Читать книгу Crescent Moon Rising - Kerry B Collison - Страница 7

January 1995

Caucasian Mountains – Georgia – Pankisi Gorge

Russian raiders were perilously close; Rusteli Uzi-yeva could hear them grunt and curse in determined pursuit; the Chechnyan guerrilla thankful that they were not hunting their quarry with dogs. Desperately weary he shifted the weight of the RPK-74 Kalashnikov strapped to his back and forged ahead. ‘Pick up the pace – we’re running out of light!’ The enemy commander’s voice carried through the forest, Rusteli quickening his step reminded that the Russians were not taking prisoners. In his haste he slipped then tumbled forward savagely cracking his head against the ground.

Suddenly the air ruptured with Russian automatic fire when soldiers randomly sprayed the heavily wooded slope in an attempt to flush him from hiding. Disorientated, the Chechnyan guerrilla rose groggily on uncertain feet only to trip over the spreading roots of a towering beech – his body sliding uncontrollably down an icy ridge into a snow-filled hollow where he smashed against a half-buried metal container, incongruous in these surrounds. Dazed, Rusteli remained deathly still, his heart pumping wildly when the soldiers approached to within a few metres of where he lay – moments later washed with relief when their commander growled, ‘Signal the men to regroup, we’ll never find the dung-eating bastard now.’

The Chechnyan decided to remain in hiding until confident that the Russians had truly abandoned their search – his attention turning to the partially uncovered metal object. Curiosity aroused, he scraped ice away only to discover that there were two similar containers which, he concluded, had long been discarded and were therefore of no value – and, unable to lift the one-meter-long, four hundred kilo apparatus, he soon lost interest. With darkness rapidly descending over the mountainous Caucasian region he braced against the collapsing temper-atures, and retraced his steps down the mountain to a hamlet on the flat, green valley floor.

He was forty kilometres south of the Chechnya-Georgia border.

The following morning Rusteli was already seriously ill with severe skin burns and internal organ damage. The Chechnyan was bundled together with some seventy other wounded guerrillas and taken to Amman for treatment in Jordan where sympathy and support for the Muslim rebels remained strong. Rusteli’s condition rapidly deteriorated – he was destined to die. Before his death, the doctors were able to determine he had been exposed to some form of radiation and mentioned this unusual development to Omar Khattab, a key leader of the Chechen resistance, during one of the Arab’s morale-boosting visits to the hospital. Omar questioned the dying Chechnyan who, until then, had not associated his illness with the discovery of the abandoned metal containers.

Within days of Omar Khattab’s interrogation Rusteli Uzi-yeva died from his fatal dose of radiation, unaware that he had stumbled across Soviet-made RTGs, the radio thermal generators discarded some years before with the collapse of the Soviet Union. The RTG’s core, a flashlight-size capsule of strontium 90 had been encased in a thick protective layer of lead to absorb radiation.

Upon his return to the Pankisi Gorge, Khattab wasted little time in conducting a sweep of the forest area, sacrificing yet more of his followers in recovering the intact RTG units, the real damage incurred when they too were exposed to the generator with the cracked shielding.

Indonesia – Jakarta

Gregory Young pounded the desk with enthusiasm, his lungs exploding as he shouted ‘Yes!’ – the senior staff holding options at P.T. Young & Budiono also pumped when the company’s opening price leaped twenty percent in the first minutes of trading. Young, the senior shareholder and CEO watched the television monitor, hands clasped excitedly across his swelling chest, mentally calculating that his net worth had reached thirty million dol ars. ‘See if you can get Pak Agus on the line,’ Young instructed his personal assistant, ‘then get me Andy Graham.’ He glanced up at the clock, back to the monitor, the words spil ing sweetly off his lips, ‘go baby, go!’ the stock climbing another five points as he watched, the entrepreneur nearly mesmerized by his construction company’s debut on the Jakarta Stock Exchange.

