Sumoto. Laba-laba – the spider. Watch so he doesn’t bite, Effendi had said.
Suddenly Maxwell felt a pressing need to get away. To dig. To cross-check. Time was desperately short. He looked at his watch.
‘Thanks Mike,’ he said, standing up. ‘Let’s stay in close touch.’
‘Of course.’
‘Oh, one other thing. Nearly forgot.’ The phone call with Randall. Maxwell sat down again. ‘There’s an Australian who lives on Kutu. With a local woman.’
‘There’s loads of ’em down there. Deadbeats mostly,’ Hunniford replied.
‘Yes. But there’s one in particular. Dugdale? Brad Dugdale. Just wondered if you knew the name …’
Hunniford frowned. ‘Where’s this come from?’
‘Can’t tell you that.’
The eyebrows arched again. ‘Well, if it’s the bloke I think it is, he’s got an interest in junk from World War Two. Shipwrecks, that sort of stuff.’
‘Could be. He runs diving for tourists. Know anything else about him?’
‘Yeah. Let me think. Heard something a few months ago. He came to our attention a year or two back when some wartime papers got declassified under the fifty year rule. A load of reports about special ops against the Japs on Timor and Kutu. He was picking through them with such thoroughness the Records Office thought it suspicious and passed his name to us.’
‘Nothing on him, though.’
‘No. An OK bloke so far as we could tell. Marine archaeology turned out to be a hobby he hoped to make money out of. TV documentaries. Last I heard he was looking to hire a floating crane to salvage some rusty hulk or other.’
‘Interesting.’
Hunniford blinked suspiciously.
‘I must push,’ Maxwell announced. ‘Thanks again, Mike. Speak soon.’
Maxwell took the escalators to the basement, pausing at a bookshop to buy a new phone card.
The number he called was in a run-down quarter in eastern Jakarta, a small office with a handful of computers and a modem through which the Association of Free Journalists kept a line open to the outside world. The voice that answered belonged to the young man he’d sat next to in court two days ago.
‘Zis is Hans,’ Maxwell growled in a laboured German accent. ‘Can you meet wiz me in one hour?’
‘Just now?’ Abdul stalled. He sounded stressed. ‘Very busy just now.’
‘It is wery important …’
‘Yes? Oh …’
Maxwell heard a sigh and a keyboard clicking.
‘OK, then I try. One hour. Usual place.’
‘Ja. Gut.’
There was no usual place. Each time they met, Maxwell set a rendezvous for the next time. Effendi’s phone tappers would have the AFJ on their list.
He took the escalator to the ground floor and hurried from the building. The sky was still clear outside. He pictured the young journalist fighting through the traffic on his motorbike, the sun turning his crash helmet into a sweat box. Perspiration was streaming from his own brow by the time he slipped through the security gate into the embassy.
‘Not a dicky bird,’ his secretary announced as he passed through her office into his own. ‘No word from the Brigadier General.’
‘Damn. And I have to go out again as soon as I’ve done a note for the ambassador.’
‘You look as if you’re melting,’ she told him, her nose wrinkling with disgust.
‘Thanks.’
Inside his office he closed the door and scribbled a quick, ground-holding memo. The ambassador would complain at its brevity, but that couldn’t be helped.
His next destination was less than a mile away, but the drive cut north through the tangled heart of Jakarta and took forty minutes. The taxi’s air-conditioning was on the blink. By the time they reached the old Dutch colonial district of Batavia, Maxwell was in serious need of a drink.
He paid off the driver outside the schooner harbour of Sunda Kelapa, jammed on a wide-brimmed hat, then turned and walked over an iron bridge. Below its girders lay the stinking, grey sludge of a canal, its banks lined with evil-looking slums made from plywood and rusting corrugated iron.
At the end of the bridge was a maritime museum. He turned into its courtyard, relieved to see a thin, bare-chested youth selling drinks from a stall. He bought a can of Fanta, gulped down the contents, then bought another.
Across the cobbles at the door to a nineteenth-century wooden watchtower, he paid the few hundred rupiahs entrance fee, removed his hat, then climbed the winding stairs inside. There was a viewing platform off the top floor which was small and seldom visited.
