Java Spider (16 page)

More armoured glass at the reception desk. Beyond it, a weary-looking official. Communication was by microphone.

‘Yes?’ The man’s voice was de-humanised by the technology that conveyed it.

She pulled out a folded page from a notebook, then held it against the glass. He stared at it, then stared at her. Slowly he raised one eyebrow and his shoulders heaved a sigh.

She’d imagined shouting, people running, bells ringing. Anything but the bored glare she received.

‘Passport?’

She let the note drop on the counter and stared down at the words, fearing suddenly that what she’d written was gibberish.

I WANT ASYLUM.

‘Can I see your passport?’ he repeated. ‘Where you from?’

She understood nothing. She’d come as far as she could. She was in their hands now. Her legs buckled. She flopped to the floor and began to cry.

British Embassy – Jakarta

13.15 hrs (05.15 hrs GMT)

Harry Maxwell put the phone down and did a quick calculation. The undercover man being sent from London would be halfway to Singapore by now. Another twenty-four hours at least before he reached Kutu. That’s if he got in – the Reuters office had just rung to say there’d been riots in Piri last night, and arrests. When the streets were tense on the island, ABRI tended to close the island to foreigners.

Philip Vereker’s signal briefing Maxwell on the Yard man’s movements had been full of irony, not least in the codename SIS had awarded Randall – Cuculus. Latin for Cuckoo.

Maxwell sat up straight, the bulge of his stomach just touching the edge of his desk. Vereker had said Randall had been briefed to make contact with Junus Bawi. But according to Reuters the political leader of the OKP
was
amongst those arrested last night. Bawi was a big fish. Too big for ABRI to arrest just because there’d been trouble on the streets. Why pick him up
now
? Only one reason Maxwell could think of. It confirmed what Brigadier General Effendi had hinted at last night – that they
were
taking the Kutu connection seriously in the kidnap investigation and were putting Organisasi Kutun Pertahanan through the mangle.

It had been an unproductive morning for Maxwell. Several times he’d tried to contact Selina Sakidin. Not at work today, her office had said, but that meant nothing; Jakarta’s bureaucrats were well practised at being inaccessible by phone. The woman would be wary of him anyway, not wanting any more light shone on a relationship she’d presumably hoped would stay private.

He pushed back his chair and stared at the wall opposite. Hanging in the middle of it was a carved wooden mask intricately decorated in soft, dark colours. It smiled at him. Like Effendi had smiled. ‘
Yes, yes, we’ve checked out Selina Sakidin and it’s all above board. Nothing to her relationship with Bowen. She merely took him to the airport to be friendly
…’

Nonsense. Maxwell stood up and looked at his watch. He’d thought of hanging around the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to try to ambush her, but knew he’d melt within minutes in this heat. Instead he would make a fuelling stop. He checked his wallet.

‘Just going across to the Hyatt for a quick bite,’ he announced, striding past his secretary’s desk.

‘Right-ho.’

Escaping the claustrophobic walls of the embassy was an important part of his daily routine, but when he passed through the security gate into the midday sun he almost turned back.
Breathing
was an effort for him, let alone walking.

Pausing to cross the road, he was distracted for a moment by the pebble-eyed, brown-skinned boys who sprung from the shade to peddle cold drinks when cars halted at the lights. Then, tugging hard on the reins of his mind, he ignored them and walked on.

The Hyatt Hotel rose monolithically on the opposite side of the square. By the time Maxwell reached the sanctuary of its huge, air-conditioned atrium, sweat was pouring from his face. He paused in the lobby to dab his brow with a handkerchief.

Then through the glass he saw a Mercedes with blackened windows draw up outside. A flunkey rushed to do the door.

‘Well, well…’ mumbled Maxwell, instantly recognising the powerful figure emerging from the car. Major General Dino Sumoto pushed through the swing doors, dressed in a dark civilian suit with a slight shine to its weave.

The nickname Effendi had given him was apt. The man had the brooding menace of a tarantula. Maxwell held back so as not to be seen as Sumoto took the escalator up to the reception floor. Then, curious to know whom he was meeting, he followed a few steps behind. The moving staircase bore them to the mezzanine past a marble cascade of crystal water.

