Java Spider

by Geoffrey Archer

  As the plane began to taxi he turned and leaned towards her.

  ‘Truth is we still don’t know where Bowen is,’ he confided, speaking in a voice just above a whisper. ‘But that’s between you and me.’

  ‘I see. But they’ve sent you to try to find him?’

  Gently, gently. Play it down.

  ‘Big place, the south Pacific. I’m just a little cog in a very big, very complicated machine.’

  ‘But if they’re sending someone like you undercover to Kutu, there’ll be a good reason for it …’ she persisted, whispering.

  Sure there was a reason. Called Assistant Commissioner Stanley. Whether it was a good one remained to be seen. He didn’t answer.

  ‘Look, I realise there are things you can’t tell me …’ she added, oozing understanding. The engines began to roar. ‘Oh I h-hate this part,’ she stuttered, gripping the armrests.

  The 747 careened down the runway and lurched into the air, heavy with fuel and a full passenger load. As it banked for the turn to the southeast, the lights of Singapore’s harbour and business district disappeared beneath cloud. When the wings levelled, Charlotte relaxed again.

  ‘Take-offs and landings,’ she explained. ‘I’m fine with the middle bit.’

  ‘Hold my hand if it helps,’ he offered, winking again.

  She lifted one eyebrow.

  ‘Been out this way before?’ he asked, trying to sound chatty.

  ‘No. I’ve been nowhere,’ she confessed.

  ‘Big break for you then?’

  ‘Yup,’ she gulped, her anxiety boomeranging back. ‘For me and for the News Channel. We’re a bucket-shop news station. Everything done on the cheap. Foreign news, if we ever cover it, is something we buy from agencies. Until today the very idea of sending a reporter to the other side of the world was unheard of. They had to call an emergency board meeting to authorise the money for my air fare.’

  She saw his look of disbelief.

  ‘It’s true! They’ve set a daily limit on how much I spend. If I exceed it, the accountants will pull me out.’ She laughed. ‘Not a problem you have, I imagine. Taxpayers’ money. No expense spared. By the way, are you going to Kutu, or just Darwin?’ She answered her own question. ‘Kutu, obviously. You’ll work with the Indonesian police.’

  ‘That depends,’ he mumbled. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘But you are going to Kutu?’

  ‘That’s the idea. What about you? On your own? No camera crew? Don’t tell me the News Channel couldn’t afford to send one?’

  ‘That’s exactly it! Don’t laugh. I have to meet someone in Darwin. An Aussie woman who’s shot tape there for KEPO – you know the environmental lot?’ He nodded. ‘Well, the deal is, she’ll work for us for free because she wants to go to Kutu again anyway. We just pay her for the footage we use. She keeps the rights to the stuff. I don’t know the first thing about her but I’m told she’s shot good tape. We have to pose as backpackers, I gather.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’

  She flashed him a smile. He was giving, slowly.

  Her perfume and her mouth were getting to him. He found himself focusing on her lips as she talked. A few years back he’d have pulled her, no problem. But these days he behaved himself. Anyway, sex and the job didn’t mix. All he wanted from her was silence about who he was.

  ‘Look, Charlotte … or is it Charlie?’

  ‘Either. I’m not fussy.’ She turned her head sideways, resting an ear against the seat back and half-closing her eyes.

  ‘OK. Charlie it is then … Now look, I need your help, chuck.’ He saw her eyes glow with anticipation. ‘What I’m doing out here – it’s sensitive, understand?’

  ‘Sure. But … but what exactly are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Never mind for now. The point is that you could screw things up for me. I’m asking you not to.’

  ‘Oh …’ She looked startled. Affronted almost. ‘Not sure what you mean.’

  ‘Simply that out here I’m a news photographer, right? But you could identify me to others as a police officer. And I can’t allow that.’

  ‘Allow? What d’you mean allow?’ she smarted, pulling back her head. ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘No, no. Hang on. I’m asking for your co-operation, that’s all. Asking you not to tell a living soul who I am.’

  Scotland Yard sending an undercover officer to Kutu was a story in itself, she thought. No one else had it. Her instincts told her she’d be a fool not to use it. On the other hand the trade-off for silence might be worth much, much more.

