The Contract Man

by A P Bateman

  Tembarak shook his head. “I… I can’t, I’m sorry I betrayed you!” He started to sob, but stopped suddenly as King clipped him harshly on the side of the head with the muzzle of the pistol. “It’s not like you think!” He wailed. “I had no choice!”

  “Bollocks! There is always a choice,” King paused. “You just made the wrong one, that’s all.”

  Tembarak shook his head pleadingly. “They took me prisoner, they are holding my wife and son captive,” he sobbed. “Who knows what they will do to them? They have already cut off one of her toes, I can’t even think about it without feeling sick!” He shook his head. “They have violated her, molested her…” He cupped his head with his hands. “I’m so sorry. I was caught investigating him at the bank… They came for us in the night… My wife, my son… He let me go to report back to him. He had no idea I also help out MI6 from time to time, when I was informed of you coming to do your job, well, it was like striking gold and oil all at once. I felt for sure he would repay me with letting my wife and child go…”

  King looked up as a silver train thundered past them, then slowed suddenly for the platform, a squeal of brakes and sparks showering upwards from its wheels. He looked back at Tembarak and frowned. “Where is the train going?”

  “To Yogyakarta,” the Indonesian replied hesitantly.

  “What time is the next one?”

  Tembarak glanced at his watch, then looked at him in the rear view mirror. “There is only one more today, and that is at seven o’clock tonight.”

  King quickly slipped the pistol into the waistband of his trousers and opened the door. “All right Tembarak, there’s bugger-all time to waste sitting here,” he paused, catching hold of him by the shoulder. “We’re boarding that train.”

  “You’re crazy!” He shook his head belligerently. “Soto’s men will be at the station to meet us!”

  “That they might, but maybe they’ll have a long wait,” he said. “There is more than one town between here and Yogyakarta. We can get off at another station.” He shepherded the Indonesian across the carpark, then clenched his shoulder firmly. “Maybe you had a reason for setting me up.” He glared at him menacingly. “But you have been given a second chance. A chance to redeem yourself and save your· wife and child, like a man.” He pulled his shirt tails out from the waistband of his trousers, to let them hang casually over the butt of the pistol, then released his grip on the man’s shoulder as they neared the building. “However, I’m telling you one thing, Tembarak, cross me again and I’ll kill you before you have chance to blink.”

  64

  The train’s carriages were basic in design, with none of the creature comforts which Alex King was used to. He was not an experienced train traveler, taking the train occasionally from Paddington to Truro and occasionally on to Falmouth. More often than not he drove, much preferring the control and freedom it gave him. The handful of trains he had taken around the world could not compare to this. The seats were wooden slatted without tables. In fact, the only concession to modern comforts was a propeller fan at each end of the carriage, which took a little off the inside temperature. With the addition of the open windows, it was a lot less stifling than it had been inside the taxi, though still very humid.

  Progress was slow, with the train travelling at a maximum of sixty miles per hour, with a seemingly endless series of stops along the way. These brought aboard a continuous stream of men and women trying to sell the passengers everything from bottled water to cigarette lighters which played a tune when the flame was lit. Every stop was identical to the last, and the products much the same.

  At midday, with the heat and humidity approaching its peak, King conceded and bought a large bottle of water and a packet of peanut brittle. After the woman had taken his money and bid him farewell and the train had started to move again, he noticed that the seal of the bottle had been broken, and the label was badly worn at the edges. Tembarak dutifully informed him that each bottle was subsequently collected by other traders and refilled from a tap in the station toilets, to be sold time and time again. With the heat doing its best to dehydrate him, King decided to risk drinking the tepid liquid, vowing that from now on, he would drink only from cans or shop-bought bottles. He bent forwards to pick up the bottle of water from between his feet, then looked at Tembarak once more. “So they came for you in the night, and took you straight to the base at Yogyakarta?” he asked, pausing to unscrew the well-worn bottle cap. “How long were you there?”

