Java Spider (35 page)

‘Could do with some shots of me hiking with these guys,’ she whispered. ‘To cover my commentary links.’

‘They won’t like being filmed,’ Randall replied.

‘They won’t know, if you do it with the bag.’

He swung the holdall forward, reached into the end pocket and touched the buttons. Charlie strode ahead again, trying to look intrepid without overdoing it. Nick videoed her for half a minute then switched off.

‘No way of checking this without them knowing what we’re up to,’ he whispered.

‘Can’t be helped. Anyway, I trust you.’

Her soft brown eyes held his for longer than necessary. Randall smiled. He knew how desperate she was to penetrate his defences in the hope he would share his knowledge with her. He watched her walk ahead again, her compact body weaving lithely through the foliage. She’d smelled delicious in the bed last night. Resisting temptation had its down side.

The track petered out amongst tall ferns. In front loomed the dark wall of the woods. Guided by some feature in the foliage which only the young jungle
fighters
could recognise they slipped into its gloom, weaving between trunks and creepers.

For fifteen minutes they followed their escorts up the steepening slope, the sky almost invisible under the dense canopy of branches. Then they stopped abruptly, the lead guide muttering in Kutun and waving them to wait while he probed the trees for some marker left there earlier.

‘They have put mines here,’ Junus Bawi translated. ‘In case we are followed. We must go round them. Stay very close.’

The guide found his tell-tales and led them thirty paces to one side through thick undergrowth, parting branches and fronds gently, the man at the rear ensuring the foliage swung back to leave no trace of their passing.

Soon they were climbing again. Then after ten minutes they paused to regain their breath in the sweltering heat and to drink from their water bottles.

Suddenly they froze, flasks to their lips, heads cocked to one side. Through the mesmeric chirping of the tree crickets there burned another sound, the whooping roar they’d come to dread. The Hawk was back.

Galvanised by terror, Kakadi’s men shoved their three charges against the trunks of trees, where the overhead branches were at their densest.

‘Fuck!’ growled Randall as the jet crackled overhead, its thunder reverberating through the forest. The bugger was still on their tail, despite the protection of the trees.

Scared now, Charlie pressed herself against him. Without thinking, Randall put his arms round her.

Right on top, he thought. The plane was right on bloody top again.

‘Is that damned thing following us?’ Charlie whispered as the noise subsided.

‘Yes. I’ve a nasty feeling it is.’ He let go of her.

How, though? Could the pilot
see
them through the branches? Randall’s knowledge of thermal imaging was minimal. No idea if the technology was up to it.

Kakadi’s escorts huddled together, arguing. One kept pointing to the valley, wanting to turn back, but the man with the rifle didn’t. And since he had the gun, he had the final say.

The reverberations faded. Bird screeches filled their ears again. The guides resolved their differences and relaxed a little, relieved the plane had passed without dropping bombs. Then they hurried the party onwards, driven by the desire to be somewhere else in case the Hawk returned.

They climbed for a further fifteen minutes. Then the ground levelled and the trees thinned. They’d reached a small clearing of long, dry grasses, a natural rendezvous in an anonymous forest.

‘We wait here,’ Bawi croaked. With his white shirt and library spectacles he appeared out of place in this wilderness. ‘We stay under the trees. Soleman will come soon.’

He sat on a tree stump, hands clasped, cracking the joints of his fingers. For him, the moment of truth was near. For twelve months he’d argued against Kakadi’s methods, so vociferously that at one point Soleman had threatened to have him killed. He’d changed his view now, but was far from sure of the welcome he would get. Particularly when he demanded that Stephen Bowen be freed.

Charlie found a square of ground free of ants and squatted, glad of the rest. It was an eerie place. The forest hummed and rustled, the air pierced by screeches. She felt eyes watching her, eyes of creatures she couldn’t see. She glugged down more water and told herself to grow up.

She took stock. If all went well here, she would have the most amazing story, providing she could get her tapes out of the country. She stole a glance at Nick. He sat on a boulder deep in thoughts he was keeping to himself.

Always a mistake to think you can change a man, she reminded herself. Their jobs were chalk and cheese. His to
keep
secrets, hers to prise them out. So far he was winning hands down. A worrying thought struck her. What if she got something on tape which he didn’t want her to broadcast? Would he try to stop her?

The tapes. Have to make sure they stayed in
her
possession, not his.

