The Contract Man

by A P Bateman

  “What about the sofa?” King looked at the large leather sofa in the middle of the configuration and frowned. “What happens with that?”

  “Ah!” Stewart raised his eyebrows and smiled. “When one has found one’s spiritual self, one moves the goddamn sofa and faces it in the same bloody direction!”

  “Should help keep you fit,” King commented flatly, as he sipped steaming liquid.

  “Frankly, I think she’s reading the bloody book wrong, but you know what Margaret is like, she can’t be told anything.”

  King nodded reminiscently. He had once been present when the couple had argued and it had been quite an experience. He looked over to the corner of the room and noticed the large chess set resting on an expensive-looking and heavily decorated Queen Anne table. He looked back at Stewart, surprised. “Didn’t know you were into chess.”

  Stewart smiled. “I wasn’t, but Margaret thought that it would be a relaxing hobby for me.”

  “Just for you?”

  Stewart grinned. “You realise that, I realise that. But Margaret, bless her, did not reach the same conclusion,” he paused, looking at the ornate chessboard and hand-carved pieces. “The board is solid mahogany, with ivory and ebony inlays, shrouded in woven silver thread and the pieces are both ebony and ivory. She bought it for me as a surprise. The biggest surprise was how much it bloody cost me!”

  “It’s a brilliant discipline for enhancing your concentration and tactical thinking. Ever learn to play?” King smirked, suspecting just how miffed the man must have been.

  “Yeah, but I play against the computer now. Either that, or on the net with some anonymous enthusiast. The set’s really only for show.” He turned back to Alex King and sighed, his mood changing dramatically. “You know what comes next, don’t you?” he said flatly. “Our days of happy banter are all but over. The service seems only to allow time for formality and regulation.”

  King sipped another mouthful of coffee and smiled. “You want to know how it went.” He leaned forwards and placed the mug down onto a silver coaster. “So I had better tell you,” he paused and shook his head. “As you are probably aware, things did not get off to the best of starts…”

  59

  Charles Bryant watched as Junus Kutu chipped the ball gently onto the green. The ball rolled steadily towards the pin, but gradually veered to the left and came up just a few inches short. “Oh bad luck old boy!” He jogged down the remainder of the slate steps, then walked purposefully towards him. “Want me to show you how?” He called out jovially as he watched the little Indonesian line up the putter for his final shot.

  Junus Kutu tapped the ball gently, sinking it decisively into the cup. He turned around, glaring contemptuously at the Englishman. “There will be no need. I have asked you here today for a purpose, as you know well enough. Let’s not confuse the issue.” He bent to pick up the ball, then walked past him towards the swimming pool and patio area. “I have the money, I trust you have made the necessary travel arrangements?”

  Bryant looked surprised, but he quickly regained his composure and walked casually after the Indonesian. “All sorted, I fly out at two this afternoon.”

  “Good.” Kutu dropped the sand wedge and putter beside his chair, then bent to pick up a brown leather case. “It’s all there, in American dollars. The equivalent of one and a half million pounds sterling.”

  Bryant frowned. “But...”

  Kutu held up a hand to silence him. “I know, you only need half the money. Frankly, I think you had better stay in England until the hit has been completed. That way you can then pay your contact his other instalment after the hit has taken place. Besides, I don’t want you making anyone suspicious with so many comings and goings,” he paused, gazing distantly towards the horizon, watching the heat-haze waft skywards. “As for the other five hundred thousand? Well; disgruntled partners do not good bedfellows make. I hope you find it was worth it…”

  Charles Bryant nodded gratefully, although a little subdued. He knew he’d pushed it too far fiddling the fees at both ends. He looked at the man with concern. “There are other arrangements to make. I had to bring a photograph of the assassin back with me, it was part of the deal for him to take a fall.”