  ‘There are lives at risk, Charlie,’ he went on earnestly. ‘Stephen Bowen’s. Mine. Yours. This place we’re going to isn’t Disneyworld.’

  Charlie shivered. She’d never travelled south of Nice before and had no clue what to expect on Kutu. Somehow the idea she might be risking her life hadn’t occurred to her.

  ‘It’s OK. Of course I won’t tell anyone who you are,’ she said meekly. ‘We’re not all irresponsible in the media.’

  He touched her hand. ‘Thanks.’ Question was whether he could trust her. He noticed crow’s feet at the side of her eyes and brown roots to her hair. It was the flaws in women that made them truly attractive. Perfection intimidated him.

  ‘Excuse my nosiness,’ she continued, ‘but what exactly are you going to do in Kutu?’

  Back on guard.

  ‘I’ll find out when I get there. And you?’

  ‘To do a background piece. Explaining why the OKP or KEPO has kidnapped Stephen Bowen.’

  ‘Oh it is them, is it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged. ‘I’m just assuming that. Do you know different?’

  ‘No, but I don’t assume things. Maybe that’s the difference between a copper and a scribbler,’ he goaded.

  She ignored the remark. A steward stopped at their row with the bar trolley.

  ‘Diet Coke please,’ asked Charlie.

  ‘And a beer for me.’

  The steward tossed bags of nuts on to their tables. Dinner would follow in thirty minutes, he told them.

  ‘Always been a copper have you?’ she asked a few moments later.

  ‘Eight years. I was a soldier before that. Royal Military Police.’

  She noticed suddenly that his nose wasn’t straight.

  ‘Is that where you got your nose broken?’

  Nick put a hand to his face. There’d been speculation from his mates over the years. Punch-ups. Gang fights. Jilted women.

  ‘No. I fell off my bike … When I was fifteen.’

  She laughed. She liked the answer for its lack of bullshit.

  ‘What time is it?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t reset my watch from London. Still half past one in the afternoon there.’

  ‘9.30 p.m. here, 11 p.m. in Darwin.’

  ‘God, my body clock is never going to adjust. Have you done a lot of this?’

  ‘I was in Hong Kong for a while. With the army.’

  ‘Wife and kids with you?’ Charlie checked. ‘I assume you’re married.’ Always best to know.

  ‘Was then. But no, they weren’t with me.’

  ‘Must’ve been hard. You haven’t remarried?’

  He didn’t want these questions. Not when he was working.

  ‘No. And you? Let me guess. Can’t be hitched because no husband’d ever let a woman with eyes as seductive as yours run around the world on her own …’

  She flinched at his chauvinism, then thought better of it. Treat it as an old-fashioned compliment.

  ‘You’re right. No husband in my life. Still looking. So I’d watch out if I were you!’ she added, nudging him. ‘But seriously. Back to business …’ She leaned towards him so her shoulder touched his. ‘You’re working on your own out here?’

  ‘At the moment, yes.’ Couldn’t do any harm to tell her that.

  She thought about it for a moment. Thought about the pros and cons of making a play for him. In the interests of the story.

  ‘As I said, Nick
, you can trust me. I won’t let you down.’ She rested her hand on his arm. ‘But one good turn deserves another, right?’ She looked him in the eye. ‘You’ll keep me up to speed? Tell me what’s going on?’

  No way. She was asking for the moon on a stick.

  ‘Do my best,’ he said.

  Ten

  London – The News Channel

  Tuesday 13.15 hrs

  TED SANKEY SAT at his desk thinking about Charlotte Cavendish. The name had class, like its owner. More class than a downmarket news outlet deserved. The fact that he fancied the woman had played some part in his decision to hire her, but it was the confidence she radiated that had got her the job.

  Picking staff for a new TV news station was a gamble. Last night he’d taken a bigger one – despatching Charlie to the other side of the world to compete with hacks who had all of her talent, but years of hard-won experience to back it up.

  He’d slept badly last night, nagged by fears of it going wrong. If Charlie could only come up with a scoop, or even a handful of respectable, competent reports, then great. The budget men who controlled his life would have to acknowledge he’d shoved the Channel up with the big boys. If she failed, there’d be no sympathy for her, nor for him from the board.

