Java Spider

by Geoffrey Archer

  ‘Much trouble here at night?’ he asked. ‘We’ve read something in the papers.’

  ‘Ya, ya. Just some troublemakers here, they no want the copper mine.’

  ‘But you do, yes?’

  ‘Ya, ya. Good business,’ he cackled. ‘But I think in the night time it better you stay in hotel. Is safer.’

  Randall threw Charlie a glance. She grimaced, trying to look brave, but a bruised look in her eyes said, you got me here, you bloody look after me.

  ‘There’s a curfew?’

  ‘No. No curfew. But bar, restaurant all shut.’

  ‘Really? Well it won’t worry us. We go to bed early.’ Nick leaned over and gave Charlie a kiss on the mouth.

  She shoved him away. ‘Don’t overdo it,’ she whispered.

  The driver was watching in the mirror and cackled again.

  ‘Just married,’ Nick explained, putting on his sheepish look.

  ‘Ohhh … then you vahry happy people. Tomorrow I take you beach, coffee plantation, typical Kutu village. Maybe you interest war cementery. Japanese they kill many prisoner here. Australia, India, and Inggris.’

  ‘There was a Jap prisoner of war camp here?’ Charlie piped up, startled.

  ‘Ya, ya. They use prisoners to make airfield.’ The driver pointed back over his shoulder to where they’d come from.

  ‘My father was a POW,’ she murmured to Nick out of the side of her mouth so the driver wouldn’t hear. ‘Tortured by the Japs,’ she went on, her voice dry with tension. ‘Never got over it. He can’t talk about it. Never even said where it happened.’

  ‘Malaya probably,’ Randall mumbled. ‘It’s where most of them were.’

  Charlie pictured her father sitting on the terrace in Devon, staring out at the mud and sand of the estuary, listening to the curlew cries, waiting to die. Her eyes began to water. She tried to banish the image. This wasn’t the time to be maudlin.

  The taxi turned up a narrow hill, past dusty hardware shops closing up for the night. Soon the Hotel Touristik loomed, a shabby, low building, with a once-white facia and an entrance of darkened glass. As they got out, two-stroke motorbikes buzzed past like wheeled chain-saws.

  Inside, the lobby echoed to the noise of an over-loud television. The duty manager was expecting them. Round-face must have phoned. Next to the reception desk sat two men in tight shirts and trousers.

  Nick returned their dead-eyed look. There were two ways of watching people. His way, which meant the target never knew about it, and the way they did it here, openly, brazenly with a technique designed to intimidate. Charlotte’s drawn face told him their method was working.

  ‘We give best room for you,’ the manager grinned. ‘Bridal seat …’

  ‘Suite,’ Charlotte corrected him, her mind on automatic.

  Randall paid off the taxi driver and pocketed the business card he thrust at him. They signed in, then a porter slung a rucksack over each shoulder and led them through the hotel to an open, lantern-lit courtyard and swimming pool around which the bedrooms were situated. Two middle-aged Dutch couples were eating their evening meal there. In the far corner a small, three-man gamelan orchestra of percussion and strings twanged and clunked their way through a Javan melody. The porter stopped outside room twelve.

  Randall put a hand on Charlie’s arm. ‘Watch what you say in here,’ he warned under his breath. ‘The room may be bugged.’

  Charlie gulped. Microphones? In the bedroom? Checking they were the honeymooners they claimed to be?

  ‘Jesus!’ she breathed.

  Menteng, Jakarta

  Mid evening

  A grey Merc cruised along a dimly-lit street of two-storey houses, past the heavy metal gates which shielded the well-off residents from intruders. Major General Dino Sumoto sat in the rear, glaring vacantly through the tinted windows, his wide, thick lips set in a tense line. His hands were flat on the seat to each side of him as if to steady himself. In front his regular driver sat stiff-backed and drove with an immaculate serenity.

  General Sumoto was in a state of shock. The unthinkable had happened. A British prime minister renowned world-wide for weakness had refused to bow to pressure. The arms contract Sumoto had banked on being cancelled had instead been reconfirmed.

