Java Spider (20 page)

Copeland looked worn down. Stanley had heard it said he’d not
sought
the top job, but had been unable to resist it when it came his way. For a moment the assistant commissioner felt sorry for him. He’d watched him being mauled by the media in the past two days. And he knew what that felt like.

‘The trouble is,’ Copeland confided, his voice close to breaking, ‘I’m far from sure we’ll be able to hold the line …’

‘You’d cancel the arms contract?’ Vereker asked, astonished. ‘Give in to terrorist blackmail? That’d set a terrible precedent, sir. Think what the Americans would say …’

‘It wouldn’t be put over like
that
, Philip,’ Copeland retorted sarcastically. ‘No, we would simply be recognising the change in the international climate towards arms sales. Taking the lead in acknowledging the new public morality …’

There were some in the party who thought such a tactic might even rescue his government. He couldn’t remain in power for long with a majority of one. So there was growing pressure on him to drop the arms deal, to call themselves the party of principle, and to go to the country in the hope of picking up the extra votes they needed.

‘To cap it all,’ he went on bitterly, ‘the halfwits in the European Commission have just proposed a Europe-wide ban on arms sales to countries that don’t observe the UN Charter on Human Rights. It’s absurd! The French’ll laugh their heads off. The reality is that if Europe can’t sell arms to autocratic regimes our defence
industries
would collapse overnight. It’d be economic suicide!’

Copeland clasped his hands and pulled himself together. ‘Anyway, that’s all political. Where’s the investigation got to?’

Stanley sat bolt upright.

‘We think the minister’s still in the far east, prime minister. We think the videos of him are being airfreighted to Europe to be picked up by whoever stole the satellite transmitter in Strasbourg last week. European police forces are checking all airports that have suitable flights.

‘The other main line of enquiry is to do with the News Channel, prime minister. There has to be a reason why the kidnappers picked that station both times. We want to interview Mr Sankey, the sacked editor, but it’ll have to wait until the morning. We’ve found him. But he’s in a wine bar, unable to stand or speak.’

‘Bloody good thing they sacked him. Outrageous allowing those pictures to be broadcast.’

‘Well, he’s drowned his sorrows. We’re hoicking him out and getting him home. An officer will stay with him until he sobers up enough to make sense.’

‘Probably already drunk when he took the decision to show the tape …’ Copeland ventured.

‘That I can’t say, prime minister,’ said Stanley neutrally. ‘But let me tell you what our thinking is. Two possibilities …’

Vereker shifted in his seat and sighed. There always were just
two
possibilities with David Stanley, he mused. The man’s brain simply couldn’t cope with any more.

‘One …’ Stanley continued, ‘Mr Sankey may know more about the kidnap than he’s saying – i.e. he knows who the kidnappers are and had some deal going with
them
to get the pictures for his network. On balance, unlikely I’d say.’

Utterly unlikely, Vereker decided. Conspiracy theories gone mad.

‘Two … one of the people operating the satellite dish may be an ex-employee of the News Channel who knows the times of their satellite bookings and how the company operates. Or maybe he’s an ex-employee from one of the channel’s rivals with a grudge against his exbosses. Giving a boost to the opposition could be his way of getting back at them. We’re running checks with ITN, Sky and the BBC, to see if they can come up with names.

‘Finally, prime minister, there’s the issue of Mr Bowen’s debts. Two hundred thousand pounds seems to be the figure owing to the two creditors we’ve identified so far. There may be more of course, we simply don’t know.’

Copeland blinked. He felt a patch of heat spread up the back of his neck.

‘Are you suggesting there’s a connection between Stephen’s gambling debts and the kidnap?’ he queried, disguising his terror. ‘Surely not.’

‘It
is
possible his private activities in Indonesia were for the purpose of raising money illicitly so he could get the bailiffs off his back …’ Stanley’s words drained the remaining colour from Copeland’s face.

‘I hardly think …’ Copeland turned to the SIS man. ‘Philip? D’you go along with this?’

Vereker removed his round-lensed spectacles and cleaned them with a handkerchief. Without them his eyes looked small and bewildered.

‘This wasn’t Bowen’s first visit to Indonesia by any means,’ he answered flatly. ‘He first went four years ago when he was a director of Metroc Minerals. Had some hand in negotiating Metroc’s stake in KUTUMIN.’

