Java Spider

by Geoffrey Archer

  He stared up at the sky. Small patches visible amongst the branches. Must be what a prisoner felt, glimpsing light through the bars of his cell. Grey clouds were sweeping in, threatening rain. He sniffed at the air. Then he furrowed his brow and sniffed again. Wood smoke. Always the bloody same for him in the tropics. Got himself into trouble and smelled bonfires …

  Smoke!

  ‘Christ!’

  He stood up again, sniffing deeper to check he’d not imagined it. His drinking water was long gone and dehydration did funny things.

  Definitely smoke.

  He smiled fleetingly with relief. Must be near the valley at last. At times he’d thought he would die in the forest. He pushed on rapidly, soon seeing daylight ahead. On the tree line he stopped, crouching to scan the paddies below him. No soldiers. No sign of any living creature for that matter.

  He crept forward, taking advantage of cover until he could see the village. Then he stopped dead.

  ‘Fu-uck …’ he gasped. ‘The world’s gone mad.’

  The smoke. He understood it at last. Understood the deserted fields. The houses where he’d videoed children a few hours ago had been put to the torch. All gone, reduced now to blackened timbers and smouldering thatch. A blue haze hugged the valley bottom. Out of it rose the white bulk of the mission hospital, miraculously untouched. Spared the rage of the soldiers. If the villagers were alive, that’s where they’d be.

  The phone – the satellite dish he’d seen when they arrived from the coast. Please God, let it have survived. The thought of being able to communicate again with friends, with people on his side, had sustained him for the past three hours.

  Back into his head came the image of Junus Bawi, strung on the pig pole. Down there somewhere were Bawi’s wife and son, waiting for news. Or not. Dead too, maybe. Or taken by the troops. Hell.

  Evidence. Needed it for himself – and for Charlie if she ever got to make a report. He dug out the Handycam again and videoed the view.

  A path led him down to the village. He began to picture what must have happened here – soldiers dropped into the valley to ambush the fleeing OKP guerrillas – walked into a minefield – lost some men – then took it out on the villagers. To his right a patch of trampled cabbages would have been where the machines had landed.

  There was still no one to be seen. But no bodies either. No sign of killing. All taken away? Transported from the valley? Was he now alone up there? Unnerved, he left the path and crouched amidst banana plants to watch and listen. The silence was eerie. Just the crickets. Then, faintly, from afar, he heard music. A single female voice at first, high and tremulous, then the drone of untutored throats singing ‘The Lord is my Shepherd’.

  Not until he reached the edge of the hospital verandah did he see the people jampacked inside, squatting on the ground, spilling through the doors. The entire population of the village sheltering there with the lepers and the malaria victims.

  Heads turned. Eyes turned. At the sight of him, a ripple of movement carried word of his arrival to the headmen inside. Seconds later Father Pius Naplo picked his way through the carpet of legs and stood on the verandah looking down at him. His cassock was streaked with blood. He was shocked at Randall’s own bedraggled state, shocked to see him alone.

  ‘Father, I don’t have good news for you. Junus Bawi …’

  ‘You are alone …’ Naplo interrupted.

  ‘Yes.’ He could see the priest expected the worst. ‘Dr Bawi – I’m afraid they shot him.’

  ‘Ohhh …’ Naplo emptied his lungs and bowed his head. He squeezed shut his eyelids as if unable to witness more tragedy.

  ‘They came in helicopters,’ Randall explained. ‘To try to catch Soleman Kakadi.’

  Naplo crossed himself.

  ‘I don’t know, Father. Don’t know whether they found him or not,’ Randall went on, forestalling the question. ‘I didn’t see.’

  ‘And the woman who was with you?’ Naplo asked eventually.

  ‘They took her prisoner.’

  He looked forlorn. ‘That is bad. Very bad.’ Then he tilted his head on one side, seeing a grain of hope. ‘But maybe they don’t hurt a foreigner.’

  ‘Father, you have a satellite telephone here?’ Randall pressed, desperate for contact with a world and a culture he understood.

  From Naplo a blank stare, then a turn of the head. Nick followed his look. Under a large fig tree, twenty metres away, four dead bodies had been laid out, one of them a nurse.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Nick murmured, embarrassed that he’d not asked what had happened here.

