The Contract Man

by A P Bateman

  Having typed his credit card number into the box Trans. Optimum provided, he opened the relevant folder on the menu and the British MI6 agent’s photograph appeared on the tiny screen. He attached the photo and typed out the documented description of Alex King from the original email. He copied in all the details of King’s exfiltration that he had, then sent the email by way of return.

  He stood up and walked over to the sideboard, fixed another martini and took a sip as he walked back to the desk. His heart pounded at the enormity of it all. He had never killed anyone before, and had certainly never paid somebody else to do so either, yet in the past few days, he had not only arranged the death of a prominent Indonesian figure, but had just paid for the death of the very man who was about to help the nation he loved. The British assassin should have been hailed a hero if he was successful, instead, he had just signed the man’s death warrant. He raised the cocktail to his lips again, and drained the icy remnants in one huge gulp. He felt a little lightheaded as he set the glass back on the leather coaster. When he looked back at the screen he noticed the mail folder flash in the top left-hand corner. He opened the email.

  YOUR PAYMENT AND DETAILS HAVE BEEN ACCEPTED. TRANSACTION PROCESS COMPLETE. YOU WILL RECEIVE POSITIVE CONFIRMATION WHEN BUSINESS CONTRACT HAS BEEN COMPLETED.

  T.O.

  Junus Kutu’s heart fluttered. The deal had been completed, there was no going back now. With the press of a button, he had sentenced a stranger to death. Strangely, he found the experience exhilarating.

  He deleted all of the emails, the document and photograph, then shut down the laptop and sat back in his chair. He looked out across his lawns and the rice paddies beyond. He saw a flash of light beyond the paddies from the bush and scrubland in the distance. It was the last thing he saw as the 7.62mm bullet travelled through the open French doors and penetrated the centre of his forehead. The bullet had travelled in an arc and was on a downward trajectory. The biggest percentage of its energy had been dissipated but as it travelled through Kutu’s skull, brain and brain stem and through the Chippendale sideboard and into the wall behind, it still managed five hundred feet per second. Kutu kicked out both feet in reflex to the sudden shutdown to his nervous system and his chin slumped to his chest.

  ***

  He kept the 3.5 x 60 wide-angle scope trained on the lifeless figure behind the desk, keeping his right eye concentrated as he readjusted his aim, compensating for the rifle’s savage recoil. He had seen Junus Kutu slump in his chair and knew from past experience that with a head shot from a high velocity bullet, the victim always slumps lifelessly and never threw itself wildly across the room as depicted on the screen.

  He knew that the shot had been clean, and even at the distance of approximately seven hundred metres, the 7.62mm bullet would have hit with more force than any mainstream handgun fired at pointblank range.

  “Good shot!” Malik exclaimed excitedly. He took the binoculars from his eyes and let them hang loosely from his neck by the plastic strap. “Is he dead?”

  The effeminate looking man nodded as he released the magazine and ejected the chambered round. The SLR magazine held twenty, but he had only loaded it with three. He was confident in his abilities and the scenario. He pushed himself easily to his feet and dusted the loose pieces of earth and foliage off his neatly pressed cotton suit. He had laid out a ground sheet to protect his suit the best he could. He reached out a hand and clicked his fingers for the binoculars. “Here, let me see.”

  Malik caught hold of the strap and hooked it over his head, then held them out for him. He snatched the field glasses from the tiny Indonesian and raised them to his eyes.

  There was no movement from the study, but the gardener was already walking around the terraced gardens, alerted by the sound of the gunshot. He was looking right at them but would not see them from their position ten feet back in the bush. The gardener was looking puzzled and then he turned and walked up the steps towards Kutu’s study.

  The effeminate looking man kept the study window in the wide angle lens of the binoculars, then smiled as a distraught looking woman came running into the room. He turned to Malik and chuckled. “The maid is going to earn her money cleaning today!” he paused. “Be a good man and put the rifle back in the case. While you’re down there you can fold up the sheet.” He pointed to the customised match grade semi-auto FN SLR rifle on the ground, then kicked the leather carrying case a little closer.

  The scruffy looking Indonesian did as he was ordered and bent down next to the high powered rifle. “What happens now?” he paused as he carefully slipped the weapon inside, mindful not to touch the sights. “General Soto will promote you for sure.”

  “That he will,” the effeminate looking man grinned as he carefully took the Walther PPK out of his jacket pocket. “He will probably make me a Colonel, maybe head of military intelligence operations…” He smiled, as he sighted the tiny pistol at the back of the man’s head, and patiently waited for him to finish folding the groundsheet.

  69

  Alex King stared at the office of the car hire firm in disbelief, then turned slowly towards Abdul Tembarak with a raised eyebrow. “I thought you said this was a car hire company?” he said, his tone sarcastic. “You’re not serious, are you?”

  Tembarak shrugged. “We can hire vehicles here, what more do you want?”

  King shook his head and slung his sports bag over his shoulder. “All right, you wait here, out of sight. If we’re not seen together, then it will create less of a trail for General Soto when he finds out that three of his men didn’t make the train,” he paused, still looking at the building with trepidation. “I’ll go and play the dumb tourist.”

