‘Anything you wish dial zero; we here to help.’
Tom took his bag and pressed a 50 000 rupiah note into his hand. ‘Oh there is one thing, my company should have arranged a car and driver for me. I’d like to use it after lunch.’
The young man looked puzzled. ‘After lunch?’
‘Yes,’ said Tom mimicking the action of turning a steering wheel. ‘Car, driver, after I eat.’
Rafi giggled, copying Tom’s mock driving. ‘Car, after you eat.’
Tom took that as a yes, nodded politely and closed his door. After taking a shower he unpacked his few clothes onto the fitted wardrobe shelves and, grabbing the hotel folder and his phone, flopped back onto the bed. He sent a short text to Bagatelle confirming his arrival and then looked for the room service menu. There was a page of long Indonesian names with crude translations underneath. They obviously didn’t have many English tourists here. The pork fat knokles sounded disgusting but further down he saw something he recognised, ‘gado gado’, he probably couldn’t go wrong with that. He looked at the time on his phone, a bit early to eat and he was still suffering from jetlag; maybe a short nap before lunch. As he put the folder back on the side table a piece of paper fell out. He noticed that some of it was written in English. ‘Massage in your room’. He was aching all over, these oriental massages were meant to be very good; you could pay a fortune for them in London. He dialled the internal line, zero.
The gentle lilting voice came from the earpiece. ‘Mr Tom? Car arriving at two o’clock.’
‘Yeah, great. Thanks. I was wondering Rafi, it says here that the hotel can provide a masseur. Is that possible now?’
‘Sorry, no understand.’
‘Massage, it says here that you can provide massage.’
‘Ah yes, massage. Man or woman?’
Tom didn’t really know why that mattered. His shoulders were aching like hell. Perhaps a guy would have a firmer touch. ‘Man. Can he come now?’
‘Of course Mr Tom. Come to your room.’
Tom put down the phone, wrapped a towel around his waist and lay face down on the bed. When at last there was a soft knock at the door he was nearly asleep.
‘Come in,’ said Tom soporifically. ‘I’ve had a shower so you can start when you want.’
He felt the smooth soft hands on his back. Small for a man but powerful. Thumbs pressed into the muscles behind his shoulder blades. Tingling. A trickle of oil meandered down the gullies on either side of the spine. The hands became firmer, caressing the lower back and loosening the tension.
‘Turn over please.’
Tom was startled, it was Rafi’s voice, but he was too relaxed to make any comment. He did as he was told.
‘Oh, hairs on chest, very sexy.’
Tom noted that Rafi had removed his shirt and was standing there like a classical statue, a torso like porcelain wrapped in the blue sarong.
‘You very tense Mr Tom.’ He placed his hands around Tom’s neck and rhythmically stroked the tendons. Tom closed his eyes. Another drizzle of oil. Fingers moved across his nipples and down towards his stomach. He felt a frisson of arousal.
Rafi had also noticed this and started to unwrap the towel from around Tom’s waist. Tom opened his eyes to find that Rafi had stepped out of his sarong.
‘Whoa Rafi, I said massage not…’
Rafi looked crestfallen, in more ways than one. ‘But Mr Tom, I thought…’
Tom pulled the towel around his thighs and sat up in the bed. He breathed heavily, he was still dizzy; stimulated.
‘Sorry Rafi, a mistake. Another time, another place perhaps, but I’m working, have to keep my mind on the job.’
It wasn’t evident that Rafi understood all of what Tom said but he seemed to get the gist. He lowered his eyes. ‘You working. Me sorry too Mr Tom.’ Picking up his sarong and wrapping it around his waist he quietly left the room.
