Dugdale swigged from the bottle again, watery eyes watching from beneath heavy brows.
‘OK, but there must be loads of gossip, Brad,’ Randall pressed, sensing the man was playing with them. ‘Who do people think’s got him? The Kutuan resistance?’
‘Maybe,’ Dugdale hedged. Then his eyes narrowed. ‘They certainly could have done it despite what that fart Sawyer told you. The OKP’s got plenty of friends in the media, too. People who’d help with the TV side of things.’
‘Do you think he’s here? On the island?’
‘I … I don’t know.’ He glanced uncomfortably towards Teri and her father, who were both listening. ‘Tell you what, why don’t we go and sit at a table. More comfortable.’
They crossed to the far side of the small bar. Teri slipped away through the bead curtain. The old man concentrated on the TV again.
‘Tell you something,’ Dugdale confided, leaning across the table so their heads were close. ‘I have just heard a rumour that’ll interest you … They say some European who was a dead ringer for Bowen was seen arriving at Piri airport in the middle of last week on a private jet!’
Randall perked up. This matched the speculation Maxwell had come up with.
‘You think it’s true?’ Charlie asked eagerly. The cosiness of the bar had made her feel safer again.
‘Search me. As I said it’s just a rumour.’
‘Where’d you hear this?’ Randall asked, suspicion growing that it was all too pat.
‘Immigration feller at the airport.’
‘But those blokes would know if it were true. A plane coming in – there’d be records kept.’
‘Records? Not in this country, chum. Not if you don’t want there to be and have the right connections. The rumour is, you see, your man Bowen had some private little swizz going with KUTUMIN and came here incognito.’
Same line as Maxwell again. Plausible. But then the best rumours always were.
‘Could be why ABRI’s so darned jumpy at the moment,’ Dugdale continued, reinforcing his message. ‘After telling the world so many times that Bowen’s not in Indonesia, it’d be dead awkward if they’ve found out he is here after all. Loss of face could be terminal. For someone …’
Randall drank from his glass. It still didn’t add up.
‘OK. Suppose Bowen did fly here,’ he pressed, ‘how could the OKP have nabbed him?’
Dugdale gave a huge shrug.
‘Now there you’ve got me, sport. I’ve no idea. Maybe he was at one of the KUTUMIN sites when the OKP attacked. They’re doing it all the time. Perhaps old Soleman Kakadi – the bloke who leads the wild fellers up in the hills – maybe he just took a look at Bowen and said hey, he looks important. Let’s have him.’
‘So it would be Kakadi,’ Nick checked, ‘if it was the OKP.’
‘Oh yeah. The other bloke, Junus Bawi, he’s a softie. Believes in passive resistance. He’s already gone on record saying he’s not involved. And Bawi doesn’t lie.’
‘So how do we find Soleman Kakadi?’ Charlie asked earnestly.
‘Haven’t a clue, my dear. And I don’t want to know. Because if I did, some uniformed gentleman from ABRI might come along and squeeze my nuts until I told him. But you could try the priests. Sawyer gave you the names.’
‘Yes. But tell me, what’s the military doing about Soleman Kakadi?’ Nick probed. ‘Trying to catch him presumably.’
‘Between you and me there’s not too much they can do,’ Dugdale confided. Sensing Randall’s scepticism he was concentrating his answers on Charlie, who hung on his every word. ‘They haven’t the manpower. Kakadi has millions of trees to hide in and most of ABRI’s men are busy in places like East Timor. They haven’t used KOPASSUS here for example – the counter-terrorist boys. They’re the real hard bastards – famous for not taking prisoners. But they’re too busy elsewhere. All ABRI does on Kutu is guard the places where the work’s going on for the mine. Here, I’ll show you.’
He got up from the table. Close to the door was a pinboard with tourist information on it and messages for backpackers. He switched on the light above it.
‘Look.’ A small map showed Kutu shaped like a leg of lamb. ‘In the middle is the volcano they call Jiwa – Spirit Mountain, OK? Piri’s down here on the coast. It’s between Piri and the volcano where the mine’ll be.’
‘They’re not digging yet?’ Charlie checked.
