Java Spider

by Geoffrey Archer

  Ahead, the haze was thickening, obscuring Kutu’s volcano. They closed fast on the ketch, coming up on the left-hand side.

  ‘Keep close in, eh Dedi? So we get a good look.’ To try to see how many were on board and what they were armed with. The hunting rifle lay beside him on the floor of the bridge, a magazine of 7.62 clipped in place.

  They came abreast with the ketch and swept past twenty metres off. The same square face he’d seen before pressed against the wheelhouse window. Behind him the second man stood rigid at the helm.

  Just two men visible. No way of knowing if there were more below decks.

  As they ploughed past, the ketch wallowed in their wake. Dedi held the wheel in a white-knuckle grip.

  ‘Couple of minutes, then we stop,’ Randall reminded him. As the ketch dropped behind, he snatched up the rifle and pushed off the safety catch.

  Dedi cast an eye behind. Seeing the Berkat Amanat well astern he shunted the throttles to neutral and cut the fuel. The Yamahas shuddered and died. The hull settled back. Silence, apart from water slapping against fibreglass.

  Then the Kutuan swung below like an orang-utan. Randall watched the ketch draw nearer again, suspecting Sumoto’s men would see through his simple plan. He heard Dedi strike a match, then smelled the smoke – rags soaked in diesel, ignited in a bucket.

  ‘Keep that extinguisher handy,’ Randall growled. Last thing they wanted was a real fire.

  The Berkat Amanat ploughed towards them, its bow swinging right to avoid a collision. By the rules of seamanship, seeing the smoke, the ketch should stop.

  Chewing his lip, Randall moved out on to the open deck and waved furiously.

  ‘They’re watching,’ he announced as Dedi emerged from below, spluttering from the smoke, his hands clutching an extinguisher. ‘They’ve got the bins on us. Hey, squirt that damn thing.’ Dedi sprayed a jet of gas into the saloon.

  Randall saw square-face lower the glasses then, grim-faced, tuck his head back into the wheelhouse to give an order. The ketch swung away from them, sweeping by, its speed undiminished. The man watched them stonily, then raised a hand, but not to wave. The fingers were folded down – except the middle one, which he jerked upwards with a long, mocking sweep of his arm.

  Dedi growled the word ‘intel’, dropped the extinguisher and propelled himself up to the bridge. He snatched the rifle from the deck and jammed the butt into his shoulder.

  ‘Fuck! No!’ Randall yelled, making to go after him. Suddenly a flame whooshed from the cabin below. The bucket had caught, spreading fire over the floor of the saloon. ‘Shit!’

  He grabbed the extinguisher, just as Dedi fired.

  ‘Christ!’ He spun towards the ketch. Square-face was clutching his chest, then his legs buckled.

  ‘Christ! Christ!’

  Thick, black smoke belched up towards him. Gripping the extinguisher, he blasted CO2 into the flames.

  Two more shots from above – heavy, urgent thuds. Then the crack-crack of automatic fire, and the zing of ricochets.

  ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ he screamed. This was a total, fucking balls-up!

  He heard a wail from Dedi.

  ‘You hit?’ he yelled, choking on the smoke as he moved in towards the seat of the fire. If he didn’t put it out they’d be finished.

  No answer from Dedi. Just a rumble of the diesels starting up. Randall coughed and retched, crawling under the smoke to kill the last of the flames. The boat lurched and heeled. Dedi was making a run for it.

  Shit! Randall ripped curtains from a flimsy track and threw them on the remains of the fire, stamping on them until there was no more smoke. A final squirt from the extinguisher, then he thundered up to the bridge.

  Bullets had shattered the laminated glass spray-shield. Dedi hunched over the wheel, panic-stricken. The rifle lay on the deck. Randall picked it up and checked the magazine. Five rounds left.

  ‘Any more below? More bullets?’ he asked, trying to sound calm.

  ‘No.’

  So, every one had to count. Randall looked round. The ketch was astern, still heading east towards Kutu.

  ‘Turn her round, Dedi,’ he snapped.

  ‘No mister.’ Dedi seemed poleaxed by the immensity of what he’d done. He muttered to himself in incomprehensible Kutun.

  ‘Dedi … get a grip.’ Randall spoke gently but firmly.

