Farther up the street, Seabury turned onto a side road where billboards advertised hotels in the area. He kept toward the city’s outlining districts, where he could find the cheapest food, lodging, and shopping. The $40,000 budget Wes Lockett had provided was shrinking fast.
On the sidewalks, women wearing brightly colored sarongs flashed by inside the window. In the distance, off to his left, Seabury saw a bridge going over the river and boat docks down below. Tomorrow morning, they would catch a “water taxi” for the journey into Long Iram. From there, they would switch to a motor canoe and cruise to the upper regions of the Mahakam River. The estimated travel time was two to three days, depending on the weather. They were at the beginning of the dry season this June, and Seabury figured they’d be okay heading north before the upper regions of the Mahakam began to dry up later during the season, making travel on the river nearly impossible.
“It’s so beautiful here,” Lois said, breaking the silence inside the car. “It’s like a night bazaar in the middle of the jungle.”
“I’m tired and hungry,” Gretchen complained, glancing up at Seabury. Hornsby closed his eyes and dozed on the passenger’s side, snoring a little into the silence and darkness inside the car.
“I think we’re getting close,” said Seabury. “The sign a mile back said Borneo Asian Hotel. Good rates. Local TV. I’ll stop there. Tomorrow, we’ll head down to Lao Janan to catch a house boat up river. East Kalimantan tours booked us on the boat, but I want to cut cost, so I thought we’d find our own hotel.”
“Bravo, Seabury,” said Gretchen. She yawned and stretched. Her red halter expanded into twin peaks. Two orange-sized breasts dented the fabric. “I can’t wait.”
“You’ll have to,” said Seabury, joking with her. “Or else maybe–what do you think? I could let you out now. Maybe some Indonesian with deep pockets will come by and pick you up. He’ll propose marriage, and you’ll be on easy street for the rest of your life.”
She looked at him and frowned. “Shush! Are you kidding? I already have that kind of life now living off Daddy’s money. In fact, I’m missing him already.”
Seabury glanced back quickly. He and Lois exchanged amused glances, then Seabury’s eyes returned back onto the road. Half a mile ahead, Seabury bumped over the curve, and the SUV swung into a parking lot in front of the Borneo Asian Hotel.
The golden high-rise shimmered ten stories up off the main street. Above the front entrance, the neon glitter of a vacancy sign blinked on and off in the darkness. Lois and Hornsby went inside and registered for one night. Gretchen and Seabury joined them in the lift. They had adjoining rooms on the third floor. The Borneo Asian Hotel wasn’t as busy as all the hype on the billboards suggested.
The scrawny Indonesian room attendant turned the key in the lock and pushed the door to the hotel room open. He stepped aside and let Seabury and Hornsby in ahead of him. They tossed bags into a corner opposite two queen-sized beds. A closet with a small oval mirror completed one side of the room. A small writing desk with a lamp and two wooden chairs stood on the other side. A bathroom and a shower stood in back. It was what Seabury had paid for—a cheap hotel, in a cheap, run-down section on the outskirts of the city.
Seabury stood near the front door, now. The scrawny Indonesian busboy waited, but his eyes never left the floor. Seabury handed him a two-dollar tip for hauling their bags up and turning on the air conditioner. The boy bowed his head meekly and left the room.
While Hornsby took a shower and changed into fresh clothing, Seabury switched on the television. He scanned through the local channels, hoping not to see his face pop up on the screen. After ten minutes of scanning, he smiled, satisfied. He had slipped into a comfort zone brought about by time and distance.
Little did he realize the danger that awaited him later on that night.
Chapter Twelve
At 3:00 p.m., the Lear jet landed at the airport in Balikpapan. The Sicilian cleared customs and brushed his way through a wall of people. He headed over to the budget rental car section of the terminal. Using a fake ID card, he rented a black sedan and walked out to the parking lot beyond the building to pick it up. A pretty, petite Indonesian smiled as she handed him the key. He didn’t bother to return her cheery smile and instead slipped into the rental and drove out of the airport. To the west of town, he roared along the road on his way up to Samarinda.
