Java Spider (29 page)

At the bottom of the hill a coin was tapped on the overhead rail and the
bemo
stopped to let two passengers off. The faces of those remaining were tense and watchful. Two unlit army trucks passed in the opposite direction. The passengers looked away, avoiding each other’s eyes. More stops, more passengers out, all in a hurry to get off the streets.

‘D’you get the feeling this is the last bus?’ Charlie whispered timorously.

‘Yes.’

‘So how the hell do we get back to the hotel?’

‘Leave it to Allah, love.’

Charlie was not amused.

The driver killed the music. He slowed down, window open, listening. At each bend in the road he stopped to look before pressing on. By the time they reached the harbour, they were the only passengers left. The money collector swung into the road to let them off, eager to see the back of them.

As the
bemo
sped away silence closed in. They stood in an empty square that smelled of rotten fruit. Earlier in the day there’d been a market here. At one end street lamps above a closed Telkom office cast an insipid light. At the other the patchily floodlit port was framed by the dark shapes of dockside cranes. Nearby they heard unseen waves caressing a shingle beach.

‘Christ, it’s
so
eerie,’ Charlotte breathed.

Randall’s skin crawled as if they were being watched.
He
looked round, but saw no one. He heard Charlie’s teeth chatter again. Odd how they did that when she was scared. Like a character from a Disney cartoon. He slung an arm round her shoulders.

‘Don’t worry. We’ll be OK.’ Then he pointed. ‘Down there, look.’

A glow of red neon from a side street that could be the bar. They hurried past the iron harbour gates, glimpsing a sandbagged sentry post behind it.

‘They’re everywhere,’ Charlie hissed, ‘watching, listening. It’s Orwellian.’

They reached the corner of the side street, then Randall jerked her sharply back into the shadows.

‘A jeep,’ he growled. ‘Outside the bar. With its lights off.’

‘Oh Christ!’ she whimpered. ‘Now we’re for it. They guessed where we were going. Told you we should’ve left this until morning.’

Then they heard the engine start, the gears crunch and the vehicle drive off into the night.

‘See?’ Randall said. ‘The jeep’s nothing to do with us. Now just cool it. We’re tourists, remember?’ She would balls things up for them if she didn’t pull herself together. ‘OK. Let’s go for it.’

The first door they came to was a restaurant, closed and in darkness. The second was Captain’s Bar, but locked. Randall knocked on the bottle-glass panel. No response. From inside came the sound of a television. He knocked harder.

Through the glass they saw shadows move, then heard the lock being turned. Teri’s face peered out, alarmed.

‘Hello. Remember us?’

Recognising him, she unhitched the chain and let them in. ‘This late not safe,’ she muttered as they slipped past her into the half-lit bar.

A small, empty drinking den, with a ship’s wheel on the back wall draped with fishing nets. Behind the counter an elderly man with the same broad, Melanesian face as Teri – her father, they guessed – hunched on a stool, staring at the TV. Teri whispered to him, explaining who they were. He listened without taking his eyes from the screen.

‘Is Brad here?’ Randall asked.

‘Yes. I get him. You want a drink?’

‘A beer. You too?’ he asked Charlie. She nodded, biting her lip.

Teri disappeared through a bead curtain into the back, while the old man flipped the caps off two bottles and gave them glasses. The curtain parted again and Brad Dugdale poked his face through, startled and flustered. He pointed at his watch.

‘Not too clever being out this late,’ he warned. ‘Didn’t they tell you at the Touristik?’

Randall blinked. So the man knew they weren’t at the Cendana … Somebody must’ve told him. The soldiers in the jeep? But why?

‘Yeah, well we’re not the clever sort, friend,’ Randall mumbled distractedly.

Dugdale knocked the top off a bottle and put it to his lips, eyeing them like a car salesman finding punters on his forecourt.

‘Suit yourselves,’ he shrugged. ‘So, now that you’re here, what can I do for you folks?’

‘Just thought we’d have another word. See what else you know.’

‘About what, chum?’

‘About the kidnapping of Stephen Bowen …’

Dugdale’s eyes flickered. ‘Like Jim Sawyer said, we’re all steering clear of that one. Don’t really know anything about it.’

Dugdale swigged from the bottle again, watery eyes watching from beneath heavy brows.

‘OK, but there must be loads of gossip, Brad,’ Randall pressed, sensing the man was playing with them. ‘Who do people think’s got him? The Kutuan resistance?’