  Sumoto was used to winning; for two decades almost everything he’d done had worked the way he’d intended. His easy rise to a position of power in the armed forces, his almost effortless accumulation of money and supporters, all this had encouraged him to believe the time had come for the biggest gamble of his life. Above all there’d been the advice of his dukun. The general was a Muslim, but like many powerful Javans, including the president himself, when big decisions were due he relied on a soothsayer who listened to the spirits of trees, rivers and mountains.

  But the signs had been wrong. The dukun had misread the spirits. He was about to lose, a contingency he’d not planned for.

  The car slowed and swung on to the narrow concrete ramp that bridged the deep storm drain running along the roadside. The driver stopped and flashed his lights. At the familiar signal, the dark green, steel gate rolled back. As the car drove through, the house-guardian stood to attention and saluted.

  The centrally located district of Menteng was where Jakarta’s old money lived. A few blocks away from Sumoto’s home the president himself had his house. For an ABRI apparatchik this was the only suitable place to live, even if Sumoto’s wealth still had the smell of the mint about it.

  His driver jumped out to open the rear door.

  ‘I’ll need you again soon,’ Sumoto snapped as he walked into the house. ‘To collect someone for me. So don’t go to sleep.’

  Sumoto had lived alone here since the separation from his wife a year ago. A young Sundanese couple ran his home for him, sharing the housekeeping and cooking. Hearing him enter, the manservant emerged from the kitchen.

  ‘Tea,’ said Sumoto. The servant bowed his head and retreated.

  The living room had a well-polished parquet floor and furniture of dark wood, the seating upholstered in deep reds and greens. The general sank into an armchair and switched on the TV with the remote. A news bulletin in five minutes. Not that it would tell him anything he didn’t know.

  The general was of a culture where open displays of anger were unacceptable. However fierce the fires inside him, his face must remain a mask of self-control. But fury tore through him now, burning his stomach. He had a need for the soothing tea.

  That the misjudgement which had brought disaster was his and his alone had not occurred to him. In his mind the failure of his plan was the fault of others – treachery, maybe even by the spirits. He’d been misled. Those responsible must pay the price.

  Above all he’d been misled by Stephen Bowen. He who’d spoken so bitingly about his prime minister’s feebleness under pressure. He who’d innocently cautioned that if the fickle spotlight of the world’s media happened to focus on Indonesia’s harsh suppression of unrest in Kutu or East Timor it might force Britain to withdraw from the arms deal.

  Sumoto pulled one of the gold pens from the breast pocket of his dark safari suit, tapped it against the chair arm and reassured himself he could still be safe. In his head he went through a checklist of vulnerability. First – his dealings with the Chinese. Meetings with the trade delegation had been more social than business. The real contacts, the ones that had dealt in specifics, had been secret – his involvement blurred by go-betweens. Nothing there to draw him to the attention of his commander-in-chief. Nothing to link him with the kidnap of Stephen Bowen.

  He was in danger, however, from those he’d had to trust. The bit-part players who’d done his dirty work. Some would stay loyal through thick and thin. But there were others whose loyalty he’d had to buy. And people who could be bought once, could be bought again – by somebody else. They were the ones whose silence he now had to ensure.

  He looked around the room. His father would have been proud to see him in this house, a boy from simple peas
ant stock. Prouder still if he’d succeeded with his plans.

  Blood had been shed to get him where he was. His father had done it in the 1940s – to give the nation its freedom. Dutch blood. And he had done it when the nation faced internal strife in the 1960s. Communist blood.

  The sacrifice of lives – little had been achieved without it in his nation’s history.

  Major General Dino Sumoto was still destined for greatness, of that he was sure. He had lost a battle today, but not the war. He would still win. But to do so he had to survive.

  The news bulletin was on. Pictures of the president visiting Sumatra where there’d been an earthquake. Scenes in the hospital. Victims being comforted by the nation’s leader. Nothing about the arms contract with Britain. Nothing about Bowen; thanks to the efforts of the information minister the kidnap had been all but ignored by the Indonesian media.

  He switched off just as the tea was set down on a small, inlaid table at his elbow. He poured some into the thin porcelain cup and sipped.