  The building, if it could be honestly described as such, consisted of three bamboo walls, which had been woven into a fine mesh-like construction, and a palm thatch roof which, judging by its numerous tiny holes, served as a refuge for a host of small birds or large rodents. The building’s entrance was simply a gap, where the builders had regarded a fourth wall as unnecessary.

  The Indonesian man reclining against the back wall, his legs crossed and resting upon the desk, eyed King curiously as he approached. He smoked a pungent smelling home rolled cigarette and made no effort to move, and by the look of the cigarette resting in one corner of his mouth, threatening to discard an inch-long plume of ash into his lap at any moment, King guessed that he had made no effort to move for quite some time.

  King smiled politely as he reached the open fronted entrance, but still the man made no effort to greet the potential customer. “Hello,” he said amiably. “Do you have any vehicles for hire?”

  The man sighed deeply, then with great effort, lifted a hand from his lap, took the cigarette out of his mouth and tapped it with his fingertip, sending the ash cascading to disintegrate on contact with the dry earth floor. “Depends…” the man smiled.

  “On what?” King asked, his impatience growing suddenly.

  The Indonesian shrugged, then took a long drag on the pungent cigarette. “On what you want.”

  “What have you got?”

  The man smiled. “Whatever you need…”

  King stared coldly at the man, then reached into his pocket and took out a wad of US dollars. Indonesian rupiahs were so low in denomination that he could have been a millionaire several times over and hold little hope of closing his wallet with basic expenses. He often found dollars were the best currency throughout the world, easily changeable and readily accepted. “I want a vehicle.” He started to thumb through the thick wedge of notes, then stopped and smiled at him. “Now, do I get a vehicle from here? Or do I get a taxi into Yogyakarta and hire one from there?”

  The Indonesian slid his feet off the desk, then stood up and beckoned King into his ‘office’, smiling profusely and offering him a seat. “Please, come in.” He pulled a wooden chair out from the rickety looking desk and wiped the dust and dirt away with the edge of his hand. “We can do business. What would you like? A sc
ooter? No, you look like the sort of man who likes to ride a motorbike…”

  “I need a car,” King paused, ignoring the proffered chair. “I am meeting some friends in Semarang, but want to do some sight-seeing along the way,” he lied easily.

  King had remembered the town of Semarang from the tourist map on the back cover of the in-flight magazine on the airplane. He had noted its position and remembered that it was indeed well north of Yogyakarta, on the northern coast of Central Java. Should General Soto initiate a search for Tembarak and himself, the testimony of this Indonesian might serve as a suitable diversion.

  The man looked at him dubiously, then his expression changed to one of concern. “Where you go from Semarang?”

  King frowned. “I’m not sure yet.” He concentrated hard, desperately trying to remember the names and places on the basic map. “One of my friends is flying on to Lombok, we are taking him to the airport at Surakarta.”

  “Ah,” the man nodded. “You come back here after?”

  “Yes,” King paused. “We may go into Yogyakarta, one of my friends is interested in silver and jewelry. I understand there is a major silver industry in Yogyakarta?”

  The man shrugged, uninterested. He reached into one of the drawers behind the desk, then looked at a small chart. “I have two cars available, a Toyota Corolla or a Ford Focus,” he thought for a moment, then smiled. “You need a jeep. A four by four.”

  King shrugged. “Why?”

  “The roads are very steep and in poor condition and at this time of year there are many floods,” he paused. “The roads to Semarang go through some of the highest mountains in all of Java.”

  King nodded, keeping up the charade. “I see. Well, a four by four it is then.” He looked down at the man’s chart. “Do you have something suitable?”

  The man nodded, then looked concerned once more. “The roads through the mountains are very dangerous, you must not stray off of the main highway.”

  King knew what the man meant by dangerous, but decided to maintain his persona as an innocent tourist. “Is that to do with the flooding?”

  The Indonesian chuckled out loud, then slapped him on the shoulder. “You have much to learn about Java, my friend!” He laughed raucously and although King knew full well what the man was driving at, he couldn’t help but think that he was overdoing the drama. “You not have news in Australia?” the man laughed.

  King smiled inwardly. Australians made up the majority of western tourists, so the man had assumed that was King’s nationality. An added bonus, another diversion for any potential inquiries. He looked at the man vacantly, then smiled. “Of course we do, what are you referring to, mate?” His new-found Aussie accent was subtle, but passable nevertheless.

  “We have many bandits in Central Java, many people are killed for their money on the small roads,” he paused, shaking his head somberly. “Bandits block main roads, then attack the vehicles when they drive on the small roads. Many people killed every month…”

  King nodded. “I’ll be careful.” He looked around, then stared at the man inquisitively. “If it is so dangerous, do you know of a place that will sell me a gun?”

  The man remained silent for a moment or two, then smiled. “Guns are expensive, my friend…”

  ***

  The boy could not have been any older than twelve, yet he drove the white Suzuki Vitara with ease, reversing it off of the bumpy dirt road, until the rear of the vehicle rested just inches away from the building.