One hour later, he arrived there and made his way down to the Abdul-Salam Garage and Auto Repair Shop. The place stood in the center of the block on a side street off Jalan Jelawat Boulevard, in a seedier section of town.
The corrugated door swung open on metal runners located on the ceiling inside the garage. The area inside looked dark and gloomy, like the inside of a vault. Oil fumes and the smell of gasoline hung in the air. The Sicilian checked the address once more before entering the front door. A car stood above a narrow oil bay. A scarecrow repairman with the narrow face of a perigee falcon wrenched off the oil filter and tossed it into a grease-stained drum nearby. The sound of a heavy clunk echoed back at him as he turned and wiped his hands with an oily rag. He got out the new oil filter and inserted it into a spot along the wall of the engine. He heard the Sicilian approaching and turned around.
“I’m looking for Mister Talin.” The Sicilian spoke in Indonesian, surprising the repairman.
“What for?” The guy’s brown, grease-smeared face twisted into a mask of dark lines.
The Sicilian said nothing and moved closer. For a moment, he stared straight through the guy—his dark, menacing eyes boring holes into him. Noticing his eyes, the repairman’s head jolted slightly, and his tone became less combative.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
The Sicilian showed him the name on the slip of paper. The man with the falcon face looked down at it. Then, his mouth slid open at one corner in a crafty smile.
“Me,” he said, jamming a thumb into his chest.
“You?” the Sicilian asked.
“Yes. I’m Talin. Mister Barat said you’d be arriving today, but I’m afraid I have nothing for you yet. I have my network of, um, resources, but no one has seen anything.”
Hmmmm, the Sicilian thought. You look as lost as a hooker at a Sunday social. He smiled to himself over the comparison.
“What’s so funny ?” the voice came back at him.
“Nothing. Just an afterthought.” The Sicilian shrugged then turned around and headed back out the door.
The man came after him, stopping him at the door. “Where are you staying? Maybe I’ll have news later.”
“The Borneo Asian Hotel. It’s on—”
“I know where it is,” the man said excitedly. “What’s your room number?”
“Better I keep in touch. I have a few more sources to check out.”
Talin’s eyes flashed in a look of disappointment. “As you wish,” he said with a sullen expression. The Sicilian saw the distress enter his eyes. He could tell the thought of missing out on a payoff for information upset him. The guy was lazy, a shiftless bum. The Sicilian hated fakes. Guys who pretended to be more important than they were.
“You can reach me at the Borneo Asian if something turns up.”
The man didn’t respond, and the Sicilian left him standing inside the door. He crossed the lot, got into the rental, and drove off. The street lights came on at six o’clock. The traffic along Jalan Jelawat slowed down to bumper-to-bumper. Night trucks rumbled up and stopped behind him. People walked by shops and restaurants on crowded sidewalks. The air smelled hot with the odor of gasoline and monoxide vapor. The Sicilian had one more address to check out.
One more. He hoped the contact had seen something, though he wasn’t overly optimistic. He’d been in tight situations before and always came through. If the contact proved worthless, he would check out the boat docks tomorrow. Water taxis going up river. A party that size. It wouldn’t be difficult to locate them. Bribe the right person, the information he needed was always available
. He drove on inside the crowded city.
The restaurant was located on a side street off Jalan Jelawat. At 6:30, he parked the rental alongside the curb and cut the engine. He leaned across the front seat and looked out the side window to check to see if he was at the right place. When the addresses matched, he got out of the car and stood on the sidewalk. A woman wearing a dark sarong and a teen in a similar outfit moved down past him. The woman flashed a disinterested glance and kept going.
Outside the building, the Sicilian stepped between a row of outdoor tables and entered the restaurant. It was an open-air eatery—not large, not small. The interior extended into a wide dining area at the back of the building. He walked back between two rows of empty tables. The walls contained pictures of seascapes and the photos of customers in 3 x 4 inch photo prints. The air felt hot and humid inside, and instantly, drops of sweat rolled off his forehead and into his eyes. He stopped to wipe back the moisture from his eyes with a white handkerchief and put it back in his pocket. He reached the back of the room with a quizzical look on his face.