‘We know all about that,’ Copeland snapped. He’d spent much of PM’s Questions rejecting allegations of ministerial impropriety. ‘But the point is there’s no evidence Stephen has any on-going connection with Metroc – apart from owing them money. The company’s denied it very firmly.’

‘Agreed. But David’s suspicions are quite natural. Indonesia is the cradle of corruption. Huge sums of money change hands there for services rendered. The minister’s insistence on privacy
could
have been because of some dodgy deal.’

‘He was with a woman, Philip,’ Copeland snorted. ‘
That
’s why he wanted privacy.’

Vereker replaced his spectacles. ‘That was part of it, prime minister, certainly.’ He held a steady gaze, unmoved from his belief that there was more.

‘The woman’s a
fact
, gentlemen. And facts are what we should stick with,’ Copeland snapped, fearful of where this speculation might lead. ‘Now tell me, what are the Indonesians up to?
Do
they think he’s in their country or not?’

‘I don’t think they know, prime minister. But something odd’s happened. There are signs that Major General Sumoto, the Indonesian military’s procurement chief, believes you’ll have to cancel the arms deal.’

‘Oh?’ Copeland looked up startled.

‘General Sumoto has been talking to the Chinese. There’s a possibility he’s asking them to rebid for the contract. Which is surprising, considering the Indonesian military’s traditional hostility to anything communist, but nonetheless a possibility.’

‘Bugger,’ Copeland hissed. ‘So General Sumoto thinks I’m going to cancel …’ He hated people to prejudge him. Particularly Sumoto who was supposed to be a friend.

‘They can see you’re under great pressure, sir.’

‘Maybe, but the point is I
haven’t
made up my mind yet.’

Hadn’t, because he couldn’t get his brain straight. It wasn’t just the conflicting national issues that troubled him,
personal
considerations were affecting his judgement. Cancelling the arms deal would not only lose business for British industry, it would kill off a
private
arrangement he’d made – a deal Stephen had talked him into. At the time it had seemed as harmless a bit of profit-making as the share options given to executives in the privatised utilities, but he knew now that he’d been insane to agree to it. The bait however had been substantial. Losing it would hurt.

Something else was fuzzing his brain, something connected with that – the irrational fear that under torture Stephen might reveal the details of their private deal, tell the world about it on satellite television. The disgrace such an exposure would bring him would not be survivable, politically or personally.

Preventing Stephen from talking had become of overriding importance to him. He kept telling himself he couldn’t possibly allow such a consideration to affect his decision, but it was there, needling away like the devil himself.

Terminating the arms contract and getting Stephen safely back to London would be one way of ensuring his silence. But industry would lose big money and so would he.

Reconfirming the contract quickly and resolutely was another way, because Stephen would be killed … Big business would be satisfied. His own reputation would be safe and so would his windfall.

But what of his conscience? Could he live with the thought that he’d acted for himself rather than for the country?

Copeland looked up. Stanley and Vereker were staring at him expectantly.

‘It’s the hardest decision I’ve ever taken, gentlemen,’ he confided softly. ‘I don’t know what to do for the best.’

Eleven

Darwin

Wednesday 11.15 hrs

THE TAXI SPED
down the highway that cut through the southern outskirts of town, overtaking a coach full of backpackers bound for Ayer’s Rock. Under an intense blue sky, commercial estates gave way to bush, an arid flatland of tall palms, stubby cycads and eucalyptus trees. They passed a sign to a crocodile farm.

Randall’s head felt fuzzed, his body clock still convinced it was the middle of the night. He’d dozed after checking into the hotel room, but not for long. ‘
Get in there fast and find us someone to negotiate with
,’ Mostyn had said. Fine if you’re on the sixteenth floor of Scotland Yard. Not so easy from where he was sitting.

Next to him, Charlotte was subdued, depressed, wrapped in her own problems. She’d put on jeans and a white T-shirt. Nick could see that she was bra-less, which was a distraction he could have done without.

‘I don’t know why I’m doing this,’ she announced suddenly. ‘Pointless. Embarrassing. What am I going to say to these KEPO people? That I’ve just popped down from London for the
day
?’

‘Say nothing,’ Nick counselled. ‘Let them assume you’re going to Kutu.’