  “Send it, along with any other information, via e-mail. I can make all the necessary arrangements from here. There are some people I know who will be able to deal with him, for a small price. It’s not like getting to a military leader. The man will have no protection, no resources. The people I know will make it look like just another tourist robbery or hit and run vehicle accident…” he paused, looking intently at the Englishman. “You have my email address, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” he paused. “The rest of your fee will be put into your business account via internet transfer. If I were you, I’d bank that money here before you go and withdraw in England, or do a bank transfer. Cash money is always likely to arouse suspicion. Well, that would appear to be conclude our business,” he said curtly and picked up his two golf clubs, and took the ball out of his trouser pocket. “Good luck…”

  Bryant picked up the leather case and nodded an acknowledgment. As he walked casually towards the steps he knew that he had lost the Indonesian’s trust and could tell from the man’s manner that any future business with him wasn’t merely in doubt. It was finished. However, Bryant couldn’t help smiling. He was making so much money for his troubles that for now it didn’t seem to matter.

  60

  “How are you going to do it?” Stewart reached for his coffee mug. “Near or far?”

  King put the file down in his lap and shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. There are a lot of potential issues to consider. Senior military personnel are not the easiest of targets. A controversial man of Soto’s standing will be harder still. I don’t know what the terrain is like, whether a long shot will even be feasible. I doubt it though. And I don’t know the resource situation yet.”

  “Oh don’t worry about that,” Stewart paused. “It’s Indonesia after all. There will be the best possible equipment at your disposal. Christ, we sold most of it to them. Our man Abdul Tembarak should be able to get whatever you want.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “No idea.”

  “Great.”

  “He’s an asset,” Stewart shrugged. “That’s all I know. He’s Indonesian Intelligence, but he was recruited as a British asset because of his deep-seated hatred of communism. Indonesia has veered left and right, but given enough push Tembarak was aware that it could go left and further still. The South East Asia desk has had Tembarak on its books for over five years. I’ve read up on him and he seems a favorable chap.”

  “Untested though.”

  “He’s dropped a few things on our desk. Doesn’t take too big a retainer. Loves his country for sure.”

  King nodded. Dropped the hastily put together file onto the coffee table. “I need to do a thorough recce. I’ll have to keep things loose until I know more,” he paused thoughtfully. “A Hell of a lot more...”

  “True.” Stewart glanced at his watch, then looked up at him. “Not long before you have to leave. Anything else you want to know?”

  King smirked. “About a million things, if the truth be known…” He opened the file again and memorised the last few details. Addresses, names and numbers were easily remembered, advanced training techniques had taught him that. He looked up at Stewart and frowned. “This is more than just a bit rushed. This is outrageous. Why so sudden?”

  Stewart looked at the man who regarded him as a friend and felt a wave of guilt wash over him. The man trusted him, the man confided in him, yet he was conspiring behind his back. Why? To keep his job and save his pension. When it came down to it, it was as simple as that. Simply to make it a few more years to retirement age and get out with his dues. Not the most admirable of motives, but practical nonetheless. He shrugged, his expression neutral. “General Soto is in league with China, and it woul
d seem that something big is about to happen. Not an invasion, more of a franchise with zero possibility of other countries getting a look in. We do hundreds of millions trading with Indonesia, so we can’t be having that. Time was not on our side for this one.”

  “It seldom is, is it?” King looked at his watch. “I take it you’re driving me to the airport? Better get going, I want to spend some of the company’s money in the duty free.”

  Stewart reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a brown envelope which he dropped on the table. “False passport – study the legend card then destroy before checking in - twenty grand sterling and your tickets.” He smiled. “The exfiltration will be through Bali, at Denpasar airport. The ticket is open-ended, instructions about booking your return flight are with the tickets.”

  “Don’t I just do it at the airport booking office or phone the confirmation line?” King frowned.