In the lobby in front of the reception desk Sumoto was greeted respectfully by a young under-manager who hurried him to a function room at one side. Maxwell watched from behind the fronds of a potted palm. Above the open double doors to the suite he noted its name – Surabaya. Sumoto was greeted with the reverence due a guest of honour.

Maxwell pursed his lips suddenly. The faces in the reception line – they were all Chinese.

He crossed briskly to the bell captain’s desk where a board listed the day’s functions.

Surabaya Suite – 13.00 hrs. Reception by Trade Delegation of People’s Republic of China
.

He stepped back in surprise. General Sumoto, a pillar of the right-wing military establishment, attending a reception given by the
communist
Chinese? Indonesia’s relations with Beijing might have improved recently, but communists were still bogeymen here. A man in his position had to be careful.

A dark thought came to him. Deeply troubled, Maxwell drifted away towards the coffee-shop before anyone noticed him.

‘You want eat lunch, sir?’ a waiter asked him.

Maxwell stared through him.

‘You want table, sir?’ the waiter persisted.

‘Yes … No. No time. Thank you.’

He turned on his heel and strode briskly towards the escalator. What he’d remembered was that early on in the battle for the arms contract,
China
had entered a bid. It had been rejected quickly on technical as well as political grounds. But had Bowen’s kidnap changed things? Was General Sumoto’s fear of Britain pulling out of the deal widely shared in the ABRI hierarchy?
Had they decided as a precaution to re-open the bidding?

Ambassador Bruton would have to find out, and find out fast
.

London – Wesley Street, Westminster

Tuesday 09.35 hrs

Sally Bowen had the TV on in the small, chintz-furnished sitting-room, but she wasn’t watching. She’d come up to London late last night in a police car. Scotland Yard’s idea. They wanted her on hand in case
of
‘eventualities’ and to help them sort through her husband’s papers for clues. In the kitchen, drinking coffee, was a detective constable, there to answer the phone. The line was being monitored on the slim chance that Stephen’s kidnappers might ring.

She wore a tartan skirt and a red cardigan over her white blouse. She sat on the sofa, a pile of Stephen’s personal papers and letters on the low table in front of her. A quick glance through the contents of his desk last night under the heavy gaze of the detective chief inspector from Scotland Yard had revealed nothing useful, but what she had before her now she’d found in a briefcase hidden in a linen cupboard. Her life and Stephen’s had been separate for so long by now, what she was doing felt an intrusion into the life of a stranger.

‘Can I make you a coffee, madam?’

The detective had stuck his head round the door. Fair hair, round face, hardly looked old enough to shave.

‘Oh please not
madam
. Makes me feel ninety.’

‘OK Mrs Bowen.’

‘But no, I don’t want a coffee. Thanks.’

‘Manage to get any sleep last night?’ he asked. He’d come on shift half an hour ago, replacing the night man. ‘Not as quiet as you’re used to, I shouldn’t think.’

‘No. In Warwickshire you can hear the mice breathe at night. Here there’s always noise. Cars, boats hooting on the river, and Big Ben of course.’

Sally had hardly slept at all. It was Stephen’s smell as much as anything – the leather of his shoes in the wardrobe and the after-shave, scents which had become a turn-off as their marriage died. Last night her emotions had done battle, her lingering dislike of him fighting an upsurge of empathy for his suffering. The video image of him tied to that chair was burned into her brain.

‘I’ll leave you in peace, then.’

‘Thank you.’

When he’d arrived that morning, the policeman had brought a selection of the morning papers. Inside pages carried features about the arms trade, about Indonesia and its army’s brutal treatment of rebels in Timor, Kutu and other islands. And about Stephen. Some of it supportive, some cruel. All reported his friendship with the prime minister dating back to university. All had been digging through the Register of MP’s Interests and had uncovered his former directorship with Metroc Minerals. Some had even speculated he still had links with the company and that the kidnap was in some way related.

Sally was used to her husband being in the public eye, but what she’d read that morning hurt. They were writing of him in the past. As if he were dead.