  “In all, three days, but it felt like a lifetime. There is great evil there. Like no place I could ever imagine. It is a base within our country’s own military, yet it is separate, a place beyond control,” said Tembarak. “My wife is still there. General Soto ordered a soldier to rape her, in order to get me to talk.” He looked away, a lone tear trickling its way down his cheek. “I had no choice, I had to cooperate. I held off for as long as I could, but when they cut off her toe, I gave in completely. I’m sorry…”

  King nodded understandingly. He had known the toughest of men crumple under interrogation, it was just one of those things. Once the captors have discovered your weakness, and everybody has one, they would exploit it to the full. He lifted the plastic bottle to his lips and drank some more of the water, then held it out for Tembarak. “Here, drink some.”

  Tembarak smiled gratefully and took hold of the bottle. “Thank you,” he paused. “What happens to me now?”

  King shrugged. “You’re back on the right team now, aren’t you?”

  Tembarak nodded hastily. “Of course I am! I want nothing more than for General Soto to take a bullet, but I had no choice, it was the only way that I could get my wife and child out safely.”

  “It wasn’t, and it still isn’t.” King took the bottle from him and screwed the cap back on. “Soto knew that he would have you in his pocket, it’s how the man’s mind operates. When his men fail to show up at the station, he will not accept that you have double crossed him. He is a powerful and egotistical man. He will assume that there has been a minor hitch.”

  “But he will find out what happened eventually,” Tembarak protested. “What will happen then? He will kill my wife and child for sure!”

  “No he won’t,” King replied. “He will hold on to them, because they are still a valuable bargaining chip, and he needs them alive to force you to spread disinformation back to your superiors at intelligence.” King set the bottle back on the floor and broke off a piece of the peanut brittle. He snapped it in two and handed a piece to Tembarak. “He is scared of an assassination attempt. So scared, that he met the threat head-on and sent a team to deal with it. That was his first mistake. He wanted to know more, he wanted to interrogate me and find out everything. He should have sent the team to eliminate the threat,” King paused. “But now he has a problem. We have a distinct advantage. We are on the loose, we have surprise on our side, and we know where he is.”

  65

  The waiter flounced over to the table, a little too camp and with a little too much attitude for Charles Bryant’s liking, but then he didn’t have to like it. He didn’t have to leave a tip either.

  “Eggs Benedict?” The waiter hovered briefly, waiting for one of the men to answer and then lost patience before either of them could muster a response. “Full English with extra black pudding then?”

  Bryant nodded. “Yes.”

  “Which?” The waiter asked tersely.

  “The one you just said, full English with extra black pudding,” he paused, glaring at the balding man in his thirties. “Sorry for the confusion…” The waiter nodded, graciously accepting his customer’s apology. “It’s just that I’m used to dining in the type of establishment where it is the waiter’s job to remember what the customer has ordered, not just move plates around,” he paused, picking up his cutlery and studying a speck on the blade of the knife. “I understand that it must be very taxing on the mind; writing orders in a little book, walking out to the kitchen, then walking back into
the restaurant, there must be so much to forget…” He glanced momentarily at the laminated menu card, then looked back at the flabbergasted waiter. “I’ll have some milk please. To drink. So it will need to go in a glass. And you’ll find that the milk is the white stuff in the fridge, next to the butter…” He waved the man away and looked back to his companion. “Can’t beat the stuff, I always make sure to drink some when I’m back in England, the UHT rubbish you get in Jakarta tastes like medicine.”

  “The milk here won’t taste so good after he gets all the kitchen staff to spit in it.”

  Bryant looked shocked at the very idea. “You don’t think he will, do you?”

  “He might after you spoke to him like that,” he paused.

  Bryant shook his head. “Why on earth would they do that?”

