The Contract Man

by A P Bateman

  Abdul Tembarak studied the unsuspecting westerner and sighed deeply. He ached inside at the inevitability of the poor man’s fate, but that ache panged more at the thought of his family. He had never killed before, nor would he, yet his actions would doubtless end the stranger’s life. He reached for the door handle, breathing deep, calming breaths as he readied himself for what lay ahead. What was the price? What choice did he have? He did not even know the man, would never know him, yet the man’s death would reunite him with his wife and son. It was no price to pay and Abdul resided himself that he would be able to live with it.

  ***

  King watched the sixties rocker with apparent indifference using his peripheral vision. Unsuspecting, the man continued to look at him. King turned and stared at him, and was not surprised when the man averted his eyes and looked decidedly uncomfortable. It could have been innocent, merely a homosexual on the make, waiting until he received some telltale recognition signal, but the guy’s ‘gaydar’ would have to be offset somewhat to home in on King. He did not convey an aura of homosexual orientation. Perhaps the man was marking him out to steal his wallet or his bag? But King was extremely physical. Tall, broad and strong looking. He also carried himself well, loosely. There were far softer targets on the pavement. He decided that there was more to the man and felt the need to test his theory.

  He swung his sports bag over his shoulder and casually started towards the taxi rank, letting himself in for the tirade of shouts and propositions from the mass of people, all trying to lower the next person’s bid. As he stood in the middle of the crowd, a clear head above all others, he turned round and looked for the sixties rocker, then smiled when he noticed him studying a group of young backpackers. The man clearly preferred the younger, blond surfer type. With the threat of the sixties rocker behind him, King walked to a nearby pillar and started to watch the crowd for his contact. Abdul Tembarak could have five more minutes, then King would cut the ties. If the man couldn’t even get himself to a rendezvous within the required time frame, then King was not overly bothered about losing his liaison officer.

  As King scanned the crowd again, he found a certain familiarity in one man and relaxed a little. He was thinner than he had been in his photograph, but weight is never the best feature to observe, it can go up and down so quickly that it’s almost a pointless noting it. Features are the key; bone structure, the nose, the mouth and the eyes. A lot could be gleaned from a person’s eyes, and Abdul Tembarak was no exception. King studied the man’s eyes, noting not only a great sadness, but also an extreme uneasiness. Neither had been apparent in the dossier photograph, but a great deal can often happen in a short time. The man looked stressed, harassed.

  Abdul Tembarak stepped forwards and held out his hand. “Mister King, I’m…”

  “Forget it,” King glanced around, then handed the man his bag. “Make out like you’re a taxi driver. I don’t want to draw attention to myself. You should have had my legend details sent to you. It’s Anderson. Thomas Anderson. Don’t use the name King again…” He thrust the bag into the man’s hand, then beckoned him to lead the way. Tembarak dutifully followed the order and pushed his way through the manic crowd, turning around every so often to check that King was behind him. Once through, he stepped into the relatively uncrowded road.

  The road at Jakarta International Airport separates the carpark from the terminal and with those few steps, the scene changes dramatically. The hordes of people, the uncertain travelers and the noise of incessant shouting and hassling become almost like distant memories.

  King breathed a sigh of relief as his mind gratefully stopped buzzing enough for him to think normally. He quickened his pace and caught up with the Indonesian “A bit hectic, don’t you think?”

  “That is Jakarta, you will have to get used to it,” he paused. “Did you have a good flight?”

  King smiled. “We took off, flew and landed safely,” he paused. “That’s plenty good enough for me. What’s wrong with your leg?”

  Tembarak hesitated. “I slipped in the shower.”

  “Careless.”

  “It was soapy.”

  “What did you do? Crack the bone?”

  “I’m not sure,” the Indonesian said.

  “Should get it looked at. That’s quite a limp…”

  Abdul Tembarak nodded, then pointed to a nearby Toyota Corolla. “This is my car.”