  “No. You are flying with Qantas, they have an office in a hotel at Sanur. Bit of a daft arrangement, but that’s the way it is,” he paused, guilt starting to get the better of him. “Hey, after the hit, take it easy for a bit. Act like a tourist and work your exfiltration at your own leisure, after all, it’s the company’s time and money,” he paused. “You go back through Thailand, stop off in Bangkok for a while and see the sights.”

  King smiled. “Thanks, but Madam Woo’s isn’t my style.”

  Stewart returned the smile, sharing his friend’s humour for what might be the last time. Frankly, he couldn’t see a way of King pulling off such an audacious assassination and making it out of Indonesia. Not with a man like Soto, not with the resources to hand. “You haven’t got any style King, you know that!”

  ***

  The Airbus A-380 gained momentum, its Rolls Royce engines roaring aggressively as it neared takeoff speed. Then, as the mighty jets reached crescendo, the nose lifted and the giant aircraft parted company with the runway, lifting gracefully into the sky. Within seconds the leviathan was engulfed in the pitch of night, its only visible trace, the red light flashing intermittently on the port-side wing.

  Stewart took the mobile phone from his pocket. It was a cheap, durable and basic phone which could be thrown away if necessary. The memory was empty, as was the address book. Stewart knew the numbers he needed to dial and always erased the call list the moment he hung up. He glanced up at the night sky, but had already lost sight of the Jakarta bound Airbus, which could by now be any of the myriad lights which glinted in the sky. He turned his attention back to the telephone’s brightly-lit keypad and dialed the number from memory.

  ***

  Donald McCullum looked up suddenly as the telephone rang beside him. The telephone was on a different circuit from those in the rest of the house and was dedicated to a secure number, coded and for work-related matters only. He sighed apprehensively, knowing that this particular telephone was usually the bearer of bad news and often announced a crisis of some description. He folded his newspaper and dropped it dispassionately onto the desk, before reaching for the receiver.

  “Hello, Donald McCullum speaking.”

  “Sir, this is Stewart. Just thought I’d let you know, King is on route.”

  McCullum leaned back in his comfortable leather chair and smiled. “Not suspicious, was he?”

  “No, Sir,” Stewart said. “He bought the whole affair on face value.”

  “Jolly good,” McCullum paused. “All right, best get the operation underway. I want it coordinated precisely, all three offices hit simultaneously. You’d better get the men and resources to hand.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And Stewart,” McCullum paused. “You are batting for the right team, aren’t you?”

  “Of course, Sir.”

  “Glad to hear it.” McCullum replaced the receiver on the cradle, then picked up his newspaper. He knew that he had ended the conversation abruptly, but he also knew how to keep his agents on their toes. It was all in Stewart’s hands now, and soon King’s damning security blanket and any potential hold over the Secret Intelligence Service would be only a frustrating memory.

  61

  Peter Stewart had put the order out to his teams to get in place to lift the information while King’s Airbus was still climbing into the sky above London. He had a team in Norfolk and Hereford waiting. Pryce and Holmwood were staying at a hotel in Falmouth awaiting further instructions. He drove down the M3, A303, M5 and A30 meeting little traffic and had even managed to stop for light refreshment at Taunton. He arrived at the hotel at around midnight and loaded up on coffee while he briefed the two men. It was now approaching three in the morning as he watched the street intently. There had been no traffic for the past half hour and the last of the late night revelers had dragged themselves off of the streets, presumably to continue their weekend celebrations at private parties.

  The weather was mild for the time of year, but the sea was icy cold, causing a barrage of thick sea mist which wafted eerily down the deserted streets and sprayed a continuous drizzle on the windscreen of the car relentlessly. Stewart glanced at his wristwatch, then turned around in his seat and stared at Pryce, who had spread himself across the back seat and seemed to be asleep. “Wake up man!” he paused, shaking his head in exasperation. “We go in a few minutes.”

  “I was just resting my eyes,” Pryce smiled.

  “Whatever.” Stewart took his mobile telephone from his jacket pocket, then opened the tiny notebook resting on the central console. He keyed in the digits, then waited for his call to be answered.

