Java Spider (43 page)

Next he burned the photograph, then everything else in the case, until it was empty – except for the .38 service revolver in its cracked, leather holster.

Ambrose slipped the gun from its cover and held it by its grip. It felt strange to touch after so many years. He turned the chamber, checking the bullets were in place. Always known that one day he would need it again.

Then, from below him in the house he heard the phone ring. Verity probably. Ringing from Tesco’s to see he was all right. It threw him into confusion. By rights he should ignore it. In a few minutes time whatever conversation he had with her would be irrelevant. Yet, like life itself, the insistent ringing was hard to turn his back on.

With the pistol dangling in his hand, he descended the narrow staircase and entered their bedroom.

‘Hello?’ he croaked into the mouthpiece.

‘
Colonel Cavendish?
’

‘Um … yes.’

‘
This is the Foreign Office here. I’m ringing about your
daughter
Charlotte. I understand she’s a journalist. And she’s in Kutu
.’

‘Yes. Oh, dear.’ Heart in mouth. Concern about
her
suddenly, instead of himself. ‘What’s happened?’

‘
Now you’re not to worry, colonel. But we’ve had a report she was caught up in a bit of a skirmish. She’s not hurt, but we believe she’s been arrested by the Indonesian armed forces. Our embassy out there is trying to get some information, but it’s nine o’clock at night in Jakarta, so it could be another twelve hours before we hear anything
.’

‘Twelve hours?’ he mumbled.

An eternity. Another one. The revolver was still dangling from his right hand. He held it out in front of him. Couldn’t do it. Not now. Not until he knew she was safe.

‘Well … well we’ll be waiting for your call then …’

London – COBR

14.15 hrs

Philip Vereker stepped from his car on to the Whitehall pavement to see David Stanley’s uniformed back disappearing through the varnished entrance to the Cabinet Office. He caught up with him in the lift down to the briefing room.

‘David. I want a quiet word before we go in,’ he whispered. There were others in the lift.

Once through the security barrier into the COBR area and alone, they stopped.

‘This journalist woman who’s been arrested, Charlotte Cavendish – what’s her relationship with your man Randall?’

‘
Relationship?
What d’you mean?’ Stanley protested.

‘Maxwell told me Randall wasn’t just filing a missing persons report when he talked about her. He sounded
concerned
. As if it was personal.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning was this pretty young journalist who’s now in the hands of ABRI intelligence an
intimate
of Randall’s?’ he growled. ‘Does she know he’s a British agent? Has he told her everything? And is
she
going to tell the whole bloody world when she gets out of there? He’s your boy, David. It’s
you
die shit’ll stick to if he’s screwed up.’

Stanley drew himself up straight. The men were of similar height, but he had the advantage of age.

‘DS Randall’s proved his worth a hundred per cent in the last hour, Philip. And he’s a professional. I have every confidence in him.’

‘He’s also a man with a long-standing reputation for making a play for any woman who comes within reach,’ Vereker scowled, moving on swiftly into the meeting room.

Stanley began to sweat. Vereker had found some dirt that was news to him.

Prime Minister Copeland looked tense but determined. The leak on the News Channel lunchtime bulletin about his withholding the aid statement had driven him into a corner. He wanted to curl up and hide, but knew he couldn’t. He would have to fight. Until the bitter end.

The source of the leak, he suspected, was sitting right beside him. Hugh White, the foreign secretary, wore an indignant, surprised expression, like a man whose rear had been penetrated by a poker. The large, thick lenses of his spectacles needed a clean. The men stared away
from
each other as if communication between them might never be possible again.

‘Ah, there you are,’ Copeland snapped, wearily. ‘Let’s get on. I’ve got PMQs in an hour.’ The latest developments from Indonesia had been phoned through to him a few minutes ago.

Vereker stood his briefcase on the floor beneath the light oak table and sat down.

‘Prime minister, as you know, we think we have a handle on where Stephen Bowen is,’ he began.

‘But … but is he still alive?’ Copeland stammered, unsure whether he wanted the answer to be yes or no.

‘We don’t know that,’ said Vereker. ‘General Sumoto’s ordered his men to kill him, but it may not have happened yet. Detective Sergeant Randall’s been despatched to try to intercept the boat that Bowen’s on and to save him if he can. I don’t hold out a lot of hope, however.’

