Java Spider (22 page)

‘Thomas say KUTUMIN want make road through his village. But he and Yuliana they no want. Some people they leave the village when the soldiers come. But Thomas he refuse. So they take him from his house to the middle of the village so other people see, then they beat him.’

‘What with?’ Charlie asked.

‘With their guns,’ Teri explained. Thomas used his hands to demonstrate how they’d clubbed his head and body with their rifle butts.

Charlie grimaced. ‘When did this happen?’

‘About six months ago.’

‘Then what happened?’

Thomas began talking again. At one point he turned to his wife and she lowered her eyes in shame. Then he reached over his own shoulder to touch the top of his back.

‘The soldiers, they take away Thomas and Yuliana and some more people. Then they burn the village. Next day the machines come to build the road to the mine. The village is finish. No more village. Thomas and Yuliana they are take to prison. Soldiers they ask them many questions. About OKP. About the men who
hide
in the mountains with guns. They say Thomas give food to OKP. Yuliana also they do very bad things to her.’

‘Was she raped?’ Charlie pressed.

‘I think yes,’ Teri whispered, embarrassed. ‘But Kutu women not like say such things.’

‘And Thomas?’

‘They burn him to make him confess. You wan’ see?’

‘Well, yes …’ She swallowed, dreading the next part.

Thomas had been waiting for the cue and began to remove his shirt.

‘Hang on a second,’ Nick interrupted, switching off the camera. ‘Let’s get that microphone out of the way.’ He unclipped it from Thomas’s clothing and gave it to Charlie to hold. ‘Right. Now Teri, tell him to start again. I’ll go in close. Fingers on shirt buttons.’

Charlotte looked up, impressed by the sudden creativity of her stand-in cameraman.

Thomas removed his shirt and turned his muscular back to the lens. Half a dozen small round scars visible, two of them livid red, not yet healed. They spread over the hard ridge of his spine from right shoulder to lower left ribs, like stepping stones across a river.

‘How did they do that?’ Charlotte asked, wincing.

‘Cigarettes.’

Charlotte paused to let the camera linger on the burn marks.

‘What happened then?’

More questions and answers in Kutun.

‘They send them to camp near airport at Piri. They want take them another island. Many thousand Kutuans already gone. But Thomas and Yuliana, they no want. One day they run from the camp. Priest he help them find boat. With some others. Fifteen days on the sea. No food and water. Then here in Australia.’

Charlotte imagined the hell of crossing five hundred
miles
of sea in this heat. She gave them a tight smile, then turned to Nick.

‘That’s great,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s have a few cutaways. You know, a shot of Yuliana listening to him, then one of me.’

Dugdale came over, still anxious about Teri being seen on camera. ‘Got enough now?’ he queried.

‘Nearly.’

‘Three of the others died on that boat, y’know,’ he confided. ‘Coastguards found them ten miles off shore. Out of fuel and drifting. With their food finished and less than a litre of water between them, they were
all
waiting to die basically.’

Nick finished the shots, rewound a few seconds of tape to check it, then packed everything away, making it look as if video equipment was something he handled every day. A quarter to two. The taxi would be back soon, and time was short.

‘When are you going back to Kutu, Brad?’ Nick checked.

‘Tonight. Same flight as you …’ His face was a blank, but his eyes were oddly calculating.

‘Good,’ said Nick. Dugdale would be useful. And away from Sawyer he might open up more.

‘But I warn you, I won’t know you from Adam on the plane. So don’t try and talk to me. They’re watching remember and I’ve got my own back to protect.’

‘Well, fine. But maybe we can have a drink together in Piri?’

‘Sure thing … if they let you in,’ he added sceptically. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a wallet. ‘You’ll find me at Captain’s Bar. Teri’s family runs it for me.’ He handed them a card.

‘You’ll be trying to see Junus Bawi I expect,’ Sawyer chipped in. ‘Every journalist does.’

‘His name’s on my list,’ Nick replied.

‘Well, be careful. They arrested him Monday night. I heard he’s been freed, but he won’t want to see
you
. Too bloody dangerous. You could do better trying the priests. None of
them
has been arrested in the last few days. I’ll write a couple of names down.’ He went briefly into the house to get a pad.

