Java Spider

by Geoffrey Archer

  ‘Who’s in charge, love?’ Mostyn asked, when the operator answered. ‘Scotland Yard Security Group here.’

  Nick looked at the DCI’s polyester tie. Worn the same one every day since he could remember, dark and greasy round the knot.

  ‘Mr Sankey? Detective Chief Inspector Mostyn here, Scotland Yard.’ Suddenly Mostyn bristled. ‘Well, I suppose you could say we’ve been caught a bit on the hop, yes – but, er, that’s certainly off the record. Now, where’d these pictures of Minister Bowen come from?’

  Mostyn frowned in concentration as Sankey explained.

  ‘Got any idea where it was being beamed from?’ He listened. ‘Europe … Couldn’t be Indonesia?’

  More explanations. He shook his head.

  Randall glanced back at the screen. Pelvic thrusts for a better sex life. He had cable at home and was familiar with the News Channel’s style.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Mostyn, ‘if I send one of my blokes round, can you give him a copy of the tape and answer his questions?’

  Mostyn pointed at Nick.

  ‘Wendover Street? Fine. It’s a Detective Sergeant Randall. Round in twenty minutes. Thank you, Mr Sankey.’

  He banged down the phone.

  ‘Cocky bugger,’ he growled. ‘Says the pictures of Bowen were beamed to a satellite from Europe but can’t tell where exactly. You’ll have to check it. Hang on …’ He swung towards the TV and turned up the volume. ‘They’re running it again.’

  Nick recognised the blonde girl reporter. Remembered her chocolate brown eyes and nice mouth. Wouldn’t kick her out of bed. Today she looked flustered, panicky. He forced himself to concentrate on what she was saying, then Bowen’s bruised face came on.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ He sucked his teeth and listened to the minister’s shaky statement. Kutu? Have to get the map out.

  Then the girl spoke again.

  ‘… a question the government is sure to be asked is how the whereabouts of a Foreign Office minister can be unknown for the best part of a week, without the alarm being raised. This is Charlotte Cavendish for the News Channel.’

  ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself, chuck,’ Randall breathed.

  ‘SIS must be shitting themselves,’ Mostyn mumbled, glad it wasn’t the Yard that was responsible for ministers’ security abroad. ‘Right … Here’s the address. Get on over there, collect the tape and find out what they’re not telling us. And remember. I’ve morning prayers at nine thirty. I’ll want a report before then.’

  Jakarta

  14.45 hrs (07.45 hrs GMT)

  Harry Maxwell stared at the wall clock, his feet on his desk. Lunch today had been Chinese, collected by his secretary from the Happy Times Food Court in the mall opposite the British embassy.

  The representative of the Secret Intelligence Service was wrestling with a complex mental calculation. Had he time to get across town to the Sporting Club for a much-needed hour on the exercise machines before his routine chat with the ambassador at the end of the afternoon? The mick factor was the traffic. With the rains as they were, you could sit for an hour without moving.

  He’d just plumped for giving it a try, when the phone rang, the encrypted line from SIS headquarters at Vauxhall Cross.

  ‘Harry, it’s Philip Vereker.’

  Maxwell swung his feet to the floor. Vereker ran the southeast Asia desk. Ringing at this hour meant trouble.

  ‘Good afternoon, Philip,’ he answered respectfully.

  ‘Seven thirty in the morning here, in case you’ve forgotten, and we’ve just been sucker-punched.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Stephen Bowen’s been kidnapped.’

  ‘What!’ Inside his large frame Maxwell cowered.

  ‘On your patch, Harry, by the look of it. The kidnappers beamed a tape of him to a TV station in London half an hour ago. It’s been on the air twice already. They’ve beaten him up and forced him to spout some stuff about cancelling the arms contract.’

  ‘Mother of Mercy! Do we know who they are?’

  ‘No. But Bowen mentioned Kutu. Said the arms would be used to crush the rebels.’

  ‘That’s crap. This contract’s for submarines and patrol boats, not rifles and electric shock batons.’

  ‘The point is, Harry, where the hell is he, and why don’t you bloody know?’

