The Contract Man

by A P Bateman

  ***

  Junus Kutu stepped through the double sliding doors to the edge of the narrow terracotta patio. He stood for a second or two, his fists resting firmly against his hips as he surveyed the gardens in front of him.“Not bad for a fisherman’s son from Surabaya,” he mused quietly to himself. In fact, it had become his daily ritual. Every day, when he stepped outside for the first time, he would contemplate his property and reflect on what he had achieved, then acknowledge that achievement. It had been his father’s parting advice. The old man had been proud of his son’s determination to break away from the family’s time long tradition of shrimp fishing. Since his early childhood, Junus Kutu had admired the few businessmen of Surabaya and had always said that he would be just like them, only more successful. His father had laughed at the time, but had given him what guidance he could, and had explained the need for a formal education. With much favoritism towards his youngest son, the only one of his offspring to show any ambition outside of fishing and shrimping, his father had sold much of the family’s possessions to finance Junus’ college education in Jakarta. His only wish, was that Junus appreciate all he achieved, and help the family out financially once he became a successful businessman. To date, Junus Kutu had kept his word.

  He walked out onto the terracotta path, then followed it downwards, as it meandered through the crop of baby palms to the first terrace, where the winding stone steps led down to the kidney shaped pool and patio below. The steps were cut into the tiny hillock, with beds of flowers and exotic plants to either side. Junus did not know what the majority of the plants were called, nor did he care. All he knew, was that Adu, his hard working gardener had chosen them for their beauty, their compatibility with other plants and contribution to the soil, and he was happy with that. While Adu worked hard tending the gardens, cleaning the swimming pool, performing general maintenance and expelling snakes from the property, his wife Marie worked in the house as a cook and house maid. The couple had been in Junus’ employ for nearly ten years and shared the small annex to the rear of the building.

  ***

  The man remained crouched, resting on his haunches as he watched Junus Kutu walk across the patio and past his swimming pool towards the pool house, which lay just out of sight behind the large stone wall. He cursed as he lost sight of Kutu, and rose to his feet. Still he could not see and decided to move further to his left for a better view. He swept the branches aside, ever watchful for spiders and looked back at the property once he reached a small clearing. He wiped the heavy perspiration from his brow then squinted against the sun, as he caught sight of Kutu, who was walking directly towards him. He was carrying something in his right hand. The man strained his eyes as he tried to fathom out what the object was. It glistened against the sun, as Kutu turned it over in his hand. The man’s heartbeat raced. Was it a gun? Surely Kutu could not have caught sight of him at this distance? He tensed, as Kutu continued to march purposefully towards him. He was only eighty metres or so away from him when the man suddenly realised what it was that he was carrying. Although there was nobody to witness his mistake, he felt foolish all the same. He eased back from the edge of the foliage slightly and continued to watch, as Junus Kutu dropped four golf balls onto the neatly mown green, then lined the putter up with the golf ball and the cup.

  ***

  Junus Kutu had only recently taken up golf, for in his mind, any sport where you only walked and never broke into a run, let alone a sweat, was inappropriately described. Nevertheless, he knew that golf was, and always had been, a good way to meet new business contacts or discuss business matters with clients, who might be caught off guard in the more sociable, relaxed atmosphere. Having decided to partake of this wonderful business aid he had approached the task with his usual commitment. He had engaged Java’s leading golf course contractors to set up a first class putting green, complete with easy approaches to the pin, as well as the more difficult, left to right to left, with a large degree of break. Kutu now had a green with one of the easiest possible putts, through to probably one of the most difficult and demanding in the world, with a large variety in between. Nor did practice end there; Kutu paid a highly revered golf professional from a nearby course to visit him twice a week for a variety of practice, from chipping onto the green, through to distance driving, far into the rice paddies beyond. The paddy workers would return his ‘lost’ balls for five hundred rupiahs each. It was Kutu’s strategy, not to set foot on a golf course until he was well above average in all the game’s disciplines.