  ‘I got to hide, mister,’ Dedi whispered, clinging to the wheel. ‘I got to get away. Maybe go Australia. They come after me now …’

  ‘No they won’t – not if we go back and finish the job. We’ve got to stop that ketch, get the Englishman free then sink it, right? So nobody’ll ever know …’

  In his dreams, but they couldn’t give up now.

  ‘They got machine gun, mister.’

  ‘An automatic, that’s all. No better than this,’ he lied, slapping the side of the hunting rifle.

  He looked back at the ketch again, half a mile away. Now it would be twice as hard. Their only consolation – the opposition were one man down.

  ‘Did you see who fired?’ he asked urgently. ‘Was it the guy on the helm?’

  ‘No. I not see. Just this …’ He pointed to the crazed holes in the screen. He looked at Randall’s face, glanced at the gun in his hands, then eased the throttles, wavering. ‘OK boss. What we do?’ He swung the Timini into a slow turn.

  ‘Good man.’ Randall clapped him on the shoulder. ‘We get round behind her. Come up her wake, weaving. Hopefully it’s just that one bloke on the bridge, and by now he’ll be in such a panic he won’t know his arse from his elbow.’ But if there were more of the buggers below decks it’d be a suicide run.

  ‘OK, Dedi?’

  ‘OK, mister.’

  Five minutes later they were roaring up from behind the ketch, Randall spreadeagled in the bows, concealed behind a low gunwale. Rifle resting on the rim he squinted through the telescopic sight. Nothing. No sign of life. Just the squat stern of the ketch, a small radar antenna rotating above the superstructure.

  Radar. No way of hiding from that.

  As Dedi weaved the Timini from side to side, Randall kept the rifle-sight on the wheelhouse. Suddenly a face poked from an open window, saw them, dived back in, then re-emerged with an automatic.

  Flashes from the muzzle. Firing wildly. Randall lined up the cross-hairs and squeezed. The rifle kicked hard against his cheek.

  A dark mess puffed from the man’s head. He saw the gun fall to the deck. A wave of nausea hit him, short and sharp. Malaysia, all over again.

  Slowly the ketch began to veer right, out of control. Nick panned the sight, left then right. Not another soul. Maxwell had said two, and two it seemed to be.

  They were getting unnervingly close. Dedi eased the throttles. Randall crawled back to the bridge.

  ‘Get alongside and I’ll jump on board,’ he panted.

  ‘Yes, mister.’

  Randall ducked into the saloon to check the fire was fully out, then saw Charlie’s camera bag on the seat. Yes, he thought. He slung the strap over his shoulder.

  Port gunwale dipping low, the ketch ploughed on, its speed steady, its bridge devoid of life. Dedi powered the Timini to within a few feet of her.

  ‘I’ll try to cut her engines,’ Randall yelled. ‘When she’s lost way, you tie up alongside.’

  Dedi grunted.

  Rifle in hand, Randall crouched by the Timini’s rail, alert for movement on the ketch as Dedi narrowed the gap. The Berkat’s exhaust belched from a vent on the water-line. A foot projecting beneath the canvas screen on the bridge wing showed the man Dedi shot hadn’t moved.

  The gunwales touched. Randall sprang across, grabbing the mast shrouds and spotting a small, sun-blistered door that led inside. Back pressed against the superstructure and gun in hand, he flicked it open and inched his face round the frame. A short, dingy passage ran the width of the boat. He stepped inside, listening. Two poky cabins to the left, steps up and down on the right.

  He listened again,
the ketch’s engine pounding like a racing heart. Panels and fittings hummed and buzzed. He stopped by the corner of the companion-way, trying to see up into the wheelhouse. From above he heard a gurgling, like water in a half-blocked drain. He mounted the stairs, then gagged. The helmsman lay on the deck choking, his blood encircling him like a coulis.

  Forcing himself to ignore him, Randall stepped across the body and grabbed the helm. He straightened the wheel then pulled the throttles to neutral. The ketch righted itself and lost way. Next to the wheel was the conical hood of the radar. To the left, two grey-painted radio sets, the handset for one of them swinging loose. The helmsman had sent a Mayday.

  Gingerly, he stepped on to the wing where Dedi’s victim lay, the man’s eyes vacant and staring at the sky. Randall gave a wave astern to show he was in control. Dedi brought the Timini alongside again, warps ready on the deck.

  Randall re-entered the wheelhouse. Now … to find Stephen Bowen.