  ‘Come.’ The priest walked down the steps and took his arm: He led him to the end of the building where the satellite dishes were. The chain link fence surrounding them had been flattened, the antenna for the satphone smashed to pieces.

  ‘You see …’ Naplo gestured. ‘We cannot even tell anyone what has happened here.’

  Randall’s heart sank.

  Naplo took his arm and led him towards the smouldering shells of the houses.

  ‘Come. You journalist. You see. Soldiers burn everything. Anybody try to stop, they shoot them. Four people killed here, ten more wounded.’ The priest’s voice teetered on the edge of hysteria. ‘ABRI say KUTUMIN start building dam across the valley tomorrow, so all people must leave.’

  Randall grimaced. ‘And will they?’

  The priest spread his arms. ‘ABRI send trucks tomorrow. The people cannot fight this. Not even if Soleman still lives …’

  Randall looked at his watch. The day was slipping away.

  ‘Father, I need your help. I have to get to a telephone. It’s desperately urgent that I tell people what happened here today.’

  ‘Yes. You must. I will bring you to Santa Josef soon. But first there is Doctor Bawi’s wife and son. I must tell them what happen. I think they already fear it when they see the helicopters fly towards the mountain. After, I will take a wounded man to Santa Josef. He very bad. Need hospital in Piri. The nurses make him ready now. Maybe in ten, fifteen minutes I go, and you can come with me.’

  He waved an arm at the devastation around them.

  ‘Take pictures. Show people in England what kind of army they sell guns to.’

  London – Downing Street

  09.00 hrs

  Sally Bowen felt queasy. Nerves. The taxi dropped her by the heavy steel gates at the end of Downing Street. She gave her name to the policeman and was allowed into the road. She’d never set foot here before. Such a narrow, insignificant street for a nation’s leader to live in. More imposing on TV.

  She’d slept very little last night, and had then spent a good hour trying to decide what to wear. The well-cut suit of the loyal political wife, or something simpler in which to appeal to Keith’s better nature. In the end she’d settled for the dark-grey Jaeger skirt and a cherry-coloured turtle-neck pullover that went well with her blonde hair. The more she’d thought about it, however, the more she’d despaired of being able to change his mind and persuade him to negotiate with Stephen’s kidnappers.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Bowen.’ The policeman guarding the broad, black door nodded respectfully. He tapped and it opened. Inside, she was shown into a little drawing room where a fire crackled in the grate. Keith Copeland emerged through a door at the other end.

  ‘Good morning, Sally,’ he said, accentuating his limp as he crossed the floor. He gripped both her hands. ‘Let me say once again how terrible I feel about this whole business. You’ve been an absolute tower of strength. How are the children?’

  She detached her hands from his. She fancied there was something reptilian about his look this morning, but she could have been imagining it.

  ‘They’re being kept busy at their schools,’ she replied insipidly. ‘I don’t think it’s sunk in yet that their father’s about to die.’

  ‘No,’ Copeland gulped. ‘I … I suppose that must be a good thing.’ They sat in a pair of regency stripe armchairs. Between them was a small Georgian table set w
ith a coffee pot and two cups.

  ‘May I?’ he asked, offering to pour.

  ‘Thank you … Keith, I’ve come to make a plea,’ she announced bluntly, determined not to be soft-soaped.

  Copeland winced. This wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d hoped.

  ‘To ask whether there isn’t something more that can be done to save Stephen’s life.’

  ‘Sally, everything possible has been done. Is being done. Let me assure you of that.’

  ‘Except negotiations,’ she insisted. ‘You’re not even trying to negotiate his release!’

  ‘But there’s no one to negotiate with, Sally,’ Copeland protested. ‘We don’t know who these people are. We’re trying extremely hard to find out.’ Should he tell her about the Yard man in Kutu and the fact that Stephen’s driving licence had turned up? No. Too sensitive at this stage. ‘But there’s one thing you have to understand, Sally. No government can afford to give into threats from terrorists.’

  ‘That’s rubbish,’ she murmured, unimpressed. ‘Governments do it all the time.’