The intoxicating financial mood in Jakarta was such that, seemingly, everything touched by those in the know, could only turn to gold, but only if one accepted that Midas was, in fact, a poor and distant relative of the Presidential Palace – and that the supreme finger belonged to the First Family. Obligatory tithes had to be paid – that was accepted – to do business in the resource rich archipelago which boasted more than two hundred million inhabitants came at a price – both for Indonesians and foreigners.

Over the past ten years the capital, Jakarta had become skyline alley, the fierce competition between the country’s nouveau riche in constructing complexes incorporating shopping malls, office and apartment towers, stripping nearby mountains of material and driving the banking fraternity into an investment frenzy never before experienced in the multi-faceted society. Indonesian bil ionaires stoked the real estate markets in Europe, the United States and Australia acquiring hotel chains, rural land tracts and other investment properties – the once neglected Chinese, the nation’s new czars. Jakarta’s profile had lifted, the enormous growing tide of middle class wealth generated by galloping consumer demand, foreign investment and an ‘it-will-never-end’ mentality creating one of the most vibrant economies in Asia – disguising the avarice and greed which would, within two short years, bring the corruption-dependent, fragile economy to its knees.

‘Mr. Graham is on line four,’ Young’s personal assistant announced from the open doorway. ‘I have Pak Agus Sumarsono’s secretary on hold,’ she said. ‘Pak Agus will meet you at the YPO luncheon.’ Greg Young nodded, pausing before punching the button connecting him to Andy Graham.

The Jakarta chapter of the Young Presidents’ Organization luncheon had momentarily slipped his mind. ‘Tell her I’ll catch up with Pak Agus there…’ then, ‘Hi Andy, got you on the speaker.’ Young bounced around the desk unable to contain his excitement. ‘Been watching the figures?’

A deep resonant drawl filled the room. ‘Yep, the stock’s doing much better than we thought.’

Young’s eyes remained glued to the monitor. ‘Seems to be stabilizing somewhat now?’

‘Early profit takers,’ the American advised. ‘Could start to climb again in the afternoon session.’

Reminded of the midday appointment Young asked, ‘Want me to swing by and pick you up on the way to lunch?’

‘Mightn’t be such a bad idea. Traffic’s starting to snarl though. You might want to leave a little earlier.’

Young agreed. ‘Fine. I’ll be there around twelve.’ He paused, his face serious. ‘And Andy,’ looking down at the speaker phone, ‘thanks for a great job, my friend.’

Andrew Graham chuckled. ‘Glad to be of service Greg. Besides, I took a substantial placement when the prospectus was issued – might even come out at the end of the day with enough change to upgrade the apartment.’

It was Greg Young’s turn to smile as they disconnected.

Graham’s idea of change would run into the millions. The American had been building his own Asian-based empire for more than a decade, his group now a leader in public relations and the advertising industry.

Both men were members of the prestigious YPO, an organization founded in the USA by Ray Hickok and twenty others in 1950 with the simple concept of becoming better company presidents by learning from each other. The Young Presidents’Organization had grown into a global network of seven thousand young business leaders of the exclusive peer network spread across more than seventy nations. The power of the collective membership was such that world leaders including US presidents, royalty and even revolutionaries such as Fidel Cas-tro, shared their time at private events offering their perspectives. Membership was zealously vetted, the criteria stringent for those who wished to join this elite club requiring that the applicant’s age not exceed forty-four (members retired in their forty-ninth year); that their company’s assets be in excess of US$ 10,000,000 with a staff of no less than fifty, and a gross minimum payroll of $1,000,000. Finally, the applicant’s company needed an annual turnover of $160,000,000 if it was a financial institution to qualify for consideration, this figure dropping to a mere $8,000,000 for service and manufacturing corporations. The YPO produced an annual directory of its members, the reference tool containing members’ names, family detail and private contact information. As for the Jakarta chapter, this read like a Who’s Who in Indonesia and included a select number of expatriates who had managed to achieve success in this most competitive market.

Greg Young continued his vigil, watching the monitor, observing his company’s stock ease even more before settling at a most respectful level just before noon. Then, during the short but agonizingly slow drive to Andrew Graham’s office the stock rallied strongly, the company’s CEO still grinning smugly when Agus Sumarsono, the Bimaton Corporation chairman interrupted his presentation during the luncheon, to acknowledge the debut of Young’s company earlier that day.