  Down in the corridor below the bridge he checked the two rough cabins. Bare mattresses on the bunks and signs they’d been used by the two men above.

  Down another deck. A second passageway and a smell of fried onions. Galley and mess to the left. His heart missed a beat. Maybe there was a cook … He felt a bump. The Timini coming alongside. The ketch’s idling engine rumbled somewhere close.

  Beyond the galley, another door to the left. A blast of heat and oil smells as he opened and quickly closed it. Machine room. Then at the far end he saw it. A heavy hatch. Watertight seal. Steel clasps. Secured by a padlock …

  He inched forward, rifle in front of him. The key had been left in. He turned it, unhooked the lock and wrenched open the clips. The hatch creaked open.

  ‘Christ!’

  A foul stench of human wastes knocked him back. He pushed the door wider and forced himself to enter. Twice the size of the cabins above, sunlight streamed through a single porthole, illuminating a grubby heap in the centre of the floor. Her Majesty’s minister for foreign affairs lay naked except for excreta-caked underpants, his head bound in a filthy bandage. Gagging at the stink, Randall crouched beside him.

  ‘Mr Bowen …’ he croaked, heart hammering his ribs. Daft to be so formal. ‘Er … Stephen.’

  No response. Only a rise and fall of the chest to show he wasn’t dead. Randall recalled the face on the video. Big chin, peppery hair – hardly recognisable now. He laid the rifle and camera bag on the deck, then spotted the white pustules covering Bowen’s shoulders and neck. The man was sick. Very sick.

  He recoiled at first, nauseated, then felt Bowen’s forehead. Skin hot and clammy. The bandage on his head was yellow with pus. He looked down. Hands and feet firmly chained to a ring bolted through the deck.

  Bugger!

  He lowered his head to Bowen’s ear, just in case he could hear.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of here.’ Somehow … ‘I’ll find you some water.’

  Suddenly the skin crawled on the back of his neck. There was someone else breathing. Not him. Not Bowen. A third person in the room. Dedi? He whipped round.

  Hell! There was a cook. A squat, sweaty Chinaman in stained T-shirt and boxer shorts stood an arm’s length away, hands raised above his head, clutching a meat cleaver, the sunlight glimmering on its polished blade. Randall lurched sideways as the knife swooped and thunked into the floor timbers.

  ‘Uhhh!’ the Chinaman grunted, his piggy eyes wide with fear.

  Randall scrabbled for the rifle, not daring to take his eyes off his assailant. His fingers stabbed at empty spaces. The Chinaman’s eyes flicked right and spotted the weapon. Randall lunged further as the cleaver slashed down again. He rolled aside, wincing as the blade nicked his shirt.

  The gun still beyond reach, Randall scrambled to his feet but had his legs kicked from under him. The Chinaman towered over him, roaring like an animal, the cleaver raised for the kill. Arms up to protect his head, Randall hooked back his right foot and thumped it into the Chinaman’s gut.

  Air jetted from the man’s rubbery mouth. He doubled up, swinging the knife wildly. Randall rolled clear. Fingers round the stock at last, he jerked the gun round and jabbed it into the soft cushion of the Chinaman’s chest.

  The crewman dropped the cleaver and pulled back, gibbering. He’d seen the carnage in the wheelhouse and didn’t want to join it.

  ‘Air!’ Randall snapped, pointing down at Bowen. ‘Air putih!’ Water. Purified water.

  ‘Ya!’

  Randall prodded him to the galley. From a cardboard box in a store locker the cook pulled out a plastic bottle. Randall marched him back to the cell.

  ‘Give him some!’ Hands shaking, the Chinaman ripped off the cap and poured water into Bowen’s mouth. The minister gulped and stirred.

  Randall dropped to his knees lifting Bowen’s head.

  ‘All right, Stephen?’ Course he wasn’t. Eyes flickered open then closed again. Randall looked up at the Chinaman and pointed at Bowen’s chains.

  ‘Kunci?’ he snapped. He’d remembered the word for key.

  ‘Tidak! Tidak!’

  The Chinaman didn’t have it. He jabbed a finger upwards.

  ‘OK. You show me!’ Randall assured the semi-conscious minister he would be right back, then prodded the cook into the corridor and up towards the bridge. ‘Berapa laki-laki?’ How many of them were they?

  ‘Tiga. Tiga.’ Three.

  True? Or was there an engineer or deck-hand lurking somewhere too?

