Java Spider

by Geoffrey Archer

  He slipped the licence back into the envelope.

  Urgent that he phone London, but not from the hotel. Overseas calls from Kutu might all be monitored, but a public phone would be safer than here. There was the Telkom office down by the harbour.

  Then what? Break cover and take the licence to the local police? No way. He’d be shoved on to the next plane out. Deciding what to tell the Indonesians was for London to handle.

  Should he sit around the hotel then, hoping that whoever had slipped him the licence would make themselves known? Not with intel sniffing about.

  No. There was only one thing to do. Find Dugdale again. Beard him with the licence and tell him to come clean.

  Randall heard a smoker’s cough from the bedroom. Charlie mustn’t know about this yet. Couldn’t risk her feeding news of it to the News Channel. He folded the envelope as small as he could then stuffed it into his washbag.

  He filled the basin to shave. He could sniff her perfume from somewhere. After a moment or two he realised the smell was coming from him.

  Piri town centre

  08.05 hrs (00.05 hrs GMT)

  In daylight the harbour square had been transformed into the bustling market place they’d got the whiff of last night. Bemos cruised through the crowd, their money-collectors leaning out for business.

  They’d come here because he needed to phone, he’d told her. He’d not said why. Bowen’s driving licence was hidden in his money belt.

  The sun burned the tops of their heads as they walked through the throng – men in dark trousers, women in bright cotton skirts. Most of the chatter was in Kutun, a language unconnected with the Malay that Randall understood. Faces turned to stare. The white man was clearly still a stranger here. Nick began to see differences in the islanders. The native Kutuans had boxy, aboriginal looks, the neater Malay faces belonged to Javan transmigrasi, here to work on the mine.

  At the Touristik Hotel they’d been served breakfast by their waitress from last night, her face this morning brightened by a smile like a melon slice. Randall reckoned he’d seriously misread the noughts on the banknote he’d given her. But the girl had been too smiley, too easy-going. Couldn’t have been she who’d slipped the envelope under their door. If there was an OKP activist in the hotel it wasn’t her.

  Charlie had been quiet at breakfast. Worrying about her father, she’d said.

  They reached the Telkom office with its banks of direct-dial phones. Randall didn’t want Charlie hovering when he made his call.

  ‘Hey, why not take some shots of the market while I’m on the blower,’ he suggested. ‘Tourists do it all the time. Could be good background stuff.’

  ‘Won’t fit in,’ she countered. ‘Anyway I don’t want to get more noticed than’s inevitable.’

  ‘Well what about getting us a couple of drinks?’ There was a stall outside selling sodas.

  ‘I’ll stick with you if you don’t mind,’ she insisted.

  He’d overdone it. Made her suspicious. They stepped into the air-conditioned cool of the telephone office.

  ‘Well, hold the camera-bag, then,’ he said brusquely, giving it to her.

  ‘Aren’t you worried the phone’ll be bugged?’ she whispered, slipping the strap over her shoulder.

  ‘Yes chuck, but I’ve no choice.’

  Randall queued to buy a phonecard then took it to a booth and dialled. The number answered at the third ring. Just after midnight in London.

  ‘Hello?’ Mostyn’s voice. Working late.

  ‘Hello! This is Nick.’

  ‘Oh, hi! Havin’ a good holiday?’

  ‘Yeh! It’s great. Beautiful place.’ Sticking to the legend. Chatty – like a bloke on honeymoon. ‘Hot as hell, mate. Hot as hell. But you know what? I got given something this morning. Something belonging to Bob. His D.L.’

  ‘Oh really? How’s this line, by the way?’

  ‘Not too good.’

  ‘Right …’ Care needed. ‘So, you reckon Bob’s there?’

  ‘Looks that way. I’m trying to find out. Be nice to meet up with him. Bugger owes me a beer! Any messages?’

  ‘Yes. One from the Vauxhall bloke you rang yesterday …’ Vauxhall. Vauxhall Cross – SIS HQ – Harry Maxwell. ‘Said things could be more complicated than we thought. Said it may involve big wheels.’

  ‘Any names?’ Have to risk it.

  ‘Yes. Got a pen?’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘I’ll spell it. S-U-M-O-T-O. Said you’d know the name. It was in the brochure you took away with you.’

