The Contract Man

by A P Bateman

  “Ah, bird’s eye chilies,” Tembarak smiled. “Very hot…”

  “No shit,” King looked down at the man’s plate, surprised to see that he had almost finished. “Hungry?”

  Tembarak replaced his spoon on the plate, and picked up the highly dubious piece of chicken. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning.” He glanced down at the food on King’s plate, then looked back at him. “Soto has cut off my funds, he’s paying me an allowance, expenses only. But it’s nothing…”

  King passed the man his plate. “Here, have this,” he paused. “My body doesn’t think it’s mealtime yet.” He watched as Tembarak tucked hungrily into the food. “Of course General Soto has cut off your funds. He wants to control you in every way that he can. He not only holds your wife and child as bargaining chips, he holds your wallet. In fact, the man owns you entirely…”

  “Not any longer,” Tembarak paused while he finished the mouthful of steamed rice. “He holds my wife and child, yes. But he does not own me. I am going to do everything to see that you succeed in your mission. Strap a bomb to me and I’ll give the bastard a hug…”

  King pat the man on the shoulder, then drank more water. His eyesight was back to normal, even if his mouth wasn’t. “I’ll do my best to see that your wife and child get out safely.” He unscrewed the cap and took a tepid sip. “What we need is a plan.”

  “Well, obviously.”

  King smiled wryly. “All right,” he watched the Indonesian scoop another prize-winning spoonful of fried rice. “Start at the beginning again. What do you remember of the military compound?”

  67

  Despite its appearance on the map, the island state of Java has no straight roads or railway lines. This fact is most evident between Bandung and Tasilanalaya, where the track twists and weaves its way through and around rainforest, mountainous regions and vast areas of swampland. However, as the track emerges from the wilds of deepest Java, the obstructions become even more apparent, with huge bends and many lesser diversions, in order to avoid the broad latifundium of rice paddy and in the higher and cooler regions, tea plantations.

  The train lurched and bounced over the uneven track, but most of the people sleeping or resting haphazardly stretched on the floor to take advantage of the cool lengths of timber board and the occasional strip of linoleum, seemed oblivious to the discomfort. These people had paid a premium for the privilege of travelling in the spacious carriage. This was First Class, and First Class meant there was more space on the floor.

  Alex King looked at his watch, then peered out of the window. The scene had remained unchanged for the past hour, with nothing but the seemingly endless expanse of flooded rice paddy, with the occasional strip of rainforest to break the monotony.

  He glanced at Tembarak, who like every Indonesian, seemed to possess the ability to sleep when and wherever he wanted. The man had held his eyes firmly closed for the past hour and despite the carriage’s voracious humidity and nauseous instability on the rickety track, had uttered not so much as a murmur. King nudged his arm, but he remained insensible. After several attempts he decided to leave him be. He rose unsteadily from his hard seat and carefully aimed his first step between the bodies of a young man and woman, then found a steadier footing with his second step, between the legs of another sleeping woman. Progress was slow; with so many people recumbent in the cluttered aisle, every step must be carefully taken to avoid crashing to the floor. King smiled at the thought; at least he would have something soft to break his fall. It was hard to imagine a similar scene on a British train - for the matter, it was hard to imagine a similar scene on a train anywhere else in the world, but as so often transpires when travelling in Indonesia, he was discovering that the place was truly unique.

  For reasons best known to the train’s conductor and two stewards, the adjoining carriage was deserted. The rows of hard-backed seats were empty and without a single person spread out on the floor, King quickly made his way through to the next section. The door was a stable type, which seemed a poor choice for a train; but then again, this was Indonesia. He rested his elbows on the bottom section and took advantage of the splendid, if somewhat over-familiar view. After the last hour King had decided that, though the fields were the product of the ancient and highly sophisticated science of irrigation, they possessed only so much visual appeal. As far as he was concerned; enough was enough.