At the entrance to the dining area, the air suddenly cooled, and he heard the air conditioner droning off in a far corner. Poking his head inside, he stared straight ahead when the sound of a soft, almost sensual, voice broke from the shadows.
The tall, angular figure of a pretty Indonesian woman dressed in a turquoise sarong stepped into the light. “One,” she said smiling, and held up a slender finger tipped with burgundy polish. She had dark, flowing hair and wore bright red lipstick.
The Sicilian nodded, and she sat him down at a single table near the entrance. He ordered a meal of Ginger chicken, flat Chinese noodles, and a tossed salad. He gave her Barat’s business card and watched her go back inside the kitchen. A few minutes later, a plump Indonesian man came out of the kitchen and crossed over to him. He wore a white suit tailored somewhere in Italy and black, expensive shoes. The Sicilian noticed a bald, shaven head and a pair of small, dark, close-set eyes. Like tiny black buttons, the eyes stared at him curiously from inside the loose, sagging mass of flesh that made up his round, shapeless face.
“Welcome to my house,” the man said in perfect English. He introduced himself as Fatur Karina, offered no handshake, and sat down at the table across from the Sicilian.
“I haven’t seen Barat for years,” he said. He lit a cigarette and sent a stream of blue smoke into the air. “We used to come here when we attended Mulawarman University here in the city. After a while, Barat became a big mining executive and stopped coming here altogether. Such a pity. The food is superb, and his parents still live here. Nonetheless, from time to time, he still uses my services. It’s his way of staying connected, I suppose. The only thing I wish is that he doesn’t stay away so long.”
The Sicilian was surprised by the idle chitchat. Fatur Karina retold the events of Barat’s early childhood. Then, he switched onto their college days. He talked about Barat’s father—a wealthy Indonesian mining executive. Who the fuck cared? He hated Barat with a passion but took his money—the same way this fat, useless dickhead with the small, beady eyes and the hint of a serpent’s smile took his money. After a half hour of listening to the bullshit, the Sicilian was completely bored to tears, and he had to get away from this gushy, sentimental ass, or else drown in the verbal diarrhea sliding out the side of his mouth.
“I’ve gotta go,” the Sicilian said, thinking, Barat…you gave me two contacts to check out. The first was useless. Now this. His eyebrows arched. “Any news?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” Fatur said. “My sources are reliable. They saw the SUV with a big guy at the wheel. They came in from Balikpapan this afternoon. My men tailed them north out to the edge of the city.” Fatur Karina folded hands across his fat stomach. “A party of four,” he said, “one older man and two women—and the big guy. They are staying at the Borneo Asian Hotel, not far from here.”
What luck. The Sicilian smiled, both amazed and delighted at his good fortune. A few people entered the alcove. After the server brought over the Sicilian’s meal, she sat the customers down at a table across the room from them. The Sicilian removed a brown envelope stuffed with cash and handed it to Fatur under the table. The Indonesian reached down and took the envelope in his hand. He opened his suit coat and stuffed the money into an inside pocket.
“Enjoy your meal,” he said and excused himself. He vanished into the kitchen.
Later, after the Sicilian finished his meal, the room filled up. Like a good host, Fatur Karina came out to greet his customers, ignoring the Sicilian. He moved nimbly from one table to the next, smiling, shaking hands, and speaking Indonesian.
The Sicilian looked down at the bill the server set down on the table. Even with the hefty payoff he’d given Fatur Karina, the restaurant owner still charged him for the meal. Cheap bastard, the Sicilian grumbled as he got back into the car. I’ll bet he’s got the first dollar he’s ever made. Still fuming, he started the engine and drove off toward the Borneo Asian Hotel.
* * * *
Seabury and the group had dinner at The Melting Pot—a small restaurant across from the hotel. It provided a variety of American and Indonesian dishes. No greasy spoon, the place surprised Seabury by the clean booths and the smell of polish on them. They ordered combos of chicken curry, vegetables, and dinner rolls and began eating. Toward the end of the meal, Lois and Hornsby got into an argument.