‘No way. Got to finish building the road to the coast first.’ He drew a finger across the map, from the centre to a point west of Piri. ‘That’s to bring the ore to the new deep-water harbour, also being built. And there’s a valley to be dammed for a reservoir.’
‘And Soleman Kakadi is up in those hills?’ Randall asked.
‘I imagine. Twenty, thirty k’s away. The whole island’s less than sixty across.’
‘And with him is Stephen Bowen …’ Charlotte mused. ‘Maybe.’
‘Well … for all I know, yes …’ Dugdale hovered like a salesman close to a deal. Then he switched off the wall light and sidled back to the table.
Randall followed. Speculation, all of it.
‘Great story that airport rumour. Pity there’s no evidence to back it up,’ he said dismissively, sitting down again.
‘Evidence?’ A smile flickered on Dugdale’s face then died again. ‘Who knows, maybe you’ll get lucky.’
Suddenly there was a rap at the door. Charlie jumped in her seat.
‘This could be for you,’ Dugdale warned, tensely. ‘Sit tight. Pretend you don’t know me.’
He crossed to the bar. Randall saw fear in his eyes, the fear of a man who was only tolerated here if he kept his nose clean.
‘Teri!’ Dugdale barked, tapping on the counter. The woman emerged through the beads and he shoved her towards the door.
Three uniformed soldiers burst in, an officer with a pistol holster, his men with rifles. Charlie grabbed Randall’s arm.
‘Selamat malam,’ said Dugdale, greeting them with a rictus of a smile.
The military ignored him, one soldier pushing through the beads into the kitchen, the other guarding the door. The officer stared at Randall and Charlie. Then a look of relief came over his face. He turned back to Dugdale.
‘Selamat malam,’ he responded finally.
‘Christ!’ Charlie breathed, her heart thumping wildly. ‘I thought they were going to open fire.’
The officer was a lieutenant, smart and fit-looking with a tough face the colour of Thai curry. He talked to Dugdale in Bahasa.
Randall strained to listen. ‘He’s asking about us,’ he whispered. ‘Asking how long we’ve been here.’
‘Oh help.’
‘We came for a drink, remember,’ said Randall, resting a hand on her arm. ‘We’re tourists.’
He downed the remains of his beer.
They watched in silence for a couple of minutes, then Dugdale leaned across the counter towards them.
‘Hey, Mr Englishman, whatever your name is! I’ve fixed you a lift back to your hotel. The lieutenant says he’ll take you in his jeep. Right away. You won’t get a taxi at this time of night.’
They stood up.
‘And in future, remember they don’t like you going out in the evenings.’ Dugdale’s face glistened with sweat. ‘Safer to do as they want here …’
The lieutenant ordered his soldiers out, then stood by the door, slapping his thigh with impatience.
‘Hey, if you want to do some scuba diving I’m your man,’ Dugdale added as an afterthought. ‘Take a brochure.’ He grabbed a pamphlet from the bar counter and thrust it at them. ‘Tells you about the boats. Only, ignore the stuff about the Morning Glory. She’s er … she’s out of commission at the moment.’
‘Thanks. Nice idea.’
‘Watch yourselves, now.’
Outside, the jeep’s engine was already running, the two riflemen perched on the mudguards to make room in the back. The officer swung in beside the driver. The soldiers smelled of sweat and t
hick cotton, oil and webbing. A smell of violence, Charlie thought.
‘Good of you to give us a lift,’ Nick shouted above the engine roar as they sped up the hill from the harbour. The jeep’s lights were out.
The lieutenant ignored him. No English. The streets were empty and silent, the soldiers uptight and watchful. Reminded Randall of the Falls Road when he’d first joined up. Next to him Charlotte sat straight backed, her side pressed against his.
Shadowy vehicles passed the other way, trucks full of civilians under arrest. Men and women. Charlie’s mind clicked back to the job. She needed pictures of stuff like this. But with spies watching everything they did, filming anything significant here was going to be a nightmare.
London – Waterloo Station
12.45 hrs
The Eurostar from Brussels due in at twelve thirty arrived two minutes early. Detective Constable Joe Harding stood in the little darkened room behind the immigration barrier, watching through the one-way glass. He felt a little frayed after his night on Ted Sankey’s couch. With him was a short, plain-clothes officer from the Transport Police.