‘There’s many religions in Kutu,’ Dugdale explained. ‘Allah’s spreading fast but the Pope’s still strongest. Up in the mountains they’re catholic/animist, worshipping trees, rivers and the spirit that lives in the volcano as well as the Heavenly Father.’

A car hooted. The taxi had arrived. Sawyer handed Nick the note and fixed him with an eye like a vulture.

‘Just remember ABRI doesn’t like journalists,’ he warned. ‘If they can, they’ll think of a way to put a bullet in your head and make it look an accident.’

Nick reached out his hand. ‘Thanks for the warning. And for the lunch.’

It was Dugdale who led them back through the house. Nick sensed he wanted a word with them away from the others. It was a question, and it came as he held open the fly-screen.

‘Tell me folks, just suppose you two
did
find out something about your kidnapped minister when you’re in Kutu. Something nobody else knows … what would you do about it?’

Randall stared at him. Odd question, he thought.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I mean would you put it straight on the TV, or ring up your prime minister for a quiet word?’ Dugdale’s watery eyes were studiedly neutral.

‘Depends, I suppose,’ Nick replied carefully, trying to divine what was behind this query. ‘If it was important enough I guess we’d make sure it got to the right place.’

Dugdale nodded as if it was the answer he was hoping for.

‘Why d’you ask?’ checked Randall.

‘Oh, just curious to know how you guys work.’ He smiled dismissively, then shook each of them by the hand. ‘Captain’s Bar, remember. Welcome’s warm and the beer’s cold. Oh, what were your surnames again?’

‘Randall and Cavendish,’ Nick replied.

‘Yeah! That’s it. See you later!’

The taxi rattled away from the house, with Dugdale watching them thoughtfully.

‘What was he on about?’ Charlotte breathed.

‘No idea.’

Randall was sure the question had not been innocent. Sure Dugdale knew more about the kidnap than he’d said. And sure that when the time was right, he’d want
them
to know it too.

He glanced behind. Through the dust being kicked up by the taxi he saw Dugdale open the door of the Suzuki and lean inside.

‘
God!
’ Charlie exclaimed, thinking through the interview she’d just done. ‘Did you see those scars on Thomas’s back? How can anyone
do
that to another human being?’

‘Mmm.’

Randall’s mind was on fast forward. He
had
to get in to Kutu. And for that to happen, he
had
to have Charlie with him as cover. But there were just minutes left in which to persuade her.

A flock of brightly coloured rainbow lorikeets swooped across the road in front of the car before alighting in eucalyptus trees. The first drops of the afternoon rain splattered on the windscreen.

‘Just in time,’ the driver mused. ‘You’d have drowned back there.’

The clouds burst, water drummed on the roof cutting visibility to a few metres. The driver turned up the radio so he could hear it above the noise of the rain.

Randall looked at Charlie. Her blonde bob hung forward, half-obscuring her face. He felt sorry for her. Sorry he was about to manipulate her.

‘Kutu is a big story. Pity you’re going to miss it,’ he remarked, leaning towards her sympathetically.

The rain became a curtain of silver threads, parted by the bonnet of the car. Spray hammered the wheel arches.

‘Yes. Damn everybody!’ Charlie exploded. ‘Can you imagine what it feels like, knowing I’m sitting on the edge of this
huge
story and being told to catch the first plane home?’

‘Well, why take it?’ His words fell out with deceptive indifference.

‘What?’

‘I mean, do you
always
do as you’re told? Nice for your boyfriends if you do …’

‘What d’you mean?’

Randall gave her a disparaging look.

‘I thought journalists were supposed to live by their wits,’ he remarked softly, so the driver wouldn’t hear. ‘Not by what some goon says in an office eight thousand miles away.’

‘You mean refuse to go back?’ she croaked, astounded the thought hadn’t occurred to her. ‘Defy orders and go to Kutu?’

‘Why not? If all you’re going to do when you get back is resign. Why not do it
now
if you have to? Resign here. Turn freelance. If you get a good story in Kutu and the News Channel doesn’t want it, someone else will. The BBC maybe. Their own man’s been thrown out. This could be your big chance.’

Staring straight ahead, she tucked the loose hair behind her ears. Nick noticed her cheeks had turned pink. The driver was chuckling at some wacky nonsense from a caller to a phone-in programme.

