by A P Bateman
Abdul Tembarak stared down at the handle of the instrument, and the patch of blood around his knee. He could feel the metal in the cartilage, and the burning sensation around the area, but suddenly became acutely aware of the loss of feeling in the lower part of his leg.
“I will ask you the question again,” Grogol paused, as he bent down and gently caught hold of the instrument’s handle. “What were you doing with the photograph of General Soto?”
Tembarak’s mind raced. He knew that he would feel the excruciating pain again unless he gave the man an answer, but the more he tried to think, the more he could only imagine the pain which lay ahead. He looked pleadingly into Grogol’s evil, piercing eyes and shook his head profusely. “Please! I have already told you, I can’t remember!”
Grogol twisted the instrument, then swept it around in a full circle, probing at the damaged cartilage and scraping the needle’s point around the bone. Tembarak screamed a desperate wail, then an urge to vomit too strong to overcome. He retched down into his naked lap, then fought hard not to choke as he struggled to get air back into his aching lungs.
Sergeant Grogol released his grip on the instrument and stepped backwards, his expression twisted in disgust, as he watched the vomit drip from Tembarak’s lap and then to the pristine whitewashed floor. He stared coldly at his prisoner, then smiled menacingly.
“Abdul Tembarak, you are not helping yourself. There will come a time when you will not be able to withstand any more pain. It comes to everyone, sooner or later.” He stepped forwards and grabbed the instrument once more, forcing Tembarak to suck in deeply and tense in anticipation of the inevitable pain. Grogol smiled, and merely pulled the instrument effortlessly from the man’s leg. He studied the tip of the needle, which appeared to have bent slightly against the bone. He returned it to the trolley, before staring back at his captive.
“You will talk before long, even the toughest men weep in my company. You may call it a gift, but I have the ability to realise when I have taken things too far. I rein back, only to continue later. Nobody ever dies before they have told me everything.” He watched the man’s stubborn pout, his tough jaw-line and hard eyes, then nodded in realisation. “You are an agent. A spy for this weak and decadent government.” Tembarak shook his head, but Grogol held up his hand to silence him. “Other men cry. They beg. And then tell me all that they know. You are different, you have clearly received training.” He stepped back and rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his thumb and forefinger. “But, the question is; how much does your pretty young wife know?”
Tembarak tensed, all too visibly, at the mention of his wife. He looked up defiantly at his captor, and shook his head. “She knows nothing!” he protested vehemently. “She can’t tell you anything!”
“Maybe not,” Grogol grinned sadistically. “But we shall see just how much pain I can inflict upon her, before you start to talk.” He turned to the shorter of the two soldiers and grinned triumphantly. “Private! Bring the woman to me!” He watched the young soldier hurry out of the cell, then rested his back against the wall and smiled benignly down at Tembarak. “He will not be long, the guards should have finished amusing themselves with her by now.”
25
Holmwood sifted through the pile of paperwork, methodically placing each document face down on the bed, noting the exact order in which he had checked them. He looked up as Pryce entered the room, but could instantly tell by the man’s expression that he had found nothing of great worth.
“Any luck?” Pryce asked, as he perched on the foot of the bed.
Holmwood chuckled sardonically, then placed another household bill on the pile and picked up the next document. “You must be joking! King is far too cagey,” he paused, then nodded towards the chest of drawers near the door. “You can have a look through there if you’ve nothing better to do.”
Pryce sighed dejectedly, then walked over to the pine unit and eased the top drawer open. He studied the array of clutter, then patiently picked his way through, making certain to leave nothing out of place. The two men used the cameras on their smartphones to record everything they touched. Every detail could be recreated before they left.
“Anything?” Holmwood asked, as he carefully replaced the pile of documents in the empty drawer.
“Nothing. Just a few photographs and some letters.” He studied the piece of paper in front of him, then smiled.
“What is it? Have you got something?” Holmwood stood up excitedly and made towards him.
