by A P Bateman
He could only guess at their intentions. They could be security forces, or the police, or even General Soto’s own intelligence agents out to seek revenge. Either way, he had to get off the road if he was to avoid capture. He watched the road layout ahead then noticed a narrow sandy lane which broke off to the left.
It would be tight, the lane veered off at a right angle. He slowed the bike by shifting down a gear then swung out erratically to the right. Judging it to the last possible second King leaned hard to the left and veered straight in front of the gaining vehicle. The Nissan’s brakes momentarily locked and there was a shriek as the tyres skidded on the dry tarmac, ploughing past the turning before it came to a halt.
The sand was deep and the sudden reduction in speed as he slewed over the soft surface almost threw him out of the saddle. He changed down through the gears, steadied the motorcycle and then accelerated along the narrow lane towards the glimmer of sea which darted between the trees ahead. The Nissan reversed, crunched its gears noisily, then drove into the sandy lane and thundered towards him, gaining distance by the second. King glanced in his mirror and caught a glimpse of the huge metal grill, which was rapidly approaching. He turned his attention ahead of him once more, then noticed the sudden widening as the lane opened out into a turning spot and the picturesque beach which lay beyond. He kept accelerating towards the sea and then at the last moment, leaned to his right and hit the rear brake with his foot. The motorcycle skidded into a wide arc, then spun around almost one hundred and eighty degrees. He changed down a gear, then started to accelerate towards the Nissan as the driver fought for control on the soft sand.
There was little time and certainly no room for mistakes as King reached behind his back and pulled the tiny 9mm pistol he’d taken from Sixties Rocker from the waistband of his shorts. He kept the bike in second gear despite the whining protest from the over-revved engine, then brought the pistol up to aim as he gently steered towards the left, out of the oncoming vehicle’s path.
The expression on the driver’s face was one of pure shock, even bemusement but it did not bother King as he squeezed the trigger, he had seen the look a dozen times before.
The bullet smashed through the windscreen, and slammed into the middle of the driver’s chest. He slumped against the steering wheel, then leaned to his left, steering the vehicle away from the turning area and into the thick belt of trees.
King struggled to steer the motorcycle with his left hand but succumbed to fate or inevitability as the front wheel entered a thick tyre rut and wobbled uncontrollably in the deep sand. He plummeted forwards as the bike halted and he was thrown gracelessly from the saddle. He landed flat on his stomach and slid through the sand then as he slowed inertia threw his legs in the air and he rolled over and over, coming to an undignified halt against a fallen tree.
Dazed and somewhat confused, he slowly came to his senses, then realised that he was under fire. The sand blew in his face, as someone fired erratic, but rapid shots at him through the shattered rear window of the Nissan. He dived to his left throwing himself flat to the ground, quickly reducing his target profile, then brought the pistol up to aim, but paused, his training kicking in. He quickly ejected the magazine into his hand, pulled back the slide, keeping the barrel facing downwards. Already sand was coming out of the barrel. Another shot hit the ground near him, followed by two more ever closer. King blew into the breach, cleared the debris as well as he could under duress and inserted the magazine again. He knew that the sand could have caused the bullet to block the barrel resulting in a blowback which could even have blown the gun apart, taking his hand with it. He aimed carefully and fired. The bullet hit the middle of the door and King heard the open window smash within the door. The seated gunman slumped and King followed it up with another shot for good measure.
King pushed himself to his feet, this time feeling a twinge in his ribs. He had injured himself in the crash, but only now was the pain starting to kick in. He ran forwards, keeping his pistol trained on the figure in the passenger seat. The man struggled to open his door, but the vehicle had halted beside a tree and it was never going to open. He was bleeding from his forehead, and when he looked up into King’s eyes, his expression lost all hope.
“Get your hands up!” King shouted, ramming the pistol into the man’s face, as he leaned across the dead man in the driver’s seat. “Keep still!” He scoured the vehicle for the man’s weapon, then noticed a small Smith and Wesson .38 snub nosed revolver in the foot well. He couldn’t reach it, but he knew where it was. “All right, who the fuck are you?”
The man started to shake. “Pulaki,” he paused. “Trunyan Pulaki.”
King stared at him, then tightened his finger on the weapon’s sensitive trigger. “Why were you following me?” He sighted the pistol at the man’s forehead. “Don’t bullshit me, tell me why!”
“Bullshit?” the man frowned. “I...”
“I mean lie to me!” King growled. “Why were you following me?”
The man bowed his head. “We were going to rob you…”
“Crap! Three men, armed with guns and driving a flash car, do not rob tourists on motorbikes!” King stared at him coldly. “I’m a westerner on my own, dressed for the beach, and obviously carrying little in the way of money or valuables. Now, tell me, why were you really following me?”
The man looked at him pleadingly. “Please, don’t kill me!” He shook his head and sobbed. “I wasn’t going to kill you,” he glanced at the dead man, slumped across the rear seats. “He was. I was just riding as back-up.”
“So who hired you?” King asked through clenched teeth. “Who wanted me dead?”
“I don’t know, we never know who wants the person…” he trailed off, started to sob. “We usually beat people up, scare them. I’ve never killed anybody before. These two have,” he nodded to the two corpses. “We were just given your details and told to do it.”