* * * *

Having extolled the virtues of doing business in Indonesia, Agus Sumarsono returned to his seat, his typically banal presentation attracting eager response as Agus represented one of the most influential conglomerates to emerge and survive, under the New Order regime. The Bimaton chairman cast a fleeting glance across the room satisfied that he had adequately acquitted himself, his eyes resting ever so briefly on the foreigner, Greg Young whose joint venture construction company had floated earlier in the day. At that moment the British expatriate happened to lock eyes, Agus immediately turning his head elsewhere, unguarded by the moment. Unbeknown to Young, Bimaton had taken a substantial stake in the public float through a number of nominees, Agus’ position now of sufficient import he would be able to influence the construction company’s direction.

Content with life and with every reason to feel so, Agus Sumarsono’s family holdings exceeded two billion dollars. Although the company flagship was predominantly a property investment group, other assets Bimaton had acquired in less than thirty years of trading included shipping and warehousing, control of a major, turnkey infrastructure construction group and a string of joint ventures with other local entrepreneurs; some, attending the luncheon because that was expected of them.

An only child, Agus understood at an early age that he was heir to substantial wealth and power, his education at tertiary institutions in both the United States and Germany providing the grounding necessary for his future development. Agus had succeeded his ailing father as CEO. In five years he had taken Bimaton to even greater heights and, although cautioned by his father against an over commitment in the property sector, he plunged the company into projects converting vast tracks of land into satellite suburbs, his name now synonymous with the Indonesian boom.

With the luncheon program at an end Agus Sumarsono searched the room for Andrew Graham, raucous laughter pinpointing the American amongst others standing at the private bar. Agus did not consume alcohol although occasionally he carried a glass of fine red wine around just for show.

‘Golfing tomorrow?’ Graham had spotted Agus approaching.

‘Yes, in fact I’m playing with the President’s son.’ Agus enjoyed the effect the statement had on the others.

‘Have to keep the wheels greased,’ someone suggested.

Agus raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, and aren’t you the one to know!’

The light-hearted banter continued until Agus moved Andrew Graham aside. ‘You did a great job on that float.’

‘Just let me in on the ground floor if ever you decide to take Bimaton public.’ Graham was outwardly pleased with the compliment but astute enough to know that Agus’s hand had been in play when Greg Young’s shares had commenced selling earlier in the day.

‘Bimaton will never go public,’ Agus responded, in no way offended. ‘But there is something I wish to discuss with you, in private.’

‘After the weekend?’ Graham offered, his interest pricked by the suggestion.

‘Yes. Let’s make it Monday. We’ll go out to the islands on my boat.’ Agus paused, conspiratorially. ‘Away from over-eager ears.’

* * * *

Upon Agus’ departure Andrew Graham rejoined the others and participated in the post-luncheon proceedings with typical panache, his anecdotes befitting the experienced raconteur.

Greg Young remained shaking congratulatory hands, Andrew opting to withdraw from the proceedings now evolving into a celebratory event for Young’s successful float. He left the hotel by taxi directing the driver to an address in South Jakarta, a private residence he maintained in an apartment tower, concealed from the scrutiny of business associates and close friends.

Captured by Jakarta’s afternoon traffic congestion Andrew Graham remained introspective, mentally flipping the pages of his past, reflecting on his own successful enterprise – and the irony of how his achievements had created the perfect cover for another of his country’s clandestine activities in S. E. Asia.