It was four o’clock in the afternoon when the driver and car arrived. Two hours late, not bad by Indonesian standards. Tom had spent the time in the hotel’s restaurant. After his enormous plate of gado gado he had sketched out his plans for the afternoon. The laboratory address was difficult to find on a map, and he thought he would have difficulty in instructing the driver, so he had with him a Google Earth printout of the area. The village or town looked like a rural industrial park from the air. Low-lying warehouses flirted with anonymous flat-roofed blocks in a clearing between the palm trees. An internet search revealed that a well-known yoghurt corporation occupied some of the plots, but there was no mention of the company that he had photographed from the open folder at the School of Tropical Medicine. Judging from the time it took to get to the hotel from the airport the plant was probably about an hour away. The sun set early and fast in this part of the world. He would have to go now if he wanted to see it in daylight. The driver spoke no English. Tom showed him his Google Earth printout with the route marked in red biro. The driver turned it around and around in his hands until he found what he thought was the right way up. He pointed at the sun and gestured towards the car. They would have to hurry. The road wasn’t as good as the one to the airport and the old Hyundai made heavy weather of it. The driver kept looking out of the side window, shaking his head and waving at the sinking sun. Tom rolled his fingers around each other to indicate that he wanted to go on. They were now surrounded by paddy fields, the horizon filling with the silhouettes of the twin volcanoes. The light was amazing, casting long distorted shadows of the car across the potholed road. The sun sank lower and lower, not a building in sight for miles. Tom was just about to tell the driver to turn around when his chauffeur motioned towards something in the road ahead of them. There was just enough light to make out the sign of the approaching town.
‘Stop, wait here,’ said Tom slowly, putting his hand up like a policeman and then signalling vigorously to the ground.
The driver braked and sat folding his arms. Tom got out of the car and pointed to his watch. ‘I’ll return in one hour,’ he said, moving his finger around the face.
The driver looked nonplussed, pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his top pocket, tapped it on his wrist and put one of the protruding sticks into his mouth.
‘I’ll go now, please wait here,’ said Tom, as deliberately as he could.
The guy stared at him blankly, struck a match and lit the cigarette. A slow stream of smoke coiled from his nostrils.
Tom gave him a wave, put up his thumbs, pointed to the ground once more, turned and walked towards the buildings in the near distance.
The business park was haphazard. Concrete structures seemed to have been laid down at random. No planning or organisation apart from one area where a smart group of whitewashed buildings sat behind a low wall bearing the name of the well-known yoghurt company. The lights coming from the industrial windows were becoming brighter. Tom looked at the sky; blackness was sweeping in, the buildings were swiftly moving into shadow. He rummaged around in his shoulder bag, found his powerful LED torch and used it to light the way along the gravel side roads. Glass crunched underfoot. The beam picked out a low corrugated-roofed structure, windows all blown out. Not a soul in sight. A few hundred yards further down the road Tom noticed more lights leaking through some black foliage. Stepping off the path he made his way through the trees and was abruptly halted by a chain-link fence. He shone the torch along the metal wire and settled on a large white sign with red lettering. SUPAYA METU. It meant nothing to him but it didn’t look friendly. He followed the fence for another fifty metres and could now see the outline of a two-storey industrial unit within the perimeter. Using the zoom lens on his camera he peered into the winking lights. Someone in a white coat moved through the frame. Focusing more deeply he could make out benches and glassware. A laboratory, very much like the ones he had worked in at university. Further along the fence he found a depression where a tree root had lifted the wire. The earth was soft and it didn’t take long to scrape a hole large enough to crawl through. It wa
s only twenty or thirty metres to the corner of the building. A few steps across the grass scrub and he would be able to get a clear shot with his camera through the nearest window.
He didn’t know what direction it came from but it was on him in a second. A loud rustle and a blur of hair. The creature lunged at him and sank its fangs into his leg. He opened his mouth to scream but a large hand came from behind and clamped it shut. Tom began to struggle when an arm wrapped itself around his waist in a vice-like grip. He was helpless, frozen to the spot in pain. Waves of panic overwhelmed him. He was unable to move an inch.
Ten
A large boot swept from behind and dug into the ribs of the dog. It let go of Tom’s leg, squealed and ran into the undergrowth. A gruff voice whispered into his ear.
‘Don’t move, don’t speak and keep your eyes open.’
There was an accent, but it wasn’t Indonesian. Indian, or even Scots? Tom’s leg hurt like hell, blood was seeping through his light cotton trousers. He felt sick but had no opportunity to disobey his captor as there was still a large hand clamped around his mouth. The voice spoke again.
‘We ought to get out of here, if they see that dog with blood in its mouth they’ll come looking. Now keep very quiet and turn around very slowly.’
The hand slipped from his mouth and moved on to his shoulder. Tom was gently spun around to confront a large white man wearing a black ski hat.