  King looked at the blue and yellow taxi and frowned. “I take it that this is a cover?” He smirked. “You don’t moonlight on the company’s time, do you?”

  Tembarak laughed, although it sounded rather forced. He unlocked the driver’s side, then reached behind the seat to unlock the rear door and motion towards it. “It’s good cover. Best keep to the illusion, ride in the back until we are outside the airport, then I will stop and you can sit in the front for the rest of the way.”

  King nodded. “Sounds good.” He opened the rear door and dropped onto the seat, the air so hot and thick in the rear of the car that he felt he could touch it. Tembarak’s cover was well thought out, perhaps he would be all right to work with after all. He relaxed as best he could against the headrest, willing the Indonesian to get the car started and the air conditioning on. He had already decided that Indonesia was not his favorite nation and the sooner he finished the assignment, the better.

  Tembarak started the engine and the car coughed and spluttered for a few moments before resting into a noisy idle. He crunched the gearbox into first, then drove steadily out of the car park and into the one way system, past the hordes at the terminal. Indonesia drives on the left so King did not feel uneasy at first, as he so often did when getting into a vehicle in another country. The roundabout was negotiated in exactly the same manner, albeit with nobody giving way to anyone else, yet it still felt comforting to be instinctively aware of where the traffic was. He settled into his seat and closed his eyes, suddenly feeling tired. Flying from west to east always brings on jet lag and it was difficult to remember what time it was. The airline meals had already disrupted his body clock and he had found himself eating at all sorts of times and sleeping when he should have been eating. He was now eight hours ahead of Britain and would have to sort himself out if he was to operate effectively. A cold, refreshing shower should go a long way to reviving mind and body.

  Tembarak eased the taxi to a halt and King opened his eyes, but too late. All three doors were open in a flash, and the pistol was pointed at him before he had time to react. Sixties Rocker smiled coldly athim from the front passenger seat, keeping the tiny Rohrbaugh R9 Stealth pocket pistol steady on the centre of his chest.

  King cursed inwardly, but cooperated, easing himself into the middle of the rear seat, as the other two men slipped silently to either side of him.

  63

  The humidity was stifling, thick and oppressive. The air temperature was at least forty degrees centigrade and would undoubtedly get hotter as the day went on. The vehicle’s windows were open, and a waft of warm air drifted into the rear of the car, but did nothing to ease the heaviness around the inside of the vehicle.

  King looked into the rear view mirror, and stared at the man behind the wheel. His features were similar to those of the photograph, and he had been sure that the man was Abdul Tembarak, albeit the man looked tired and stressed to the point of sickness, so why the double cross? There was bruising on his chin, a slight split in his lip and his left eye was swollen. Maybe that had something to do with it. King was certain of it. So much for slipping in the shower... He turned to the man on his left, who was heavily built and wore his black silk shirt unbuttoned to the waist. He was big for an Indonesian, at a shade under six feet tall and at least fourteen or fifteen stone in weight. The size of his muscular chest and six pack stomach showing through the open shirt were evidence that this man liked to work out with weights and was extremely strong. He also wore his sleeves rolled up high, his biceps treating everybody to a ‘gun show’. The man to his right on the other h
and was slightly built and wore a cheap-looking white linen suit with a black T-shirt. King guessed he’d seen the eighties TV show Miami Vice. He was half the size of his companion, yet King was more worried about him, or more accurately the knife which remained firmly in his hand, and occasionally reminded King of its presence by prodding into his side at every pothole.

  Sixties Rocker, on the other hand, had settled comfortably into the passenger seat and gave brusque directions to Tembarak, who drove calmly through the light traffic. King could no longer see the passenger’s pistol, but he knew that it would be close to hand. Any attempt to overpower his captors while the vehicle was on the move, would result in certain disaster.

  King settled back into his seat and watched the road ahead. They were making good progress, not that he knew their final destination, but the speed which they were doing felt extremely rapid for the potholed road. It seemed that they would skid off the tarmac and crash into the irrigation ditches at each and every corner.