  As the train slowly trundled through the endless paddy, King watched the women working up to their thighs in the muddy water. Each wore a huge wicker basket on their back, which they slowly filled with their pickings. It looked like terrible work. He imagined sores and cuts becoming infected in the muddy water, which he’d read somewhere, were also full of rats and snakes, as well as eels, carp and perch which were added to provide the workers with a sustainable lunch.

  King’s thoughts were suddenly broken by a surge in the train’s momentum and a dramatic tilting of the carriage. He pressed himself back from the door, feeling the force of inertia threaten to topple him over the door and out of the train completely. He braced his shoulder against the side of the carriage, expecting the train to derail at any moment. As the brakes squealed against the track, King glanced out of the nearby window and stared aghast at the sight beside the railway tracks. There, half on the embankment and half submerged in the flooded irrigation ditch, the remains of three wrecked train carriages lay strewn on their sides, large piles of gravel pushed up around them where they had slid along the sidings on their sides. King looked at the embankment, then noticed to his horror that there was a line of rotting corpses spread out, uncovered. Twisted, burnt and dismembered, they had been casually left to rot by the track. A flock of crows were picking at them, fighting one another for the best pickings. King shook his head in disbelief, then stared at the next horror. Beside the broken carriages, children played happily among the scattered debris. King turned around, sickened by the sight. He had seen such things in Afghanistan and Iraq, in Syria and Libya. Bodies were a regular sight in places like that. Many were booby trapped with IEDs so left well alone by the people living there. But Indonesia was not a country at war. Not in Java at least. There were places like Sumatra and East Timor where there were terrorist activities and civil unrest, but the country was not a war zone. How could something like this not have been dealt with? He stepped away from the window, then noticed the young steward walking down the aisle to the occupied carriages. The steward stared at him, apparently outraged to find him in the empty carriage.

  King stared back, then pointed towards the scene on the embankment. “Why haven’t the bodies been cleared from the crash?” The steward shrugged, apparently unconcerned and attempted to continue on his way. King grabbed the man by the shoulder. “Do you speak English?”

  The steward nodded. “A little,” he paused. “I very busy, I have to go.”

  “No.” King tightened his grip and pulled the man towards the open door. “Look at that. Why hasn’t somebody cleared the bodies away?”

  The man shrugged. “Why you ask me? I work on train. I not do it.” He pulled away from King’s grasp, but remained where he was. “Soldiers help the people who live, then they go. Nobody can help the dead. People come soon from government and move bodies. Next week.”

  King shook his head, but said no more. There was nothing to say, the steward had said it all. King pushed past the young man and walked back towards the packed carriage. There was only one thing on his mind now; the sooner he could kill General Soto and get the Hell out of Indonesia, the better.

  68

  Junus Kutu stepped into the blissful relief of the air conditioned study and walked decisively over to the Chippendale sideboard. He placed the frosted glass of ice on a leather coaster, the outside of the glass dripping beads of condensation already. The day was oppressively hot and the forecast showed little respite. He was used to varying temperatures now, it came with business meetings in expensive restaurants or international offices, luxury cars with fri
dge air conditioning. He was now far removed from his family’s fishing hut where he grew up sleeping on hammocks made from fishing nets and the tin roof, which although thankfully water-tight, heated the hut like an oven by day.

  Kutu opened the double glass doors, then paused as he noticed that a strip of rosewood veneer had started to peel at the edges of the sideboard. He shook his head regretfully, and reached for the bottle of vodka.

  He had purchased the teak and mahogany piece from one of Charles Bryant’s contacts. He had been given the web address of the detailed site and had been at great pains to choose a piece of furniture which would complement his teak paneled study, but would also proclaim both his opulence and his taste. What he had not known when purchasing such a period piece, was that within a matter of months, Indonesia’s voracious humidity would age and devalue something which had merely mellowed under the gentle impact of over three centuries in England. The rosewood veneer, the satinwood beading and inlays, and the teak surrounds had almost parted company entirely with the mahogany structure, and the detailed marquetry of garden flowers and climbing ivy, embossed onto the sides, had bubbled and peeled, reducing the piece to a value which Junus Kutu quite happily carried in his back pocket.