  ‘I do,’ Randall frowned, surprised. ‘Any explanation?’

  ‘No. May be a connection, that’s all. Said to listen out for the name. And watch your health. Lots of nasties about, he said. Oh, and you asked him about another feller.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Brad Dugdale.

  ‘They have heard of him. Specialises in underwater archaeology. Seems to have something big on ’cos he’s been trying to hire heavy lifting gear in Australia. Wants to make a TV documentary about it.’

  ‘Does he now!’ So Dugdale had a TV connection. ‘That it?’

  ‘No. There’s more. The boss here has reconfirmed the export order, so Bob may not have much of a future. And related to that, we’ve found the bloke who was the er… distributor in Europe … Know who I mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ricky Smith.

  ‘He’s told us bugger all, but he had something on him that used to be Bob’s. A hearing device.’

  ‘Oh, fuck!’

  ‘Nice people. So keep in touch.’

  ‘I will. Any of this public yet?’

  ‘The fact that we’ve got hold of the European distributor, yes. But no names and nothing about the body part.’

  He rang off. So, Bowen had been as good as condemned to death and the terrorists had begun cutting him up. Animals!

  Concentrate. Sumoto. He racked his brains to remember the biog from the SIS file. A major general. Former military commander at this end of the archipelago, now head of procurement at the Defence Ministry in Jakarta. A key figure in swinging the arms deal to Britain instead of France. Sumoto was on our side – that was the main point, so how on earth could he be involved in the kidnap?

  Baffled, he decided he’d better move.

  He swung round – and collided with Charlie. She blocked him, her face flushed. She’d heard what he’d said.

  ‘Who’s Bob?’ she demanded. ‘It’s Bowen, right? And what’s D.L. stand for?’ In her pouch-pocketed, fawn bush shirt and fawn slacks she looked like a little girl who’d dressed up in battledress to look tough.

  ‘Not here,’ he whispered, jerking his head towards the door.

  ‘Yes. Here. Tell me. Then it’s my turn to phone,’ she said petulantly.

  ‘No way, love.’ He took her arm and hustled her outside. The heat hit them again like an open oven.

  ‘Know what you are, Nick?’ she seethed, wrenching her arm free. ‘A cheating bastard.’

  ‘Hang on a minute …’

  ‘No. You hang on. We had a deal, remember? I keep quiet about who you are, you keep me up to speed with the story!’

  They were being stared at. Couples didn’t do their squabbling in public in this part of the world.

  ‘Cool it,’ Nick breathed, moving her away from the Telkom office. ‘I was going to tell you …’

  ‘On yes? When?’

  ‘Now. After I’d made that call.’

  ‘Right. Well here’s your big chance.’

  He guided her away from the staring crowd, towards the side-street where Captain’s Bar was.

  ‘Look, you’re right. Bob is Bowen. Somebody stuffed his driving licence under our door this morning,’ he muttered. ‘Could’ve been an OKP sympathiser in the hotel, could have been Dugdale. I’m about to try to find out. But you can’t use any of this. You know that.’

  She did. But it wasn’t the point. His grey eyes and firm-set chin had that stony look again. The one that shut her out. So much fo
r nocturnal osmosis.

  A dark green truck full of shiny-helmeted soldiers entered the square, the crowd parting respectfully to let them through. Randall shrank back, fearing it was them the soldiers had come for. Then the lorry drove into the port. A guard change.

  Suddenly he began to look around as if taking in the sights. Intel would be here somewhere. He spotted them quickly. Not hard to see. No attempt at concealment. Two men sitting on the steps of a bank. Javan faces, eyes accustomed to instilling fear. One of them got up and ambled towards the Telkom office. To check what number he’d rung, Randall guessed.

  Big wheels. General Sumoto. What on earth had Maxwell meant? He’d have to ring him direct. But first he had to pin Dugdale down.

  At Captain’s Bar the door was locked. Nick hammered on the blue-painted wood, then tapped more gently on the bottle-glass above it. Eventually he heard the lock turn.

  A man opened it. In his twenties, chest like a gorilla, but the same flat face as Teri. Could be a brother.

  ‘Bar closed,’ he scowled. He made to shut the door again, but found a foot in the way.

  ‘I want to see Brad,’ Randall insisted, holding up the scuba-diving brochure Dugdale had given him last night.

