Suddenly the prosecutor branded the young journalist a communist, which prompted the rear of the court to stir like a wasp’s nest. The bench called for order but the shout was ignored. The handful of police, there to protect the judges, eyed the crowd uneasily, knowing they hadn’t the numbers to stop the protests.
‘I don’t understand your country,’ Maxwell whispered.
‘Nor do I, and I’m Indonesian,’ Abdul grinned.
‘We’re in a police state, right? They’re going to gaol your friend to silence him, yet these guys behind us can come in here, shout the same stuff that he was writing, and get away with it! Make any sense to you?’
‘Easy. They want us to – how you say – let off steam?’ Abdul answered. His voice was almost girlish. ‘In this room we harmless, because no one dare report what we say outside the court.’
On the wall behind the judges hung a photograph of the president who’d had his way with this nation for over thirty years. Supported by the West as a bastion against communism, a man who’d used the development of the nation’s economy to fill his family’s coffers, Maxwell thought he saw a twinkle of amusement in those monochrome eyes. Let them shout, they seemed to say. Words can’t harm me.
‘What’s the point of all this, then?’ he asked, putting his mouth close to Abdul’s delicately formed ear. ‘Why do you guys bother to try to print stuff that’ll get you locked up?’
The noise in the packed chamber rose. The soft Malay-based language hardened into a bark. ‘Free the press! Free the press! No more gags!’
‘You won’t change things while he’s around,’ Maxwell bellowed, pointing at the picture of the president. ‘The man’s got a skin as thick as an elephant.’
Abdul held up a finger to stop him.
‘Yes …’ he shouted back. ‘But if you inject an elephant with a little poison each day, even he will become weak in the end …’
Maxwell smiled. It’d take a bigger syringe than the one these boys had. Yet he knew they were part of something bigger, a diffuse, disorganised democracy movement that was marshalling itself for the time when the ageing president gave up his hold on power. The regime was doing all it could to crush it. Hence this trial.
The sallow faces of the judges had the uneasy eyes of men administering laws they didn’t support. The accused was on his feet defending himself.
‘Free-dom! Free-dom!’ A new chant from the back of the court.
Maxwell saw strain on the judges’ faces, caught the uneasy glances between them. Not long now, he thought. The verdict came within minutes. Guilty. The sentence – two-and-a-half years. Long enough to stifle a voice of protest, short enough to limit the anger of the mob.
The court erupted. The judges slunk away.
Maxwell knew his own masters would be pleased with the outcome. Trade with this country would flourish best if little was said about the means by which it was secured.
‘Bad luck,’ he murmured, his mouth close to Abdul’s ear. ‘Lost another battle, but you can still win the war.’
Important to keep the boy sweet. Abdul was useful.
London – the News Channel newsroom
06.55 hrs
‘The re-write on the hospital … where the fuck is it?’
Tom Marples yelling, back from the gallery during a commercial break and haunted by the nightmare of a hole in his programme.
‘Shit! Sorry! It’s there! It’s there!’
Charlotte hammered her keyboard. She’d written the item but forgotten to save it.
Down at the Wickleigh Hospital, linked by satellite, political reporter Angus Addy was waiting to do his live-spot before interviewing nurses. Her script was the intro for the studio presenter.
Inside the narrow control gallery packed with monitors, Marples sat beside the technical director. Charlotte squeezed in behind them.
‘No probs?’ Marples checked.
‘Not yet,’ replied the director. ‘The Wickleigh bird’s up.’ He pointed to the monitor for Line 6 – Angus’s face in close-up, mouthing silently as he rehearsed his words.
Tom keyed the talkback override.
‘Hi, Angus. Hearing us OK?’
‘Hi, Tom. Yup. No worries.’ He pushed his earpiece in deeper. ‘I’ve got three interviewees beside me.’ The camera pulled out to show two middle-aged women and a young Asian man.
‘Great. We open on tape, then come to you live at about five minutes in.’
‘Fine.’
‘Thirty seconds!’ The director’s hands hovered over the start buttons for the tape machines.