Abdul was already there. So, unfortunately, was a party of young schoolgirls who giggled at Maxwell’s paunchiness and dripping red face. Abdul showed signs of alarm.
‘Hello mister!’ An urchin-faced girl in maroon skirt and white blouse grinned, then overcome by embarrassment buried herself amongst her fellows for safety.
‘Mister you speak English?’ dared another.
‘Pergi! Pergi!’ Abdul shooed them away. Their teacher rounded them up, smiling her apologies and led the troupe down the perilous open staircase.
‘Unusual to find anyone else here,’ Maxwell panted, after the children had gone.
Abdul’s slight frame was clad in black trousers and a white shirt. He nervously jingled the keys to his motorbike.
‘This not good time for me,’ he complained. ‘Very much work.’
‘Well, I’m very grateful to you for coming.’ Maxwell knew the signs and handed over an envelope of money. Abdul’s anxious brown eyes brightened momentarily and he smiled his thanks.
They stepped on to the little shaded wooden platform that overlooked the mast-lined harbour. It was so narrow their shoulders touched. Maxwell tried not to be distracted by this bodily contact with someone he found disconcertingly attractive.
‘You have contacts in ABRI, Abdul,’ Maxwell began, speaking softly and checking behind to confirm they were alone. ‘Good contacts I think.’
‘Some young officers they talk to me private,’ Abdul confirmed, running a hand over his shiny, black hair. ‘There are some who have the same ideas as us.’
‘Such as …?’
‘An Indonesia with a government that is fair and not corrupt,’ he frowned, surprised Maxwell needed to ask.
‘They talk about such things in the army?’ Maxwell asked, deciding an oblique approach was the only way to get the information he needed.
‘Privately, yes. Loyalty – it’s a big discussion for them. Whether ABRI should serve the president and his cronies, or serve the Indonesian people …’ Abdul glanced behind, nervous at Maxwell’s line of questioning.
‘And this loyalty question. It divides the armed forces?’
‘Divide?’ Abdul looked suspicious. ‘Not divide. They don’t fight over this. They have strong discipline in ABRI and the president’s men are in charge.’
‘Of course. But your friends are able to be open about the way they feel? Sometimes?’
The journalist looked down at the courtyard, then chuckled impulsively. ‘You hear about the wrist watches?’
‘No.’ Abdul’s upper lip was downy like on a pubescent boy. Maxwell’s mind began to wander. ‘Tell me about the wrist watches?’
‘If you wear watch on right hand instead of left, it supposed to show you are ABRI Marah Putih. That mean loyal to Indonesian people first, loyal to president second! Like a sort of badge.’ He laughed again, exposing neat white teeth. ‘Or maybe it just show you’re left-handed …’ he joked.
Maxwell smiled. He knew of another issue preoccupying the army. Dwi Fungsi – dual function – the long-established policy of military units running businesses and local government as well as soldiering. Many officers thought the army too focused on internal affairs instead of training and equipping itself to face threats from outside the country.
‘And those officers loyal to the people first,’ Maxwell checked, ‘are they the ones who want a change t
o Dwi Fungsi?’
‘Most yes.’
‘So on Dwi Fungsi, ABRI is split?’
‘Split, you cannot say. Just a difference of opinion.’
Any suggestion of division within ABRI made Abdul bristle, Maxwell noticed. Indonesians had pride in their armed forces, even if they feared them.
‘But suppose the president died tomorrow and ABRI had to choose a new leader, this difference of opinion might become something more?’
Abdul glanced at his watch. ‘It’s possible.’
‘Like it could split the army?’
Abdul turned and went back inside the watchtower. Maxwell saw him stop by the top rail of the staircase, listening. Then he came back out on to the balcony.
‘You’re very nervous today,’ said Maxwell.
‘I don’t like talk about these things.’
‘Why not? What are you afraid of?’
For a moment Abdul wouldn’t answer. Then he whispered, ‘My brother – you see he is a soldier.’
‘Ah … I understand. Just one more question though. On which wrist does Major General Dino Sumoto wear his watch?’