Andrew had served in the US Naval Reserve as an intelligence officer until the early 1980s subsequent to which, armed with a postsecondary degree in public relations, he joined the Department of State as a public affairs specialist. The following year Andrew attended the Defense Language Institute achieving reasonable fluency in both the Malay and Indonesian languages. Eager to travel Andrew abandoned his plans to remain in Washington pursuing a career in government, electing instead, to establish his own PR firm in Asia. When word of his intentions reached Langley he was approached – and became a willing recruit, seduced by the offer of financial support and a constant flow of government contracts. Six months later he had opened an office in Singapore, the first of a network which would service clients throughout the ASEAN region, the surprising speed of his success providing access to boardrooms regionally. The following year Andrew acquired a flourishing advertising entity and immediately amalgamated his interests. The powerful base created, provided significant cash flow for the relatively young entrepreneur, and a steady stream of commercial and political information to his demanding masters, in Virginia.

Now faced with his fortieth birthday Andrew was becoming increasingly disaffected with Langley’s forever encroachments upon his personal life and, although he quietly enjoyed the subterfuge, he was constantly reminded of the penalty of discovery. Subversion carried the death penalty in this country. Increasingly, these thoughts had led him to consider his options, the thought of liquidating his local assets frequently revisiting his mind.

Quietly attracted to the idea of resettlement, or even retirement, he was considering testing the waters for potential investors who might provide him with an acceptable exit strategy. Whether he would leave Asia altogether was a question he would address when appropriate, the temptation to remain diminishing with opportunities being created by a revitalized Europe.

The normally dispassionate American closed his eyes and nestled with anticipation into the coarse canvas of his ride and, swept with images of the imminent rendezvous, squandered this moment of reflection as the former beauty queen-cum-actress danced tantalizingly across his mind.

* * * *

Angelina Panjaitan examined her image in the mirror. The pul-chritudinous starlet tilted her head from one side to the other, gently dabbing her neck with L’Air Du Temps, the flowery, sandalwood fragrance lingering in the air-conditioned room. A hand brushed an out-of-place strand of hair into position and, satisfied that she was as ready as she would ever be, Angelina sat quietly in narcissistic repose, pondering her future with the wealthy American.

Introduced at a society wedding several months before, Angelina knew she had lucked out when, on the first date, Andrew Graham presented her with the most exquisite Versace bracelet. The following day when she had the gift valued Angelina became determined to do whatever it would take to maintain her latest beau’s interest. She accepted Andrew’s conditions concerning their relationship and became his mistress, willingly surrendering her body upon demand, accommodating his sexual preferences whenever they rendezvoused to play. Andrew had insisted that their assignations remain their secret; Angelina was forbidden from calling either his office or residence but was to remain at his beck and call. Resolute, she withdrew from her very public circle of friends hoping this would demonstrate the sincerity of her commitment, even when weeks often passed without word from Andrew – these periods of frustrating silence in no way improving her volatile temperament, this most severe of her character flaws carefully disguised whenever in her lover’s company.

It was only a matter of time before Angelina’s trysts came to the attention of a senior recruiter from BAKIN, Badan Koordinasi Intelijen, the Indonesian Intelligence Coordinating Body, the country’s counterpart to the CIA. BAKIN’S recruitment of models and film stars of both persuasions was common to complement BAKIN’s many covert operations designed to penetrate both the diplomatic corps and foreign commercial interests. Amongst its most recent accomplishments was the agency’s successful compromise of a Jakarta-based, Australian assistant political attaché whose homosexual relationship with a local Foreign Affairs’ officer facilitated access to the foreign mission. The substantial flow of sensitive information provided the Indonesian Government with a greater understanding of how the clandestine Australian Secret Service, ASIS operated, and the identity of its operatives in Indonesia.

When summoned by the agency Angelina’s initial reaction had been to decline; photographs showing her naked flagrante delicto in a home movie convinced the actress that she should, indeed, do her part for her country. Unfortunately, the American never brought his business affairs to their rendezvous and rarely held any meaningful discussions over the phone. As the first months provided nothing of any real significance Angelina was suspected of holding back, the not-so-veiled threats exacerbating her dilemma. Pressed, she had pointedly inquired into Andrew’s business activities and he had rewarded her inquisitiveness with a warning not to pry then left her hanging for more than two weeks. Relieved when he called earlier that day Angelina had hurried to the apartment, anxious to demonstrate to Andrew that she had learned her lesson, accepting that she may be obliged to fabricate information to keep BAKIN off her case.