Randall stood up. In his head the name Sumoto reverberated like the gongs of the gamelan orchestra in the Touristik Hotel.

General Sumoto. The man who’d driven Soleman Kakadi to take to the jungle. ‘
Could be involved with the kidnap
,’ Maxwell had said.
How? With
Kakadi or
against
him? A heavy feeling in his chest told him the situation was about to go pear-shaped.

He moved from his rock and crouched down by the professor. Fearful of being cut out again, Charlie slid over to join them.

‘Dr Bawi, tell me … tell me about General Sumoto,’ he stumbled, not sure exactly what it was he wanted to ask. ‘He still has connections with Kutu?’

Bawi was taken aback. ‘Why you ask about Sumoto?’

‘Just curious.’

‘Well … it is right you should be.’

Suddenly a strong gust of wind rattled the fronds of a tall palm on the other side of the clearing. Bawi looked at the sky, suspecting the approach of rain. Then he pointed at the shaking tree top.

‘You know what Kutuan people say about that? Those rattling leaves? They say it is
Gundrowo
. The soul
of
a man who died in torment and can find no rest. He cannot reach the land of the spirits, so he shakes the palm trees in his rage.’ Bawi furrowed his brow. ‘Whether it is true or not I don’t know, but I tell you, when General Sumoto was commander of KODAM Twelve, the noise in the palm trees used to keep me awake at night …’

‘Gosh,’ breathed Charlie, wishing she’d videoed him saying that.

Randall’s chest tightened further. He wanted facts not fantasies. ‘But now he’s gone, does he still have influence here?’

Junus Bawi looked down at his hands. ‘When a man’s fingers have been so deeply steeped in the blood of this island, he remains a part of it until he dies,’ he pronounced. Then he straightened up. ‘Kutu, as you know, is in the ABRI military district of KODAM Twelve. When he was in command of it, General Sumoto used to call KODAM Twelve
his
army. There are many officers here who are still loyal to him.’

‘Senior officers?’ Randall checked.

‘The ones who have the greatest power,’ Bawi replied. ‘Colonel Widodo. Chief of military intelligence …’ In his mind he saw again the colonel’s emotionless, wooden eyes watching his son’s back being shredded by the cane.

‘The chief of intel?’ Randall croaked. ‘He’s Sumoto’s man?’ Suddenly the pieces began to fit. ‘The arrests, the interrogations, they were all ordered by Colonel Widodo?’

‘Yes, I think.’

‘And it was
he
who convinced you that Soleman Kakadi kidnapped Stephen Bowen?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ Bawi confirmed, baffled by Randall’s drift.

Sumoto. Just listen out for the name, Maxwell had
said
. Not enough. The clue should have been bigger. And now it was too bloody late. Whatever sort of circus Sumoto was running, they were all in the middle of it. All of them were his puppets.

‘One other question. There’s an Australian living in Piri. At one time I thought he had connections with the OKP. He’s called Brad Dugdale? Does the name mean anything to you?’

Bawi looked further confused.

‘I know the woman he lives with. But Mr Dugdale is a businessman. He must be friends with ABRI, not with us.’

Randall’s mind flashed back to the jeep waiting in the alley when they’d arrived at the bar last night.

‘Why do you say that?’ he croaked, guessing the answer.

‘Because to have a business in Kutu, you must pay ABRI money. The military controls everything, including business permits. And to get one, you must pay twice. An official fee, and a commission to the man who arranges it. It is how the officers live. ABRI wages are bad. The junior officers need the bribes to feed their families. But if you are a KODAM
commander
then the bribes can make you rich.’

From the woods they heard noises. Twigs snapping. Low voices.

‘Nick!’ Charlie hissed. ‘They’re coming. Camera!’

Randall ignored her. The links in the chain – they were nearly in place. He leaned forward.

‘Brad Dugdale. Would
he
have known Sumoto? Paid him money?’

‘Most certainly,’ Bawi confirmed.

‘Nick, for God’s sake!’ Charlie snapped. ‘Film it or gimme the camera!’

Battledressed figures moving towards them through
the
trees. Nick rummaged for the Handycam, switched on and zoomed in.

Soleman Kakadi towered above his men, a striding black giant. He was dressed like them in grubby green battledress, a pistol holster on his webbing belt, a short-barrelled assault rifle slung across his chest. A handful of hungry-faced fighters hovered around him like pilot fish with a shark.