Abdul flinched at mention of the name, but he recovered quickly.
‘Maybe on both wrists,’ he replied eventually. ‘For General Sumoto, most important thing is power. He support whichever side can help him get it. He dangerous. Many people afraid of him.’
Abdul included, Maxwell guessed. But dangerous enough and desperate enough to involve himself in the kidnap of a foreigner?
‘Why? Why are many people afraid?’
For a good fifteen seconds Abdul didn’t reply.
‘Because they remember 1965,’ he whispered eventually. ‘The coup, the massacres. Nobody want that again. And Sumoto – he is a man who could make it happen one more time.’
‘How? Does Sumoto have a power base in the army?’ Maxwell pressed.
‘Yes,’ Abdul replied, half covering his mouth with his hand. ‘KODAM Twelve.’
‘That’s the military district that includes Kutu,’ Maxwell checked, his pulse quickening.
‘Yes. Sumoto was commander KODAM Twelve for many year. Most officers there wear watches on right hand. They think it stupid for soldiers to build roads and trade coffee beans. They want to be in an army that can fight anybody in the world. Want more training. More equipment. And even if Sumoto no longer their commander, they think he give them what they want if he get more power.’
‘Sumoto is rich?’
‘Oh yeah. He made good business in Kutu. Found out where KUTUMIN want to build processing plant and harbour for the mine, then he bought the land before they got the licence. Sold it to them at big, big profit.’
‘Ah … And what has he done with the money?’
‘Invest it. His business partner has fingers everywhere. Premati Airline, for example. Sumoto has big share now.’
Premati. The airline which claimed to have flown Stephen Bowen to Singapore.
Maxwell stared at the horizon, not seeing it. The nightmare was taking shape, putting on flesh.
‘How?’ he pressed. ‘How would Sumoto give KODAM Twelve what they want?’
Abdul shook his head. It was a road down which he could go no further.
‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged.
‘But you said they want new weapons? What exactly?’
‘I don’t know,’ he hissed.
‘Can you find out?’
The journalist turned on him. ‘Why you ask this? Your country must know what ABRI want. You been selling them weapons many years.’
He saw Maxwell’s hesitation, then his eyes widened.
‘You think maybe there are two ABRIs? The one you know, and the one General Sumoto want to make?’
Maxwell nodded.
‘And you think people you deal with now won’t be in charge in the future? You worry some other country get the business?’
Maxwell nodded again. Let him think that.
Abdul grunted. He looked relieved. If the motive for the questions was money, it was one he understood.
‘So, Abdul, it would also be helpful to me if you could find out which country your friends in KODAM Twelve imagine their new weapons would come from,’ Maxwell added.
Abdul sucked his teeth. ‘Not easy to find this out …’ he prevaricated. ‘So busy just now.’
Maxwell knew what he meant. The material Abdul wrote didn’t earn him much. ‘I’d pay double.’
‘Well … maybe tonight I can talk with someone.’
‘Ring my home. You have the number. Just give a time, I’ll understand. Then we’ll meet at the Hot Rock Café, Jalan Thamrin. It stays open late. You know it?’
‘Of course.’ It was where gold-digging Jakarta girls went to pick up wealthy foreigners.
They heard voices and feet on the stairs. More visitors.
They shook hands. Abdul would leave first.
‘Tell me,’ Maxwell asked on impulse, as the journalist gripped the top of the stair rail. ‘I’ve often wondered … are you married?’
Abdul smiled. ‘Not yet, tuan. Not yet.’
Maxwell returned to the viewing platform. He stayed looking out towards the elegant lines of the cargo-carrying sailing craft until he heard the rip of a motorcycle engine starting up.
British Embassy, Jakarta
15.25 hrs (08.25 hrs GMT)
Maxwell asked the ambassador to meet him in the ‘box’. Off the second floor corridor and shielded from eavesdropping, this steel-lined, windowless cell was the embassy’s safe room for confidential conversations.
Ambassador Bruton listened with stony concentration, his hair as immaculate as a sculpture, his face growing steadily grimmer. As Maxwell wound up, he pushed the metal shirt bands up his arms.