  ‘Not British governments. But I say again, if we can only contact the kidnappers then maybe some sort of deal can be struck. But on the issue of the arms contract, no. We can’t budge. You understand that, surely?’

  She felt he was lecturing her. Treating her to a TV performance rather than conversing with her.

  ‘You were good friends, once,’ she said, trying to shame him.

  ‘Still are, Sally. Still are,’ he insisted. ‘Believe me I feel this whole business as personally as you do.’

  ‘You helped each other out politically, didn’t you?’

  Copeland recoiled. What did she mean? What did she know?

  ‘Well, yes. In a manner of speaking,’ he admitted, warily.

  ‘Financially too,’ she continued, looking him straight in the eye. She fancied she saw the blood drain from his face.

  ‘I’m not quite sure what you …’

  ‘The bank account in Switzerland. The one Stephen set up for you …’

  Copeland gaped. His jaw moved wordlessly. Panic choked him. It was as if the sea were closing over him. Stephen must have told her. Betrayed him.

  He swallowed, pulling himself together. He looked at Sally. County clothes. Farmyard brain. A silly woman, that’s how Stephen had always described her. She couldn’t know. Had to be guessing.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean by that, Sally,’ he mouthed, playing for time. ‘In fact I have no clue what you’re talking about.’

  Sally sensed she’d got him. She opened her large black handbag and pulled out the boarding pass.

  ‘Keith’s account: N465329,’ she read. When she looked up, she knew it was true. Copeland’s face had imploded.

  Then suddenly it managed to re-inflate.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said softly. ‘What is it you have there?’

  ‘An airline boarding pass,’ she said defiantly. ‘From when Stephen went to Zurich a couple of months ago. To set up the bank accounts for you and him. For some reason he wrote the number of yours on it.’

  She let her accusation hang in the air.

  It was a guess, Copeland realised. A number on a card could mean anything. He breathed again.

  ‘No, my dear. You’ve added two and two and made five, I’m afraid – or rather I’m glad to say. I don’t have a Swiss bank account. If I had, there’d be nothing to put in it,’ he assured her. ‘May I see?’

  He held out his hand.

  Sally felt her resolve crumble. Politicians always managed to make her feel out of her depth. Stephen had done it too.

  ‘May I?’ he repeated.

  She gave him the boarding pass.

  ‘Well, well …’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I have simply no idea what this is, Sally. I suppose there must be hundreds of thousands of Keiths in England. But I can assure you this one isn’t me.’

  He was about to hand it back to her, then had second thoughts. He levered himself to his feet.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said, walking over to the fireplace. ‘I think we’d better dispose of this, don’t you?’

  He threw the ticket into the flames. Sally gasped, reaching out a pointless hand to stop him.

  ‘There,’ he murmured, watching it burn. ‘Wouldn’t want anyone else jumping to the wrong conclusion.’

  He limped back towards her.

  ‘It’s been very hard for you, Sally. I’m so sorry.’

  Kutu

  On the nightmare drive to Santa Josef, every rock, every pothole jolted a moan of pain from the youth laid out on the rear seat of the battered green minibus. A nurse dabbed at his forehead with a wet cloth and tightened his bloodstained dressings. Randall tried to shut out his cries and to think. To put what he knew into some sort of order.

  Fact number one. The Kutuan resistance movement, the OKP, was not involved in the kidnap of Stephen Bowen. Of that he was now certain.

  Fact two. General Dino Sumoto probably was involved. Backed by supporters in KODAM Twelve. Why? Hadn’t a clue. Maxwell might know by now, if only he could contact him. All he’d come up with by himself was that Sumoto wanted to destroy the OKP. But to do so by kidnapping an official of a foreign government and blame the OKP was to play with stakes that were extraordinarily high.

  Fact three. Sumoto had made big money from KUTUMIN and probably stood to make much more. So, it was rumoured, did Stephen Bowen. Could they have cooked up the kidnap between them? To provide an excuse to smash the Kutuan resistance, so the mine and their money flow could proceed unhindered? Could the kidnap be a hoax even – Bowen faking his terror, faking his injuries and the torture, and now sipping gin with Sumoto waiting for the pay-off?