The French had excelled themselves. A motorcycle patrolman in the northern city of Lille had spotted an Espace in the railway station car park with its lights on as if dumped in a hurry. The car was left-hand drive, but had British plates that had proved to be false. The Espace was the one stolen last week from Strasbourg’s Palais des Nations. The television ‘flyaway’ it had originally contained was missing, however.
Lille was on the Eurostar route from Brussels to London.
The photo in Harding’s hand showed a young man with a wide grin and long hair. Ricky Smith. He guessed he would look different today.
The passengers were mostly businessmen in suits. Their passports were given a cursory glance by the immigration officer. A young man with hair cropped to within a centimetre of his scalp presented his maroon document. Upon reading the name the immigration man scratched his cheek. At the signal Harding hurried out into the customs hall.
Ricky Smith had a face bronzed by a sun-lamp, a denim shirt open to his navel, and a gold medallion glittering against his sternum. His face wore an expression of unjustified self-confidence.
‘Excuse me sir, could I see your passport?’ The transport policeman blocked the TV technician’s path.
‘Eh? Just done that, mate,’ Smith protested.
‘Don’t fuck us about, Ricky,’ Harding snapped, gripping his arm.
Wesley Street, Westminster
12.59 hrs
Since watching Keith Copeland condemn her husband to death on television just over an hour ago, Sally Bowen had paced around the little flat, clutching the boarding pass on which the unexplained account number was written. From time to time she stopped to stare from the window.
She’d decided she couldn’t let it go. She was still Stephen’s wife, whatever she thought of him. Still the one person he would be counting on to save him if she could. In her hands she held something. Didn’t know what. Didn’t understand the relevance of the words: Keith’s account: N465329.
It might be nothing. But knowing how gambling had stripped Stephen of all financial morality, knowing how close he and Keith Copeland had become in the past year, she realised that what she held in her hand could just turn out to be a lever as strong as a crowbar.
The television was on with the volume low. She heard the jingle for the lunchtime news, crossed to the set, turned up the sound and sat on the edge of the sofa.
‘PM gives final “no” to Stephen Bowen’s kidnappers,’ the newscaster intoned. ‘Police say the minister’s whereabouts are still unknown.’
She watched as they reran the shot of Copeland with the Indonesian ambassador. That smirk on his face. That dreadful smugness. That appalling look of satisfaction just after condemning Stephen to death. It decided her.
She stood up, paced to the rosewood table with the phone on it and dialled the number for 10 Downing Street.
‘Hello? This is Mrs Sally Bowen speaking. I’d like to speak to the prime minister.’
‘I’ll put you through to the secretary, Mrs Bowen.’
A moment later a man’s voice came on.
‘Mrs Bowen? The prime minister’s in a meeting just now. Can I help?’
‘Yes. I want to see Keith. He said I could. Whenever I liked. I want to fix a time. As soon as possible. It’s really quite urgent.’
Kutu – Hotel Touristik
21.25 hrs (13.25 hrs GMT)
Inside the lobby of the Touristik Hotel the intel man who’d let them slip through his fingers an hour and twenty minutes ago gave them a look that could have flayed the skin off their backs.
‘Evening,’ said Randall.
They walked past him into the empty, central courtyard.
‘That’s one very unhappy bunny,’ Randall muttered. ‘Now, I don’t know about you, but I’ve got to eat something. You hungry?’
‘Yes. If we’re not too late.’ The dining terrace was deserted, the gamelan orchestra gone, the tables draped with white cloths but no cutlery. Charlie put a hand on his arm. ‘They wouldn’t bug this bit of the hotel would they? Put things under the tables?’
Unlikely, thought Randall. Beside the lit-up swimming pool however the furniture was plastic and portable. Safer to sit there.
‘Over there,’ he pointed, leading the way.
They sat, looking round for some sign of serving staff. Charlie lit a cigarette and drew on it tensely, relieved to be back in the hotel.