‘It’s an extraordinary theory, Harry, but you’ve no actual proof that Sumoto’s the villain,’ he commented eventually.
‘Not yet. All I’m certain of is that the Chinese are after our naval contract.’
‘Then we must make absolutely sure they don’t get it,’ Bruton snapped, eyes burning. ‘The PM has bloody well got to stick to his guns.’
‘How’s it looking in London?’
‘Better. The arms industry is launching a counter-offensive in Whitehall against the human rights people. With luck, the memo I’m about to send should clinch it.’
Then Bruton began to look uncomfortable.
‘Bowen …’ Maxwell murmured, reading his thoughts.
‘Yes … The buggers’ll kill him, I’m afraid.’ Bruton stared at the ceiling and put a hand to his mouth. ‘But he’ll get a good write-up. Better than he deserves. Gave his life for his country …. Tell me I’m not being callous, Harry.’
Maxwell looked at his hands. In war there were always casualties.
‘Realistic, ambassador,’ he assured him. ‘You’re being realistic.’
‘Feel sorry for his family. Two teenage children,’ Bruton sighed, thinking of his own son and daughter. ‘When does the Scotland Yard man get to Kutu?’
‘Tonight. Odd thing is he thinks he’s getting signs that Bowen is being held by the OKP.’
The ambassador frowned. ‘Well one of you has to be wrong. Tell you what,’ he decided suddenly, ‘I think it’s time our friends in DefenceCo dropped a little hint to their agent here about what the Chinese may be up to …’
Nice one, thought Maxwell. DefenceCo’s agent was a member of the president’s family. A rumour fed to him would spread through the anti-communist old guard like a brush fire.
‘I’ll dig out my tin hat.’
His secretary leapt up as Maxwell walked through her office into his own.
‘Just missed him. Brigadier General Effendi.’
‘Damn.’
‘But he left a message. Sounded worried.’
‘Oh?’
‘He said he’d be more than happy for you to talk to Selina Sakidin. Just one problem … She’s disappeared.’
Thirteen
Central London<
br />
06.30 hrs
THE INSIDE OF Ted Sankey’s head rumbled like a cement mixer. From the familiar pattern of light leaking round the thick curtains, he knew it was his own flat he was lying in. What he couldn’t understand was why he was wearing a tie.
His bladder threatened to explode. He rolled off the bed and using a chest of drawers as a hand hold, groped his way to the en-suite bathroom to relieve himself. Tie, shirt, trousers, socks, all still in place from the night before. Then he remembered.
‘Jesus,’ he croaked, aiming in the rough direction of the toilet bowl.
When he’d finished, he wrestled with the child-proof cap of the paracetamol bottle, cursing its designers, then downed some tablets with a tooth mug of water.
He pulled back one curtain in the bedroom, shielded his eyes from the daylight and decided to leave the other as it was. Then he perched on the end of the bed trying to decide whether to throw up.
The memory of yesterday when he blew it in the control room came back like the wallop of a sandbag. The biggest mistake in his life, and there had been a few. The most disastrous misjudgement of his career.
He remembered the half-angry, half-apologetic phone call from the chief executive saying the proprietors had granted him fifteen minutes to clear his desk and leave the building. He remembered the shock on the faces of the newsroom journalists, and the smirk from that bean-counter Paxton. He remembered taking refuge in the wine bar down the road and the stream of supporters who’d come to commiserate. What he didn’t remember was leaving the place.
His flat in Fitzrovia was a ten minute walk from the News Channel building in Wendover Street. He’d bought it when he took the job, because it was close. Handy, he’d thought, for sex in the lunch-break if opportunity knocked. It had from time to time.
‘I can fuck any woman I want,’ he muttered to himself. The words had become his mantra since his wife left him. Believing them was what kept his pride intact. Beryl had run off with a double-glazing salesman in a Ford Mondeo estate. It was the cliché that had hurt, almost as much as the loss of her. There’d been no children and the divorce had been clean and mechanical.
How had he got home last night? The question nagged. Couldn’t have walked. There was a vague memory of being carried and people he didn’t know trying to talk to him.
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