Angelina sensed the maid’s presence and turned.

‘Tuan is on his way up,’ the woman announced before disappearing into her quarters. Angelina rose and swept out into the lounge where she checked the curtains to ensure the fidgety servant had not altered the desired backdrop, then stood pensively, waiting for Andrew Graham to arrive.

When the front door opened she remained poised, with her classic Sumatran face half turned into the filtered sunlight, for maximum effect.

Andrew stepped into the lounge and paused, Angelina’s captivating beauty momentarily stealing his breath away.

‘Have you missed me?’ he asked, extending open arms.

Angelina moved without hesitation. ‘Every moment of every day,’ she purred, moving into his embrace, the tantalizing effect of her body against his and the exotic, sandalwood fragrance stirring his loins.

‘Then we should waste no time,’ he whispered, leading Angelina into the bedroom.

Andrew discarded his clothes and rolled onto the bed watching his mistress slowly undress, her rehearsed movements provocatively erotic, his erection growing as she cat-walked naked around the bed on nine centimeter heels and stood at his side.

Andrew’s eyes drifted following her hand as she caressed firm breasts then trailed down to the mesmeric, minute mound of pubic hair and gently stroked her body. She released her pumps and crawled onto the bed with slow, sensuous, catlike movements. Lowering her head, Angelina cradled Andrew’s testicles in one hand and licked softly. Then she inserted her tongue under the foreskin and circled around teasing the end of his uncircumcised penis with the warmth of her mouth.

Andrew’s hand gently squeezed her nipples then wandered down to the soft, wet mound. Aroused by the stimulating strokes Angelina raised her head and body, mounting her partner, rocking against the length inside her, pushing down hard as his hands grasped and roughly kneaded her breasts.

‘I’m coming,’ he cried, hoarsely, pelvic thrusts increasing with climax now ineluctable, Angelina’s cry of pleasure driving him to completion as her body was racked with recurring cycles of rhythmic contractions, the euphoric sensation plateauing as both achieved orgasmic spell.

An hour passed. Quietly motionless, pleasantly intoxicated by the exotic woman’s sweet, musky fragrance as she lay naked by his side, Andrew Graham admitted, resignedly, that he would most likely persevere with the status quo, continuing to build wealth whilst accommodating Langley – at least, until he was presented with no other alternative but to graze, elsewhere.

East Indonesia – Sulawesi (Poso)

John (Jack) McBride cried out loudly, his flailing arms entangled in the mosquito net as he struggled to flee the demons from his past – the imagery of a Somali militiaman standing over his body painfully vivid when he was jolted from the recurring nightmare. Outside a cock crowed. McBride lay motionless amidst tangled, sweat-saturated sheets, his nostrils assailed by the pervasive stench of vomit – the missionary silently castigating himself for having fallen off the wagon. Squinting through the gray morning light he fossicked for painkil ers in a bedside drawer, fumbled the bottle open and swallowed two tablets, closing his eyes while waiting for the pounding between his temples to subside.

The village stirred. He rose gingerly then slowly attended to his morning ablutions, the former Special Forces soldier shaking his head admonishingly at the crumpled face staring back vacantly from the cracked mirror. His thoughts turned to the letter that had taken six weeks to arrive from Tennessee.

Raised in the Buckle of the Bible Belt by Methodist parents, Jack McBride was exposed to an environment of religious servitude, his attendance at the Vanderbilt University another accommodation of his strict father’s wishes that he follow into the clergy. His own preference had been to study medicine however, due to his family’s financial situation and his father’s intervention Jack had attended the Vanderbilt University Divinity School on a full scholarship. Within that year his father suffered a stroke and passed away, his death bringing with it a sense of release. Jack abandoned his studies and enlisted in the army where he also underwent specialist medical training. He served with the U.S. Rangers for ten years, the career path he had chosen providing the independence and recognition he had so desperately sought from childhood.