‘Maybe,’ Dugdale hedged. Then his eyes narrowed. ‘They certainly
could
have done it despite what that fart Sawyer told you. The OKP’s got plenty of friends in the media, too. People who’d help with the TV side of things.’

‘Do
you
think he’s here? On the island?’

‘I … I don’t know.’ He glanced uncomfortably towards Teri and her father, who were both listening. ‘Tell you what, why don’t we go and sit at a table. More comfortable.’

They crossed to the far side of the small bar. Teri slipped away through the bead curtain. The old man concentrated on the TV again.

‘Tell you something,’ Dugdale confided, leaning across the table so their heads were close. ‘I
have
just heard a rumour that’ll interest you … They say some European who was a dead ringer for Bowen was seen arriving at Piri airport in the middle of last week on a private jet!’

Randall perked up. This matched the speculation Maxwell had come up with.

‘You think it’s true?’ Charlie asked eagerly. The cosiness of the bar had made her feel safer again.

‘Search me. As I said it’s just a rumour.’

‘Where’d you hear this?’ Randall asked, suspicion growing that it was all too pat.

‘Immigration feller at the airport.’

‘But those blokes would
know
if it were true. A plane coming in – there’d be records kept.’

‘Records? Not in this country, chum. Not if you don’t
want
there to be and have the right connections. The rumour is, you see, your man Bowen had some private little swizz going with KUTUMIN and came here incognito.’

Same line as Maxwell again. Plausible. But then the best rumours always were.

‘Could be why ABRI’s so darned jumpy at the moment,’ Dugdale continued, reinforcing his message. ‘After telling the world so many times that Bowen’s not in Indonesia, it’d be dead awkward if they’ve found out he
is
here after all. Loss of face could be terminal. For someone …’

Randall drank from his glass. It still didn’t add up.

‘OK. Suppose Bowen
did
fly here,’ he pressed, ‘how could the OKP have nabbed him?’

Dugdale gave a huge shrug.

‘Now there you’ve got me, sport. I’ve no idea. Maybe he was at one of the KUTUMIN sites when the OKP attacked. They’re doing it all the time. Perhaps old Soleman Kakadi – the bloke who leads the wild fellers up in the hills – maybe he just took a look at Bowen and said
hey, he looks important. Let’s have him
.’

‘So it would be Kakadi,’ Nick checked, ‘if it
was
the OKP.’

‘Oh yeah. The other bloke, Junus Bawi, he’s a softie. Believes in passive resistance. He’s already gone on record saying he’s not involved. And Bawi doesn’t lie.’

‘So how do we find Soleman Kakadi?’ Charlie asked earnestly.

‘Haven’t a clue, my dear. And I don’t want to know. Because if I did, some uniformed gentleman from ABRI might come along and squeeze my nuts until I told him. But you could try the priests. Sawyer gave you the names.’

‘Yes. But tell me, what’s the military doing about
Soleman
Kakadi?’ Nick probed. ‘Trying to catch him presumably.’

‘Between you and me there’s not too much they can do,’ Dugdale confided. Sensing Randall’s scepticism he was concentrating his answers on Charlie, who hung on his every word. ‘They haven’t the manpower. Kakadi has millions of trees to hide in and most of ABRI’s men are busy in places like East Timor. They haven’t used KOPASSUS here for example – the counter-terrorist boys. They’re the
real
hard bastards – famous for not taking prisoners. But they’re too busy elsewhere. All ABRI does on Kutu is guard the places where the work’s going on for the mine. Here, I’ll show you.’

He got up from the table. Close to the door was a pinboard with tourist information on it and messages for backpackers. He switched on the light above it.

‘Look.’ A small map showed Kutu shaped like a leg of lamb. ‘In the middle is the volcano they call Jiwa – Spirit Mountain, OK? Piri’s down here on the coast. It’s between Piri and the volcano where the mine’ll be.’

‘They’re not digging yet?’ Charlie checked.

‘No way. Got to finish building the road to the coast first.’ He drew a finger across the map, from the centre to a point west of Piri. ‘That’s to bring the ore to the new deep-water harbour, also being built. And there’s a valley to be dammed for a reservoir.’

‘And Soleman Kakadi is up in those hills?’ Randall asked.

‘I imagine. Twenty, thirty k’s away. The whole island’s less than sixty across.’

‘And with him is Stephen Bowen …’ Charlotte mused. ‘Maybe.’

