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Authors: Shamini Flint

BOOK: A Bali Conspiracy Most Foul
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Karri laughed.
 
Nuri set out for Denpasar.
To stay idle in the small apartment that had been her
home for the last month was too difficult. She had been fidgety and nervous, picking at a loose thread on her blouse, moving the grimy curtains to peer out of the cracked window panes.
Nuri had told her brothers, Abu Bakr and Ramzi, she was shopping for dinner and to please tell Ghani where she was when he came in. Her husband was out, still looking for a suitable location for the religious school they intended to set up in Bali. Nuri wondered why he was determined to press ahead with his plans. Surely, a religious school focused on strict Islamic teachings was doomed to failure in Bali in the wake of the bombs? She had tentatively raised her doubts with Ghani. He had smiled at her and explained that Allah was merely testing their resolve and he would not stumble at the first hurdle placed in his path. Nuri had lowered her eyes and nodded her acquiescence. It was so easy, she thought, to play the dutiful wife – to fall back into the routine of subservience to her husband – the role she had performed unquestioningly from the day of her marriage a year ago to the grizzled older man.
The trip to Bali was the first time Nuri had ever left Sulawesi, the large island shaped like a headless man that was a sparsely populated part of the Indonesian Archipelago. She had taken the crowded dilapidated ferry with her husband and brothers to Java. After a brief visit to the
pesanteren
in Solo, the boarding school that Ghani had attended as a boy, to consult with the spiritual leaders there, they had made their way to Bali.
The island was an eye-opener to the young village girl. She had never seen so much alcohol and drugs and contact between men and women. She had been disgusted and embarrassed, averting her eyes from public displays of affection and hurrying past nightclubs and massage parlours with
her eyes fixed on the ground. She had reprimanded her younger brother, Ramzi, when he had been unable to drag his eyes away from the scantily-clad tourists.
Nuri was beautiful with clear skin and widely spaced, almond-shaped eyes that gave her a questioning, naïve expression. She had glossy black hair but it was pinned up and hidden under a scarf. She had abandoned her
hijab
, the head-to-toe black coveralls that included a veil for her face, for the duration of their stay in Bali. Ghani had insisted it would draw too much attention; Bali was an uncomfortable place for Moslems after the bombings. Nuri had agreed, as long as she was allowed to wear a scarf. But even with a length of cloth around her hair, she felt shamefully exposed – as if she was one of the Western women she had seen lying on the beaches in bikinis, their tanned bodies revealed for any passing stranger to see. Nuri shook her head at the memory and a lock of hair escaped from her scarf and fell over her forehead. She tucked it away carefully. She had worn the strict Islamic dress since puberty. Her father, back on Sulawesi, insisted that women play a secondary role in society to their menfolk. Nuri had accepted her father's strictures as being the natural order of things. The only girl in a family of thirteen children by her father's four wives, she knew how rowdy and difficult boys were. Nuri felt more comfortable when she did not offer herself as an object of attraction to men. It was her father's training as well as her own choice.
Her meandering footsteps took her to a small wooden shack with a corrugated tin roof that sold foodstuff to Indonesian labourers. Nuri bought a jar of chilli paste. It would convince her husband and her brothers that she had indeed been shopping for dinner.
All the talk between the other customers was of the bombings
and the investigation but she did not pay much attention. Nuri was not sure how she felt about the blasts. Ghani had said to her that the Balinese had turned their island home into a whorehouse. But she also knew, had learnt to her cost in Bali, that however strict one's religious upbringing, and however much one knew the difference between right and wrong, an unruly heart was difficult to control.
Inspector Singh had argued with his superiors long and hard when they told him that their latest effort to get him out of their hair was to send him to Bali to advise on counter-terrorism methods.
‘But I have no experience in the field,' he had protested, folding his arms across his large stomach to indicate the firmness of his resolve not to be sent to Bali.
‘Nonsense! A terrorist attack is just murder on a grand scale. And
murder
is your speciality.'
The senior policeman made it sound as if he had uncovered a dirty little secret that the inspector was trying to keep under wraps. Singh was not surprised. In the Singapore police force, respectable policing was cracking drug syndicates. Praise and promotions were for apprehending white-collar criminals in smart suits. The crime of murder was raw and unglamorous. It involved real people driven by greed or love or revenge to take the life of another. The gritty reality of a body in the morgue was too much for these policemen with their computer skills and profound ignorance of human nature.
Inspector Singh was a throwback to the old school – hardworking, hard-drinking, chain-smoking. His ability to cut through the thicket of lies and deception surrounding a murder and painstakingly expose the killer was viewed with the same combination of admiration and disdain by the senior echelons, he thought, as a performing dog. It was a good trick, his superiors implied, but why do it?
He asked again, a little plaintively this time, ‘But why me?'
It provoked a moment of honesty from his boss. ‘We need our terrorism
experts
right here to protect Singapore. But we have to look keen to help out an important neighbour like Indonesia. You have a reputation for always getting your man.
They'll
think we sent our best to Bali.'
Inspector Singh was distracted from his depressed reminiscing by the Balinese hotel staff. The doorman, smartly dressed in his cream uniform, queried politely, ‘Limousine, sir?' His tone suggested that he asked more in hope than expectation. To Singh's dismay, Bronwyn Taylor had refused from the early days of their acquaintance to use a hotel car. Bronwyn insisted that there was no need to pay hotel prices when there was so much alternative transport available. Singh was of the view that trusting his ample form to an unknown young man in wrap-around sunglasses, driving a vehicle whose maintenance history was a closely guarded secret, was not the way to begin the day. He had tried to insist that there was no need to be so frugal when the Singapore government was paying expenses.
Bronwyn had been adamant. ‘It doesn't matter whose money it is, we shouldn't waste it. Besides,' she had continued, ‘how can we possibly find out anything about Bali if we stick to hotel transport? We need to talk to ordinary Balinese people. Find out what they're thinking.'
‘They're wondering how they've gone from playground of
the wealthy to deserted island. I don't need to ride around in a deathtrap to work that out.'
Singh could see the Australian woman now, hurrying across the foyer, greeting hotel staff individually by name. He shook his head despondently. If he ordered a limo, she would just cancel it. He could insist, of course – but he had a suspicion that she would harp on the subject until he regretted his impulse to put his foot down. His wife achieved her ends using exactly the same tactics – perhaps women had a special nagging gene that allowed for repetition without respite.
Across the road from the hotel, dozens of scruffy young men squatted along the kerbs under the patchy shade of
dedap
trees, fallen velvety red flowers a carpet under their feet. Each of them was equipped with a Kijang, a large utility vehicle, to ferry tourists around Bali for a few dollars. Singh cast a suspicious eye over the waiting drivers and beckoned to one who seemed less sinister than the others. Immediately the driver's face was wreathed in smiles. He stubbed out his
kretek
, the ubiquitous Indonesian clove cigarette, and hurried over.
He asked, ‘You need driver?'
Singh nodded.
‘So, where you from?'
The inspector from Singapore was sick and tired of the insatiable curiosity of the Balinese.
Bronwyn, panting slightly from the heat, answered for both of them. ‘He's from Singapore and I'm Australian.'
‘Good, good – very happy you come to Bali.'
Meeting with silence, he continued, ‘Where to, boss?'
Singh looked inquiringly at the Australian.
‘Bali police HQ, Denpasar!' she said briskly.
‘OK,
Ibu
.'
He revved the engine and reversed out onto the street, narrowly avoiding an entire Balinese family riding precariously on a small motorbike. He waved an apology and they tooted back an acknowledgement.
Singh shook his big head. He had never realised how Singaporean he was in his habits, accustomed to wide streets, orderly traffic and an almost complete absence of these horrid little motorbikes that were the main Balinese family transport.
The Kijang raced down a busy street, hooting intermittently. The mildest of apologetic toots warned motorbikes to move out of the way. Slightly more irritable honks were reserved for fellow Kijang drivers muscling in on road position and puffing clouds of grey-white smoke out of their rattling exhaust pipes. A loud blast scared a mangy dog crossing the road.
The car came to an abrupt halt. Singh craned his neck to see what had obstructed their way.
The driver said, ‘Sorry, boss. Have to wait now. There is funeral ahead.'
Singh opened the door and stepped out to watch the slow procession of people; women balancing baskets of fruit and other offerings precariously on their heads, men lugging tall white tasseled umbrellas, all of them dressed in their ceremonial best. He wondered if the funeral was for a victim of the Bali bombs. The inspector felt a wave of sadness. A vicious attack had taken lives and destroyed livelihoods. Although it was the foreign tourists killed who had garnered the lion's share of the news cycles, many Balinese had been murdered as well.
Singh climbed back into the vehicle with difficulty.
Bronwyn tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as if it was an escaping errant thought. She asked in a sombre voice, ‘Do
you think the tourists will ever come back to Bali?'
Singh gazed out of the tinted window of the Kijang.
‘No,' he said, ‘I think this place is finished.'
 