It all sounded vaguely familiar...
“And what details were those?” King asked.
The man nodded towards the photograph, which had slipped down beside the driver’s feet. “We were told that you would be leaving from Denpasar airport and that you had to confirm your tickets at the Qantas office in Sanur. We have been watching for four days…” He shook his head. “Please, spare me, I have a wife and four children to support!”
King reached down and picked up the photograph, then slowly turned it over in his hand. The sight shocked him to the core, sending his heart into a rapid flutter. He stared at the man in shock. “Where the Hell did you get this?”
“It was emailed to him…” he motioned towards the body behind the wheel. “… I don’t know who, or why, or anything!”
King glanced back at the photograph. He was sweating profusely, but strangely it had nothing to do with the heat. He looked down and noticed his hand had started to shake visibly. Enough to waft the photograph as if it were held in a breeze. The man named Pulaki noticed this too and foolishly went for the revolver in the foot well. King fired, too close to bother aiming. The bullet sliced cleanly through the side of the man’s neck, and he fell back against his seat starting to convulse violently. He couldn’t breathe and both hands clamped the wound as he attempted to stop the rapid flow of blood, which made breathing even more impossible. He looked hatefully at King as he died, but King was staring only at the photograph.
King felt a wave of nausea wash over him. His legs felt as if they would give way, and he quickly caught hold of the vehicle’s wing mirror to steady himself. He could never remember having felt this way before. He forced himself to stand upright, then started to breathe deeply in an effort to control his emotions. It couldn’t be true, but where else would this hit-team have gotten the picture of him? He forced himself to look at his official SIS/MI6 service photograph once more, but it was no good. Another wave of nausea washed over him, threatening to drown him at any moment.
82
The night air offered little in t
he way of relief from the heat, as the humidity rose dramatically, soaking the shirt to his back. He sipped another mouthful of cold beer, then watched a large trickle of condensation run down the frosted glass into a pool on the heavily stained wooden table. His mind was racing, but he felt safer in the bar than in the solitude of his own single room. There is truth in the old adage about safety in numbers. Outside, the streets swarmed with tourists, all intent upon a good night out. The music from various bars amalgamated into a constant, monotonous drone and the sound of car, motorcycle and scooter engines emitted a vibrant hum through the wooden floorboards of the building. Here, he was merely another face, another single traveler relaxing after a hard day at the beach.
King knew what he had to do, although it seemed that if he did, and he did not like the outcome, then he was truly out in the cold, abandoned. He picked up the bottle and downed the remnants in one huge gulp. The telephone centre was directly opposite the bar and now that the group of German tourists had left the building, there were two empty booths clearly in view. The telephone centre was of its time, King wondered how long it would last. Most people had mobile phones but in Indonesia data roaming was still expensive and the signal could vary greatly. Many Indonesians used the exchange, but its low rates kept the long-term tourists with a cheaper option. He slammed the empty bottle decisively on the table, picked up his sports bag and walked across the busy street.
The attractive Indonesian woman looked up expectantly at King as he entered, then smiled, baring a set of oversized white teeth, shattering the initial illusion of beauty. King returned the smile, unfazed. He had considerations of a higher priority than the woman’s dentition. He glanced up at the multilingual tariff, then looked back at her. “I want to call England.”
She nodded silently, then slid a piece of laminated card across the counter. The card offered ten of Britain’s major area codes, but King ignored the information. “No, it’s okay I have the codes that I need.”
The woman smiled, then silently pointed to the booth ahead of him. King guessed that the woman could speak little or no English and returned her smile as he crossed to the telephone. He opened the glass door and dropped his sports bag inside then stepped in, closing the door carefully behind him. The booth was a tight fit for his frame and King felt a wave of heat engulf him, almost drenching his clothes in an instant. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then picked up the receiver and dialed the number from memory, remembering to leave off the ‘O’ on the area code after dialing the international code.
The dial tone rang for a moment and was then answered by the polite, but somewhat irritating voice of a bored secretary. “Good morning, Callington and Co. Solicitors, Marcia speaking. How can I help you?”
“Err, hello,” King paused, suddenly not knowing where to start. “Could I speak to Mister Callington please?”
“I’ll see if he is free,” there was a short pause, and then, “Who may I say is calling?”
King hesitated. He knew that the solicitor had been dubious about taking on the security blanket and had always made it clear that although he would act accordingly, should the necessity arise, he never wanted to know the details personally. He tensed as he spoke. “Alex King,” he paused. “I’m calling from abroad and would appreciate a quick word, if he has the time.”
“Oh, Mister King!” the secretary exclaimed. “I’ll put you straight through, Mister Callington said to give your call priority.”
King tensed, his heart starting to flutter. His pulse raced and he felt another wave of nausea wash over him, taking his mind back to the damning photograph and the failed assassination attempt. Once more he wiped his brow, now streaming with perspiration.
“Mister King, are you all right?” the man’s deep voice was genuinely concerned.
“Yes, fine.” King paused. “Is there a problem?”
