Holmwood looked around the kitchen then walked over and opened the fridge. It was empty, apart from an unopened carton of UHT milk and tub of spreadable long life butter, a jar of strawberry jam and a few cans of beer. He closed the door and bent down and opened the small door to the built-in freezer. Neatly stacked packets of rump steaks, each one weighing about a pound, packs of minced beef, loaves of sliced bread, various packets of frozen vegetables, some pizzas stacked all down one side, a few whole chickens and some ready meals. He closed the door, then turned to Pryce as he entered the room.
“Not exactly a gourmet, our friend King. Must live from day to day. Plenty of tins in the cupboard though,” he paused, then shook his head. “This is all wrong, not King’s style. We know about the files in those solicitor’s offices, this would be the last place for him to keep anything confidential.”
Pryce nodded. “I agree, but McCullum wants this place searched, so what else can we do?” he paused and frowned at Holmwood. “What is all this for anyway? Are they going to dispense with King’s services?”
Holmwood stared coldly at him. “Doesn’t pay to ask too many questions in this
job. Sometimes, the less you know, the better.” He turned around and walked out into the lounge. “Right, let’s make a start. You take the downstairs, and I’ll take upstairs. Take pictures of everything first on your phone, so we can put things back in the right place. Don’t make a mistake; a man like King will notice in an instant.”
22
Abdul Tembarak struggled to get his head together, making positive use of his time alone in the cell. He knew from his training that solitude was all part of any successful interrogation, but had not expected to be left alone for what now seemed to be such a considerable length of time. Although he could not be sure of how long it had been since General Soto had left, he suspected that it had been at least four hours, possibly more.
The bright light had been left on, reflecting harshly off the whitewashed walls, which seemed to make it harder for him to concentrate. The tight bindings around his wrists were making his arms ache painfully and cramp starting to nibble threateningly at his calves. He was terribly thirsty as well. But overriding all these discomforts was the agony shooting through his knee. It pulsated and throbbed like nothing he’d known before.
He was trying to work the story out in his mind, but realised that he would have to be careful and remember everything that he had said. The room was certain to be bugged, recording every word spoken by the two men, to be used later, when he was exhausted, confused and unable to remember the lies. He would be asked to repeat all he had said, over and over, until he made a mistake. Then, all he had said would be analyzed and compared to previous statements, as Soto tried to trip him up and trick him into telling the truth.
He had told General Soto his cover story; that he was investigating the bank and randomly auditing its expenditure. He omitted to mention that he had discovered details of both Soto’s official military budgetary and personal accounts, or that he had identified two of his spies. The photograph was the major obstacle. Soto had asked how he had come by it and had administered a fierce beating when Tembarak had hesitated before answering. This however, had worked to the man’s advantage, as he had faked unconsciousness, forcing the General to leave the cell, no doubt to check his explanation.
Tembarak had remained slumped in the chair with his eyes closed for a considerable time, agonising over an explanation for the photograph, but the harder he thought, the more distracted he became, his mind turning back to his wife, and what she might be enduring at the hands of the young, undisciplined soldiers. And his baby. Where was he? Who was looking after him?
Without warning, the heavy steel door of the cell burst open, slamming forcefully against the concrete wall. Tembarak flinched, startled by the violent intrusion. He shivered, knowing that whoever had entered the cell was now standing directly behind him.
“You are a liar!” Soto shouted accusingly at the back of Tembarak’s head. “I have checked up on your story and MB & C International have never heard of you!”
Tembarak’s mind raced. His ‘legend’ had been inserted into the company’s records over three months ago and extended back for two years. Any routine check into the company’s employment files would find Abdul Tembarak’s details alongside the real personnel data. Besides, who could Soto have checked with at this hour? Although he had lost track of time, Tembarak knew that it could not yet be eight o’clock, the opening time of the main office in Jakarta. No, Soto was tricking him, trying to trap him into an admission. He would have to remain adamant, but ever careful not to antagonise him into further acts of torture. “I am not a liar,” Tembarak protested. “I have worked with MB & C International for two years, as a freelance. I was posted to the MB & C Bank of Yogyakarta just over a month ago.”
General Soto walked around to face Tembarak, and stared coldly into the man’s frightened eyes. “I know when you came to Yogyakarta and I know what you have been doing ever since you arrived,” he paused, then nodded over Tembarak’s head, at a second man who had just entered the cell, accompanied by the sound of something being wheeled, screeching wheels in need of oil.
He looked back at Tembarak, then shook his head dejectedly. “Unfortunately, you do not seem to be cooperating with me, so I will leave you in the capable hands of Sergeant Grogol. He is a master of his profession, having served most of his time in East Timor, extracting confessions from the radical Fretilin revolutionaries.”