  He opened the vodka and poured a generous measure into the silver cocktail shaker, before reaching for a bottle of dry vermouth and adding a similar quantity. Kutu prided himself on his cocktail making skills and took the art very seriously indeed. He reached into the cabinet for the jar of green olives, then picked up the bottle of gin, and added a dash to the concoction. With one olive crushed and dropped casually into the cocktail shaker, and another placed in the tall glass, only the friction remained to blend and emulsify the ingredients perfectly. He screwed the lid down tightly and shook the mixture vigorously. Satisfied that the vodka martini had been expertly prepared, he opened the lid and poured the contents over a large pile of roughly crushed ice.

  ***

  The snake’s tongue flicked in and out of its mouth, tasting the air around it, feeling the presence of another being nearby. It paused, its head held perfectly motionless as it weighed up its options. The forked tongue flicked again and the sinister looking oval eyes of the viper reflected in the bright sun as it concentrated on the potential threat.

  Malik remained still as he watched the venomous snake flick its tongue just inches away from his face. He knew that the chances of being bitten were low if he remained still. The snake knew where he was and was probably scared too. The stand-off had begun.

  Sweat trickled down his brow in rivulets and the salt stung at his eyes, but still he did not move. There was nothing he could do; one movement, and the snake would most probably strike. The viper’s fangs would lance through his flesh and release a deadly measure of venom. His heart would slow considerably, his breathing would become laboured and the venom would start to dissolve his internal organs long before he lost consciousness. He would become disorientated, and the trek through the dense rainforest undergrowth would prove impossible. He would collapse to the ground, and slowly suffocate as the venom shut down his nervous system. The snake flicked its tongue again then moved its head to one side. Malik tensed involuntarily, and the snake coiled. There was no hiss, no baring of fangs, it simply eased itself backwards, then flashed back into the undergrowth.

  The scruffy Indonesian let out a deep sigh and dropped his head to the ground in relief. He had been lying on his stomach, outstretched and his neck was aching from having to remain held back from the snake for so long. He raised his head from the damp earth then rubbed the sweat and mud away, circled his head a few times to relieve his neck before placing his eyes back to the rubber eyepieces of the binoculars. His heart pounded from the surge of adrenaline and before he caught sight of Junus Kutu, he felt the sudden powerful urge to vomit, which he barely suppressed by swallowing hard. He took a deep, calming breath, then raised the binoculars to his eyes once more.

  ***

  Junus Kutu leaned back in the comfortable leather swivel chair, and stared at the screen in front of him. He took a large mouthful of his drink, then rested the glass lazily on the armrest as he continued to stare at the image on the tiny screen of the laptop. The picture was of a man whose features were strong. Once seen, easily remembered. Kutu thought that odd for a man in his line of work. There was a distinct sadness in the steely grey-blue eyes and what Kutu could only think of as a cruel looking mouth. The man was ruggedly handsome, with a strong jaw-line and a pugilist’s brow and his wide chest tapered towards a narrow waist, indicating that he was both strong and fit.

  Kutu moved his finger across the mousepad and saved the picture before opening his email folder. He looked at his watch. It was about time. His contact knew the message would be sent soon. He leaned forwards, placed his drink on a coaster beside the laptop and started to type his message.

  THE TRANSACTION DATE IS NEAR. YOUR SERVICES ARE REQUIRED IMMEDIATELY. I HAVE THE RELEVANT DETAILS FOR YOUR ATTENTION. AWAITING YOUR REPLY. K

  He then directed the cursor into the send mail box and double clicked the left mouse button. Kutu picked up the glass and drained the contents in two large mouthfuls.

  ***

  Malik watched the ground cautiously as he walked through the thick undergrowth. His mind had started to plague him with paranoia; every stick or twig became a poisonous viper, and every patch of earth, a spider or a scorpion. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood up and tingled, and every recollection of his encounter with the snake sent a shiver down to the base of his spine.