‘Randall’s a resourceful man, prime minister,’ the assistant commissioner interjected.

Copeland nodded like a robot.

‘General Sumoto has embarked on what one might call a cull,’ Vereker continued bluntly. ‘Killing anybody who could reveal his involvement in the kidnap. If Randall falls into his hands I don’t give much for his chances.’

His words had a chilling timbre.

‘Well then General Sumoto’s got to be stopped,’ Copeland insisted, lamely.

‘
We
can’t stop him, prime minister,’ Vereker went on. ‘The Indonesians could of course. But
will
they? Depends on how much of their police and armed forces organisation is allied with Sumoto. The general’s played his cards extraordinarily close to his chest. The CIA don’t know any more than we do. Which puts us in a real dilemma over how to proceed.

‘We have one trump card. Selina Sakidin. Sumoto’s mistress. She’s told us the whole story and is currently hiding at the apartment of our man Harry Maxwell. She thinks some of the police are on Sumoto’s side and if we hand her over to them they’ll kill her to silence her and to protect the general. Maxwell thinks she’s wrong. Thinks
his
contact in POLRI is straight.

‘Now, here’s the question. Do we ensure the survival of this key witness by getting her out of the country to safety, and hope Randall works a miracle on his own? Or do we hand Miss Sakidin over to the Indonesian police with everything we know about Sumoto and demand that they deal with him?’

Copeland frowned in disbelief. ‘Are you telling me the Indonesian police genuinely still don’t know what Sumoto’s been up to?’

‘It really does look that way, prime minister. Astonishing as it sounds. For the kidnap he’s made use of a very small, very loyal group of supporters. And any whose loyalty he’s not sure of he’s had killed. Or is in the process of killing.’

Copeland supported his chin in his hands and pondered. Saving Stephen was almost certainly a lost cause, but he wanted no more deaths on his conscience.

‘If we leave it to the Indonesians to sort out,’ Copeland asked thoughtfully, ‘could Randall be recalled? For his own safety.’

Vereker pursed his lips. ‘Possibly. I’d have to check with Maxwell.’

‘I’m very concerned for him,’ said Copeland. ‘To risk Randall’s life trying to save a man who’s probably already dead – it can’t be justified. Miss Sakidin should be handed to the Indonesian police immediately.’

‘They won’t thank us,’ interjected the foreign secretary.

Copeland looked through him, irritated by his intervention.

‘Us telling them what’s going on in their own country,’ White went on. ‘It’ll be a huge embarrassment to them. And if you embarrass the Indonesians they won’t want to know you afterwards. We could lose trade.’

‘Lose even more if Randall gets caught and they put him on trial as a spy,’ Copeland retorted cuttingly. ‘But you’re right,’ he added, mellowing. ‘It
may
need some finessing.’

There was a sharp tap at the door. One of the officials manning the phones put his head round.

‘Beg pardon, prime minister, but Ambassador Bruton’s on the line.’

‘Put him on the conference phone,’ Copeland ordered, reaching forward to press the key on the box in the centre of the light oak table.

‘
Hello?
’ Bruton’s voice, echoing, from Jakarta.

‘Good afternoon ambassador. Keith Copeland here.’

‘
Good evening, sir. I’ve just had a rather disturbing call from our friends in ABRI. Thought I’d better let you know right away. They’ve been on to their HQ in Kutu about Miss Cavendish. They say they’ve never heard of her, and certainly haven’t got her under arrest. They say no Europeans whatsoever were involved when their commandos struck at the Kutuan guerrillas this afternoon
.’

The News Channel

15.25 hrs

Ted Sankey picked up the waste basket that held the last of the detritus left on his desk by the accountant Paxton and placed it outside his door. He’d got his office back.
For
a moment he stood in the doorway surveying his newsroom kingdom.

Since the lunchtime scoop about the aid cover-up, Sankey’s phone had rung constantly. Ironically, the first call had been from Gordon Wiggins demanding to know the News Channel’s source. Sankey had pictured the tape recorder spinning on Wiggins’ desk. Then the broadsheets had been on, frustrated by the stonewalling response they’d got from the Overseas Development Administration and the Foreign Office. They’d asked if he had more details, but he hadn’t. Now they were all waiting for PMQs. Copeland’s chance to explain himself.

