Java Spider

by Geoffrey Archer

  She chewed her lip, tortured by indecision.

  ‘For God’s sake, girl, I’m giving you a chance too. You’ll get your story. You’ll be a winner.’

  Charlie looked away. With him she would have unique access to what was going on. Not often that a reporter found herself teamed with an undercover cop. But now she’d smelled the danger of the place, her self-confidence had vapourised. She was scared, desperately scared.

  The driver tilted his head to one side. ‘Where do I drop you folks?’

  Nick looked at Charlie. Decision time.

  ‘Um …’ she dithered, biting her lip. Oh what the hell …

  She nodded.

  Randall smiled.

  ‘Downtown,’ he told the driver. ‘We’ve some shopping to do.’

  Twelve

  British Embassy, Jakarta

  Wednesday 12.05 hrs (05.05 hrs GMT)

  IF HE’D HAD any hair worth tearing, Harry Maxwell would have ripped it out. The Indonesians were being exceptionally opaque. No collateral whatsoever from his contacts or Bruton’s that the arms contract was to be re-opened. He’d begun to think his judgement had been blown off the rails by paranoia.

  And Brigadier General Effendi had gone deaf. Maxwell’s first call to him at POLRI HQ had been just after eight a.m. Busy in a meeting. A promise to call back, then nothing. He’d tried again an hour later. Then an hour after that.

  Selina Sakidin. She was the reason for Effendi’s reticence. Guessed he was going to request an interview with her. Drove Bowen to the airport … Yes, but why, why? Did she sleep with Bowen the night he waved goodbye to the ambassador and moved hotels? Must have done. And she must’ve known his plans.

  The phone rang and he grabbed it. At last. Maybe.

  ‘Mr Maxwell?’

  ‘Yes?’ English accent. Didn’t recognise the voice.

  ‘This is Mr Cuculus speaking …’

  Who the …? Ah.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Trying to trace a British friend of mine called Bob. I’m told you’re the man at the embassy who can help. I expect it’s a busy time just now. Maybe you’d like to ring me back?’

  ‘Yes. Yes I would. In about fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Fine. Want to take down the number?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Randall read it to him. Maxwell recognised the code for Darwin.

  ‘Thanks.’ Randall hung up.

  Damn! Why now of all times? To be safe for the call back Maxwell would need to use a public phone. There were several booths in the shopping plaza, but it would mean being gone a good half-hour. Sod’s Law said that’s when the brigadier would finally return his call.

  And the ambassador wanted a progress report in a couple of hours so he would have something for London when they woke up.

  The phone rang again. Damn, damn!

  ‘Maxwell,’ he snapped.

  ‘Harry!’

  Antipodean accent this time. Hunniford, his ASIO counterpart at the Australian Embassy.

  ‘Mike, hi! Bit of a bad time. Can I call you later?’

  ‘I’ve got something you’ll want to see right away. A little curio I picked up at an antique stall.’

  Maxwell perked up. Antiques? Hunniford despised the stuff. The word was a code.

  ‘I see. Bit frantic, to tell you the truth …’

  ‘I’ll meet you somewhere.’ The Australian’s voice was cool but insistent.

  ‘Right, well I was planning to eat sushi at that Jap place on the sixth floor of the plaza opposite.’

  ‘Know the one. See you there in half an hour?’

  ‘Right. Fine.’

  He dropped the phone back, alarmed. Hunniford was a back-slapping Bondi beachboy. Never heard him so earnest before.

  Maxwell opened his wallet. Over a hundred units left on his phone card. He’d need all of them, ringing Darwin.

  ‘I’ll be gone an hour,’ he told his secretary, hurrying through the outer office into the corridor. ‘If the brigadier rings tell him I’m desperate to speak to him and will he give me a time.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Outside, the traffic was flowing unusually smoothly. He crossed the wide avenue at the lights, ignoring a shout from the street boys selling drinks, and mingled with the office-workers on their lunch break. Perspiration trickled down the inside of his arms. He envied the locals. Whatever the heat they never seemed to sweat.