  He stepped up to the ball, lined the putter up with the hole, took a step back, then placed both feet reasonably close together, just as he had been taught. Keeping his back straight, he bent his knees then took the weight of the club in both hands and realigned the club with the ball. Taking great care not to catch the back of the club on the ground, he smoothly brought the club backwards, then let it swing gently forwards like a pendulum, albeit guided with a little force. The face of the putter clipped the ball gently, and it sped rapidly towards the hole. It arched around to the left and came to rest three inches short and to the right.

  “Not enough juice!”

  Kutu turned suddenly to see Charles Bryant jog down the last few steps. He raised his hand in a welcoming gesture and cursed under his breath, annoyed that the man had seen him in practice. He knew that Bryant was an avid golfer and spent a great deal of time at Gleneagles and St Andrews when he was overseeing work in his Scottish office.

  “A little bit more, and you would have slipped over that left to right break, and ended up right in the old girl’s crotch!” Bryant stepped up onto the putting green and kicked one of the balls gently into the position from where Kutu’s ball had started. “Do you mind?” he asked, holding out his hand for the putter. Kutu bit his lip, as he passed the club to Bryant, who scrutinized the instrument expertly. “Not a bad piece of kit, I use Mizuno myself. Graphite shaft, with titanium head, works like a dream.” He stepped up to the ball, placed the head of the putter an inch away, and gently tapped it as he spoke. “See, with a little more power …” He watched, as the ball rolled towards the hole and dropped straight into the metal lined cup. “...the ball should go in!”

  Kutu nodded politely, hiding his chagrin, as he walked towards the patio, turning around to observe Bryant setting up for another putt. “Come, let us have a drink.” He turned round, just as the man took his putt, knowing full well that the best way to foil a show off is to ignore him. Nevertheless, as he stepped up onto the patio, he heard the hollow sound of the ball meeting with the inside of the hole, and groaned inwardly.

  ***

  The man had rubbed his eyes, unable to believe what he had just seen. Prepared for a long wait and inured to the prospect of never seeing the Westerner again, which would lose all hope of regaining his fee, he could never remember such joy as he felt now, seeing the tall white man walk down the steps to the paved patio. He knew that to watch them now would be pointless, for there was no way that he could tell what they were talking about. Even if he had brought along his Father’s old binoculars with him, he knew that he would not be able to lip-read the two men. Such skills were only known to the highly trained, or every Hollywood hero.

  Watching carefully for snakes or scurrying scorpions, he moved from his position and made his way back towards the highway, where he would wait on his motor scooter for the Westerner to leave.

  ***

  “You’re early.” Junus Kutu checked his watch and looked back at Bryant. “I didn't hear you arrive.”

  Bryant smiled, as he looked around the patio for a suitable seat. “You wouldn’t!” He pulled a bamboo sun lounger out from the wall, then perched himself comfortably. “It’s my new car, silent as the grave.”

  Kutu looked at him, and knew that he was expected to ask, even though he knew nothing about cars. “What is it?”

  “A BMW i8.” Bryant smiled proudly. “It’s a fantastic sports car with Porsche performance but electric motors a
nd a really economical engine. Run the electric and engine together and it is lightening quick. Keep to just electric and it’s virtually silent. Got to be seen to embracing environmental innovation in this job these days, doesn’t hurt for it to be seen outside the oil offices. Mind you, I must be mad to drive one here, the way half the population drive,” he paused, smiled and added. “The other half aren’t much better either!”

  Kutu smiled politely, knowing that Bryant could not help being so insulting, it was just that the man was so self-consumed, he never thought before he spoke. He looked at his watch again, then nodded towards the house. “Shall we have that drink, then?”