‘Pleased to meet you, I’m Nick Coburn, friend of Geoff Sykes. Now follow me back under that wire and I’ll see what I can do with that leg of yours.’
Tom was dizzy and confused, he was sure he had heard the name Geoff Sykes. Who was this guy? He meekly followed the man and was helped under the fence. Nick Coburn propped him against the base of a palm tree, pulled out a knife and cut off Tom’s trouser leg below the knee.
‘Not too deep, you’ll be all right.’ Nick took a flask from his back pocket. ‘Now this will sting, but don’t shout out, we’re still within earshot.’
The warning came just in time, a searing pain knifed into his leg as the liquid was poured onto the wound. It was all that Tom could do to stifle a scream.
‘Good lad,’ said Nick ripping a strip of Tom’s trouser leg and using it as a bandage. ‘Hurt me more than it did you; that was a fine malt.’
Tom had started to compose himself. It was obvious that this guy wasn’t from the laboratory. He had a rugged yet friendly face and had mentioned the name of Geoff Sykes, but what on earth was he doing here at nightfall in the middle of an Indonesian jungle?
‘Geoff Sykes? You said the name Geoff Sykes. Who are you?’
‘Thought I said that? Coburn, Nick Coburn, mate of Geoff’s. Well maybe he wouldn’t put it that way, let’s say an employee. Now let’s get you back to my jeep and I’ll fill you in.’
‘Your jeep? I’ve come in a car.’
‘Oh, that buggered off the minute you were out of sight. Lucky for you I hired a 4×4; didn’t take much time to catch up.’
Still in a daze Tom was helped back to the main road. Nick was right, his driver was nowhere to be seen and, instead, a pristine Cherokee jeep was parked on the verge. They got in, Nick spun it around and they were on their way back to Sidoarjo.
‘Sitting comfortably?’ Nick glanced down at Tom’s leg. ‘Okay perhaps not, but here’s the story. There I was lounging in the Hong Kong Mandarin at a client’s expense when I get a call from Mr Sykes – has a young researcher next door. Next door! Typical of Geoff. Think he had a prick of conscience, sending a young kid into the lion’s den. Anyway thought you might need a bit of help. Knew I had a few contacts with some gentlemen in the Surabaya police force and paid me his usual miserly rate to come over. So here I am.’
Tom stared at the burly Scot, the accent was obvious now. ‘You work for Bagatelle?’
‘Not exactly, odd job man. Met Geoff some years ago; from time to time he finds me useful. If I can help out…’
‘As a film director?’
‘No way, no head for cameras. Military background; a few contacts, you know the sort of thing.’
Tom didn’t but could make a shrewd guess by looking at the man’s frame and scarred face. He’d been pretty useful with that dog.
‘I haven’t thanked you for what you did back there.’
‘No problem, as I said odd job man.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘Not difficult, was told where you were staying and your boyfriend told me where you were going.’
‘Boyfriend?’
‘Well he seemed pretty keen on you; guy at reception, was worried about your driver. He was right there. Would have been a long walk back.’
‘I told him to wait.’
‘Hundred thousand rupiah would have been better.’
Tom sat back and pondered his position. The jeep’s headlights ran against the grasses at the side of the road. The rest was pitch black. Not a dwelling, not a light. He had found the laboratory, he was sure of that, and they didn’t want intruders, but wasn’t that the case for all industrial plants? And this guy, he sounded kosher but could he be sure? A few probing questions might help.
‘What’s Geoff told you about the project?’
‘Not much, never was good on detail. Understand you’re following up on a possible terrorist lead. Think that building back there is manufacturing some sort of biological weapons. If it is, a stupid way of finding out. Stumbling around there in the dark.’
‘Natasha the director asked me to take a look.’
‘You mean Nathalie. Nice one Tom, always good to check out who you’re talking to. Great girl, I’m not supposed to say that; why, I’m not sure? Great woman sounds crap. Nathalie wouldn’t give a toss what I called her. Good at her job that one. Anything else you’d like to ask me?’
Tom felt that listening to Nick’s soft Scottish tones was like hearing a British Airways pilot’s announcement during turbulence, comforting in an alien environment.
‘Just being careful, I’m still in a bit of shock if I’m honest, don’t want to make any more cock-ups.’