  Inside the shopping mall with its excessively cold air-conditioning, he made for the phones in the basement. He tapped in the Darwin number and it answered immediately.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Cuculus?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Sorry about the stupid name they gave you.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Expected nothing else from your lot …’ said Randall sarcastically.

  ‘Oh … Well, fine. Now what can I do for you?’

  ‘Just touching base,’ Randall told him. ‘Flying to the island this evening. Wanted to know what the local boys in blue are up to.’

  ‘They’re still adamant Bob isn’t anywhere in the country, including the island,’ Maxwell told him, using Bowen’s code name and avoiding words that might alert a sleepy eavesdropper. ‘So, officially, they’re giving us the big shrug, saying it’s not their problem, Unofficially they’re dead worried. You heard about the arrests on the island last night?’

  ‘Yes. Is the university man still being held? Someone told me he’d been released.’

  ‘Haven’t heard. Don’t know. Wish I could tell you more.’

  ‘And the woman who took Bob to the airport? You’ve spoken with her?’

  ‘Not yet. I think the police have her under wraps, but I’ll keep London posted.’

  ‘Thanks. Look, one other thing. There’s a bloke I’ve met here who’s dropped a couple of hints he may know something. Name of Dugdale. Brad Dugdale. Australian, but lives on the island with a local woman. Runs a bar and sub-aqua for tourists.’

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  ‘Through the environmental lot. Brad’s on the fringe. Said nothing specific about Bob. Just a nudge and a wink. If I get in, I’ll try and catch up with him tonight. Name mean anything?’

  ‘Nope. But I’ll ask a friend. Care to tell me how you’re operating?’

  There was a pause. He could almost hear the Yard man pondering how much to reveal.

  ‘In Australia I’m a photographer. There I’ll be a tourist,’ Randall said eventually.

  ‘Working alone?’

  Another pause.

  ‘Not entirely. Look I’ll be ringing London on and off, so if you get anything, leave a message at the er … at the cuckoo’s nest. OK?’

  Maxwell smiled. A policeman with a sense of humour. He’d need it in the days ahead.

  ‘One other thing,’ said Maxwell. ‘There’s a theory that our friend still had links with Metroc Minerals. You know he was a director of the company but had to break the link when he got office?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Speculation is he still had a finger in the pie and went to the island for some financial reason, travelling via Singapore to cover his tracks,’ said Maxwell dismissively.

  ‘You don’t sound convinced?’

  ‘Open mind. One thing though – the Metroc reps in the KUTUMIN office in Jakarta have had their lips taped since this thing broke. Won’t even socialise with us. Nor with anyone from the Brit community.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind. Anything else?’

  ‘No. But time’s running out. So, good luck. And watch your back. You’ll be a long way from friends out there.’

  ‘Thanks a million.’

  The line clicked and purred. Maxwell extracted his Telkom card. Five points left. Rather you than me, Mr Randall, he thought.

  Five minutes to go before meeting Hunniford at the sushi bar. Maxwell took the escalator to the third floor then walked through the female clothing department towards the main stairwell in the central core of the mall.


  The plaza was one of Jakarta’s glitziest, its galleries dotted with women and girls picking through racks of designer jeans and sweatshirts. To mingle briefly with their trim, gentle bodies gave Maxwell the sort of lift others took cocaine for. But how did they manage to look so elegant on wages of a few pounds a week? Biznis, he guessed, the brown-envelope economy that kept Indonesia afloat.

  When he reached the main escalators, the stairwell resonated with heavy rock music. In the basement they were demonstrating megabass sound systems. Indonesians, he’d quickly discovered, loved noise.

  Stepping off the moving tread Maxwell walked into the sixth floor food hall and joined the line at the sushi bar. In the centre of the space was a wide seating area, encircled by take-outs from half-a-dozen cuisines.

  He paid for his selection, collected a cold drink from a machine and made his way to an empty table for two. Hunniford had appeared at the back of the queue and pretended to ignore him.

  Four minutes later the Australian joined him.

  ‘G’day. How goes it?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’ Maxwell pulled wooden chopsticks from their paper sheath and separated them.

  Hunniford’s chunky-chinned face was impassive as he sat down. Maxwell found the man overbearing. Too much of an all-rounder for his taste.