Callington hesitated for a moment too long. “There most certainly is,” he paused. “Your, err ... documents have been stolen. I’m terribly sorry, but we were broken into last week. The burglars by-passed our security system, but only took your files.” King felt sick. He was alone. “Mister King, are you still there?” Callington asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m dreadfully sorry. I know that you are involved in sensitive work, so I haven’t contacted the police yet. Do you want me to report the crime? Nothing else was taken, and there has been little damage to our premises, so I waited to see if I would hear from you.”
“Thank you,” King replied distantly. He wiped his brow again, then tried as best he could to pull himself together. “No. No, I don’t want the police involved, thank you. I’m sorry that you were burgled…” he paused, but could think of nothing more to say.
He felt cutoff by the tide. Doomed to drowning in a hostile sea. There was nobody who could help him, nobody to throw him a lifeline. His security blanket had been lifted and he knew who was behind it. Donald McCullum was in line for the position of Director and he could not afford dirt on his hands. He was no fan of Alex King. He would have given the order months ago and the lifting would have been simultaneous. It would be no use lifting a few files, then searching for another location. King had scattered the files and documents for that very reason. MI6 would have records of all his contracts, and once they had located all the components of his security blanket and matched them accordingly, only then would the files be lifted.
The photograph. That was what really twisted the knife. His official SIS photograph. Circulated to diplomats in every British embassy throughout the world, it was his passport to sanctuary within a hostile country. And now, that very photograph had been used to mark him out for slaughter. To give a hit-team a positive ID of their intended target. From the hunter to the hunted with one email.
Alex King was not going to remain the hunted for long. He was the hunter, he was the killer, not the victim. The SIS had taught him well. The instructors had taught him everything they knew, but not everything that he knew. He had been trained to enter and exit countries without a trace. To raise sufficient funds in a crisis. To kill without mercy. To live by his wits. To stay alive. None of this had changed and none of it would. He wiped the sweat from his brow, took in a deep, calming breath, then reached for the telephone receiver once more.
83
The night air was suddenly biting cold, a sure signal that the mildness of autumn was giving way to winter chill. The willows swayed in the wind and somewhere in the distance a gate swung wildly on its rusted hinges, whining out into the night-time silence.
Charles Bryant watched the lights of the traffic moving in the distance. Progress seemed to be slow, as it always is in the city, and every now and then a horn would sound as a driver grew impatient.
He thought of the dense traffic in Jakarta, then smiled at the comparison. Road rage was now less of a phenomenon in Britain and becoming the norm. The result of people’s irrationality and inability to cope with pressure. Someone would sound a horn, another would retaliate and a confrontation would follow. In Jakarta there were so many horns sounding at once that nobody could retaliate even if they tried. Bryant had worked in Indonesia’s capital for many years and had travelled through the myriad streets each and every day but had not once witnessed a bout of road rage. If people came to accept that traffic within the city is slow by nature and if the same people used their horns to let off steam more frequently, would road rage become a thing of the past?
A sudden gust of icy wind cut through his body and he shivered involuntarily, now acutely aware that his suit wasn’t up to the task. It had become a habit over the years simply to leave his house or office without thinking of what he was to wear. All too often, he found that he was indeed over-dressed, and started to perspire as soon as he stepped into the outside air. Even the lightweight linen suits which he had tailored for him in Jakarta were outrageously hot for wear in the streets and he had adopted, as many expatriates do, a pattern of life which ensured he spent much of his time u
nder air conditioning ducts. Bars and restaurants were useful for meetings because the best places were air conditioned and golf courses where he could be attired in polo shirts and tailored shorts, allowed him respite from a suit.
A beam of light suddenly strafed a pathway across the dark common, illuminating him against the dark backdrop of trees and he found himself squinting as the car pulled to a halt on the narrow roadway some fifty metres or so distant. Bryant strained to see against the powerful lights but gave up, as they remained on full beam. The engine died and the lights disappeared, leaving Bryant with two yellow after images burned onto his retinas. He cursed out loud, rubbed his eyes for a second or two and then looked back towards the vehicle, as he heard a solid-sounding door close.
The car was a silver Audi A6 saloon. There was a figure moving in the dark and as Bryant squinted in the infuriating blackness, he suddenly felt extremely uneasy with the situation. He watched the figure move silently towards him then suddenly recalled hearing somewhere that the park was a renowned meeting place for homosexuals on the lookout for casual sex.
“Sands?” Bryant called out meekly, finding himself a little intimidated at the approaching figure. “Is that you Sandy?”
“Don’t worry yourself Charles,” Sandy paused. “Friend, not foe…” He walked decisively towards him and sat down beside him on the wooden bench. “Sorry I’m a tad late, business matters and all that.”
Bryant nodded knowingly. “I’m not bothered about you being late Sandy, I never trust someone who is always on time anyway. What I am pissed off about, is this godforsaken meeting place. For Christ’s sake, haven’t you heard of hotel bars, or pubs?”
“I have,” he stated flatly. “But, as I mentioned earlier, I had business in the area and have very limited time. I must be back at the office within the hour.” He swept his hand towards the distant glow of lights. “And I think that little lot out there is self-explanatory. Bloody traffic…”