‘No worries laddie, you sit back and take a rest.’ He turned a wrist to look at his enormous watch. ‘Wouldn’t ring Geoff now, it’s about lunchtime there; he’s grumpy at the best of times. We’ll go back to the hotel for a meal, check in with your office and have an early night. First thing in the morning, we’ll sit down to make a plan over breakfast. How does that sound?’
Tom’s breakfast was a slice of papaya and a glass of mango juice. Nick had already eaten and was making a few phone calls.
‘Any more news from your governor?’ he asked, throwing his cell phone onto the table.
‘Internet down but we exchanged a few short texts last evening. He said that you knew what you were doing.’
‘Praise indeed,’ said Nick pushing a fork into one of Tom’s slices of papaya. ‘I wouldn’t go that far but I think we’ve hit lucky.’
Tom raised an eyebrow.
Nick looked around, the coffee shop was empty. ‘Yesterday evening I called an old friend at the Surabaya police station. We met on an op a few years back. Asked him about the lab. He said he’d make some enquiries, just been on the phone to him this morning. You going to eat that papaya?’
Tom pulled the plate of papaya away from Nick. ‘What did he say?’
‘No wonder you’re so skinny if that’s all you eat. Shall I ask Rafi to rustle up some more of that chicken porridge? I could do with another bowlful.’
Tom winced. ‘Chicken porridge? No thank you. The papaya is fine as long as you don’t keep eating it all. Your guy, what did he say?’
Nick sat down at the table opposite, pulled out his phone and scrolled through the texts. ‘Gita Suparmanputri,’ he pronounced slowly.
‘Gita who?’ said Tom.
‘I’m not saying it again; one of my mate’s cousins. And before you say it, not that coincidental, I think the whole population of Java is one of his cousins.’
Tom shook his he
ad. ‘You’re losing me.’
‘This Gita thingamajig happens to work as an assistant at our hideaway laboratory. Just out of university, got a job there about a month ago, had to sign some sort of secret agreement. Not that secret as she seems to have blabbed it halfway round Sidoarjo district.’
Tom’s jaw dropped. ‘What is she doing there, you think she knows something? Can we talk to her?’
‘Whoa there Tom, softly softly. We don’t want to go jumping in with our two left feet again do we? Let’s find out where she lives, what she does in the evenings and perhaps we could casually bump into her.’ Nick started to key in a number on his phone. ‘And when I say we, I mean you. I’m sure she will feel more comfortable being chatted up by a young tourist than a six foot three war veteran don’t you?’
It was one in the morning in London and Nathalie couldn’t sleep. She got out of bed and powered up her computer. The Rob Barnes’ thing was still worrying her. She pulled back the blind from her Fulham flat window. It had been raining and the streets were streaked with the reflections from the sodium lights. A car passed, the spray falling from its tyres; she was not the only one up tonight. The computer bleeped at her, ready for business. She sat down at the keyboard and typed in the words Alzheimer’s, Biomedivac and Zormax. Nothing more other than the familiar corporate spiel. She switched the engine to Google Scholar, an in-depth academic site. The information and papers here were quite abstruse but she had enough scientific background to get the gist of them. Robert Barnes’ name came up more than once. First as a co-author under Professor Townes, and then in a couple of more obscure articles for a trade pharma magazine. Reading between the lines she detected a cynicism of recent Alzheimer’s research trial results. No company was mentioned but it wouldn’t take an expert too long to tie these in with Biomedivac.
The projection of lights from another passing car fanned across the ceiling. Nathalie got up to close the blinds and returned to try an alternative search word – Ebola. Another connection with Rob Barnes. This time a more subjective article in an epidemiological journal. The premise that the recent Ebola outbreaks may have come from African bats and how the fight against it should be renewed with progressive antiviral medications. No mention of the success of Biomedivac’s latest drug. Professor Townes would not be at all pleased. But perhaps this fascination with Biomedivac and their drugs was taking her away from her real purpose: exposing WEXA’s threat of giving the West a dose of an ‘African disease’. She still had not heard from Lloyd and her immunisation shoot in Zimbabwe was scheduled for seven days’ time. He had been left alone long enough, she would call him first thing in the morning.
Drugs to Forget Page 9