Detective Chief Inspector Mostyn had phoned at eight thirty asking her to make another thorough check of the flat. Stephen had never been tidy – another cause of friction. Papers of one sort or another had been scattered around the flat in drawers and cupboards and stacked on shelves in the Georgian break-front bookcase. The young detective had been with her when she found the briefcase, but she’d asked to be alone when examining its contents, fearful of finding something upsetting.

Some of its contents were innocuous enough – bills and receipts. These she scanned and dropped on to the pale green carpet beside her.

Then she picked up a small note written on pink paper.

The handwriting was neat and round. Like a child’s, Sally thought. The address was Warwickshire, in the constituency. Effusive thanks for showing the writer round the Commons. Ordinary enough. MPs did that all the time. Then she turned the page.

The advice about working at the Commons was great. When I finish my degree I’ll take you at your word. Millions of thanks too for the fabulous dinner – and everything else!!! I’m still tingling!

Sally’s stomach clenched into a ball.
When I finish my degree
. God almighty! How old was the silly coot? She peered at the name. Angie. Twenty-one, twenty-two? Stephen was nearly fifty! She stuffed the letter in her handbag, so no one else would read it.

Gingerly she picked through the pile for more handwritten notes, but there were none. Two typed letters from the Georgian Sporting Club, one of his regular gambling haunts. An invitation to a dinner, and another to a cut-price weekend at a casino in Monte Carlo. Never talked to her about his gambling these days. Not since the day she hired a lawyer to end his access to her property. He’d tried to sell some of her family paintings to settle debts.

The next letter had been folded into a small square as if in annoyance at its contents. She opened it gingerly. The Metroc Minerals logo was blazoned across the top. Her heart missed a beat. Maybe the newspapers were right. Maybe there
was
still a link.

As she read the text, she realised it was the same old story all over again. Signed by the Metroc Minerals finance director the letter demanded repayment of a loan the company had granted when he was on the board. A final demand. Dated last month. Threatening legal action.

The loan was for
£
100,000.

‘God Almighty,’ she gasped, staring at it in semi-disbelief. She’d had no inkling he’d been that much down.

She sifted the rest of the pile, hoping to find another letter saying the money had been repaid. But there was nothing more from Metroc. Something however from
the
Sidney Walker Finance Group. A name she’d never heard of. As she read it her hand fluttered up to her mouth.

The letter threatened to send bailiffs round to remove the contents of the flat in lieu of unpaid interest totalling
£
12,000. Twelve thousand pounds in
interest
? How much was the loan itself, for heaven’s sake?

The ball in Sally’s stomach turned into a boulder.

A tap at the door and the detective constable put his head round.

‘Just checking. Any surprises?’

Sally Bowen looked up startled. For a moment she’d forgotten he was there.

‘Umm …’ she dithered, thinking to hide the letters. The word
loyalty
hovered in her mind. Her loyalty to Stephen, as his wife. Then she thought of the letter she’d just stuffed in her handbag. The pink one. The one from Angie. Loyalty to
what
?

‘Surprises, constable?’ she said eventually. ‘Well yes, I’m afraid there are some. Rather nasty ones.’

Nine

Singapore – Changi International Airport

Tuesday 19.05 hrs (11.05 hrs GMT)

RANDALL SWUNG THE
bag of Nikons on to his shoulder, brushed the food crumbs from his thin cotton trousers and joined the line of bog-eyed passengers leaving the packed 747 at the end of the thirteen-hour flight from London. Burying himself amongst businessmen in suits and young mums with whining children, he filed from the air jetty into the huge, open concourse. The terminal was new since he’d last passed through Singapore eight years ago.

On the flight, he’d slept a little and read a lot, trying to memorise parts of the files given him by Vereker of the SIS. They’d been wide-ranging; a political history of Indonesia and its repressed Democracy Movement, background on the Kutu copper mine and the resistance to it, and an Amnesty report on the torture techniques of the Indonesian security forces. None of it however had helped him decide on a clear plan of action.

Asia was not a part of the world Randall had wished to revisit. Too many reminders. Here at this vast international airport, however, he could have been anywhere, so international were the faces around him.