Charlie found live-spots terrifying, whether out there as the reporter or here in the gallery. Always the risk of the link failing or a mind going blank.
‘Back on air!’
The title music rolled with the animated graphic of the station logo.
‘Good Morning. Welcome to Breakfast News …!’
In the studio two presenters, one male one female, chosen for their sexual chemistry, perched on stools at a fake breakfast bar.
‘First the main news stories …’
Little change from the last newsbelt half an hour before, except for a longer package on the health cuts.
‘Coming to you next, Angus,’ Marples warned.
‘And now for more on the health service cuts.’ The male presenter back in vision. ‘Our reporter Angus Addy is live at the Wickleigh Hospital in south London.’
‘Good morning …’
Addy was safely on air. Relief. Charlie watched his lips move, heard his soft lowlands drone, but didn’t take in his words. Angus was married with two young kids, but it didn’t stop her fancying him. Most men she fancied turned out to be married.
The director tapped her arm and she checked the interview captions on a preview monitor. She was impatient for the item to be over. Her stomach needed food and she wanted to start badgering the Foreign Office about their wandering minister.
Addy’s interview droned on. None of the nurses was strong.
‘Wind them up, Angus,’ said Tom Marples eventually.
Back to the breakfast bar. A suggestive line from the presenters linked into a long recorded item on swim-suits.
On the satfeed monitor Addy could be seen puffing his cheeks, relieved it was over. Charlie tried to guess from his face whether he’d had sex last night, a schoolgirl habit she’d never quite shaken off. Then the picture flickered and turned to ‘snow’. The circuit was cut.
Marples stood up and stretched.
‘Tit and bum time for our dear viewers,’ he announced. ‘Coffee time for me. Thanks Charlie.’
He squeezed past her into the corridor.
‘If it was men in Y-fronts he’d still be watching,’ quipped the director when Marples was gone.
‘Bitch,’ said Charlotte. She was about to follow Marples out when the line six satellite monitor began to flicker. The ‘snow’ had gone. Instead, colour-bars and a caption.
‘What the hell’s that?’ the director snapped.
Words on the screen. Flashing.
URGENT TO NEWS CHANNEL – ROLL TO RECORD.
‘We’re not expecting another feed, are we?’
‘No … no we’re not,’ Charlie answered, puzzled. Then she shivered. A weird feeling that something was about to happen. ‘Get a tape across it, quick!’
‘Must be a mistake …’
‘Or not. Get a tape running. Record the bloody thing!’ she yelled, angry at his inaction.
‘Tech Centre!’
‘Seen it. We’re recording line six.’
‘Good man.’
For thirty seconds the caption continued to flash, then the screen went to black. Two seconds later it was filled by a face. In the control room there was a communal gasp.
‘My God!’ Charlie choked. ‘It’s him! What’s happened?’
Stephen Bowen. A purple swelling on the left cheek. A cut on the jutting chin. Defeat in the usually confident eyes. Hair tousled, pale-blue shirt stained with blood.
The minister opened his mouth to speak, flinching as if it hurt to do so.
Charlie reached for the intercom.
‘Tom!’ Voice taut as a violin string.
‘Yes?’
‘Are you watching line six?’
A pause.
‘Am now. Who the fuck is it?’
‘Stephen Bowen!’
‘Chri-ist! Are you recording?’
‘Yes. Hang on, he’s saying something …’
‘I’m a prisoner. The people who have me say I’ll never be free again unless the British government stops selling weapons to Indonesia.’
Voice weak and stilted.
‘They say the equipment Britain’s selling will be used against people on the island of Kutu, who are being murdered and tortured by the Indonesian army, so that their homeland can be dug up for gold and copper.’
Not his, the words. Memorised and recited.
‘I will not be harmed so long as the British government tears up the arms contract that I signed last week and gets the United Nations to demand the full implementation of human rights in Indonesia.’
Bowen’s eyes flicked sideways as if for fresh instructions. Then he picked up a placard and held it across his chest.
STOP ARMS SALES TO THE INDONESIAN MURDERES it read. Then the picture went to snow.
‘Tom!’ Charlie screaming into the intercom. ‘You’re going to run that now, right?’