Through the lens Randall saw Kakadi’s eyes lock on to the camera. Not the self-satisfaction of a man expecting a date with the media, but fear – and then anger.

Half a dozen men with him. No sign of Stephen Bowen. But then there wouldn’t be, would there?

‘Please,’ Bawi said, flustered, ‘let me speak with him first, alone.’

The professor rose unsteadily and moved towards his former partner, arms outstretched in greeting. Kakadi’s face was a mask of suspicion. Then a stream of invective exploded from his mouth. Bawi recoiled. Kakadi pointed at the camera.

Randall swung it away. Kakadi’s soldiers were fanning into firing positions to guard the rendezvous, their ageless, war-hardened faces nervous and watchful. Their weapons were modern FNCs, captured from ambushed ABRI patrols.

Randall was bowstring tense. He knew now they’d walked into a trap. What he didn’t know was how it was to be sprung. Everything that had brought them up here, the hints, the suspicions – all of it could be sourced now to people connected with General Sumoto.

‘I need to do a quick standupper,’ Charlie whispered, touching Nick’s arm and nudging him towards the brighter light of the clearing. Kakadi’s fury she saw had subsided. He and Bawi were conversing less heatedly.
‘Frame
me to one side with the two of them in the background. OK?’

‘Fine. Hang on. Warning light. Need to change the battery.’

He fumbled in the bag for the spare power-pack, brushing aside a loose AA battery from a walkman. Odd. Hadn’t packed any. Must be Charlie’s. He found the fresh nickel-cadmium cell and clicked it on to the camera.

‘Ready?’ he asked, anxious to get this over with.

‘Ready,’ she replied. The sun struck like a blow-torch as they stepped from the shade. She ran a hand through her hair, checked her clothing for undone buttons, struck an authoritative pose, then began.

‘I’m standing in the very heart of the mountains controlled by Kutu’s OKP guerrillas. The kidnapping of Stephen Bowen has split the Kutu resistance down the middle. Today the pacifist leader of the OKP’s political wing has defied the house-arrest imposed on him by Indonesia’s military rulers and has come up here to plead with his guerrilla counterpart for Stephen Bowen’s release.’

She held her look, then he switched off.

‘Just a scene-setter,’ she said awkwardly. ‘To show I’m here.’

Suddenly there was an angry shout, a frantic waving for them to get back under the trees. A black finger jabbed towards the sky.

Half a second later Nick heard the whistle-crack of the jet. The Hawk. Dead overhead like a homing pigeon. Followed them like an arrow, straight to the man ABRI most wanted dead – Soleman Kakadi.

‘Film it! Film it!’ Charlie shrieked, as they ran for cover.

‘No way,’ Randall panted. He wanted them out, now. Away from there before it was too late. But a flustered Junus Bawi beckoned them over. Kakadi
wanted
to leave in a hurry but would speak with them if they were quick.

‘Straight in,’ Charlie insisted. ‘Interview. Still running?’

‘Yep.’

‘Hello, Mr Kakadi,’ Charlie began, crouching in front of him. ‘Charlotte Cavendish from the News Channel. Can you tell us, are you going to release Stephen Bowen?’

Kakadi’s ebony face was blank, his chiselled expression haughty, his eyes withdrawn.

‘He speaks no English,’ Bawi explained, softly. ‘But he has already told me … that he knows nothing about Mr Bowen.’

Charlie gaped.

‘He … he doesn’t
have
Stephen Bowen?’ she stammered.

‘No,’ said Bawi, confused and embarrassed. ‘The first that Soleman heard of the kidnap was from me when I sent the message yesterday that I wanted to meet him. You see, the batteries in their radios are dead. They have not heard any news for two weeks …’

Battery
. Randall gulped. The loose one in the bag. The one that belonged to Charlie’s Walkman. She hadn’t
got
a bloody Walkman!

‘Fucking hell!’ Nick switched off and stood up. ‘Everybody get out of here. Quick!’

Charlie turned, startled by his outburst. ‘What’s up?’

‘They’re coming! For him! For Kakadi. Tell him, Junus. It’s a trap. The soldiers are coming!’

The whites of the guerrilla chief’s eyes were streaked with malarial yellow. Bawi jabbered in Kutun, translating.

Then they heard it. All of them together. A sound from hell that turned their guts to water. The heavy thump-thump of twin-blade rotors. Randall switched
the
camera back on. Evidence. That’s what he needed. Evidence on camera of a conspiracy still well beyond his comprehension.