It began with Lois’s remark, “Jesus will help us,” referring to a quote she’d made from the Bible.
Hornsby grinned, looking amused. “I’m a scientist. Please forgive me if I don’t believe in fairy tales.”
“There’s proof that Jesus existed. Any scientist with a measure of credibility won’t dispute that.” Her tone layered with sarcasm. Her emerald eyes locked onto Hornsby with a hard, steely gaze.
Hornsby cowered then went silent. His face flushed. His narrow shoulders sank back in the booth. He said nothing, but Seabury could tell he was upset with Lois. Her strong Christian beliefs bolstered by seemingly endless quotes from the Bible ended up annoying others.
“Stop it…you two.” Seabury held a hand up. “Why not give it a rest. You’re not going to agree on the age-old battle between Science and Religion. Not in this lifetime. There are too many variables.”
“What God do you believe in, Seabury?” Lois asked, her voice flooded with sarcasm.
He stared straight at her. A dark green light entered her eyes and then flickered out. He saw the prissy look, again. The rigid jaw and the upturned nose. A flash point of irritability ignited inside her. A grim cloud swept over her eyes as she waited for a response.
“Well?”
“I believe in God. Maybe not the one you worship.”
She cracked a thin smile. “Which God may I ask?”
“I’m like the American Indian. I roam the land, and the land tells me a god exists out there somewhere in nature. I can feel His presence all around me. That’s about as far as it goes.”
Her face pinched in concentration. She mulled over what they’d said but didn’t respond, her face dark and sullen. Seabury wondered how long her mood would last.
It didn’t last long. After they’d finished eating, her mood passed quickly. She smiled light-heartedly at the cashier counter as Seabury paid the bill. They walked back outside and started across the lot.
Just then, a dark sedan pulled up and stopped inside the parking lot. The Sicilian sank down behind the wheel. A look of malice entered his eyes. He kept looking—glaring at them from the darkness inside the car.
Chapter Thirteen
His luck was running thin. The Sicilian knew it the moment he saw them go back inside the hotel. His mission would have to wait. He didn’t like it, but what could he do? They were inside their rooms, now. There was no way to slip inside, kill them, and get away without being spotted. So close, but still light years away from completing the hit on them. He couldn’t creep through a back window or pick the locks and go in after th
em. Too risky.
Inside the car, he mulled over his options. Entering their rooms was definitely out. Not now. No, he could wait. Also, the big guy could be a problem. A man that size, you never knew what he was capable of doing. He knew he had to be careful. He was so close, yet realistically, he had nothing but names and faces so far.
The sound of a truck backfiring along the road outside brought him back. He switched on the engine and swung the rental into a narrow space five cars down from where the big guy had entered the hotel. The Sicilian would wait until morning and follow them. He had plenty of time. Time was his ally. The great expanse of Borneo countryside rolled out before him. Remote. Secluded. The perfect place to commit murder. No one would ever find them.
Entering the hotel, the Sicilian moved toward the front desk. He paid cash for a room for one night. A small, doe-eyed Indonesian woman, middle-aged but pretty, smiled up at him.
She took his money and logged in his wake up call for 5:00 a.m. Then, he went upstairs with the room attendant who placed his overnight bag in the elevator. The man opened the room, and they entered. He turned on the air conditioner, opened a tiny refrigerator revealing alcoholic beverages inside, received a tip, and left.
The Sicilian showered and came outside into the living room. He tossed back the bed covers and slipped under them, naked–the way he always slept. He laid his head down on the pillow. In the darkness, behind closed eyes, thoughts of murder danced dizzily inside his head.
* * * *
Seabury went upstairs with Lois, Gretchen, and Hornsby. The girls went into a room next to his and shut the door. Hornsby let them into their room and turned the light on inside the door. He dug inside his rucksack and came out with bedclothes. He went back into the bathroom and closed the door. A moment later, Seabury heard the shower running.
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