  On day two of the Bowen story, there’d been little movement, which was good; it would be twenty-four hours before Charlotte was operational. Two new lines had emerged – the discovery that a satellite dish had been stolen from Strasbourg, and the minister’s former connection with Metroc Minerals. A whiff of potential corruption to spice the story, but with the man’s life at risk, the media had held back on the speculation.

  Alone in his office, Sankey sat watching the lunchtime news, which was two-thirds through. His empty stomach churned on the vile, machine-made coffee he’d drunk. His secretary would soon be back from the deli with a sandwich.

  Looking to keep his lead on the story, he’d phoned DCI Mostyn earlier, hoping his co-operation with the stroppy DS Randall yesterday might trigger a little inside information, but he’d been abruptly transferred to the press office.

  First thing that morning he’d been summoned with the editors of the other TV news companies to a meeting with the home secretary. The government was terrified of what the kidnappers might transmit next on the satellite. The media giving them free access to the airwaves was simply encouraging them, she’d warned. Would they kindly agree not to show it in future?

  They’d refused. Wasn’t up to the government to say what could or couldn’t be shown. But to protect their backs, the TV networks were planning to pool the next satfeed. No more exclusives. If there was to be a fight with the government over broadcasting it, better they stood together.

  Sankey had wavered at the idea of a pool. The kidnappers had favoured the News Channel once; they could do it again. And exclusives were like gold at this stage of the Channel’s evolution. But he knew he would have to go along with the pool in the end – too risky being a maverick. He was waiting until the lunchtime programme was off the air however before ringing the BBC with his agreement. To keep them sweating.

  A tap at his door and his secretary came in with a small carrier bag.

  ‘Ciabatta with Brie and roasted peppers,’ she announced. ‘You’ll love it.’

  ‘What, no corned beef?’ Sankey quipped. She was always trying to improve him. Just like his wife had, until she gave up and left him. ‘Thanks girl.’

  Suddenly there was a shout from the newsroom. Mandy yelling.

  Sankey dropped the food bag on his desk and sprinted from his office.

  ‘On six again!’ Mandy snapped, pointing at her multi-monitor.

  The same colour bars and the message to roll the recording machines.

  ‘Fuck!’ Sankey hurled himself towards the control gallery. Four minutes to the end of the live. Ratings dived when this show went off the air.

  He banged open the control room door.

  ‘We’re rolling on it,’ the director assured him.

  ‘Bloody off-air in three minutes, Ted,’ Marples panicked. ‘What the hell do we do?’

  The rest of the afternoon’s transmissions were already taped. Extending the lunchtime would mean rejigging everything.

  Sankey looked at the station output. A taped item on body make-up was being transmitted. On the studio monitor he saw the presenter, a stylish young black girl, listening on her earpiece to the control room talkback, her face taut with tension.

  ‘Cass, we may cut out of this any second,’ Sankey told her. ‘You’ll have to ad lib an intro.’ The presenter nodded. ‘Just say we’re interrupting for late news on Bowen. Once again the News Channel has exclusive pictures direct by satellite from his kidnappers … Something like that. OK?’

  Cass grimaced but held up a thumb.

  ‘They’re rolling!’

  On line six whoever was feeding the pictures had started the clock. Twenty, nineteen, eighteen …

  Two minutes to off-air. Sankey pounded his head with a fist. What should he do? Record the tape and play it after they’d shared it with the opposition? Never get it on the lunchtime that way. But if they put it out live, he’d be taking a huge risk and be breaking the pooling agreement … Except he hadn’t told the competition he was accepting it yet … They would all cry foul, but he could live with that. One more tasty bite? One more headline-grabbing exclusive for the Channel? The temptation was too strong.

  ‘Cut to Cass! Tell her to do the link. Then take the feed live!’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s …’

  ‘Do it, Tom! I’m in charge.’

  ‘Seven seconds for the link. Cue Cass …’

  ‘We’re interrupting that report because there’s some late news on the kidnap of Stephen Bowen. We’re just getting these pictures by satellite …’

  The director switched to the satellite feed.