  The airport lay approximately ten miles behind them and now that he knew that his captors were not going to do anything, at least until they stopped driving, King decided to chance talking for the first time. He looked at the man in the passenger seat, whom he guessed to be in charge. “Who are you?”

  The man turned in his seat and scowled. “That is not of your concern,” Sixties· Rocker replied in a thick Javanese accent. “If you know what is good for you, you will keep quiet.” He pointed the tiny pistol at him and mouthed a silent ‘bang’ with his lips.

  “Bullshit!” King snapped. “If you were going to do it yourself, you’d have done it by now. Where are you taking me?”

  He felt a sharp jab in his side, as the tip of the knife eased through his shirt and threatened to break the skin. He turned to the smallest of the three, who smirked at him in return.

  “My friend there wants to gut you like a pig.” Sixties Rocker smiled menacingly at him. “If you continue to ask pointless questions, he will slice you into tiny pieces.”

  The little Indonesian in the cheap suit nodded enthusiastically, giving the knife a vicious little twist. King felt the needle-like point ease into his flesh, but refrained from showing any emotion. Years of training and hardship had taught him to ignore all but the most agonising pain and calming respiratory techniques and martial arts meditation had further hardened his pain threshold.

  Sixties Rocker looked at King’s side and smiled as he saw a small stain of red soak through the man’s shirt. “You are a real tough guy,” he commented. “But General Soto can take that out of you as easily as the next man.” He gave a sadistic little chuckle, then stared coldly at him. “He is not amused. He does not take kindly to westerners who come to assassinate him. He will make you pay, and he will make your government pay too.”

  King remained silent. So that was it, the security surrounding the whole operation had been breached, and he did not need three guesses to know who had double-crossed him. He looked into the rear view mirror and stared coldly at the traitor behind the wheel.

  Abdul Tembarak took his eyes off the road and glanced back at him momentarily. There was no emotion in the Indonesian’s eyes, but he could not even attempt to hold King’s stare and quickly looked away.

  As with all roads in Indonesia, the further they drove from the city, the worse the road surface became. With the city and outer suburbs some twenty miles behind them, the road had become more of a track than anything else and it was a rough ride inside the humid vehicle, especially with his new-found companions sitting to either side of him. Oncoming overtaking vehicles, especially heavily laden trucks and buses, drove with reckless abandon and Tembarak regularly took the car on to the scrub grass verge to avoid collision.

  King watched the road intently, noting the road signs at every opportunity. There had been a few, mainly indicating speed limits, which every vehicle seemed to ignore, and a couple of small villages which had taken them no time at all to drive through. The next sign however, looked more promising; Karawang.

  King concentrated hard, noting the corners and turnings, and the buildings which had started to appear more frequently on either side of the road. He stared down the road ahead, then noticed the sign for a railway station. The car slowed down considerably, then pulled into a small graveled carpark and eased to a halt.

  “You like to ride on trains, Mister King?” Sixties Rocker had turned around in his seat and was staring intently at him. “It will give you a chance to see our fine country before you meet General Soto. After that, your life will not be worth living, and you will beg for him to kill you,” he paused, grinning sadistically. “I know, I have seen it before, on many occasions.”

  “I bet you got off on that,” King smiled sardonically.

  “Oh I did!” he smiled. “And I will enjoy watching him make you scream.”

  King turned away, assessing his situation. The man to his right was not physically imposing, but he did have an extremely nasty looking knife. Sixties Rocker carried a pistol, which King had identified as a Rohrbaugh 9mm. The weapon was tiny, but packed a punch and at this range nobody could miss. This determined the pecking order among the opposition. To date, the hulk beside him had not spoken, and had certainly not shown any signs of carrying a weapon. Nor, in fact, had Abdul Tembarak, who was sitting patiently behind the wheel as if awaiting orders.