  ‘Bowen insisted, Philip,’ Maxwell whined. ‘Refused point blank to say where he was going or what he was doing. As soon as the last official engagement was over, that was it. Didn’t want to know us any more. Said his official duties were finished and he was taking some leave. Told us to bugger off and leave him alone. Nothing we could do about it.’

  ‘Except keep an eye on him.’

  ‘But there’s only me here,’ Maxwell protested. ‘I couldn’t tail him.’

  ‘The Indonesians must know where he went.’

  ‘Maybe. I’ll ask.’

  ‘Report progress in half an hour. I’ve been summoned to see the foreign secretary at nine.’

  The line clicked off. Half an hour was ridiculous. Could take him days to get information in a country like this. He pushed the intercom button. A click from the speaker as his secretary answered.

  ‘Brigadier General Effendi,’ he told her. ‘POLRI Intelligence. You’ve got his number. See if you can get him on the line Vera, there’s a dear. Oh, and it’s bloody urgent.’

  ‘Right-ho.’

  Then the internal phone rang, the ambassador’s secretary summoning him. The Sporting Club would have to wait.

  London – The News Channel

  7.55 hrs

  ‘Downing Street!’

  Someone held out a receiver and Ted Sankey grabbed it. Crisp cream shirt, silk tie, very much in charge.

  ‘Yes, Gordon.’ The editor recognised the voice of the PM’s spokesman. An old friend from Fleet Street days. ‘I’ve no idea why the kidnappers picked the News Channel, chum. Good taste presumably … No, we won’t stop running the pictures. In fact we’re making them available to everyone from eight thirty. BBC, ITN, the lot. Now, when do we get a reaction from the PM?’

  He covered the mouthpiece.

  ‘Mandy. Is Angus linked up at Downing Street yet?’

  ‘Five more minutes,’ she snapped, taking another call.

  He took his hand from the phone. ‘Gordon mate, get him out in the street in fifteen minutes, will you? What? Why not? Well what about a quote from you? OK, OK. But make sure you come back to us first.’

  He listened for a moment then handed the phone to an outstretched hand. He saw Charlotte heading towards him.

  ‘Well done, girl. You’re a fucking star, know that?’ He stood up and put an arm round her shoulders.

  ‘Can we talk?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. Come into my parlour …’

  She followed him into his office and Sankey closed the door.

  ‘If you’re after a pay rise you’ll have to sleep with me first,’ he smirked. Sankey’s sexist jokes always sounded uncomfortably earnest. ‘I tell you, Charl, this story is manna from heaven. Fucking manna! Every TV outlet in Britain’s going to run those pictures today, and each time there’ll be a mench of the News Channel. That’s the deal. I tell you, money can’t buy that sort of publicity!’

  ‘Ted … you’re right. We got lucky. A head start. But if we don’t move fast we’ll be trampled underfoot by the big boys.’ She was talking with the excess confidence of someone overdosing on adrenalin. ‘And there’s only one place to cover this story properly, Ted. Indonesia. I want you to send me …’

  A patronising smile flitted across Sankey’s lips. The girl was talking Chinese. Overseas coverage by the Channel’s own staff was strictly prohibited on grounds of cost. Foreign news was bought from agencies, unless it was dirt cheap to cover like a day trip to Calais.

  ‘That’s not on, Charlie,’ he said gently. ‘You know that. We’re not in their league. No way we can compete on coverage with the BBC. We only win when we get a lucky break – like this on
e.’

  ‘We can compete, Ted. We’re a sleek, lean machine – you’re always saying it. We can do things much more cheaply than the big boys.’

  Sankey shook his head. Charlie grabbed his arms, the closest to an act of intimacy with him she ever wanted to come.

  ‘At least let me check it out,’ she pleaded, eyes burning with ambition. ‘I’ll do a costing for you.’

  Sankey understood. The girl saw the Bowen story as a career breakthrough. He’d been there himself, wanted to help, but he knew that a request for a special budget for the Bowen story stood as much chance of flying as a chocolate aeroplane.

  ‘Look girl, it’s the story I need you to check out, not some fancy trip to the South Pacific.’

  She backed off. Not the right time, obviously. Only one thing on Sankey’s mind right now – how to milk their windfall for publicity.

  ‘I’ll crack on then.’ She made for the door.