  Bryant laughed out loud. “All taken care of. That tasty wench you keep up there is already fixing us a couple of Martinis. I told her how to make them, plenty of dry Vermouth, a little gin, and a good splash of Vodka. Shame you haven’t got any proper Vodka, but anything tastes good in this heat,” he paused, suddenly aware of his host’s change of expression. “You don’t mind me telling the help what to do, do you? After all, it’s no good keeping a dog and barking yourself…”

  29

  “Stop! Please!” Abdul Tembarak struggled against his bindings in a hopeless bid to break free. He fell back against the chair, exhausted and in great pain from his injured knee. “Please, I’m begging you!”

  Sergeant Grogol laughed, as he watched the young soldier feel the woman’s breasts, then run his hands lower down her naked body. He turned towards Tembarak and shrugged. “They do not get the chance to be with women, not their own kind, anyway. You see, they are Muslim,” he paused. “Myself, I am from a predominantly Christian background. My teachings are very different, possibly more lenient. These boys are from the strictest of Muslim sects, like so many of our recruits. They cannot have sex with the women of their own community until they are married, this is why they experiment with each other, not because they are all queer, but because they never get the chance to be intimate with a woman. That is why they are showing so very little respect for your wife.”

  “But I am a Muslim...” Tembarak pleaded. He was cut short by a vicious back fist from Grogol. He looked up at the man with contempt and spoke through the metallic taste of blood on his swollen lips. “She is a Christian. Devout. What does your Christian teachings tell you about the treatment of another man’s wife?” He braced himself for more beating but none came.

  “Abdul! Abdul! Make them stop!” she screamed, as the young soldier started to unbuckle his belt. “Please! Tell him what you know!”

  Grogol chuckled and smiled at Tembarak. “These are devout Muslim boys from the country. She is Christian and of no consequence. You are Muslim, but your marriage with this woman makes you Kaffir. A Muslim who has let his beliefs slide. You are worse than Christian to them. After they have finished amusing themselves with her, I can purify her if you like. She will be as clean as the day she was born. You wouldn’t even know they had been there.” He bent down to the trolley and picked up a tiny bottle, then casually read the label, as the soldier climbed up onto the table and positioned himself on top of the helpless woman. “You would be amazed what Hydrogen Peroxide can do to a woman’s parts…”

  “Stop!” Abdul Tembarak screamed desperately. “I will tell you everything, just stop him from…” The words failed him and he started to sob. He looked up at Grogol pleadingly and shook his head tearfully. “I will tell you everything…”

  “Grogol smiled as he walked over to the bed and watched the young soldier finally fumble himself into position. Without warning, he lashed out and pushed the startled youth harshly to the floor. Grogol, of all people, knew the importance in not playing his hand too early. If he had allowed the man to penetrate the woman then Tembarak might well have given up all hope. With that very real threat hanging over her, Abdul Tembarak would always be willing to talk. Sergeant Grogol turned to the disgruntled youth, who was busy covering his flagging manhood as he hastily refastened his combat trousers. “Private! Go and call for General Soto!” he paused, staring gleefully at Tembarak. “Tell him that our prisoner is finally ready to talk.”

  30

  Kutu looked up expectantly as he watched Marie walk down the last few steps, careful not to spill the contents of the two glasses, which rattled on the metal tray, balanced precariously above her right shoulder on the palm of her hand. She walked towards the two men, smiling amiably at Kutu, who reached out and pulled the small round table a little closer to where they were seated.

  Charles Bryant smiled, as she placed his glass down next to him. “Thank you my dear!” He picked up the glass and drank thirstily then shrugged at the woman, who had just placed Kutu’s glass down onto the small table. “Not half bad,” he announced critically. “It’s terribly hot, I think that I could do with another, if you don’t mind… A little less gin, and a touch more dry vermouth and ice next time, thank you. Oh, and maybe an extra olive?”

  The woman nodded impassively and turned towards Kutu, who shook his head. “No thank you, Marie. Just one for Mister Bryant, please.” He waited for the woman to begin her return journey up the winding steps, then turned towards Bryant, somewhat irked at the way he had given his employee orders. “Have you given any thought to our conversation last night?”