‘So, what d’you make of all that?’ she prodded, desperate for Randall to open up. ‘Our Australian friend and his rumours …’ She’d watched Nick’s face while Dugdale was talking and was convinced something had clicked with him.
‘Not sure,’ he shrugged. ‘But I think he’s up to something.’
‘Knows more than he’s saying, you mean?’
‘Maybe. Had a feeling at one point he knew where Bowen was …’
‘Wow! Why d’you say that?’ She hunched forward, drawing in a mouthful of smoke.
Randall puffed out his cheeks. ‘Just a feeling …’
‘… born of years of policemanly experience, I suppose,’ she needled, hoping to goad him into giving away more.
‘If you like.’
‘Or … because of something you know. Something about Brad that’s come up elsewhere? Something dug up by MI6 perhaps?’ she gushed, desperate for Randall to give. ‘Something they told you on the phone when you spoke to London from Darwin airport, perhaps?’
‘Hey, hang on chuck. Hang on. You’re way off beam. And anyway, don’t push your luck. When there’s something I can tell you, I will. OK?’ His voice was firm but gentle. He’d try it on if he were her. ‘But the answer’s no. None of that stuff. It’s just a gut feeling.’
Charlie sat back and flicked ash on to the soil of a pot plant. ‘Well, do your guts also tell you whether we can get anything to eat around here?’ She peered into the shadows that ringed the dining area, then looked at her watch. It felt like midnight. ‘Only half past nine. Must be someone around still.’
Nick tapped his metal watch-bracelet on the table, hoping the noise would attract attention. He felt desperately tired suddenly. The lack of sleep was catching up.
A waitress appeared, dressed in knee-length skirt and white blouse. Silently and from nowhere.
‘Kitchen close …’ said the woman. She had a pretty face but sad eyes.
‘You can find us something,’ Nick replied, slipping a banknote into her hand.
‘Terima kasih!’ she smiled, bowing. ‘You like nasi goreng?’
‘She says there’s fried rice with chicken and veg,’ Nick translated.
‘Fine. Anything.’
‘Beer to drink?’ he checked.
‘No. Diet Coke.’
‘And a beer for me,’ he told the girl.
‘The power of money,’ Charlie breathed as the waitress disappeared.
They sat staring into the clear bl
ue depths of the pool. For a full minute neither spoke. Then Charlie broke the silence, reading his thoughts.
‘Soleman Kakadi.’
‘Yes. All the signs seem to point. Tomorrow we have to find a way of getting to him.’
Charlie felt warmed by the way he’d said we. He gave her a smile that was a little sheepish. Looks like a kid at times, she thought. He’d be cuddly if he let go a bit. She stubbed out her cigarette.
‘Got any kids?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Eh?’
‘On the plane from Singapore you told me you were married once.’
‘Yes. One daughter,’ he frowned, not wanting the distraction of thinking about Sandra.
‘How old?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘And trouble, I imagine,’ she smiled. ‘What happened?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Between you and your wife. You broke up …’
Randall puffed his cheeks. ‘Look, I really don’t want to talk about it …’
‘Sorry.’ She blushed. ‘That was rude. Typical journalist. Never know when to stop.’ She smiled meekly. ‘It’s just that when I share a bed with a bloke I like to know a bit about him.’
He sat up with a jolt, sensing her remark had been more than an idle one – that she was telling him something. A gentle come-on perhaps? Too bad. He’d decided right at the start that, however tempted, sex with Charlie was a complication he could do without.
He was about to remind her of his promise to sleep on the floor, when the waitress returned, beaming. She set a tray down, off-loaded bottles and glasses, then the two plates of food.
‘That was quick,’ Charlie breathed. ‘How much did you tip her?’
‘Too much by the look of it.’
‘Selamat makan,’ she purred, slinking away.
‘What did she say?’
‘Nothing much. Just enjoy your meal. But it’ll probably be cold.’ He took a forkful of rice. ‘It is.’
Charlie didn’t care, so long as it stopped her stomach rumbling.
‘How much of this language can you understand?’ she checked.
‘About half. It’s not hard to learn, but I’m rusty.’
Charlie watched his mouth as he ate, her fear of the place sufficiently diminished to wonder, just for a moment, what he would be like as a lover.
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