  The man smiled. “I don’t know, maybe it could have something to do with you treating him like an amoeba. The man was busy, this isn’t the bloody tropics, you can’t speak to the waiters like that and not expect to get the sticky stuff at the back of their throat in your food…” He shook his head and smiled. “Sometimes, Charles, I think you have spent too much time in the third world.” He picked up his fork and carefully broke the yoke of his lightly poached egg. “Frankly, it’s beginning to show…”

  “Nonsense!” Bryant exclaimed. “He just needed a kick up the backside, that’s all.” He looked up as the waiter walked out from the kitchen carrying a lone glass of milk on a small stainless steel salver. The man was in his mid-thirties and slightly pear-shaped, with womanly hips. Bryant watched him, wondering how well founded Sandy’s comment was about spitting in his glass. “Anyway, I’m not always in the third world. I spend half my time in Texas and Louisiana. And Aberdeen…”

  “I rest my case…” Sandy smirked.

  “Here you are, Sir,” the waiter paused, forcing a smile to his lips. “Will there be anything else?”

  Bryant did not look at him, but simply shook his head and returned to his breakfast. “I don’t know about a kick up the backside,” he remarked to his companion. “But he’s probably had something up there recently! What a fag…”

  Sandy screwed his face up in disgust. “Oh for Christ’s sake, Charles, leave the poor fellow alone!” He dipped a piece of toast into the soft yoke, then smeared it lavishly with hollandaise sauce, before taking a mouthful. “If the dear fellow wants to do some shirt-lifting, leave him to it. He’s not hurting you, is he?”

  Bryant shoveled a large piece of black pudding into his mouth and stared at his friend in surprise. “That’s awfully lefty of you, Sands,” he smiled wryly. “I remember you teaching that queer a lesson with the handle of your cricket bat when he brushed against you in the showers. Oh what was his name? Asher… Ashworth? Something like that. Didn’t half struggle! You taught him good and proper! What did it take, four, five of us to hold the little bum-boy down? God, I didn’t think you’d ever get the handle in! Priceless! Must say, did you ever wash the handle? Can’t say I’d have liked to bat with it after that!”

  “Ashdown,” Sandy commented flatly. “And that was a long time ago…”

  “That was it! Ashdown!” Bryant smiled. “Never take your pants down in front of Ashdown!” He chanted loudly, much to his companion’s embarrassment. “Marvelous fun! It was just after we whipped Harrow for the cup. Gosh those were the days!” He stabbed another piece of black pudding with his fork, then thrust it voraciously into his mouth.

  Sandy forced a smile, not so keen to remember the incident. He watched Bryant chew his black pudding, then pulled a face of distaste. “I really don’t know how you can put that stuff in your mouth,” he paused, delicately smothering another piece of toast with warm hollandaise. “For God’s sake, it’s dried pig’s blood!”

  “Amongst other things, old chap,” Bryant smiled. “That egg you’re eating isn’t so damn great, it entered this world out of a chicken’s arsehole you know!”

  The man smiled, then casually reached into the inside pocket of his well-tailored, Savile Row suit jacket and took out a plain brown envelope. “Here, take this.” He passed it casually across the table and smiled. “Just a photograph of our man. His legend details are on the back. He entered the country under the name Thomas Anderson.” he paused. “I take it you’re flying back to Java? Our man is already there.”

  Bryant smiled wryly. “All in hand, old chap, all in hand.” He waved breezily. “I’ll take a picture of it on my iPhone and email it to my Indonesian contact. After that, it’s all up to him. He is making the necessary arrangements.”

  “But he will make sure that our man never gets back onto an airplane?” Sandy looked at him warily. “It’s non-negotiable Charles, those were the terms. He doesn’t leave Indonesia alive…”

  “Indeed,” Bryant nodded emphatically. “He’s dead. He’s a doornail, he just doesn’t know it yet,” he paused. “I have half your payment with me.” He bent down and patted the leather briefcase beside him. “Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, as agreed. The other half will be paid when I hear confirmation of General Soto’s assassination.”

  “Of course, perfectly acceptable,” Sandy smiled. “American Dollars?”

  “It’s dollars, euros and sterling. I drew it out this side.” He bent down and casually slid the briefcase towards his companion. “Here, keep it. Take it to work afterwards, it’s from Aspinal. Jolly smart for the office. My mistress bought it for me last Christmas, I’ve been trying to lose it ever since. I thought it would suit your· image better than a plastic carrier bag.”