  Nick pointed up the companion-way. The cook nodded and climbed in front, hugging his head.

  In the wheelhouse Randall panicked. No helmsman. His body was gone, the coulis of blood smeared in a long streak out to the bridge wing as if he’d come to life and dragged himself there.

  He heard a splash. Then it clicked.

  ‘Dedi!’ Randall snapped. ‘What’ve you done, you prat?’ He pushed out on to the little balcony. Dedi turned round, a wild look in his eyes, the helmsman’s assault rifle slung over his shoulder. The body of the other man was also gone.

  ‘I give them to sharks,’ Dedi retorted, glaring at the Chinaman.

  Them and the keys to Bowen’s shackles which were probably in one of their pockets.

  ‘Shit!’ Randall leaned over the rail. The sea was clear. They should be floating somewhere. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘They go to bottom. I make heavy so no one find.’

  ‘Jeezus! When you fuck up, you don’t half do it in spades …’

  ‘I no understand …’

  ‘Never mind. Keep an eye on this bugger,’ Nick ordered. ‘And don’t hurt him.’

  Dedi unslung the rifle and prodded the Chinaman with it. Heart sinking, Randall searched the wheelhouse on the off-chance the keys would be hanging somewhere. Then he clattered below and turned over the two cabins. Nothing. On his way up to the wheelhouse again, he heard a shot and a scream.

  ‘Christ almighty!’ He rushed for the wing. The Chinaman was in the water, splashing feebly in his own little circle of crimson, his face submerging.

  ‘If he live he tell intel ’bout me,’ Dedi muttered, defensively. He’d become like a two-year-old, obsessive and beyond reason.

  So matter-of-fact. Death as a way of life. But there was one life that could be saved, if they were quick.

  ‘Come. We need tools, understand?’

  No response from Dedi.

  ‘The Englishman – he’s down there, locked up. Have to break his chains. Come look.’

  Two decks down, the smells of onions and faeces had combined in a gut-wrenching stink. Dedi wrinkled his face in disgust, then gaped at the now unconscious Stephen Bowen.

  Randall pointed at the ankle shackles. ‘Bolt cutters. We need bolt cutters. See?’

  Dedi sucked his teeth. ‘No. On Timini is nothing.’ Then he saw the meat cleaver. He picked it up and looked at Randall. His eyes were questioning.

  ‘Can’t cut steel with tha …’

  Then he realised what Dedi meant. Hack Bo
wen’s foot off instead.

  ‘No way!’ The man was half-dead with septicaemia. An amputation like that would finish him.

  The minister stirred. His eyes opened. He tried to raise his head, but gave up.

  ‘Find something,’ Randall ordered, crouching down. ‘Must be something on board this tub. Something heavy enough to smash the links.’

  The Kutuan held his look as if he’d not heard.

  ‘Dedi?’

  ‘Sure, mister. I go look.’

  He shuffled out. As Randall cradled Bowen’s head he heard the door to the machinery space open then close again and Dedi’s feet going up to the next deck.

  ‘Who … who are you?’

  The croak startled him. Bowen was making an effort to focus his eyes.

  ‘Nick Randall. I’m a detective sergeant with Scotland Yard Special Branch. Don’t worry. We’re going to get you out of here.’

  Bowen’s jaw worked, but no more words came. His eyes glazed over. Randall held the bottle to his quivering lips. The man was in such a state, it was hard to know how to help him.

  ‘Keith wants me dead …’

  Bowen’s words tumbled out as he pushed the bottle aside with his manacled hands.

  ‘Nobody wants you dead, Stephen.’ The man was delirious. ‘You’ll be OK. You’re safe now.’ Far from it, but it was all he could think of to say.

  Suddenly Bowen looked up at him with a fierce intensity.

  ‘BBC?’ he croaked. ‘Are you the BBC?’

  ‘No …’ Randall frowned, puzzled. ‘Police. From London. From home.’

  ‘Something to tell you …’ Bowen croaked. ‘People have to know …’

  Suddenly Randall realised what Bowen had just said. Keith wanted him dead.

  ‘Listen,’ Bowen hissed, ‘you’ve got to know …’

  Certain he was on the brink of some extraordinary revelation, Randall reached into the camera bag. If it was what he thought it was, he needed it on tape.

  ‘What was that, Stephen?’ he asked gently, switching on.

  When he saw the video camera Bowen’s eyes lit up.