  ‘Brad no here.’

  There was a movement in the half-darkness inside the bar. A woman cleaning the tables.

  ‘Teri!’

  She looked up, then came to the door muttering in Kutun. Standing beside one another it was obvious they were siblings.

  ‘Brad not here,’ she repeated.

  Charlie leaned close to Nick’s ear. ‘We’ve got company,’ she whispered.

  He glanced round and saw the intel men strolling towards them.

  ‘Look, last night I fixed with Brad to see him this morning. To book some diving.’

  Teri looked past him, saw the policemen, said a few words to her brother and he stood back. Inside, the bar smelled of the bleach she’d been using as a cleaner.

  ‘Where is Brad?’ Nick demanded when the door was relocked behind them.

  ‘Not here.’ Teri positioned herself behind the counter. ‘Back tomorrow maybe. When you want to dive? This my brother Dedi. He can take you.’

  Dedi’s muscle-packed frame was squeezed into blue shorts faded by the sun and a striped T-shirt.

  ‘We want to talk to Brad, Teri. Can you get him?’

  She laughed nervously. ‘I tell you he not here.’

  ‘Why don’t you go and have a look? Maybe he’s upstairs …’ Randall snapped.

  Teri frowned, puzzled he should disbelieve her. She spoke in Kutun to her brother, a twangy, complaining sound. Then Dedi rounded on Nick, hands on hips, chin thrust forward.

  ‘Brad back tomorrow, maybe. What you wan’, Mister?’

  They were telling the truth. He realised that now. Brad must have deliberately taken himself off for the day to keep out of their way. His suspicions grew.

  ‘OK. No Brad,’ he conceded.

  Back to plan A. To contact the priests in the hope of finding a way through to Soleman Kakadi. Maybe these two could help.

  ‘Teri. Yesterday in Darwin Brad and Jim Sawyer gave us the name of some priests. We want to get in touch. Can you tell us where to find them?’

  Teri looked distinctly uneasy. ‘I just work in this bar, Mister,’ she protested. ‘Kutu very dangerous place. Best thing keep away from trouble. Men outside – they watching you.’

  ‘Teri … we have to contact Soleman Kakadi,’ Randall insisted. ‘Through the priests is the only way we know of doing it.’

  Teri rocked her head for a long while. Then she seemed to have an idea. She whispered to her brother, suggesting something which he strongly resisted. Eventually she seemed to half convince him.

  ‘We not know how you find Soleman Kakadi,’ she said formally. ‘But maybe best you talk with Father Pius Naplo.’

  ‘Church of Santa Josef?’ Randall checked.

  ‘Twenty kilometres from Piri,’ she told them, keeping her voice low. ‘You have to pass where they build new harbour. Many soldiers there, because OKP make damage. ABRI block road. But tourists can pass if they with guide, to go to beaches at Santa Josef. For diving …’

  Nick understood at last. He turned to her brother. ‘You can take us there?’

  Dedi looked distinctly uninterested.

  Nick dipped into the pocket of his thin slacks and extracted a folded wad of money. He peeled off 100,000 rupiah, the equivalent of thirty pounds. Dedi was still unmoved. Nick doubled it.

  ‘OK,’ the Kutuan sighed, eyes flickering at what to him was a huge sum. ‘I take you to beach at Santa Josef. For diving.’

  ‘Sure. But the church is nearby? We could walk to it?’

  ‘Next to beach,’ Teri explained. ‘Next to home for orphan children.’

  ‘Orphans …? Because of the fighting?’ Charlotte checked, seeing an opportunity for some meaningful pictures.

  Teri looked uncomfortable. ‘Some there because of fighting. Yes.’

  ‘We go now?’ Randall pressed. Time was whirling by.

  ‘Maybe ten minutes,’ said Dedi. ‘I must get equipment ready.’

  Air bottles rattled in the back of Dedi’s blue minibus as the wheels hit potholes on the coast road out of Piri’s centre. A smelly outboard hung from a rack. On the roof was an upturned inflatable. In the bay to their left the sea bobbed with fishing boats at anchor. On the driftwood-littered beach, outrigger canoes soaked up sun between coconut palms.

  Randall felt he was floundering. Too much about this case that he didn’t understand. Bowen’s licence – Dugdale – General Dino Sumoto – Soleman Kakadi. Was there some link between them or not? He was running out of time to find out. The chances must be high by now that Bowen was already dead. He looked out to sea.