Nuri wandered down Jalan Legian until she reached the police barriers. She had not intended to come this way but her reluctant footsteps had been drawn towards the Sari Club, epicentre of the attacks. Although she could not imagine a circumstance in which a devout Moslem like Abdullah might have been caught up in the nightclub bombings, the fact remained that her desperate forays around Bali had produced no sign of him.
Nuri was awestruck by the sheer scale of the destruction. Buildings were blackened shells, with burnt-out cars strewn in front of them. Sombre policemen stood at regular intervals. Too late to prevent the carnage – their job was limited to keeping the curious and the desperate from contaminating the crime scene.
Nuri's attention was drawn to a middle-aged woman sobbing quietly. She was Indonesian, probably native Balinese. Nuri shuffled further away to give her some privacy. The woman looked up at this and, perhaps appreciating the younger woman's tact, asked, ‘You are looking for your family also?'
Nuri was determined not to give voice to the possibility that Abdullah might have been a victim of the bombings. She had a superstitious concern that her words might have the power to turn her deepest fears into reality. She said abruptly, ‘No, I just came to see.' And then embarrassed at sounding like a voyeur she stared down at her feet, modestly sheathed in black socks to avoid prying masculine eyes.
The older woman continued, despair making her garrulous, ‘My brother, we cannot find him. We have hunted in
the hospitals and the morgue in Sanglah …'
Nuri noticed her accent. ‘You are from Java?'
She nodded, smiling through her tears. ‘Yes, we came here to work. Our family in Jakarta is poor. My brother was a dishwasher at Sari Club. I do the massage at one of the hotels.' Her voice cracked as she tried to continue. ‘But now see what has happened … we cannot find him.'
She stared down the street but Nuri could see that she was blinded by tears.
She said awkwardly, ‘I hope you find your brother.'
‘I know he is dead. I feel it in my heart.' She continued bitterly, ‘They say it is Moslems who did this. Terrorists! I cannot believe it. Why would they kill innocents, fellow Moslems, young people who have done nothing to harm them?'
Nuri felt a wave of compassion for this stranger. Like her, she was looking for a lost loved one. But this woman was facing the reality that her brother had been a victim of the bombings. She, Nuri, still had the comfort of ignorance. There was nothing to prevent her believing that Abdullah was in Bali somewhere, waiting for the right moment to return to her and fulfil the promises he had made as he grasped her two hands firmly in his and said his hurried goodbyes.
Nuri put a thin brown arm around the other woman's shoulders. She stared at the devastation wrought on the narrow street ahead of her. Windows hundreds of yards from the blast site had been blown out. The smell of soot and smoke was pungent, it made her eyes water.
The weeping woman followed Nuri's gaze and put her hands together in a gesture of supplication. She said, ‘I just can't believe anyone would do this in Allah's name.'
 