“Check this out…” Pryce grinned, then put on a face of exaggerated sadness. “My darling Alex, by the time you read this, I will be gone. I am so sorry that I had to leave you this way, but...”
“Put it down!” Holmwood snapped irately. “For Christ’s sake!”
Pryce stared at him, dumbfounded. “What’s your problem? I was only having a laugh! It’s just a Dear John letter…”
“Have some damned respect! We are looking for part of his security blanket, not the poor bastard’s personal letters!” Holmwood stared at him coldly and pointed towards the drawer. “Just put it back and get on with the search.”
Pryce folded the letter, then returned it to the drawer. “I don’t know what your problem is, it’s not like you know the guy.”
Holmwood caught hold of him by his collar and pushed him back against the chest of drawers. “I think
it was a letter from his wife. Just before she died… She had ovarian cancer. They lost a child because of it. She wasn’t alright, couldn’t cope with losing the child and being terminally ill. Blamed herself for the child’s death. She took a massive overdose…” He released his grip on his colleague and shook his head. “Sorry… You weren’t to know, Stewart filled me in, gave me some background on the guy. Look, doesn’t this piss you off just a little? For God’s sake, all this guy has done for the past fifteen years or so is serve his fucking country! All he has done is kill people without questioning the motive, so that complete bastards like Donald McCullum and Martin Andrews can take the credit for resolving the situation and further their careers!” he paused, sitting down on a nearby leather chair, worn and doubling as a clothes horse. “Jesus! The thought of somebody going through my things just sickens me. I’ve done some dodgy things for the firm. What if they decide that they don’t want me any longer?”
Pryce straightened his collar, then looked at him bitterly. “It’s not as if you’ve killed anyone is it?” he stated flatly. “What reason would you have for keeping a security blanket?”
“Jesus, Richard!” Holmwood stared at him in disbelief. “I’ve set up arms deals with the IRA, I’ve robbed banks in Belfast and made it look like terrorist fund-raising, just to give the SAS the green light to go hunting. I’ve even spread disinformation to engineer stock market panics and bankrupt innocent companies just so terrorist funds get lost in investments,” he paused, shaking his head despondently. “I’ve helped plant evidence so the police can make a charge stick. I robbed a diamond exchange to flush out terrorist moneymen… And all in my country’s best interest. And do you know who orders me to do these things? The same people in the same meetings who order King to kill, that’s who.”
26
“They left the bar and walked through the streets. I followed them from a distance, just like you told me to,” he paused, taking a packet of cigarettes from the hip pocket of his faded jean shorts. “They stopped at a food stall, then sat down and ate. They were there for about twenty minutes.” He opened the packet, extracted one and slipped it between his thick lips, then reached into his back pocket and pulled out a cheap, plastic lighter.
“My dear friend, you are quite mistaken if you think that I shall permit your filthy habit in my office,” the effeminate-looking Indonesian stared at him coldly, then adjusted his silk necktie, more out of habit than from necessity. “Just continue your report… Where did Junus Kutu take the man after they had finished eating?”
The scrawny Javanese stared at the lighter, then sl
ipped it back into his pocket, but kept the unlit cigarette between his lips, in a vain gesture towards saving face. “They went to The Emperor.”
“And?” the man prompted.
The Javanese swept a hand through his mane of unkempt hair with a shrug. “I couldn't get in, there is a strict dress code… But I did manage to follow Kutu back to his house.”
The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully then smiled at the scruffy-looking Javanese. “So who was the mystery man with whom Junus Kutu met?”
The little Javanese shrugged and shook his head. “I… I don’t know. I stayed with Kutu…”
The man sighed tiresomely and steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on the leather-bound desk. “A little pointless, one might say. You already know where Junus Kutu lives… don’t you think that it would have been more beneficial to follow this new addition to the equation? Surely anyone Kutu is meeting must be considered a potential threat?” he paused and took a small brown envelope out from the inside pocket of his tailored jacket, then set it down on the desk in front of him. He tapped the envelope thoughtfully and smiled. “You know what this is, don’t you?”