  “Hello?” Came the calm reply.

  “Mike, this is Stewart,” he paused, double-checking his wristwatch against the digital clock on the dashboard. “We go in two minutes, that’s zero three hundred Zulu…”

  “Roger that, zero three hundred Zulu,” the voice paused. “Anything else?”

  “No, good luck.” Stewart ended the call, then returned his eyes to the tiny notebook. He dialed another number and waited patiently.

  “Hello?”

  “Harrison, this is Stewart, everything set?”

  “All set and ready for the word.”

  “Good. The word is go, the time, zero three hundred Zulu. Good luck.” Stewart deleted both calls from the call list then switched off the mobile telephone and returned it to his jacket. He looked across at Holmwood in the driver’s seat. “Ready?”

  “As I ever am Boss,” he paused. “Or ever will be.”

  “Good.” Stewart looked down the street at the deserted building, then reached for the door handle. “Let’s do it…”

  62

  Jakarta, Indonesia’s capital, is like no other place on earth. The largest city in the southern hemisphere, it not only boasts the highest human population per square mile, but possibly the highest density of taxi drivers anywhere. Alex King had become acutely aware of this as he stood outside the airport terminal, desperately searching for his contact.

  The humidity was almost intolerable, and within seconds of exiting the cool, air conditioned building, he had become drenched in his own perspiration. Having visited Indonesia once before, he knew what doubtless lay ahead, but the reality of the stifling heat and the closeness of the air had been easily forgotten. He also knew that he would be hassled beyond belief, but the difference between the country’s principality of Bali, which he had visited on the previous occasion, and the capital of Java was no comparison. The people took on an entirely more hostile, somewhat aggressive manner here and as he waited at the pre-arranged rendezvous point, it seemed that none of the taxi drivers, drug dealers or prostitutes could take no for an answer.

  King continued to shake his head politely to every proposition, be it for a ride in a taxi, a trip, or ride of an entirely different nature, or the three combined, but as his brittle calm was tested to destruction, he adopted a more hostile manner.It was easy to see why many visitors to the country come to adopt a rude, arrogant manner towards the people, and it also became clear why the locals chose to hustle them so i
nsistently. They were mostly poverty-stricken and no doubt desperate for the business. The whole situation had become counterproductive, with the locals hassling, the travelers retaliating, and such good will as there might once have been getting mown down in the crossfire.

  He had become aware of a man to his right, who seemed to be loitering. He was tall for a native Indonesian, with hair held down either by gel or natural grease, and styled backwards like a sixties rocker. His fashion sense displayed many features from the same era, and looked laughably out of place here among mainly shorts and T-shirts.

  As King looked at him the man turned his gaze away, a little too quickly for his liking. And now, as he observed his admirer, he was very much aware of the man’s uneasiness. King looked away, returning his attention to the crowd in an effort to spot his contact. He could not afford to wait too long; either Abdul Tembarak would show, and he would have the help of a liaison officer, or he would have to make his own arrangements on a make-do-and-mend basis. He glanced at his watch, then continued to scan the crowd. It was ten-past eight, he would give his contact another ten minutes and then he would take care of matters on his own. It wouldn’t be the first time…

  ***

  Abdul Tembarak watched from his car, not daring to take his eyes off the westerner. His orders were clear, he was to assist him with whatever he needed and oversee the finer details of the mission. King would have the decision making authority, but he was to make sure that the westerner’s getaway went without a hitch, and that meant making the man’s travel arrangements across to the island of Bali and supplying him with such equipment as he would require. Of course, there was also the second, parallel set of orders, which had been issued by General Soto, upon hearing of the audacious plan from Tembarak. The order was more forceful and offered a higher payment than the British could ever match. The scenario was almost risible. There was only one set of orders which he could follow, only one payment which he could realistically accept, and that payment was that his family would be allowed to live.