  Of all the decisions he now had to take, there was one that would be desperately hard. A decision he was not ready for, but for which he had to prepare.

  The jasmine-scented liquid warmed and calmed his insides. He rose from the chair and crossed to an alcove lined with books where the telephone sat on his leather-topped desk.

  Hand hovering over the phone, he looked down at the silver-framed photographs that ringed it. Distracted for a moment, he picked up one from 1965 – his class at the military academy.

  He remembered the bloodshed that had followed. Ironic he should have been bent on eradicating communism all those years ago, yet now be seeking communist help. The world had changed in thirty years and so had he.

  He replaced the photo and dialled quickly before he could change his mind about what he had to do. The bird-like voice answered after a couple of rings.

  ‘I want you here,’ he told her gruffly. ‘I’m sending the car.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied flatly, as if she’d been expecting it.

  He replaced the receiver then walked through the house to the side door where the driver was waiting. He gave him the address, making him write it down, then told the oaf how to find the correct apartment and sent him on his way.

  On his way back in, Sumoto called into the kitchen.

  ‘I have a guest for dinner. We can eat in one hour.’

  She had never been to this house before. More discreet for them to meet away from the wagging tongues of Menteng. It was why he’d rented the small apartment close by – so he could make use of her when he wanted. But the situation had changed. Away from him she was a danger now. He needed her here, under his control. So he could take his time in deciding what to do with her.

  One more phone call. To Kutu this time – the headquarters of KODAM Twelve. On the island there was some cleaning up to be done.

  Hotel Touristik, Kutu

  20.05 hrs (12.05 hrs GMT)

  They’d spoken little in the bedroom for fear of being overheard. Heart in her mouth, Charlie had changed into a clean bush shirt.

  As they passed through the courtyard on their way towards reception the Dutch couple smiled at them again, but it did nothing to reassure her. Charlie carried a Lonely Planet guidebook to look like a tourist. Her trick camera bag hung from Randall’s shoulder. In the foyer the manager glanced up in surprise.

  ‘Hello, mister! Where you go?’

  ‘For a walk …’ Randall snapped, looking round for the intel men. One of them was watching TV. His fat face twisted towards them.

  ‘Everything closed in Piri …’ the manager warned. ‘Not safe. Better you stay in hotel.’

  ‘Shan’t be long …’ Nick shoved open the door to the street. He heard the scrape of the chair behind him as the policeman scrambled to his feet.

  Outside, the road was eerily empty now, as if the town had been hit by the plague. They marched over broken paving stones, heading downhill towards the town centre.

  ‘You sure about this?’ Charlie whispered, hoarse with nerves. ‘You don’t think they’ll shoot us?’

  ‘No, chuck. I don’t,’ he answered, walking faster.

  ‘But, I mean, d’you even know how to find Captain’s Bar?’ Charlie felt her courage about to fail totally. The place was horrendously spooky. ‘Maybe we should wait until morning.’

  ‘It’s near the harbour,’ he said, grabbing her arm to hurry her along. Looking round in the vain hope of a taxi he spotted the policeman slip from the hotel. ‘Shit!’ They wouldn’t get far at this rate. Then suddenly from up the hill came the heavy thump of rock music. A minibus approached, its front aglow with coloured lights.

  ‘This’ll do,’ Randall murmured.

  ‘We can’t go in that,’ Charlie hissed, appalled.

  ‘We’re going to. And it’s called a bemo according to the book you’re holding.’

  When the minibus was almost on them, he stepped out into the road. It braked sharply and a skinny teenager swung from the door to let them board, his fist full of grubby banknotes.

  They crammed in beside a dozen, small, neat-bodied locals. Dark faces, white teeth, bright shirts and dresses. As the vehicle took off again Nick saw the intel man curse and run back to the hotel. He turned to the boy with the money.

  ‘Pelabuhan, Berapa? How much to the harbour?’

  ‘Six hun’red,’ he answered tensely.

  A loudspeaker wedged beneath the benches pounded a bass beat that shook their innards. Oblivious to the sound level, the other passengers gaped like children at their white faces. Charlie forced a smile.