The scruffy little man stared longingly at the envelope and grinned. He knew what it contained, he also knew how long it would have taken him to earn selling tacky gifts to the tourists, or giving them short lifts through the busy streets on the back of his motor scooter. He held out his hand expectantly, then hesitated as the man in the tailored suit kept his hand on top of the packet.
“This is a great deal of money to you, no?” He waited until the man in front of him nodded eagerly, before he continued. “When you have found out who Junus Kutu’s mystery appointment was, you shall receive the payment, as agreed.” He held up his hand and silenced the little Indonesian as he started to protest. “Be aware I do not tolerate insubordination. As I said, when I know who Kutu was meeting with, you shall receive this. Now, be sure to shut the door behind you on your way out…”
27
Abdul Tembarak heard the cell door open, but forced himself to resist the temptation to turn his head. He knew by now that to do so would undoubtedly bring further punishment.
The two tough-looking soldiers wheeled the hospital style bed in front of him, then applied the brakes and stood back, as Sergeant Grogol walked eagerly over and inspected the bed’s position. He looked up at the two men and grinned sadistically.
“Yes, that is good, thank you.” He turned around and looked towards the door of the cell, then smiled excitedly, as another two soldiers roughly manhandled the woman through the doorway and dragged her towards the bed. “Ah! This is good, she still has some fight left in her!”
Tembarak turned his head and watched in horror as the two men dragged his naked wife through the cell then pushed her down onto the metal framed bed. All she wore was a thick canvass hood, similar to those they had both worn in the truck.
Sergeant Grogol hurried over to the bed and shouted instructions to the two men, ordering them where to position the woman’s limbs, as he untangled the thick webbing straps from the rails of the bed. Tembarak bowed his head, as his wife fought frantically with the two men, lashing her legs out and flailing her arms wildly.
Grogol reached through the barrage of limbs and grabbed the woman by the throat, digging his fingers under her windpipe. He pressed down steadily, with what appeared to be all his weight, and the woman’s frantic fight ceased instantly. Grogol continued to press for another five or six seconds, until the woman lost consciousness. He turned to the two grinning soldiers and nodded towards the webbing straps. “Restrain her and make sure that there’s no slack in the bindings.”
The two soldiers did as they were ordered, and bound her arms tightly, first at the loops, which fastened around her elbows, and then at the wrists, which pulled her arms firmly back against the bed. Next, they pulled her legs apart and fastened her ankles and knees to the side-rail, which ran along the entire length of the bed. Abdul could not bring himself to watch as the two young soldiers leered at one another like randy adolescents and gestured obscenely at his wife’s crotch and her open nakedness. He stared to the floor and started to sob. He knew that it was over, these monsters had broken his resolve so quickly, far sooner than he would have ever thought possible. All he could do now was comply with Grogol’s questioning and tell the man everything. He had watched the two of them manhandle his wife and had been sickened. He knew that it would have been easier for them to wheel the bed into the cell with his wife already strapped in place, but that would not have had the same effect on him. To observe the degrading scene, to feel for his wife’s violation and to be enraged that other men should see her naked, as only he should, was all part of Grogol’s sadistically sickening formula, one which he was sure the man had taken great time and thought, as well as pleasure, to perfect.
“I take it that I have your undivided attention now?” Sergeant Grogol smiled, staring down at him impatiently. He nodded towards the woman, who was coming round and groaning. “Think carefully before you answer my questions.”
“Abdul?” she called out meekly, embarrassed at the thought of her husband seeing her in this undignified state. “Are you there? Why are they doing this?” she sobbed.
Tembarak hung his head and looked up tearfully at the stocky Indonesian. “Please, I will tell you anything you wish to know, just let my wife go.”