  King knew that it was just a matter of time, and the longer he left it, the closer they would get to their destination. He certainly wouldn’t be able to attempt anything on a fast moving train packed with passengers, and once he was inside the military base, he wouldn’t be getting out.

  He looked to his right and noticed the gathering of people on the station’s dilapidated platform. They were waiting patiently, but unless there was a train arriving soon, it would make more sense for the people to wait inside the station, where the air conditioning would doubtless make the wait a little more comfortable. He breathed deeply a couple of times, filling his lungs with as much air as he could. A fight inside the vehicle would have to be quick, and would certainly be frantic. This was not a pointless scrap outside a pub or nightclub, this was survival. Each blow would have to be landed with the utmost precision, and it would ultimately end in death; if not theirs, then his own. He had decided there was no way he would become a prisoner at the hands of General Soto.

  He clenched both hands into tight fists for a second or two, then consciously tensed the muscles in both arms. This would make any blow more powerful, creating a harder weapon to strike with. He breathed in deeply again, then suddenly forced his right elbow back into the smaller man’s throat. The man cried out silently through his crushed windpipe, dropping the knife and reaching up to his own throat as he found it impossible to breathe.

  It was too late now, King had made his move and the only way to go was forward. He elbowed the larger man, catching him full in the face, then punched out at the man in the passenger seat. The blow was not as effective as he had hoped, and Sixties Rocker let out a cry of pain as he struggled to aim his weapon. King struck the man’s forearm with his own, but King’s forearm was heavily muscled and conditioned to martial arts blocking and striking. The man’s forearm practically snapped like a piece of two by two and the pistol dropped out of his clasp as he let out wail in pain.

  The large muscular Indonesian clutched at his broken nose, then came to his senses and flailed wildly at King. The vicious onslaught was hard to avoid and King grit his teeth as the man rained blows on his face and the side of his head. He dodged as best he could, then saw an opening and went for it. He thrust out his hand, his fingers spread into prongs, which caught the man in both eyes. He cried out in agony, but King was already thrusting them deeper, cupping the back of the man’s head with his other hand and pulling him onto his rigid outstretched fingers. King pushed and pulled at the same time until blood and a sticky, milky white fluid oozed out onto the back of his hand. The man’s screaming was feral, animal-like. King pulled his hand free a
nd aimed a savage punch into the middle of Sixties Rocker’s face. The man’s nose flattened and King pushed forwards, caught hold of his head with both hands and twisted until the man’s jaw jutted at an absurdly, impossibly upward angle, then snapped and his head flopped forwards. King was on to the large man again, this time chopping his throat repeatedly as the man continued to scream in agony and shock, holding his hands to both empty eye sockets. There was a crunching sound with each blow, and the big man went limp. Tembarak was struggling to remove his seatbelt and King hooked him in the ear with his left fist sending the man sprawling into the steering wheel. The smaller man was dying noisily in his seat, still unable to breathe. King picked up the knife from the foot well and pulled the man’s head forward. He put the tip of the blade on the back of the man’s neck, searched momentarily for the gap between vertebrae and jabbed the top of the handle with his other hand. The blade slipped in about an inch slicing the spinal cord and the man simply flopped and went silent. There was little blood, but King wiped the blade on the man’s shoulder and turned his attention to Tembarak, who was stirring and holding the steering wheel with one hand and his thick and swelling ear with the other. King picked up Sixties Rocker’s pistol and held it firmly against Abdul Tembarak’s temple. “Stay still,” he commanded breathlessly through gritted teeth. “One move and you’re a dead man.”

  The Indonesian froze, closing his eyes in terror. The attack had been so swift, so violently decisive, he had barely time to react. He started to tremble, then took the chance and opened his eyes. “Please, don’t kill me…”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” King transferred the pistol into his left hand, then caught hold of the dead man in the cheap suit and pulled him into the middle of the seat, before easing himself closer to the door. “Give me one good reason.”