  King stared at the vehicle in surprise. At the very least he expected to see a few dents and scratches, maybe even the deep impact marks of a major collision with another vehicle. It was a facelifted model and although King had no idea how to date it from the Indonesian license plates, it looked new to him.

  He had paid a premium for the vehicle. It is common practice in Indonesia for vehicle hire companies to hold a person’s passport as a security on the vehicle. King could hardly show him a British citizen passport having already played along when the man had mistaken him for an Australian, which could only help to cover his tracks should General Soto initiate a search. He had told the Indonesian that he did not have his passport with him, spinning the man a story about losing his passport whilst travelling in Sumatra and his friends delivering a replacement to him in Semarang. The man had been dubious at first, but had relented - at a price. Having swiped one of King’s credit cards to take a Visa guarantee for damages, King was now about to drive the most expensive hire car in the whole Indonesian archipelago.

  He stepped out of the office and round to the front of the medium sized off-roader and looked closely at the gleaming bodywork.

  “Something wrong?” the Indonesian asked.

  King turned back to him and smiled. “Not a thing,” he paused. “It looks brand new.”

  “It is.” The Indonesian slipped a cigarette between his thick lips, then lit it with a silver Zippo lighter. “You surprised, no?”

  “I expected something a little older, that’s all.”

  “You pay good price!” the Indonesian smirked. “For good price, you get our best car!”

  King smiled then reached into his pocket and took out a wad of banknotes allowing the man to see just how much he was holding. “My friends are in Java on business. They will be carrying rather a lot of money, and they will be purchasing a lot of silver and precious gem stones,” he paused. “You said that guns are expensive. You didn’t say that they were impossible to buy…”

  The man remained silent for a moment, then broke into a wry smile and took a long drag on his pungent cigarette. He blew out a huge cloud of smoke before speaking. “You reporter?”

  King shook his head. “No, just a tourist. But my friends are going to do a great deal of business.”

  “You are a mercenary,” he stated flatly. “You here to make money out of other people’s misery…”

  “No.”

  “Why you want gun then?”

  “You told me that the mountains are dangerous, full of bandits who will kill and rob. You have me worried now.” King held the man’s stare, but did not look harshly at him. “Other people have told me the same…” He passed the wad of notes over to his other hand, forcing the Indonesian to look down at the considerable sum. “I’m just a tourist, but I guess you could say that I will be guarding my friends as a favour to them, for bringing me a replacement passport from the consulate in Jakarta.”

  “You know how to use guns?”

  King nodded. “Yes, I was in the Australian army for a while, and then I worked on a game reserve in South Africa, protecting rich tourists from bandits and thieves,” he paused, changing the money to his other hand. “So, do you know where I can buy a gun, or not?”

  The man watched the money, transfixed on the thickness of the wad. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment, then smiled. “Yeah, I know where you can buy a gun.”

  ***

  Abdul Tembarak watched Alex King get into the vehicle, then frowned as the Indonesian climbed into the passenger seat and pointed to his left, directing him away from the building. King drove the Suzuki off of the worn grass verge and onto the narrow road, then gently accelerated along the bumpy dirt track, moving swiftly through the low ratio gearbox, until the vehicle was suddenly out of Tembarak’s view.

  Tembarak unexpectedly found himself at a loss. King was to hire the vehicle, then pick him up at the railway station. This, however, was not part of the plan. He had no idea of what action he should take, or whether he should take any at all. The Indonesian had been smiling and King had certainly seemed comfortable with the arrangement.

  Tembarak glanced around then decided to wait as he had been instructed. The light was getting low, darkness was a mere twenty minutes away and very soon he would find himself fighting off the attack of a thousand flesh-hungry mosquitoes, intent on vying for his blood. He shivered at the thought, then settled back against the knee-high wall which skirted the station, deciding to give the British ag
ent the benefit of the doubt. After all, he had nowhere else to go and he would surely stand a much better chance with the Englishman accompanying him than taking off on his own. Whichever way he looked at it he was a fugitive. The Indonesian Intelligence Service would never forgive him for taking the easy option and siding with General Soto, and the Indonesian General would be hunting him down for the deaths of his agents. MI6 would certainly think twice about using him in the future for setting up King at the airport. As Abdul Tembarak thought of all this, and of his imprisoned wife and child, he was suddenly very much aware that the future had never looked bleaker. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to make sense of it all and find a solution.

  He flinched as the warm metal of the pistol’s muzzle pressed hard against the nape of his neck. He heard the weapon’s hammer emit loud ‘click’ as it was cocked and then he realised that he had been wrong. Now the future had never looked bleaker.

  ***

  “Take this left,” the Indonesian pointed to the approaching track, then returned his hand to the handle on the dashboard in front of him.

  King nodded, keeping both hands firmly on the steering wheel, but not wrapping his thumbs underneath. He knew all too well from experience driving off road that the deep potholes could twist the front wheels in an instant, and snap the steering wheel violently around, dislocating his thumbs savagely. He glanced at the Indonesian as he heaved the heavy wheel round and turned into the narrow dirt track. “How far?” he asked, his mind turning to thoughts of Tembarak, waiting at the station.