A moment’s pause. ‘Have to check it out first.’
‘What’s there to check?’ she seethed.
Marples was scared. Terrified of taking decisions. Always sought Sankey’s approval.
‘Tom, we’ve got this on our own. It’s a scoop! It’s news! We have to break into this swimsuit crap.’
On the station output a Baywatch blonde was removing the top half of her bikini.
‘Now, Tom!’ Charlie screamed. ‘I know the story. I’ll ad-lib it.’
‘OK,’ he conceded tensely. ‘I’m on my way. Get in the studio, Charlie.’
‘Tech centre!’ the director bellowed.
‘Cue it again from the top?’
‘You got it.’
‘And line up that clip reel I cut,’ said Charlie, turning in the doorway. ‘Listen for my words. I’ll make the cue clear.’
She sprinted through the newsroom, checking her top was free of coffee spills.
Mandy, bleary-eyed, was taking her coat off at the newsdesk, having arrived for the day shift. ‘Ring PA,’ Charlie shouted to her. ‘Tell them we’ve got an exclusive on Bowen and to watch us.’
She pushed through the thick door to the studio, trying to write a script in her head. She was handed an earpiece. Through it she heard Marples brief the presenters.
‘Coming to you in ten seconds, Charlie.’
She gave a thumbs up.
‘Tell us all you know! And good luck.’
The presenters took their cue.
‘We’re sorry to break into that swimsuit feature, just when things were getting interesting,’ the young man grinned, unable to change his style, ‘but we’ve got some fast breaking news that’s pretty sensational. The News Channel has just learned that the Foreign Office minister Stephen Bowen has been kidnapped. We’ve just received the first exclusive pictures of him, filmed by his captors. Our reporter Charlotte Cavendish is here to explain. She’s been following the story. Charlie? What can you tell us?’
She took her cue from the light on the camera.
‘For the past twenty-four hours there’s been a mystery about the whereabouts of Foreign Minister Stephen Bowen,’ she began, too excited to be nervous. ‘He didn’t return home at the weekend after a visit to Jakarta, where as these pictures show,’ – she glanced down at the monitor to check her clip reel was rolling – ‘he signed an agreement for Britain to sell Indonesia half a billion pounds’ worth of ships and submarines. He was due back in England at the end of last week, but he failed to turn up in his constituency for weekend meetings. The News Channel along with other media was asked by 10 Downing Street not to report the matter because, they said, his absence was due to personal problems. Well, just a few minutes ago, we discovered the real reason. Mr Bowen has been taken prisoner. His kidnappers have sent us these pictures of him by satellite.’
She heard the director cue the new tape.
‘As you can see, Mr Bowen has received facial injuries,’ she ad-libbed. ‘It appears he was forced to read this message from his captors.’
She stopped talking to let Bowen’s words come through.
‘Perfect.’ Marples’ voice in her ear. ‘We’ll come back to you out of the video for a comment on what you think it’s all about.’
Charlotte grimaced. What she knew about the human rights situation in Indonesia could be written on a postage stamp.
‘Cue Charlotte …’
‘As I said, the story has only just broken … We’ve no details yet as to how this happened … or where Mr Bowen’s being held …’ Her throat was beginning to dry. So was her mind. ‘But … British arms sales to Indonesia have provoked protests in this country and abroad for many years …’ she was floundering, ‘and last week demonstrators paraded outside Downing Street.’
‘Wind up, Charlie.’
‘We’ve no idea who’s responsible for the kidnap at this stage. It’s not clear the government knows either. A statement from the prime minister is expected soon. This is Charlotte Cavendish for the News Channel.’
The last line had been a guess. No idea what the PM would do. She turned to the presenter, who linked into the next item – Hollywood Diary.
She began to shake. The technician took her earpiece from her.
‘Terrific, doll,’ he mouthed.
Back in the newsroom – pandemonium. Mandy had a phone to each ear, puffy face taut and bewildered.
‘PA missed the start of the tape,’ she yelled, spotting Tom Marples racing in from the control gallery. ‘When are we running it again?’