  Bowen’s face filled the screen, hair matted with sweat, mouth sagging. The abrasion on his cheekbone now a deep blue bruise. A plaster across it and another on the end of his nose.

  ‘Fuck!’ Sankey breathed.

  The minister’s grey eyes were screwed up with pain and fear.

  ‘Ted, we can’t do this live ….’ Marples insisted. ‘We’ve no idea what’ll happen.’

  ‘We are doing it,’ Sankey snapped. ‘Just keep your finger on the off button.’

  Bowen’s face twitched as he began to speak, but his voice was surprisingly forceful.

  ‘Prime minister – Keith … this is for you, this message. Listen. Please. It may be the last you ever hear from me … unless you do what they want. I’ve learned a lot. I know now what vile things are being done to people on Kutu by the Indonesian military. Believe me I know … I know exactly …’

  His voice cracked, his face convulsed. He shook his head as if he couldn’t continue. Then his eyes looked off-camera at an unseen tormentor. Lips trembling he faced forward again.

  ‘They’re being tortured, they’re being beaten, raped and murdered. We … we have to get tough with the Indonesians, Keith. Not just lip service. Not just protests through the UN. We have to put our money where our mouth is. Which means cancelling the arms contract – it’s the only way …

  The OKP are giving you until noon GMT on Friday. Announce it on the BBC World Service. Please. Don’t ignore this … If you do, they’ll kill me. They’ll kill me very slowly.’

  The camera lens zoomed back. Bowen was shirtless, his chest a dark mass of hairs. Sankey watched with horrified fascination, trusting some innate judgement to tell him when to shout ‘cut’.

  There was something hanging from the minister’s nose, attached by the sticking plaster. Looked like a wire … Bowen turned his head away and began to whimper and plead.

  ‘No, please … FOR GOD’S SAKE!’

  Rapidly the picture widened further. Bowen was devoid of all clothing. Stark naked, arms out to the side, wrists bound to rings on a wall, a second electrical flex dangling from his penis.

  Sa
nkey stopped breathing. Total, horrified silence in the gallery. Suddenly Bowen’s body arched like a bow. A scream punched the sound needles into the red.

  ‘Cut!’ shrieked Sankey.

  Cass back in vision, looking off-camera at the monitor, her serenity shattered.

  ‘Recap,’ Sankey croaked, his heart in his boots.

  He and the News Channel had just committed professional suicide.

  ‘Tell them latest pictures, Cass. Just in. Dramatic appeal for help. Sum it all up then link out of the show.’

  ‘Twenty to end titles!’ the director added with superficial calm.

  The presenter turned to camera, her eyes round black dots, her mouth a twisted ribbon of anguish.

  ‘I’m sorry …’ She pulled out her earpiece and slid out of shot, leaving an empty chair.

  ‘Framestore!’ yelled the director. ‘Gimme the News Channel caption. Quick!’

  Darwin – Northern Territory, Australia

  Wednesday 03.45 hrs (18.15 hrs GMT – Tuesday)

  Randall listened incredulously, head under the perspex hood of a phone booth in the baggage hall at Darwin. Mostyn’s voice seemed half an octave higher than normal.

  ‘I tell you, boy, the clock’s ticking now,’ he intoned. ‘Shaken the bloody government rigid. You should’ve seen the PM at Question Time. Looked like he’d given up the struggle. Total cave-in. Opposition had a stack of Amnesty reports describing torture at the hands of the Indonesian military. East Timor, Irian Jaya, the lot. MPs didn’t know who to condemn most, the Indonesian government or the Kutuan kidnappers who demonstrated the Indonesians’ techniques on the right honourable member.’

  ‘Definitely OKP, the kidnappers?’ Randall queried, deciding Mostyn’s pun had been unintentional.

  ‘It’s what Bowen said. OKP deadline of Friday. I tell you what makes me sick,’ Mostyn railed. ‘It’s when parliament suddenly develops an effing conscience. MPs on all sides claiming they’re lifelong champions of human rights and have always opposed selling arms to countries where they torture people. Makes you bloody sick.’