  ‘So what have you got for me?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t rightly know, sport,’ Hunniford answered, his face perplexed. ‘Could be something … or nothing.’

  ‘Try me …’

  ‘Well, yesterday morning we had a visitor at the embassy. Chinese woman seeking asylum.’

  ‘A Chinese from China?’

  ‘Yes. Here with the trade delegation which you doubtless know about.’

  ‘I certainly do.’ The meeting room at the Hyatt yesterday. His interest ratcheted up a notch.

  ‘Her name’s Liu Jiefang. Means clean and fragrant, according to our Mandarin speaker. Anyway, she passed out in our foyer at about eleven o’clock yesterday. Scared to death and four months pregnant.’

  ‘Uhuh,’ Maxwell grunted, wondering if this had anything to do with Stephen Bowen.

  ‘We think having the baby is her main motive for wanting asylum. Claims the child’s father was executed last month. Some figure in the democracy movement we’d never heard of. She says she’ll be forced to have an abortion if she returns to China. She’s had one termination already apparently and says she’ll kill herself rather than go through it again.’

  ‘Careless girl,’ Maxwell murmured, wishing Hunniford would get on with it.

  ‘Quite. And under normal circumstances not grounds for asylum. But there’s something else …’

  ‘Ah. I assumed there would be.’

  ‘She’s come up with an extraordinary story. Liu’s thirty-five, employed by the Ministry of Foreign Trade, so presumably a trusted party member. Says she worked for the State Council a year ago, handling position papers. Stuff that was highly classified.’

  He paused to take a bite of raw fish.

  ‘Go on,’ said Maxwell tensely. Time was pressing.

  ‘As one might expect, a big wadge of files concerned the South China Sea – Beijing’s claims to the oil round the Spratleys, and more. Liu Jiefang maintains the council is obsessed by the fact that Indonesia, the largest country at the southern end of the sea is potentially hostile.’

  ‘This place is hardly a military threat,’ Maxwell chided.

  ‘No, but an economic and political one. The Chinese want to dominate trade in the whole region, right? And Indonesia’s big enough to block them at this end of the South China Sea. Well, the State Council in Beijing knows perfectly well nothing much’ll change here while the old president remains in power, so,’ he continued, watching for Maxwell’s reaction, ‘they’re making plans for the day when he’s not around anymore.’

  ‘Hoping whoever takes over will be more China-friendly? Not surprised.’

  ‘Not hoping, Harry. Ensuring.’

  Maxwell put down his chopsticks and stared.

  ‘Meaning what?’ he growled.

  ‘Meaning they intend to make sure the job goes to the contender who’s the least anti-Chinese.’

  Maxwell blinked.

  ‘Make sure? What’s that supposed to mean? Some sort of coup here? Backed by China? Liu whatsername’s having you on,’ Maxwell mocked.

  ‘Not a coup. Last thing they want is a rerun of 1965. No. According to Liu Jiefang they want to persuade the Indonesian military to manipulate the succession in a way that’ll be favourable to them. Persuade them with money – and with equipment.’

  Maxwell shook his head. This didn’t make sense.

  ‘She’s up in the clouds, Mike. You know what the Indonesians think of the Chinese. There’s no way any faction hoping to take power here would align itself with Beijing. ABRI – the military – they simply wouldn’t stand for it.’

  ‘My sentiment exactly, sport – until I gave it some more thought. Listen, the Javans may hate the Chinese, but they’re happy to use them when they’ve got something they need. After all, Chinese businessmen run this place.’

  ‘Yes, but they’re not mad enough in Beijing to think that wads of their money can buy influence with the Indonesian armed forces? Need more than that, chum.’

  ‘That’s why I said money and equipment.’

  Maxwell felt a shiver run down his spine.

  Hunniford paused, as if checking it through in his mind one last time before hitting Maxwell with the clincher.

  ‘You know what the girl said, Harry? Four of the blokes in her trade delegation are in the arms business. Two are naval specialists, here specifically to pitch for your submarine contract.’

  ‘Ouch,’ Maxwell spluttered, his nightmare suddenly confirmed. ‘Had a horrible feeling about that. Chatted with Sumoto on Monday night. He seemed to have it fixed in his head that London’s going to renege on the arms deal to appease the kidnappers. And yesterday I spotted him talking to the Chinese delegation.’