 
Singh looked inquiringly at one of the policemen. ‘What's happening?'
The Balinese policeman shook his head. His brown, unlined face was childlike in its despair. ‘We are at a dead end,' he said. ‘We have examined everything twenty times, thirty times. We have the Australians here, the CIA – everyone is trying to help us.' He added politely, ‘Including you also.'
Singh nodded an acknowledgement of this remark, wishing for the thousandth time that he actually had skills that might be useful to the investigation.
He asked, ‘What about the motorbike?'
‘We have traced it – it is strange that they bought it new from a Bali shop. The dealer remembers them well – three of them – because they did not argue over the price.' He managed a half smile. ‘That is very unusual in Bali.'
‘Can he identify them?'
‘Yes, if we catch them first! The Australians are flying in some photo-fit experts.'
Singh was sceptical. He had never had much faith in these sketches of suspects. The memories of witnesses always seemed to involve unkempt men with wild eyes. In Singh's experience, the more serious the crime, the more two-dimensionally wicked the portraits became. A motorcycle dealer asked to describe the Bali bombers? He'd be amazed if they weren't given horns and a tail.
Singh scratched the rim between his turban and forehead with a stubby finger. ‘What about the van – the vehicle bomb?'
‘We have gone over every inch of what was left of that vehicle. All the serial numbers have been filed off or changed – they do not match any records.' The Balinese beckoned to Singh. ‘Come with me, I will show you.'
He led the way to a separate building, waved his ID at a guard and ushered the policeman from Singapore inside. A wave of cool air from the aggressive air-conditioning turned the drops of perspiration on Singh's forehead into a soothing cold compress.
The Balinese policeman said, ‘You see!'
Singh did see. There were heaps of twisted, blackened metal organised in neat rows on trestle tables. Every part was labelled. Policemen and forensic experts explored fragments under microscopes.
The Balinese policeman said, ‘This is every piece of that van we could find. But there is nothing there. General Pastika is so frustrated that he has gone to the temples to pray for a breakthrough. It is our last hope!'
Singh raised his tufty eyebrows in consternation but managed to hold his tongue on the subject of policemen who abandoned the rational pursuit of evidence to hang around temples praying for divine guidance. After all, his own contribution to the investigation so far had amounted to distracting Balinese policemen from getting about their duties. He could hardly have achieved less if he too had spent his time hollering demands at a Balinese deity.
The inspector's attention was caught by a man staring dejectedly at a pile of twisted chassis rails. As he watched, the man's expression changed from one of frustration to sudden interest. He said, ‘It's been welded!' He carried the hunk of metal to a work table and prised apart the pieces using a hammer and cold chisel.
Singh leaned forward curiously, impressed by the dexterity and diligence of the man.
Protected from the blast by the now removed welded piece and etched into the metal underneath was a stamped serial number. The investigator said, his voice shaking with
emotion, ‘We have something. Thank God, we have something! General Pastika's prayers have been answered!'

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