  Bryant sipped, then set his glass back on the table and leant back into his chair. “Well, what can I say? At first I thought that you had some sort of business proposition for me, then you start to talk some rubbish about assassinating a prominent Indonesian Army General! It took me by surprise, to say the least…”

  Junus Kutu smiled and sipped slowly. He rested his glass against the arm of his sun lounger, then looked intently at his companion. “It intrigued you though?”

  “Intrigued? Of course it bloody did!” Bryant frowned, as he looked icily back at his host. “You were serious, weren’t you?”

  “Deadly.”

  Bryant looked around nervously, suddenly apprehensive. “Why are you talking to me about it?” he replied cautiously. “I’m warning you, Kutu. If you are trying to set me up ...”

  “Oh, don’t be so bloody melodramatic! I have a business proposition for you, it’s just not as straightforward as the usual contracts, that’s all.”

  “Bullshit! You are talking about killing a man! How can that be regarded as a business proposition?”

  “Because it will save the fate of a great many businessmen for a start. Including, may I hasten to add, you!” The little Indonesian glared at him, then settled his features into a friendlier smile. “As I mentioned last night, General Madi Soto is on China’s payroll. He is planning a nationwide revolution. By promising the impossible and therefore planting unrealistic dreams into the population’s minds, he will gain an overwhelming majority of the people’s support. However, it will not go to a democratic vote, he will use the military, and his other supporters to take control of the country.”

  Bryant shook his head. “But how do you know this?”

  Junus Kutu smiled wryly. “I have a great many contacts all over Indonesia. Some of them are highly placed within the coalition government,” he paused, taking a small sip from his chilled Martini. “As I said, the government are in a quandary, they have their heads in the sand. General Soto has spies and informants everywhere, including deep within the administration. They are scared that if they make a move too soon, Soto will find out and launch his revolt.”

  Bryant nodded, realising their predicament. It would seem that the coalition government was finished. But he knew it was the only type of government to work in such a multicultural country.

  “However,” Kutu smiled jubilantly. “Some rather influential, and highly successful, businessmen and politicians have come up with a solution. These men, and I may hasten to add, not all are Indonesian, have proved that it is not only the socialists who rule this great nation, and has its best interests at heart. A price has been put on General Madi Soto’s head and I have been tasked with arranging the hit.”

  Charles Bryant r
emained silent, choosing only to pick up his glass and empty it. If nothing else for the distraction. He replaced it on the table and looked up, as Kutu’s housekeeper once again, walked down the last few steps. The silence continued while she set the glass down before him, then, sensing that the two men were engrossed in an extremely private matter, walked back towards the steps. Bryant picked up the fresh Martini and took a generous mouthful, which included the pitted olive. He held the glass in his right hand, thankful for the prop, then stared coldly at the little Indonesian. “Are you bloody insane? What the Hell do you know about setting up a hit?”

  Junus Kutu smiled wryly. “A damned sight more than I did three months ago, I can tell you that. The Internet is the most anonymous place, but it takes a great deal of time to sift through and make sense of the underlying meanings. To date, I have made contact with three men, but we have still not got so far as discussing the hit. They are wary of being set up by investigative reporters, or worse, and quite frankly, so am I.”

  Bryant nodded, understanding the man’s predicament. In an age when investigative reporting ruled television ratings, it was only to be expected that contacting these ambiguously advertised services could present more than a few problems.

  “But after I had been working on contacting a potential client, I suddenly remembered something that you once told me, several years ago.” Kutu smiled amiably. “As you know, I tend to remember everything that I am told. You made it quite clear, when we were discussing the Sekampung Dam project in Sumatra, that you could get an aerial survey done and it would not cost us a penny,” he paused, waiting for the man to recall the conversation. When he caught a flicker of enlightenment in Bryant’s eyes, he continued. “I said that aerial surveys are not so expensive for the cost to be a factor, but you pressed that this would be no ordinary survey. That certain contacts you had made over the years could get their hands on high resolution satellite footage, photographed to order. You told me that someone influential owed you a favour…”