  “I’m glad of the vote in confidence!” Sandy chuckled, then looked at Bryant seriously. “Don’t let your contact underestimate Alex King.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Not just anyone would have the skills to go after a man like Soto. Let alone do the job. We’re talking about an army general, surrounded by military personnel and a following that would support him as leader, or at least as instigator of a military coup. But if it can be done, King will do it. Your contact can’t just hire some thug and hope King is taken out of the picture. He will have to be utterly surprised and overwhelmed.”

  “Oh, I think he will get enough people.”

  “Just remember…” Sandy looked coldly at Bryant. “A wolf is a wolf and no amount of sheep will bring one down…”

  66

  The uniformed steward made his way slowly along the aisle, stepping over the outstretched bodies of the people who had decided to sleep on the hard wooden floor. King watched him, slightly bemused at the scene, but then again, this was Indonesia; if the people wanted to sleep, then they simply took to the floor and slept. Life really was that simple.

  The steward looked at the seat number as he drew near, then cross-checked his reference card accordingly before handing them the two white plates heaped with steaming fried rice and topped with a fried egg. “Nasi Goreng?” he asked, apparently uncertain of their choice. Abdul Tembarak nodded eagerly and took one of the plates from him, then sniffed the pungent aroma of the fried rice before shoveling a huge quantity onto his spoon. King, a little less excited about the prospect of eating food cooked aboard the train, thanked the steward as he took the plate, then eyed the food warily.

  “Is there something wrong?” Tembarak asked, losing some rice out of the corner of his mouth as he went on chewing. “You do not look pleased…”

  King wiped the tarnished fork on his trouser leg, then dipped it into the greasy-looking rice. “No, I’m not familiar with Indonesian cooking, that’s all.”

  Tembarak finished his mouthful and smiled. “Let me familiarise you then.” He pointed to a small parcel in the centre of the plate, which appeared to have been made out of a dark green leaf of some kind. “That is steamed rice, wrapped in banana leaf. It is steamed for two or three hours, and turns sweet as a result.” He cut his own parcel open with his spoon, then poked at the solid block of rice. “It looks like boiled potato, no?” He smiled, then pointed at a pool of white sauce on the edge
of King’s plate. “That is creamed coconut. Next to that are sliced chilies fried in peanut oil, and the meat is probably chicken…”

  King stared at the tiny bone, unfamiliar with both the size and shape, then frowned as he looked back at the Indonesian. “Probably?” he enquired uneasily.

  “Probably,” he reassured him. “The rice, the actual Nasi Goreng, is fried rice, with chilies, peanuts and spices and a few drops of fish sauce and soy sauce,” he paused. “Oh, and Catsup.”

  “Catsup?”

  “Yes, it’s a thick soy sauce,” he smiled. “Much thicker than the other types they use in the rest of Asia.”

  King nodded, then dubiously dipped his spoon into the rice and took his first mouthful. The rice was moist, and definitely full of flavour, but there was a background taste of burnt nuts, which he was unsure of. Either it was part of the dish, or the chef had burnt the oil. Either way, Tembarak seemed to enjoy the offering, so King thought it best not to ask and simply took a mouthful of what was familiar; the fried egg which topped the mound of fried rice.

  “You like?”

  King decided that the food was the product of a basic, somewhat unimaginative cuisine. Fiery from the abundant chilies, and smothered with garlic, yet lacking in true layers of flavour, infinitely inferior to Thai, Malaysian or Chinese food. King was no gourmet or foodie snob, but he spent a lot of time abroad and generally ate the traditional food of that particular country. When he was staying in hotels on the company money, he experimented with the best dishes available. It had become a sort of game to amuse himself by. He looked across at Tembarak and nodded all the same, there was no point in offending the man who was here to help him. “Yes, it’s very good.” He cut off another piece of egg with his spoon, then scooped up a few pieces of chopped green beans. Only when he started chewing did he realise that the beans were in fact tiny green chilies. “Oh dear God!” He picked up the bottle of water and drank most of it. His mouth burned and his eyes watered. His eyes seemed to have trouble focusing. “What was that?”