  Not credible. Fantasy. But where was Bowen? The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Somewhere on this benighted island – of that Randall now felt almost certain.

  And where in this equation did Brad Dugdale fit – if at all? He was linked with Sumoto, if only through the payment of bribes to him.

  It was Dugdale who’d fed them the rumour of Bowen being seen at Piri airport. Dugdale who’d hinted heavily that Kakadi was the kidnapper … So, had he been used by Sumoto to set Charlie and him up as the bait to trap Kakadi? Had he fed them the driving licence? What else could he have done? Used his TV connections to set up the European end of the kidnap? Maybe even have provided the boat on which Bowen was now hidden …?

  Suddenly Naplo stamped on the brakes. They’d reached the village on the hill overlooking Santa Josef, the bamboo houses turned pink by the glow of dusk. In the middle of the track stood a woman in nun’s habit, flagging them down. It was the sister from the orphan-age.

  She came to the window and yammered breathlessly. Naplo buried his head in his hands. Eventually he looked up again and turned to Randall.

  ‘Sister Angelica say ABRI cut telephone from Santa Josef,’ he declared. ‘Soldiers waiting now at the orphanage. Waiting for you.’

  Randall gulped. Waiting to trap him. To shut him away with Charlie so there’d be no witnesses to what KOPASSUS had done. Nobody to blow the gaff on Sumoto … His stomach somersaulted. Charlie. She could be in greater danger than he’d imagined. If even half his suppositions were right, she might not be in the hands of professional soldiers anymore, but in the clutches of General Sumoto’s men.

  God, he needed that phone. Needed to get the whole British government machine working on getting the girl free again.

  ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ he hissed.

  ‘For a telephone you must now go to Piri,’ Naplo said forlornly. ‘There is no other place. But I cannot take you there. Not even to Santa Josef now. They will arrest me as well as you. But Sister Angelica – she has a plan. She will take you to the man who brought you from Piri this morning. She has spoken with him.’

  Dedi. But was he part of the conspiracy? He and his sister? Or had Dugdale used them too? Whatever – he had no alternative. Randall thanked the priest and got out. The minibus rattled onwards imme
diately in a cloud of dust and exhaust. Solemn-faced, Sister Angelica pointed towards a small motorbike with a pillion, which she pushed off its stand and kickstarted into life.

  The track she took was no more than a path, weaving through patches of maize, banana and cabbage down to the coast. They bounced along without lights, the ride increasingly hazardous as the sunset glimmered its last. Finally the machine purred on to the flat of a beach, weaving through coconut palms. The moon shone through thin clouds, turning the heads of the trees into black paper cutouts.

  The nun stopped and killed the engine. Randall slid off the pillion and looked around. Close by, the burly Kutuan rose up from the sand where he’d been squatting.

  As soon as she saw him, Sister Angelica restarted the bike and rode off without a word.

  ‘You alone, mister?’ Dedi asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Nick confirmed. ‘The soldiers have taken Charlie prisoner.’

  Dedi made a clicking noise with his tongue.

  Randall stepped round until his back was to the moon and he could see Dedi’s expression in the light.

  ‘And they killed Junus Bawi,’ he added.

  ‘Ahh …’ The Kutuan’s shoulders slumped as if he’d been punched. ‘Ohhh … Bad, bad, bad thing … Oh … people very angry now. Big, big trouble now. You see.’

  He began rolling his head, muttering in Kutun. Then his eyes looked up and locked. He stared fixedly at a point beyond Randall’s shoulder, terror on his face.

  ‘Aieeaieeaiee,’ he wailed softly. Distraught, his hands hovered as a shield as he gazed towards the moon. Then he fell to his knees.

  ‘What is it, for Christ’s sake?’ Randall hissed, turning to look.

  The crown of a palm tree stood out stark against the moonlight. Its fronds were shaking, yet he could feel no wind.

  Randall crouched on the sand beside the Kutuan. ‘Dedi,’ he whispered. ‘What is it?’

  The man looked to be in a trance.

  ‘Gundrowo!’ he whispered, pointing.

  Randall gripped him by the shoulders and shook him. Dedi was all he had in this god-forsaken place. Couldn’t have him collapsing into a bundle of gibbering superstition.