Java Spider (38 page)

‘A-hh …’ Sankey smelled the story at last. ‘Let me get this straight. British taxpayers fund a soft loan to Indonesia so the power station for the mine can be built. That makes KUTUMIN happy, which makes General whatsisname happy, yes? So, in return he makes
us
happy by giving us the arms contract, right?’

‘Looks that way.’

‘Bit like the Pergau Dam in Malaysia?’

‘Sort of.’

Sankey frowned, trying to remember the arguments used back in 1994.

‘Tell me, would this power station be built by British companies?’ he checked.

‘Yes.’

‘And by helping get the Kutu mine started, it would be doing
something
for the local economy?’

‘You could argue that.’

Sankey scratched his head. This didn’t make sense. The government had all the excuses it needed. So why was Gordon taking a huge risk in leaking all this to him?

‘So why
doesn’t
the PM argue it, Gordon? Why not let the aid figures be published and then bluff it out like they did over Pergau?’

Wiggins did a slow, full-circle turn to check they were still alone. He watched a jogger go past, then faced Sankey again.

‘That’s the point, Ted, I don’t know …’

Sankey pursed his lips.

‘
That
is the whole point,’ Wiggins repeated, earnestly. ‘The only reason Copeland can have for delaying the aid figures is to cover something up. Something
else
. Some other scam which
he
knows about, but nobody else does, not even the Foreign Office. I’ve talked to them, Ted, and they’re as baffled as you and me.’

‘Scam? What sort of scam?’

Wiggins removed the dark glasses. With his young face beneath the anorak hood he looked like a truanting schoolboy.

‘Something involving Bowen and involving money,’ he warned softly. ‘Loads of it. Look, Stephen was on the board of Metroc until a year ago, right? No further connection with the company,
so they say
. Personally I have my doubts. Anyway, what we
do
know is this; Bowen was in bad need of cash. Hundreds of grand down on his gambling. Threatened with public exposure, facing the end of his political career. We also know he got
deeply
involved in the dealings with Indonesia, which, remember, is a country where making money from influence peddling is as easy as wiping your bum.

‘Now, when Bowen did his lobbying for the power station loan – against the advice of his officials and behind the back of his boss – he was taking one hell of a
big
political risk. Must’ve had one hell of a good reason to do that. And for a man in his position what could that reason be other than money?

‘And, Ted, Copeland took a huge political risk when
he
backed the power station aid bid. Why? To help out his old chum Bowen? Hardly. Charity is not in our dear PM’s nature, despite his sanctimonious image.

‘No, Ted. I can smell it. Copeland’s in there too. Hands in the trough along with Bowen. Can’t prove it. But the man’s scared, Ted. Scared witless.’

‘
With
you, Gord. With you all the way,’ Sankey breathed, his mind racing ahead. ‘Only problem is how do we use it … But use it we will, mate. Use it we will.’

Then another question came to him.

‘Why are you telling me all this?’

Wiggins looked depressed suddenly.

‘Sinking ship,’ he mumbled. ‘And between you and me I’m fed up with the half-truths of politics. Prefer the lies at
our
end of the briefing room.’ His smile was like that of a dog used to being kicked. ‘And anyway, whoever pays me I’m a hack at heart. And when you get a sniff that the PM’s got his hand in the till, it’s not the sort of thing you
can
keep to yourself.’

Kutu

16.20 hrs (08.20 hrs GMT)

Randall stopped to listen, like he had a hundred times in the last three hours. Bird shrieks and the buzz of insects. Nothing human. He sat on a fallen tree and thought of Charlie. She
was
OK, he told himself. To be certain, he took out the Handycam and replayed the shots he’d taken of her being marched off. No sign of
injury
on her. No blood. They could’ve killed her if they’d wanted; the fact that they hadn’t must mean they intended her no harm. The soldiers had been pros and would treat a foreigner with care, he reassured himself. Anyway, there was nothing he could do to help her now. Had to concentrate on saving himself, then find Stephen Bowen.

He stared up at the sky. Small patches visible amongst the branches. Must be what a prisoner felt, glimpsing light through the bars of his cell. Grey clouds were sweeping in, threatening rain. He sniffed at the air. Then he furrowed his brow and sniffed again. Wood smoke. Always the bloody same for him in the tropics. Got himself into trouble and smelled bonfires …

Smoke!