  ‘Oh, tell you what,’ said Sankey, remembering he was about to get a visit from the police. ‘Send one of the techies in, would you? Need a bit of camera work done.’ Then with a twinkle in his eye he said, ‘Your mate Jeremy would do.’

  Her mate! Suddenly Charlie wondered if it was Sankey himself who’d sent her the e-mail message branding Jeremy a trainspotter.

  Ten minutes later Nick Randall pushed through the glass doors of the News Channel. Days like this gave him a buzz. A new case breaking. Newsmen must feel the same buzz. But that was all he and journalists had in common. To him, this was enemy territory he was entering.

  Journalism and his line of policework didn’t mix. His job was undercover. A nocturnal world of moles. The newsmen’s was to flash lights around and turn night into day.

  Sankey’s secretary led him through the newsroom. The atmosphere was electric. Felt close to flashpoint. A dozen young people on the phone or pounding keyboards. He glanced about, taking it all in, doing a double take when he spotted Charlotte Cavendish. Surprised to see her tucked into a workspace as small as the rest, chewing a fingernail. Less glamorous than on the box.

  Then he spotted the camcorder filming him as he walked through, zooming into his face. Anger welled as he was shown into the editor’s office.

  ‘That is out of order,’ he snapped, refusing Sankey’s outstretched hand and pointing back to the newsroom. ‘No pictures of me, right?’ He closed the door to block the cameraman’s view.

  ‘What d’you mean, sergeant?’ Sankey flushed. It was his idea to film the police on the premises and show the viewers the News Channel was in the thick of things.

  ‘I want the tape wiped,’ Randall snapped, ‘while I watch …’

  ‘Now hang on a minute …’ Sankey bristled. ‘This is my newsroom. You can’t tell me what to do.’

  ‘And this …’ Nick jabbed a finger at his own forehead, ‘this is my face. My life depends on people not knowing it belongs to a police officer. Understand?’

  His grey eyes were pebble hard.

  Sankey got the message. His face turned an unhealthy shade of pink.

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry. I’ll make sure it’s not used, OK?’

  ‘No, not OK, friend,’ Nick growled, riled at being thought wet behind the ears. ‘I want it wiped. In my presence. Here and now.’

  Sankey flushed deeper. He felt like a schoolkid caught exam cheating.

  ‘OK, sergeant …’ He leaned into the newsroom. ‘Jeremy! In here please. With the gear.’

  Charlotte looked up from her screen and watched her soon-to-be-ex lover lug the camera into the editor’s office. Something was up. Sankey gone over the top. Through the Venetian blinds she saw him standing hands on hips and the detective with his arms folded. The visitor was wiry and tough, she noted – like a border terrier – and he looked strangely uncomfortable in a suit.

  Back to work. She dialled the Foreign Office in the hope of a statement before her next studio spot.

  Inside the editor’s office, once the tape was wiped to his satisfaction, Randall accepted a cup of tea as a peace offering.

  ‘You seem to know about cameras,’ Sankey remarked, subdued.

  ‘We do use them,’ Nick answered tartly.

  ‘Of course, of course … OK. Let’s get on. I’m busy. First I’ll explain how we operate.’ Sankey leaned back against the springs of the chair. ‘We’re a low budget outfit. Most of our output is agency material which we repackage. But in London we shoot our own stuff and do regular reporter live-spots. To link those in, we rent blocks of time on a satellite – Eutelsat, one of the birds over Europe. Half-hour blocks, three times a day when the main bulletins are on. With me so far?’

  Nick nodded.

  ‘This morning’s booked time was between seven and seven thirty. At five past we had a spot from a reporter at the Wickleigh Hospital. With him was a cameraman and what we call a “flyaway”, that’s a mobile uplink to the satellite. A dish a metre wide, several boxes of clever stuff and a generator to provide power. All fits into the back of an estate car.’

  ‘Easy to set up?’ Nick asked. The kidnappers would be using such equipment.

  ‘A doddle. So I’m told. Never done it myself. Anyway, this morning with the live-spot over they switched off the flyaway, so there was nothing going up to the satellite, right? Anybody tuned to that transponder would just see shush on the screen. Snow. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘And that’s what they saw here, in the control room. But only for a few seconds. Then instead of the shush, they got new images. Not from our dish, but someone else’s. Colour bars and a caption.’