  ‘Sumoto? Christ!’ Hunniford’s eyebrows arched like croquet hoops. ‘You do realise the significance of this.’

  ‘Well, naked opportunism by the Chinese, I suppose.’

  ‘You’re missing the point, Harry. When did the Chinese get here?’

  ‘Don’t know … Sunday?’

  Hunniford nodded. ‘And when did you first know your minister was a hostage?

  ‘Monday!’ Maxwell felt the blood drain from his face.

  ‘Exactly.’

  So before the news broke about Bowen, before there was the remotest possibility of the submarine deal being re-opened, the Chinese were preparing to pitch for it!

  ‘That’s bloody odd,’ Maxwell whispered, sensing a chasm opening in front of him.

  There were only two explanations. Either the Chinese had been tipped off before they arrived that the British contract was likely to fail – tipped off by someone connected with Bowen’s captors. Or it was the Chinese themselves who’d kidnapped Bowen. Nabbed him in the hope of getting the arms contract and through it the chance of an improved relationship with ABRI …

  ‘My God!’ he mouthed. ‘This is extraordinary. You think Beijing …?’

  ‘No,’ said Hunniford. ‘I simply don’t believe the Chinese would risk taking a foreign politico hostage. Whatever the stakes. But there’s the other option …’

  ‘Somebody here …’ Maxwell stammered. ‘Somebody here who wants China to have the contract, so they kidnapped Bowen to pressure Britain into cancelling … The Kutu thing’s just a blind, a smokescreen … But who?’

  ‘Sumoto?’ Hunniford shrugged.

  ‘Never!’ Maxwell scoffed. ‘The man’s on our payroll.’

  The two men stared at one another. Maxwell held out his hands as if using them to wrestle.

  ‘This is madness. Let’s recap. You’re saying …’

  ‘Liu Jiefang’s saying …’ Hunniford corrected.

  ‘OK. The woman’s telling you that Bowen’s kidnap has s
omething to do with a Chinese push for arms sales to ABRI?’

  ‘She didn’t know anything about Bowen. That’s my deduction.’

  ‘But she did say that China hopes to buy influence with ABRI by providing them with the arms they want?’

  ‘Buy influence with some part of ABRI, yes.’

  ‘Doesn’t add up,’ Maxwell concluded. ‘Why should switching the supply of a few patrol boats and submarines from Britain to China influence any part of ABRI?’

  ‘It wouldn’t, on its own. But suppose your government does pull out of the arms deal because of the hullabaloo over human rights, and suppose other western countries follow suit, China’s chances of grabbing the arms business will rocket. So, maybe that submarine contract is just for starters,’ Hunniford pressed. ‘To set a precedent, to open the way to other deals. Think of what China could offer? All sorts of stuff the West simply wouldn’t sell here. Chemical, biological weapons. Who knows what …’

  ‘Now you’re fantasising,’ Maxwell exploded. ‘Forget Bowen for now, what’s Beijing’s strategic objective – according to your defector?’

  ‘To extend their influence down here. Eventually to have a military presence on the southern rim of the South China Sea – even if it’s just visiting rights. Which frightens the pants off us of course. Particularly after the recent missile tests around Taiwan and the Chinese press talking about the need for living space. Last thing in the world Australia wants is a Chinese military force a few hundred miles north of Darwin.’

  Maxwell folded his arms. Was this what was driving Hunniford’s imagination? The old Aussie paranoia about invasions by little yellow men? Hunniford’s eyes were as unrevealing as black holes.

  ‘Are you giving her a visa?’ Maxwell asked suddenly.

  ‘Liu Jiefang? Yes. She’s on a flight to Sydney tonight.’

  Maxwell pondered for a moment. One fact was central. The Chinese appeared to have foreknowledge of Stephen Bowen’s kidnap or its anticipated outcome. And General Dino Sumoto was behaving in a way that broke all the normal parameters.

  ‘Food for thought, Mike,’ Maxwell muttered. ‘In fact a bloody great banquet.’

  ‘Thought I should tell you …’