  He stepped over some loose branches, and was relieved as the undergrowth started to give way to brushy scrubland, and rice paddy appeared in the distance.

  The car was parked on the side of the road, beyond the scrubland. It was a car which he could only ever own in his wildest, most unrealistic dreams. A Jaguar XJ, with everything that the Indonesian had always wanted. A big supercharged engine, air conditioning, sumptuous leather and a whole host of optional extras and in car entertainment. It cost more than he would earn in a dozen lifetimes, yet the owner purchased a new one, or something similar every year.

  He eyed the irrigation ditch warily, knowing full well that such obstacles were always a favourite haunt for a host of snakes, especially in the afternoon heat. Even snakes had to drink sometime, but they fed mainly on the water rats or occasional careless fish feeding at the surface. Satisfied that it was safe, albeit after several shivers down his spine, he took a long stride to the short grass verge.

  He watched the man who owned the Jaguar as he approached the car. The windows were closed so that the air conditioning could work more effectively and from the incessant thudding which came from within, he could tell that the car’s owner was putting the two thousand watt music system through its paces.

  The electric window lowered as he drew near and a sudden blast of eighties New Romantic burst into the outside world. The beat suddenly quietened as the man adjusted the volume and stuck his head out of the window. “Is he there?”

  “Yes,” Malik paused. “He’s working on his computer.”

  With his habitual gesture the effeminate looking man adjusted his tie, then smiled. “Good, once again, you have earned your money.” He eyed him dubiously, then reached inside his jacket pocket and took out a small brown envelope. “Here,” he paused. “Take it, you’ve earned it. Don’t spend it in cheap brothels on cheap whores, save it and make something of yourself.”

  Malik stepped forward and took the envelope from the man’s grasp. He opened it, peered inside and then tapped the envelope nervously with his fingertips. “I should have more,” he paused. “I have helped you a great deal. I know many things…”

  The effeminate looking man was silent for a moment. He eyed the scruffy Indonesian with indifference, then smiled. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, you are right. You have been a great asset. I shall give you another hundred dollars when we get back to my office.”

  “Five.”

  “What
?”

  “Five hundred,” the scruffy little man smoothed his hand over the roof of the Jaguar. “Maybe I can buy one of these one day. With more jobs from you…”

  The effeminate looking man smiled. “Of course.” He closed the window and opened the door, got out into the blistering heat. “You can stay to help me though, we’ll add it to your considerable fee…”

  ***

  PLEASED TO HEAR THAT YOU ARE READY FOR TRANSACTION. CREDIT CARD PAYMENT WILL GO OUT UNDER 'TRANS. OPTIMUM BUSINESS SERVICES, KUTA OFFICE, BALI’ SEND CREDIT CARD DETAILS AND PHOTOGRAPH IMMEDIATELY. GOOD LUCK WITH YOUR OTHER PROJECT.

  T.O.

  Junus Kutu smiled at the email, then deleted the message and set about typing his reply. He had used the services of Trans. Optimum before, and was on friendly, occasionally social terms with the rather brash Australian and South African duo who owned and ran the company. Essentially private investigators, David Ross and Bernard Ottowi had set up business in the Indonesian archipelago some ten years before, and operated a highly lucrative, though somewhat dubious security operation. Trans. Optimum assisted businesses over their less reputable problems, which so often arose in Indonesia. Mainly, the company provided security, close protection and intelligence gathering. They also worked as muscle for large mineral excavation and mining companies bringing work disputes to an end quicker than negotiations ever could. Junus Kutu had used the company on several occasions and although they wanted nothing to do with the General Soto affair personally, reasoning that a hit on such a notorious figure would be outside their own remit, their skill set and far too close to home, they had agreed to keep the matter to themselves. Furthermore, they had agreed to source a few individuals who would jump at the chance of dispensing of the assassin afterwards. Trans. Optimum’s services would not come cheap, but good help never did.