  ‘Are Brad’s boats out there?’ he asked, sitting in the front next to Dedi.

  ‘Ya. See two boats?’ Dedi took a hand from the wheel to point. Moored away from the fishing fleet, a fast-looking power boat with a high bridge was tied alongside a larger schooner with a roomy superstructure at the stern.

  ‘Which one’s the Morning Glory?’

  ‘Big one.’ A light swell had set its mast rocking.

  ‘What’s it used for? Brad said it was out of commission?’

  ‘Brad have big plan,’ Dedi told him. ‘Year ago he find small submarine used by Aussies when Japs here. Very deep. Need special gear. He going to put it on Morning Glory. Use her as salvage ship. He make movie ’bout it. For TV. He say I can be star,’ he concluded with a modest smile.

  Wartime minisub – Special Ops. No wonder Dugdale had got on to the files of the intelligence services.

  ‘Does he have permission?’

  ‘Soon. Permission come soon, he think.’

  In the meantime, out there at anchor was a big, roomy boat. A perfect place to stash a hostage. Randall stroked his chin.

  No. That brainwave made no sense whatsoever. Involving himself that deeply would be far too big a risk for Dugdale to take. He remembered the man’s fear when the soldiers stormed into the bar last night.

  Charlie sat behind him on the middle bench. She leaned forward, resting her arm on the back of his seat so her mouth was close to his ear. He smelled a little of sweat, but not unpleasantly.

  ‘What was the news from London,’ she asked, trying to sound casual.

  Randall quickly selected something to tell her. ‘Bad news for Bowen. The government’s reconfirmed the arms deal.’

  ‘Oh God! So … so he’s a dead man. Or will be soon,’ she whispered.

  ‘I fear so. One other thing – and this isn’t public yet – we’ve picked up a bloke called Ricky Smith. He’s the satellite freak who beamed the videos to your lot at the News Channel.’

  ‘Wow. That’s something.’ The name was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place it. ‘Who is he? What’s he said?’

  ‘Nothing yet. And I suspect he’s just a gofer.’

  ‘For whom? I mean … Jesu
s! I’m lost, Nick,’ she confessed. ‘Have to admit I simply do not understand what’s going on.’

  ‘Makes two of us.’

  She didn’t for one moment believe him. ‘That driving licence of Bowen’s,’ she pressed, ‘what’s your hunch about where it came from?’

  ‘I just don’t know, Charlie. And that’s the plain truth.’

  Was it? Or was he just stringing her along? She sat back, arms folded. She felt desperately isolated with no other hacks around. Either it meant she was on her way to the scoop of a lifetime, or there was a damn good reason she was here on her own. Like the others were covering the real story somewhere else … Fear gripped her that she’d got it wrong. Then she stuffed it to the back of her mind. At least they were on the move now, following leads. And she was with her personal detective. However secretive he might be, they were together, going to the same places, covering the same ground. Not even Kate Adie could have bettered that.

  Anyway, instinct told her they were on the right track. They would get to Kakadi. It would be an exclusive. This was going to make her career.

  Still had nothing on tape though. Couldn’t be happy until she’d got some shots down. She checked over the camera bag, making sure the leads from the stud lens were connected to the hidden camcorder.

  ‘Heyup!’ growled Randall suddenly.

  She followed his look. They were on the edge of town. Burning tyres blocked access to side turnings. A grid of streets, tin-roofed shacks, and not a soul in sight. Charlie jabbed on the recorder and swung the strap to the window.

  ‘This Poteng,’ Dedi intoned, jabbing his foot on the accelerator. ‘Last night ABRI they shoot two boys here. Arrests. Many arrests.’

  No troops now and in a few seconds they’d passed the area. Charlie replayed her brief shots through the viewfinder, then frowned with disappointment. Too fast. A blur. Nothing usable.

  ‘Why so many arrests?’ Randall asked. ‘Why now, Dedi?’

  The Kutuan answered without hesitation. ‘Because of Englishman.’

  Randall stroked his chin. If ABRI were rounding so many people up to grill them about the kidnap it could mean they were as baffled by it as he was. He looked at Dedi, trying to guess where his sympathies lay. He decided to test him with a name.