‘Christ!’

He stood up again, sniffing deeper to check he’d not imagined it. His drinking water was long gone and dehydration did funny things.

Definitely smoke.

He smiled fleetingly with relief. Must be near the valley at last. At times he’d thought he would die in the forest. He pushed on rapidly, soon seeing daylight ahead. On the tree line he stopped, crouching to scan the paddies below him. No soldiers. No sign of
any
living creature for that matter.

He crept forward, taking advantage of cover until he could see the village. Then he stopped dead.

‘Fu-uck …’ he gasped. ‘The world’s gone mad.’

The smoke. He understood it at last. Understood the deserted fields. The houses where he’d videoed children a few hours ago had been put to the torch. All gone, reduced now to blackened timbers and smouldering thatch. A blue haze hugged the valley bottom. Out of it rose the white bulk of the mission hospital, miraculously
untouched
. Spared the rage of the soldiers. If the villagers were alive, that’s where they’d be.

The phone – the satellite dish he’d seen when they arrived from the coast. Please God, let it have survived. The thought of being able to communicate again with friends, with people on his side, had sustained him for the past three hours.

Back into his head came the image of Junus Bawi, strung on the pig pole. Down there somewhere were Bawi’s wife and son, waiting for news. Or not. Dead too, maybe. Or taken by the troops. Hell.

Evidence. Needed it for himself – and for Charlie if she ever got to make a report. He dug out the Handycam again and videoed the view.

A path led him down to the village. He began to picture what must have happened here – soldiers dropped into the valley to ambush the fleeing OKP guerrillas – walked into a minefield – lost some men – then took it out on the villagers. To his right a patch of trampled cabbages would have been where the machines had landed.

There was still no one to be seen. But no bodies either. No sign of killing. All taken away? Transported from the valley? Was he now alone up there? Unnerved, he left the path and crouched amidst banana plants to watch and listen. The silence was eerie. Just the crickets. Then, faintly, from afar, he heard music. A single female voice at first, high and tremulous, then the drone of untutored throats singing ‘The Lord is my Shepherd’.

Not until he reached the edge of the hospital verandah did he see the people jampacked inside, squatting on the ground, spilling through the doors. The entire population of the village sheltering there with the lepers and the malaria victims.

Heads turned. Eyes turned. At the sight of him, a ripple of movement carried word of his arrival to the
headmen
inside. Seconds later Father Pius Naplo picked his way through the carpet of legs and stood on the verandah looking down at him. His cassock was streaked with blood. He was shocked at Randall’s own bedraggled state, shocked to see him alone.

‘Father, I don’t have good news for you. Junus Bawi …’

‘You are alone …’ Naplo interrupted.

‘Yes.’ He could see the priest expected the worst. ‘Dr Bawi – I’m afraid they shot him.’

‘Ohhh …’ Naplo emptied his lungs and bowed his head. He squeezed shut his eyelids as if unable to witness more tragedy.

‘They came in helicopters,’ Randall explained. ‘To try to catch Soleman Kakadi.’

Naplo crossed himself.

‘I don’t know, Father. Don’t know whether they found him or not,’ Randall went on, forestalling the question. ‘I didn’t see.’

‘And the woman who was with you?’ Naplo asked eventually.

‘They took her prisoner.’

He looked forlorn. ‘That is bad. Very bad.’ Then he tilted his head on one side, seeing a grain of hope. ‘But maybe they don’t hurt a foreigner.’

‘Father, you have a satellite telephone here?’ Randall pressed, desperate for contact with a world and a culture he understood.

From Naplo a blank stare, then a turn of the head. Nick followed his look. Under a large fig tree, twenty metres away, four dead bodies had been laid out, one of them a nurse.

‘I’m sorry,’ Nick murmured, embarrassed that he’d not asked what had happened here.

‘Come.’ The priest walked down the steps and took
his
arm: He led him to the end of the building where the satellite dishes were. The chain link fence surrounding them had been flattened, the antenna for the satphone smashed to pieces.

‘You see …’ Naplo gestured. ‘We cannot even tell anyone what has happened here.’

Randall’s heart sank.

Naplo took his arm and led him towards the smouldering shells of the houses.