During ‘Operation Urgent Fury’ in 1983 when a Marxist coup resulted in the overthrow of the Grenada government, U.S. forces were ordered to the Caribbean island to seek the release of some 1,000 American medical students. Jack had been amongst those who had jumped with the 1st Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment, securing the airstrip at Salines on the southern coast where Cuban paramilitary forces lay in wait – the young McBride earning the Silver Star for gallantry during the subsequent engagement. With the exception of a near miss whilst undergoing helicopter flight training Jack’s military career over next ten years had been without incident. Then the United States became embroiled in the Somalia conflict.

He gazed back into the mirror, slowly ran a finger over the hairline scar, evidence of his near-death experience in Mogad-ishu just eighteen months before in October 1993. The Rangers were part of the mission ‘ Operation Restore Hope’ – their task, to hunt down the Somali warlord, Mohamed Farah Aideed. Unbeknown to the Americans, Osama bin Laden’s second-in-command, Egyptian-born Mohammed Atef had relocated to Khartoum from where they orchestrated an attack on U.S. forces. When it came, the lightning assault had turned into a prolonged and desperate battle for the U.S. soldiers to escape the hostile city. McBride had received a head wound when the al-Qaeda-trained troops attacked and killed eighteen of his fellow Rangers, leaving ninety wounded.

It was during his convalescence that Jack had succumbed to the bottle, his alcoholism resulting in hospital rehabilitation and, finally, a new career path when he was discharged from the army and returned home to Tennessee. With his mother’s support he managed his drinking problem and was soon on the road to a full recovery. It was at this time, while rummaging through his father’s papers that he happened across a newsletter which promoted ‘vacations with a purpose’, encouraging members of his congregation to consider stretching their personal and spiritual horizons by accepting short-term missions with the Church. The following month he volunteered to assist the Church establish a field medical clinic in Tentena, a small town near the northern tip of Lake Poso in Indonesia’s Central Sulawesi – and he was now halfway through the two-year commitment.

Jack stared back into the mirror and rubbed a palm against the overnight stubble then commenced shaving – his thoughts returning to the family lawyer’s letter advising that his mother had been diagnosed with an inoperative tumor, and pleading that he call. There was no phone connection to his quarters. Jack intended calling from the Church offices on the other side of town and, as it was only 0330 in Tennessee, he sat alone watching the clock anxiously, taunted by the possibility that his mother might have died in the weeks it had taken for the letter to arrive. An hour passed – then another, Jack’s rekindled thirst drawing him to a bottle of locally produced arak that had remained sitting on the shelf unopened these past months, a gift from a grateful patient.

The first shot brought disappointment that he had broken his vow – the second, an air of resignation and surrender to a third. Within the hour he had consumed the entire bottle then collapsed into bed, missing his call.

Naked, Jack stepped into rubber thongs and entered the bathroom, confident that the footwear would protect him from the ever-present hookworm. A huge cockroach of prehistoric proportions took flight in his direction and he ducked, eyeing the creature as it crawled around the moss-stained ceiling out of reach. He dipped a plastic scoop into the concrete water tank then braced, paling cold water over his body until some semblance of his normal self was restored.

* * * *

McBride’s assistant, Netty Tangali heard Jack splashing around in the kamar mandi and instructed the housemaid to commence cooking his breakfast, hopeful that Bapak Jack, the title respectfully accorded the missionary, would be in higher spirits than that of the evening before. Netty had seen the postmark, aware that Nashville was his home town. She had waited eagerly for him to read the letter out loud as he had in the past – crushed when he had so brusquely dismissed her and retreated to his room.

Amongst her many attributes Netty Tangali was a trained nurse and fluent in English. When Jack first arrived in Poso it was Netty who had taught him Bahasa Indonesia and the essentials regarding local cultures. She had introduced Jack to the Saluopa waterfalls and the Pamona caves, journeyed with him to the Bada Valley where they examined the ancient and mysterious megaliths, and even sailed Lake Poso’s enchanting setting together. ‘Net’, as Jack had come to call her, became his constant companion. Before their first year together as a team, Netty had become deeply attracted to the unsuspecting American.