‘Well … for all I know, yes …’ Dugdale hovered like a salesman close to a deal. Then he switched off the wall light and sidled back to the table.

Randall followed. Speculation, all of it.

‘Great story that airport rumour. Pity there’s no evidence to back it up,’ he said dismissively, sitting down again.

‘Evidence?’ A smile flickered on Dugdale’s face then died again. ‘Who knows, maybe you’ll get lucky.’

Suddenly there was a rap at the door. Charlie jumped in her seat.

‘This could be for
you
,’ Dugdale warned, tensely. ‘Sit tight. Pretend you don’t know me.’

He crossed to the bar. Randall saw fear in his eyes, the fear of a man who was only tolerated here if he kept his nose clean.

‘Teri!’ Dugdale barked, tapping on the counter. The woman emerged through the beads and he shoved her towards the door.

Three uniformed soldiers burst in, an officer with a pistol holster, his men with rifles. Charlie grabbed Randall’s arm.

‘
Selamat malam
,’ said Dugdale, greeting them with a rictus of a smile.

The military ignored him, one soldier pushing through the beads into the kitchen, the other guarding the door. The officer stared at Randall and Charlie. Then a look of relief came over his face. He turned back to Dugdale.

‘
Selamat malam
,’ he responded finally.

‘Christ!’ Charlie breathed, her heart thumping wildly. ‘I thought they were going to open fire.’

The officer was a lieutenant, smart and fit-looking with a tough face the colour of Thai curry. He talked to Dugdale in Bahasa.

Randall strained to listen. ‘He’s asking about us,’ he whispered. ‘Asking how long we’ve been here.’

‘Oh help.’

‘We came for a drink, remember,’ said Randall, resting a hand on her arm. ‘We’re tourists.’

He downed the remains of his beer.

They watched in silence for a couple of minutes, then Dugdale leaned across the counter towards them.

‘Hey, Mr Englishman, whatever your name is! I’ve fixed you a lift back to your hotel. The lieutenant says he’ll take you in his jeep. Right away. You won’t get a taxi at this time of night.’

They stood up.

‘And in future, remember they don’t like you going out in the evenings.’ Dugdale’s face glistened with sweat. ‘Safer to do as they want here …’

The lieutenant ordered his soldiers out, then stood by the door, slapping his thigh with impatience.

‘Hey, if you want to do some scuba diving I’m your man,’ Dugdale added as an afterthought. ‘Take a brochure.’ He grabbed a pamphlet from the bar counter and thrust it at them. ‘Tells you about the boats. Only, ignore the stuff about the
Morning Glory
. She’s er … she’s out of commission at the moment.’

‘Thanks. Nice idea.’

‘Watch yourselves, now.’

Outside, the jeep’s engine was already running, the two riflemen perched on the mudguards to make room in the back. The officer swung in beside the driver. The soldiers smelled of sweat and thick cotton, oil and webbing. A smell of violence, Charlie thought.

‘Good of you to give us a lift,’ Nick shouted above the engine roar as they sped up the hill from the harbour. The jeep’s lights were out.

The lieutenant ignored him. No English. The streets were empty and silent, the soldiers uptight and watchful. Reminded Randall of the Falls Road when he’d first joined up. Next to him Charlotte sat straight backed, her side pressed against his.

Shadowy vehicles passed the other way, trucks full of civilians under arrest. Men and women. Charlie’s mind
clicked
back to the job. She needed
pictures
of stuff like this. But with spies watching everything they did, filming anything significant here was going to be a nightmare.

London – Waterloo Station

12.45 hrs

The Eurostar from Brussels due in at twelve thirty arrived two minutes early. Detective Constable Joe Harding stood in the little darkened room behind the immigration barrier, watching through the one-way glass. He felt a little frayed after his night on Ted Sankey’s couch. With him was a short, plain-clothes officer from the Transport Police.

The French had excelled themselves. A motorcycle patrolman in the northern city of Lille had spotted an Espace in the railway station car park with its lights on as if dumped in a hurry. The car was left-hand drive, but had British plates that had proved to be false. The Espace was the one stolen last week from Strasbourg’s Palais des Nations. The television ‘flyaway’ it had originally contained was missing, however.

Lille was on the Eurostar route from Brussels to London.

The photo in Harding’s hand showed a young man with a wide grin and long hair. Ricky Smith. He guessed he would look different today.