  ‘But they couldn’t tell where it was coming from?’

  ‘No. A flyaway doesn’t tell the satellite where it is. Whoever broke on to our bird could have been anywhere within its footprint. And that’s basically the whole of Europe.’

  ‘I see.’

  Useless, Randall realised. Bowen could be anywhere. Here in Europe or still in Indonesia with the satellite uplink feeding taped pictures of him. Good way to preserve the kidnappers’ anonymity. But elaborate.

  ‘I’d like to see the tape again,’ he said. In case there was something he’d missed.

  ‘Of course.’

  Walking back through the newsroom, it reminded him of an incident room at the Yard. Screens, phones, lots of heads down. The big difference here was women. Loads of them in the news business. In Special Branch they were still taboo.

  He sat in an edit suite watching the screens.

  ‘This is exactly how the pictures came in,’ Jeremy explained.

  The terror in the minister’s eyes hit him harder than ever in the darkened booth. Randall had seen it before, that look. In a hut in Malaysia many, many years ago. The expression of a man who’d gambled and lost.

  ‘Hold that last frame could you?’

  The video froze on the placard resting against the minister’s chest, with the word MURDERES.

  ‘Can’t spell,’ said Sankey. ‘Suppose it shows the kidnappers aren’t English.’

  ‘Or else they went to the same school as my daughter,’ Randall growled. ‘Can I have a copy of this?’

  ‘I’ll do it now. Beta SP?’ asked Jeremy.

  ‘Perfect.’

  He slipped a blank into the record machine and dubbed the material across.

  As they passed back through the newsroom, Charlotte Cavendish was checking her hair for the studio with a small mirror from her bag.

  Once in Sankey’s office, Randall turned to him, a new question looming in his head. ‘Why’d the kidnappers pick the News Channel?’ he asked. ‘Why not the BBC? I mean in the news business you’re small fry.’

  ‘True. And it’s a question I’ve asked myself. The only thing I can think of is that there’s a monthly publication that lists the permanent satellite bookings. If the kidnappers are foreign, maybe they just saw the name News Channel in the book and thought it sounded right.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Randall wasn’t convinced. ‘Any oddballs on your staff?’ />
  Sankey laughed. ‘This is TV. They’re all fucking oddballs! What d’you mean?’

  ‘Just that the criminals might have chosen you because they have a contact here. Somebody on your staff. If your personnel department can let me have a list, we’ll check if there’s a name known to us.’

  Sankey arched his brows. ‘Well … fine. We’ll bike it over to you later.’ The monitor on his desk caught his attention. ‘Aha! We’re on again.’

  He grabbed the remote and wound up the sound.

  Charlotte in vision linking into the video of Bowen, the pictures as shocking as ever. Then the scene changed to a drizzly Downing Street and men with umbrellas.

  ‘A few minutes ago, grim-faced members of the cabinet began converging on Number 10. The foreign secretary was first in, but he refused any comment about the fate of his junior minister.’

  Charlotte again in the studio, her face confident, her voice excited but under control.

  ‘As of now the mystery of where Stephen Bowen was at the time of the kidnap has not been solved. The Foreign Office says simply he was on leave somewhere in the far east.

  ‘It was the News Channel that broke this extraordinary and sensational story to the world this morning. Throughout the next twenty-four hours, and every twenty-four hours, we on this channel will keep you up to date with the latest developments as they occur. This is Charlotte Cavendish for the News Channel.’

  ‘Bloody good stuff,’ growled Sankey, thumping the desk. He turned down the sound. ‘The girl’s got class. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Definitely,’ Nick smiled. ‘Pity about the looks.’

  ‘Eh?’

  Then Sankey chuckled. ‘Yeah. You can go a long way in this business with blonde hair and eyes like limpets.’

  Randall got up to leave. His gut feeling was that Bowen was a long, long way from London. Solving the crime would be down to the police in whichever country the poor bugger was being held. Another day or two of faffing around covering their arses, then his guvnors at the Yard would appoint a liaison team – men with degrees – to work with the foreign force, and he’d be allowed to get back to his Revenue Men. Which would suit him just fine.