‘Come. You journalist. You see. Soldiers burn everything. Anybody try to stop, they shoot them. Four people killed here, ten more wounded.’ The priest’s voice teetered on the edge of hysteria. ‘ABRI say KUTUMIN start building dam across the valley tomorrow, so all people must leave.’

Randall grimaced. ‘And will they?’

The priest spread his arms. ‘ABRI send trucks tomorrow. The people cannot fight this. Not even if Soleman still lives …’

Randall looked at his watch. The day was slipping away.

‘Father, I need your help. I have to get to a telephone. It’s desperately urgent that I tell people what happened here today.’

‘Yes. You must. I will bring you to Santa Josef soon. But first there is Doctor Bawi’s wife and son. I must tell them what happen. I think they already fear it when they see the helicopters fly towards the mountain. After, I will take a wounded man to Santa Josef. He very bad. Need hospital in Piri. The nurses make him ready now. Maybe in ten, fifteen minutes I go, and you can come with me.’

He waved an arm at the devastation around them.

‘Take pictures. Show people in England what kind of army they sell guns to.’

London – Downing Street

09.00 hrs

Sally Bowen felt queasy. Nerves. The taxi dropped her by the heavy steel gates at the end of Downing Street. She gave her name to the policeman and was allowed into the road. She’d never set foot here before. Such a narrow, insignificant street for a nation’s leader to live in. More imposing on TV.

She’d slept very little last night, and had then spent a good hour trying to decide what to wear. The well-cut suit of the loyal political wife, or something simpler in which to appeal to Keith’s better nature. In the end she’d settled for the dark-grey Jaeger skirt and a cherry-coloured turtle-neck pullover that went well with her blonde hair. The more she’d thought about it, however, the more she’d despaired of being able to change his mind and persuade him to negotiate with Stephen’s kidnappers.

‘Morning, Mrs Bowen.’ The policeman guarding the broad, black door nodded respectfully. He tapped and it opened. Inside, she was shown into a little drawing room where a fire crackled in the grate. Keith Copeland emerged through a door at the other end.

‘Good morning, Sally,’ he said, accentuating his limp as he crossed the floor. He gripped both her hands. ‘Let me say once again how terrible I feel about this whole business. You’ve been an absolute tower of strength. How are the children?’

She detached her hands from his. She fancied there was something reptilian about his look this morning, but she could have been imagining it.

‘They’re being kept busy at their schools,’ she replied insipidly. ‘I don’t think it’s sunk in yet that their father’s about to die.’

‘No,’ Copeland gulped. ‘I … I suppose that must be a good thing.’ They sat in a pair of regency stripe armchairs. Between them was a small Georgian table set with a coffee pot and two cups.

‘May I?’ he asked, offering to pour.

‘Thank you … Keith, I’ve come to make a plea,’ she announced bluntly, determined not to be soft-soaped.

Copeland winced. This wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d hoped.

‘To ask whether there isn’t
something
more that can be done to save Stephen’s life.’

‘Sally, everything possible
has
been done.
Is
being done. Let me assure you of that.’

‘Except negotiations,’ she insisted. ‘You’re not even trying to negotiate his release!’

‘But there’s no one to negotiate
with
, Sally,’ Copeland protested. ‘We don’t know who these people are. We’re trying extremely hard to find out.’ Should he tell her about the Yard man in Kutu and the fact that Stephen’s driving licence had turned up? No. Too sensitive at this stage. ‘But there’s one thing you have to understand, Sally. No government can afford to give into threats from terrorists.’

‘That’s rubbish,’ she murmured, unimpressed. ‘Governments do it all the time.’

‘Not British governments. But I say again, if we can only contact the kidnappers then maybe some sort of deal can be struck. But on the issue of the arms contract, no. We can’t budge. You understand that, surely?’

She felt he was lecturing her. Treating her to a TV performance rather than conversing with her.

‘You were good friends, once,’ she said, trying to shame him.

‘Still are, Sally. Still are,’ he insisted. ‘Believe me I feel this whole business as personally as you do.’

‘You helped each other out politically, didn’t you?’

Copeland recoiled. What did she mean? What did she know?

‘Well, yes. In a manner of speaking,’ he admitted, warily.