‘In ten minutes. On the half hour.’
‘They’re asking can we give them a transcript?’
‘Oh yes,’ Marples mocked. ‘This place is crawling with bloody typists looking for something to do.’ He swept an arm round the still largely empty newsroom.
Charlie perched on his desk, scribbling notes.
‘We’ll do it as a sandwich again,’ he told her. ‘Top and tail in vision, but edit together the file footage and the kidnap stuff. Got time? Eight mins before you’re on air again.’
‘Can but try.’ She sprang to her feet.
‘Ad-lib the script again. You were brilliant.’
She sprinted for the booth, hoping a video-editor would be waiting with the tapes.
Jeremy was.
‘I thought you were doing the late shift today,’ she needled.
‘I am. But I knew you’d be here so I came in early.’
His doe-like gaze made her shudder.
‘Fine. Have you got the tapes?’
‘Clip reel and the hostage stuff.’
‘Stick down fifteen seconds of Bowen in Jakarta, and about ten of him with his wife. There’s pics from the last election. Then the kidnap shots. The whole thing.’
Jeremy started spooling. Charlotte grabbed the phone.
‘Mandy? Charlotte here. Who’ve you rung so far?’
‘No one. They’ve been ringing us. Foreign Office, police. The BBC, SKY and ITN. And Sankey on his car phone. He’s negotiating to let the opposition have the pics …’
‘But you’ve not rung the wife?’ Charlotte interrupted.
‘No.’
‘OK. I’ll do it.’ She rang off and scrabbled for the number, then dialled again.
Engaged. ‘Damn!’ Should have rung her immediately. Not enough hands, that was the News Channel’s problem. She dialled again. Still busy.
She logged on to the edit-booth terminal and checked the PA wires. Still in the ‘flash’ phase – one-liners updating the story as it unravelled.
She che
cked her watch. On air in three minutes.
‘Three mins, Jer.’
‘It’ll be there.’
The computer beeped to warn of a new PA flash. She hit the keys.
News of the minister’s kidnap was broken to his wife by the Press Association. Mrs Sally Bowen, aged 42, said she was deeply shocked. She’d not seen the TV pictures which so far have only been shown on the News Channel cable network. ‘My husband’s been missing since the end of last week,’ she said, ‘but as far as I know, neither the police nor the government had any idea he’d been kidnapped.’
‘Great!’ said Charlotte. Another line for her piece. ‘I’m going to the studio. Tape ready?’
‘No prob.’ Jeremy pressed the eject key.
As she pushed into the studio, she saw Ted Sankey, red-faced with excitement, march into the newsroom in his white trench coat, his mobile phone to his ear.
Four
Scotland Yard
07.37 hrs
WHEN NICK RANDALL arrived in the almost empty Ops Room, the phones were flashing like Christmas, the duty manager struggling to answer them. Randall had just spent forty minutes on the tube from Wimbledon, unaware of what had happened.
Chris jabbed a finger towards the SIO’s office. Mostyn’s door was open. Randall barged straight in.
‘What’s up, sir?’
‘Just missed it. Video of him.’ He pointed at a TV in the corner. On it a keep-fit girl was doing hip bends.
‘Video of who?’
‘Of a duffed-up Stephen Bowen. On the News Channel.’
‘Christ!’
‘The effin’ wheels have come right off this one, son. Kidnapped.’
‘I don’t believe it …’
Nick gawped at the set as Mostyn filled him in. A caption flashed at the bottom of the screen – Next news update in four minutes. Mostyn pushed heavy-framed reading glasses on to his nose to decipher a phone number.
‘The duty sergeant’s rung the TV company,’ he said, ‘but it was all hysterical girls. Goin’ to see if I can find someone sensible.’
He dialled the News Channel.
Randall’s mind, never at its best first thing, began to think of lines of investigation. He remembered the well-meaning types he’d photographed protesting outside Downing Street last week. The worst any of them had done was break into an aircraft factory and smash up a fighter bound for Indonesia. It’d be a quantum leap to go in for kidnapping. Need to check his photos though. In case he’d missed some tougher nuts.
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