Tembarak made to turn his head, but thought better of it. He looked up at Soto and shook his head pleadingly. “Please! I am telling the truth, I am an accountant, I work for MB & C International!”
General Soto smiled, and turned to the stocky man behind Tembarak. “Sergeant Grogol, I have some business to attend to elsewhere which shouldn’t take me more than a few hours, kindly make sure that our new friend here is telling the truth upon my return.”
23
Sergeant Grogol was short, with a prominent belly which strained over a pair of tight trousers, and an even tighter belt. From the straining belt hung a canvass holster, containing a worn Browning pistol, complete with officer’s lanyard ring and cord, which he wore wrapped around his neck. It was clear that Sergeant Grogol did not intend to lose his trusty weapon.
Grogol smiled down at Tembarak, then turned to the trolley, which he had earlier wheeled into the room and taken great care in positioning to the right, and slightly in front of Tembarak’s feet. He arranged the tools of his profession neatly on the wooden trolley, then turned to the two guards who had accompanied him into the cell, with an abruptly shouted order.
“Strip him!” He watched the two soldiers grab hold of his prisoner, then shook his head in frustration. “No! Don’t untie him! Here...” He reached down onto the trolley and picked up a pair of surgical scissors, then held it out in front of him. “Take these and cut the clothes off him. And be careful not to cut the flesh.” He stared at Tembarak and smiled sadistically. “That’s my job…”
Tembarak tried to struggle, but it was useless. He was in great pain from his knee and he felt as if he had lost the use of his limbs; sitting bound tightly for so long had cut off the circulation, giving him acute cramps whenever he attempted to move.
Grogol chuckled as he watched the guards cut away lengths of fabric and discard the pieces to the floor. Before long, Tembarak was naked, breathing heavily and sweating profusely.
“Good, good,” Grogol paused, looking at both of the soldiers. “Now, hold him still and don’t let go.”
Tembarak struggled frantically as the two guards caught hold of him and attempted to restrain him. He tried to stand, but his knee buckled under the weight and he cried out in pain. Grogol laughed raucously, then glared at the two soldiers as they struggled to hold him still. “Keep him still!” Without warning, he kicked out, catching Tembarak’s kneecap with the side of his heavy boot. Abdul felt the knee give way, forcing him back into the wooden chair. His head swam and he could not even bring himself to scream, only panted for breath as the fiery pain surrounded his knee, then slowly subsided, ebbing away leaving him nauseous and feeling sick. Both soldiers caught hold of him and held him tightly, as they fearfully watched their master.
Sergeant Grogol nodded his appreciation, then reached over to the trolley and picked up the first implement of torture and waved it slowly in front of Tembarak’s face. It was a long, needle-like tool, with a rubber grip.
“This is the first of many tools that you will become aquatinted with as time goes by. Its uses are many, but today we will be using it for probing,” he paused, and gently touched the tip of the needle with his finger. He then turned his finger towards Tembarak and smiled, as a trickle of blood ran down the side and across the back of his hand. “As you can see, it is sharp and requires very little pressure to insert.”
Tembarak flinched, shaking his head despairingly. “You’re sick! I have already told General Soto who I am and what I am doing in Yogyakarta!”
Grogol smiled. “Well, then I think we shall start with the basics and work our way upwards.” He turned the implement over betwee
n his fingers, then tapped the edge of the needle impatiently against his knuckles. “How do you know that the man who first questioned you is General Soto?”
24
Sergeant Grogol turned to the smaller of the two soldiers and nodded towards the cell door. “Get some water! Hurry!” He waited for the man to scurry off then bent down and lifted Tembarak’s eyelid with his thumb. He stood back and shook his head in mock compassion while he waited impatiently for the soldier to return. He had not expected his prisoner to pass out so quickly, having experienced so little of his repertoire. He stepped back, tapping his foot impatiently on the concrete floor as he waited through the unexpected interval.
The soldier returned, barging hastily through the doorway, not wishing to keep his master waiting. He hurried over to Grogol and handed him the two litre plastic bottle, apologetic to have held up the process, even so briefly. Grogol snatched the bottle, then caught Tembarak by the hair and pulled his head savagely forward. He poured some of the water onto the nape of the man’s neck, then pushed his head back and splashed a little into his face.
Tembarak slowly regained consciousness and looked drowsily up at his interrogator, who was grinning once more. Sergeant Grogol looked down at the needle-like instrument, which was embedded deep into Tembarak’s damaged knee. He raised an eyebrow expectantly at his prisoner, then cocked his head to one side, as if to emphasize his growing impatience.