Three minutes to go. Sankey switched his monitor to the parliament feed.

The triumph of his return to the helm of the News Channel had been dampened by the alarming call from the Foreign Office reporting Charlie’s arrest, then the even more disturbing call an hour later saying the Indonesians were denying all knowledge of her.

Word of Charlie’s disappearance had brought a chill to the newsroom, and to his heart. Through his mind flitted terrible visions of her bullet-riddled body lying in some godforsaken, mosquito-ridden jungle. But any guilt he felt for sending her out there had to be suppressed. It was
she
who’d demanded to go, he reminded himself.
She
who’d refused to come back when Paxton ordered her return.

Nonetheless, he was deeply worried. Uncertain what to do about it. Whether to announce on the news she was missing and get more front-page publicity for the Channel, or keep quiet about it for as long as possible in the hope she’d come up with an exclusive, all the more stunning because no one had known she was there.

Keith Copeland’s arrival in the chamber of the House of Commons provoked a sustained murmur,
more
welcome, Sankey guessed, than the loud yawns with which the Honourable Members on the opposition benches frequently greeted him.

Copeland bowed to the speaker and took his seat. Environment Questions were just finishing. The bear-garden of PMQs was about to begin. On the bench opposite, the weasel-eyed shadow spokesman for foreign affairs sat down and crossed his legs. The camera picked him out fixing Copeland with a glare that seemed to say
I’ll see you in gaol
.

‘
Questions to the Prime Minister!
’ the speaker bellowed.

Sankey’s secretary brought in a mug of coffee. He jabbed a finger at the point on the desk where he wanted it, then waved her quickly from the room.

Copeland rose to his feet to explain why he’d ordered the postponement of the aid statement. There was a note of apology in his voice.

‘
Madam Speaker, I have to express a certain degree of astonishment, not only at the question raised by the honourable member opposite, but also at the irresponsibility of certain outlets in the news media. I would remind the House that the life of one of its members is currently in grave jeopardy. Anything said or done by this government or the British media which could increase the danger to Stephen Bowen should in my judgement be avoided. That, madam speaker, is the reason I decided to postpone publication of the overseas aid statement. It does, as has been reported, focus on one aid project for Indonesia; nothing unusual in that. We’ve been giving aid to that country for many, many years. This House is of course entitled to ask as it has done before whether there is any connection between our overseas aid and the sale of armaments. The answer to that is an emphatic “no”, but the proper time to discuss that issue is after Stephen Bowen has been safely returned to his family, not now
.’

From behind him a murmur of support. From across
the
floor a jeer. The Opposition spokesman rose for his counter attack.

‘
Madam speaker, the prime minister has, as usual, missed the point. The essence of the report on the lunchtime news was that he has twice on this issue overridden the unanimous advice of his officials. Firstly in approving money for a power station on the island of Kutu – a project rejected by the Foreign Office as unsuitable for aid – and secondly in insisting on a delay in publication of the aid statement. The question is this; why is the Kutu power station project so important to the prime minister, and why is he so eager that it shouldn’t be discussed at this time?
’

Copeland’s jaw set with increased determination.

‘
Madam speaker, I have already answered that question. I am not prepared to do or say anything which could impinge on the efforts being made to secure the release of Stephen Bowen. Madam speaker, there is a criminal investigation underway. To make comments on the matters being raised would be nothing short of irresponsible
.’

He sat down and folded his arms.

‘
The member for Nutley East
,’ shouted the speaker.

‘
Number two
…’

‘
I refer the honourable member to the reply I gave some moments ago
…’

The MP for Nutley East was on Copeland’s own back benches. Copeland half-turned as the member rose for his supplementary.

‘
Madam speaker, there have been a number of comments in the media and elsewhere recently, implying that Minister of State for Foreign Affairs Stephen Bowen has retained a financial connection with the British company Metroc Minerals of which he was once a director and which has a one third stake in the Kutu mining project. Can the prime minister assure the House that this is not true?
’