  At the bottom of the hill a coin was tapped on the overhead rail and the bemo stopped to let two passengers off. The faces of those remaining were tense and watchful. Two unlit army trucks passed in the opposite direction. The passengers looked away, avoiding each other’s eyes. More stops, more passengers out, all in a hurry to get off the streets.

  ‘D’you get the feeling this is the last bus?’ Charlie whispered timorously.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So how the hell do we get back to the hotel?’

  ‘Leave it to Allah, love.’

  Charlie was not amused.

  The driver killed the music. He slowed down, window open, listening. At each bend in the road he stopped to look before pressing on. By the time they reached the harbour, they were the only passengers left. The money collector swung into the road to let them off, eager to see the back of them.

  As the bemo sped away silence closed in. They stood in an empty square that smelled of rotten fruit. Earlier in the day there’d been a market here. At one end street lamps above a closed Telkom office cast an insipid light. At the other the patchily floodlit port was framed by the dark shapes of dockside cranes. Nearby they heard unseen waves caressing a shingle beach.

  ‘Christ, it’s so eerie,’ Charlotte breathed.

  Randall’s skin crawled as if they were being watched. He looked round, but saw no one. He heard Charlie’s teeth chatter again. Odd how they did that when she was scared. Like a character from a Disney cartoon. He slung an arm round her shoulders.

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be OK.’ Then he pointed. ‘Down there, look.’

  A glow of red neon from a side street that could be the bar. They hurried past the iron harbour gates, glimpsing a sandbagged sentry post behind it.

  ‘They’re everywhere,’ Charlie hissed, ‘watching, listening. It’s Orwellian.’

  They reached the corner of the side street, then Randall jerked her sharply back into the shadows.

  ‘A jeep,’ he growled. ‘Outside the bar. With its lights off.’

  ‘Oh Christ!’ she whimpered. ‘Now we’re for it. They guessed where we were going. Told you we should’ve left this until morning.’

  Then they heard the engine start, the gears crunch and the vehicle drive off into the night.

  ‘See?’ Randall said. ‘The jeep’s nothing to do with us. Now just cool it. We’re tourists, remember?’ She w
ould balls things up for them if she didn’t pull herself together. ‘OK. Let’s go for it.’

  The first door they came to was a restaurant, closed and in darkness. The second was Captain’s Bar, but locked. Randall knocked on the bottle-glass panel. No response. From inside came the sound of a television. He knocked harder.

  Through the glass they saw shadows move, then heard the lock being turned. Teri’s face peered out, alarmed.

  ‘Hello. Remember us?’

  Recognising him, she unhitched the chain and let them in. ‘This late not safe,’ she muttered as they slipped past her into the half-lit bar.

  A small, empty drinking den, with a ship’s wheel on the back wall draped with fishing nets. Behind the counter an elderly man with the same broad, Melanesian face as Teri – her father, they guessed – hunched on a stool, staring at the TV. Teri whispered to him, explaining who they were. He listened without taking his eyes from the screen.

  ‘Is Brad here?’ Randall asked.

  ‘Yes. I get him. You want a drink?’

  ‘A beer. You too?’ he asked Charlie. She nodded, biting her lip.

  Teri disappeared through a bead curtain into the back, while the old man flipped the caps off two bottles and gave them glasses. The curtain parted again and Brad Dugdale poked his face through, startled and flustered. He pointed at his watch.

  ‘Not too clever being out this late,’ he warned. ‘Didn’t they tell you at the Touristik?’

  Randall blinked. So the man knew they weren’t at the Cendana … Somebody must’ve told him. The soldiers in the jeep? But why?

  ‘Yeah, well we’re not the clever sort, friend,’ Randall mumbled distractedly.

  Dugdale knocked the top off a bottle and put it to his lips, eyeing them like a car salesman finding punters on his forecourt.

  ‘Suit yourselves,’ he shrugged. ‘So, now that you’re here, what can I do for you folks?’

  ‘Just thought we’d have another word. See what else you know.’

  ‘About what, chum?’

  ‘About the kidnapping of Stephen Bowen …’

  Dugdale’s eyes flickered. ‘Like Jim Sawyer said, we’re all steering clear of that one. Don’t really know anything about it.’