‘It’s a thought …’ she breathed. ‘But, but the trouble is not just London … it’s that camerawoman. She’s let me down too …’

‘If that’s your only problem, I suppose
I
could help you out …’ He’d closed the trap.

She faced him, mouth gaping melodramatically.

‘
You
act as my cameraman?’

‘Why not? Did all right back there, didn’t I? I know video cameras. I’ve used sneaky gear like this.’ He patted her grey holdall.

She shook her head. ‘It’s too risky … I need a pro with me.’

‘The whole trip’s risky. You knew that in London before you came out here. The only difference is you’d have a bloke you know little about holding the camera, instead of a woman you know little about.’

He
had
to persuade her. He
needed
her.

‘We could pretend to be on honeymoon …’ he suggested glibly. More than once he’d adopted that cover with a WPC.

‘Oh of course!’ she snapped, flushing a deeper red. ‘What else …? Is
that
what this is all about?’

‘
Pretend
to be on honeymoon,’ he whispered, remembering she’d never done this sort of thing before. Go gently, he told himself.

‘Didn’t take the Indonesians long to rumble the BBC guy,’ he went on. ‘The trick is to
convince
the buggers we’re tourists. Now if we went in as a
couple
– particularly a honeymoon couple – well everybody knows there’s only one thing
they
’re, interested in, so the police wouldn’t bother with them. Look, it’s not a come on, Charlie. I don’t even fancy you.’ The last bit was a lie. The heat had made the thin cotton of her T-shirt cling to her breasts like a second skin.

‘Look, I don’t
know
you …’ she whispered, crossing her arms. She was wavering.

‘Share a room with me for a few days and you’ll know me quite well,’ he joked. ‘Seriously, it’s no big deal, chuck. In public we’d be luvvy-duvvy, but in the bedroom I’d sleep on the floor, whatever you like.’ He meant it. This was work. ‘It’s
acting
, that’s all. You must do a bit of that every time you go on camera.’

‘Rubbish,’ she snapped, angry at the way he was railroading her. ‘When I’m on camera that’s
me
you’re seeing.’

‘OK Charlotte. Have it your way.’ He folded his arms. Have to shame her into it. ‘Beats me why you came out here in the first place …’

Charlotte’s stomach tightened. The chance of a mega-scoop drew her like a grail. But those cigarette burns on Thomas’s back had given her an unnerving insight into what it might take to get it. And there was the other problem. Could she trust Randall?

‘Stop playing games with me,’ she hissed, jabbing him on the shoulder. ‘Why should
you
care whether I go to Kutu or not? What’s going on in that scheming mind of yours?’

The taxi nosed into the outskirts of the town, the road’s grassy banks luminous with bougainvillaea and magnolia. The rain had eased for the moment. The driver hunched forward, his mind on the radio.

Time, Nick realised, was now desperately short.

‘OK, it’s self-interest, I’ll admit it. Working on my own I’m going to fail. With a woman as cover I’ve got a chance. Not a great one, but better than nothing.
You
happen to be a woman. And at this moment in time you’re the only one available. Simple as that.’

She chewed her lip, tortured by indecision.

‘For God’s sake, girl, I’m giving
you
a chance too. You’ll get your story. You’ll be a winner.’

Charlie looked away. With him she would have unique access to what was going on. Not often that a
reporter
found herself teamed with an undercover cop. But now she’d smelled the danger of the place, her self-confidence had vapourised. She was scared, desperately scared.

The driver tilted his head to one side. ‘Where do I drop you folks?’

Nick looked at Charlie. Decision time.

‘Um …’ she dithered, biting her lip. Oh what the hell …

She nodded.

Randall smiled.

‘Downtown,’ he told the driver. ‘We’ve some shopping to do.’

Twelve

British Embassy, Jakarta

Wednesday 12.05 hrs (05.05 hrs GMT)

IF HE’D HAD
any hair worth tearing, Harry Maxwell would have ripped it out. The Indonesians were being exceptionally opaque. No collateral whatsoever from his contacts or Bruton’s that the arms contract was to be re-opened. He’d begun to think his judgement had been blown off the rails by paranoia.

And Brigadier General Effendi had gone deaf. Maxwell’s first call to him at POLRI HQ had been just after eight a.m.
Busy in a meeting
. A promise to call back, then nothing. He’d tried again an hour later. Then an hour after that.