‘So humiliating. There’s only one thing for me to do when I get back to London …’

‘Resign.’

The corners of her mouth turned down. ‘How did
you
know I was going to say that?’ A patina of perspiration had given her face a sheen.

‘Because it’s what you
would
do,’ he replied dismissively. ‘Women think emotionally, not logically.’

‘Listen to the little professor! Didn’t know you had a degree in behavioural psychology,’ she replied snidely.

Randall pursed his lips.

‘See that over there?’ the silver-haired driver drawled. He pointed into the trees to the right. ‘Old air base from World War Two. You can still see the huts.’

Charlotte saw some dilapidated prefabs through the trees.

‘The Japs bombed Darwin you know, trying to take out the oil tanks. From bases in the Dutch East Indies. What’s now Indonesia.’

Randall guessed all foreigners got treated to a history lesson.

Charlotte imagined her father’s prison camp to have been somewhere like this. Heat, dust and a long way from civilisation. She worried his health had deteriorated since she left England, even suspecting in irrational moments that fate was calling her straight home because of it …

‘What’s in the bag?’ Randall asked, jolting her from her angst. He rested a hand on the grey holdall wedged between them on the rear seat. ‘Camera gear?’

‘In a manner of speaking,’ she replied coolly, fingering the thick shoulder strap. ‘It’s a trick bag. The bag’s the gear. Hired from a specialist at huge cost. Another reason they want me home.’ She held up the webbing and pointed to a rivet. ‘See that tiny stud? It’s a lens. Next to it, buried in the nylon is a microphone. There’s a wafer of electronics in the strap, and a concealed cable running to a hidden compartment for a camcorder. Places to hide cassettes too.’

‘Nifty.’ Nick had used similar gear on surveillance in
Irish
pubs. ‘Is there a spare pocket I can put this in?’ He held up the small Pentax he’d brought with him.

‘Sure.’ She took it from him.

The driver slowed and swung the car on to a dirt track. A string of poles carried a power cable from the grid lining the highway.

‘There’s a handful of places up here,’ he announced. ‘Too darn isolated for my taste. But Jim Sawyer’s a botanist so I suppose it’s like home to him. Know him, do you?’

‘No. Sort of a friend of a friend,’ Randall replied quickly.

‘Didn’t know he had any friends. Except for the women. There’s always one here, but different each time I come.’

It was Sawyer who’d given Nick this taxi driver’s number. Said it was best to use someone who knew the way.

‘Here y’are.’ A house of dark green clapboard perched on a rise, almost engulfed by eucalyptus, its corrugated roof patchy with rust. An elderly, dust-caked Land Rover stood outside next to a cleaner, newer-looking Suzuki four-wheel-drive which had the logo of a rental company on the back window. ‘Want me to come by and pick you up later?’

‘That’d be great,’ said Randall. ‘In a couple of hours?’

‘No worries. If you change your mind, give me a ring on the car phone.’ He handed Nick a card. ‘That’s twenty-two dollars.’

As the car rattled back down the track and the humid heat closed around them the wire mesh door opened and a tanned, bony man aged about forty gave them a searching look. He was bare-chested with baggy shorts and a pair of thongs on his huge feet.

‘G’day. I’m Jim Sawyer. Welcome to the outback. Nick and Charlotte, right?’

‘That’s right.’ In the sticky heat Randall was glad he had also dressed in shorts.

Sawyer led them through a musty, parquet-floored living-room and out on to a stone terrace. They smelled charcoal smoke.

‘Hope you don’t mind eating early. Have to at this time of year if you want a barbie.’ Sawyer pointed to the horizon where grey clouds were massing.

A dense, pink frangipani encroached on one side of the paving. Unripe mangoes hung like gonads from trees on a patch of grass beyond.

‘Dump your bag down there, Charlie,’ Sawyer said, pointing to the left.

A scrawny woman in flower-patterned shorts and bikini top stood by the barbecue, sweat glistening on her bare back.

‘Hi,’ she said, glancing over her shoulder. She had a sallow face and stringy hair.

‘That’s Jane,’ Sawyer explained. ‘And over here there’s someone who thinks he knows Kutu as well as just about anybody.’

Easing himself up from a rattan armchair was a ruddy-faced man in his mid-fifties, with hair down to the collar of his faded tartan shirt.