“Abdul, why are they doing this?” She wept, as she struggled feebly against the thick webbing straps. “Abdul?”
Grogol laughed heartily, then shook his head in mock compassion. He walked over to the woman, and savagely wrenched the hood from her head. She raised her head, and stared desperately towards her husband. “Abdul!”
Tembarak’s eyes watered, as he looked back at her and shook his head sorrowfully. “I am so sorry, my darling I never meant for you to get hurt…”
“That’s enough!” Grogol snapped. He looked down at the woman and sneered. “My dear, your husband does not appear to have told you everything about himself,” he paused and reached down, letting his hand rest gently on her right breast. He left it there. She struggled momentarily, then submitted as she looked into his cold, cruel eyes. Grogol squeezed the woman’s soft breast and looked back at Tembarak. He smiled as he watched the burning, impotent hatred in the man’s eyes. “Allow me to fill the gaps,” he looked back at her. “Your husband is a spy. A government spy, who has been looking into business of no concern of his.”
She looked away from Grogol, towards her husband, shaking her head disbelievingly. “No! He is an accountant, he has been working for a bank!”
Grogol laughed raucously, then let his hand wonder over to her other breast. She tensed, then caught the man’s terrifying expression once again, and conceded to him. He looked down at her, his head cocked to one side. He let his finger circle her nipple as he spoke. “What is wrong, my dear? Do you not like to be touched?”
“Only by my husband!” she spat at him contemptuously.
Grogol chuckled, then moved his hand slowly across her belly and down to her inner thigh. She tried to close her legs but the straps held her firm. She shuddered as his fingers moved steadily upwards, then stopped just short of her tiny mound of pubic hair. He looked at her and smiled, turned towards Tembarak and cocked his head to one side. “Shall I call in the guards yet?”
28
The house seemed well protected. A three metre boundary wall separated most of the property from the main highway, and to the east a wire mesh fence divided the beautifully kept gardens from the acres of rice paddy spreading to the horizon without impeding the view.
The house itself was of colonial Dutch construction, though much of it drew from other European influences, more in keeping with mainland Spain than Indonesia. The building’s plan was a giant L, high up on a manmade hillock, laid out in a series of terraced gardens and patios, which led down over a drop of some thirty feet, to the large patio and pool area at the bottom. Beyond that lay a vast expanse of g
ardens laid out to lawn, incorporating a small putting green as its central feature.
The man moved further through the overgrown brush, carefully studying the ground, ever watchful for any of Indonesia’s many varieties of venomous snakes. With similar care, he cautiously pushed the low-hanging branches aside, knowing that they were the favorite retreats of the country’s even wider variety of poisonous spiders.
As he pushed himself through a curtain of overgrown foliage, he stopped and peered through the canopy, then crouched down on the dusty ground, satisfied that he had found the perfect vantage point. The area of thick brush lay midway between the grassed verge of the highway and the endless expanse of rice paddies, spreading as far as the eye could see, each tiny plot of rice at a different stage of growth and separated from the next by tiny earthen walls.
From there he kept watch on the house, which lay approximately one hundred and fifty metres from the high wire fence. He was not sure if the fence was electrified, although he was certain that it was more of a visual deterrent than anything else. However, he could see that the high wall to his right was generously topped with broken glass securely cemented in place. This simple, yet effective method ever popular in Indonesia could prove almost impossible to breach and he knew a great many would be thieves who had fallen foul of such a security system.
The man glanced at his cheap wristwatch, a poor imitation of an Omega diver’s watch and cursed aloud. It was only just midday, the sun was at its highest and would remain at its hottest for another three hours. He had ignored the necessity of bringing water with him and had no idea just how long his vigil might take. He had no choice but to observe Junus Kutu and hope that it would not be long before he met with the mystery Westerner again. He knew that he had made a mistake in following Kutu from the Emperor and would not receive his fee until he could put a name to the westerner’s face.