* * * *

‘Selamat pagi, Net,’ Jack bade Netty good morning, glanced over at the housemaid then decided to speak English. ‘Would you mind looking after the clinic by yourself, today?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ she responded, surprised, ‘are you ill?’

Jack shook his head. ‘No, Net. I just need some time to myself.’ The housemaid placed a steaming bowl of bubur under his nose, Jack staring at the dish before waving the porridge away. ‘I’ll have something later.’ Miffed, the maid raised her eyebrows at Netty.

The nurse noted his casual attire and frowned. ‘Are you going out?’

Jack remained evasive. ‘I have a few things to sort out. I’ll be back before five.’

Concerned eyes followed as he strolled outside and unlocked a bicycle from its rack, then disappeared from view as he peddled across the Pamona Bridge to the Church’s operational centre for Central Sulawesi. There he placed a call to his mother through the U.S. operator and, when the phone rang unanswered, he pleaded with the operator and was connected to the family lawyer’s home.

‘I’m sorry, Jack,’ the foreboding words spilled down the line preparing him for the worst, ‘your mother passed away more than a month ago.’ Then, ‘She was buried alongside your father.’

Jack struggled for words. ‘Your letter arrived… only yesterday.’‘Don’t blame yourself, Jack. There was nothing that you could have done – even if you’d returned in time.’

‘I can arrange a flight and be back by the weekend?’

‘That’s up to you, Jack. There’s no need to rush back unless you feel it necessary.’

‘Have you attended to her will?’ He was aware that his mother had appointed the law firm as executors.

‘Yes. The estate is just about finalized. Apart from a number of personal items your mother bequeathed to you, her estate will pass to the Church.’

‘I know,’ he recalled the discussion, ‘there wasn’t much to leave.’

‘We can store your mother’s other personal effects if you wish, pending your return?’

Jack considered the offer. ‘Thanks. I’d appreciate that.’

‘Is there anything more we can do for you, Jack?’ A weary note had crept into the lawyer’s voice.

‘No. Thanks. I’ll write if something comes to mind.’

With the call completed Jack McBride walked his bicycle slowly back down the street to the bridge that connected the two parts of Tentena. There he stood, gazing over the four-hundred-metre-deep lake contemplating the news of his mother’s death, pedestrian traffic passing him by, residents occasionally acknowledging the missionary with a knowing smile and a wave. Absent-mindedly, he turned to leave and stepped out onto the road, forcing a Toyota pickup to swerve to avoid col-liding with him. Jack whispered silent thanks, deciding then to ride up to his favorite site and spend some time alone, to reflect on his loss.

He peddled his way along the high road where Dutch-built bungalows dotted the mountain landscape overlooking the lake, the area surrounded by primary rainforest and lush plantations of coffee and cloves. He passed a farmer leading an anoa along the road, Jack steering a wide path around the dwarf buffalo as experience had taught that these animals were unusually aggressive and unpredictable. The indigenous fauna had fascinated the American from the outset. During an outing when Netty Tangali had taken him on a countryside excursion he had been fascinated with the unusual babiroesa deerpig, an animal with enormous, upturned corner teeth that pierced the skin as these curled towards the skull. The beast did not have split feet – Jack’s interest growing when Netty explained that this odd mammal was considered halal by the local Muslims and could therefore be eaten.

Before entering the Church missionary program and accepting the assignment to Sulawesi Jack’s appreciation of the delicate socio-religious intricacies of the region were all but nonexistent – the briefings he had attended back in the U.S., initial y leaving him frustratingly short in facing the realities of what transpired in the field. He accepted that had it not been for Netty’s dedicated and persevering nature, his knowledge of the local culture and language would have remained severely lacking.

Approaching his destination Jack began to tire and walked the bicycle the remaining distance up the slope, where a gigantic stone pillar had been placed to symbolize the Pamona ethnics’ secession from East Toraja. Jack often visited the site where local folklore had it that at the top of this hill, heaven and earth were once connected by a rope, the myth, in some way providing him with a philosophical link of his own. He settled down on a grassy patch, head nestled upon knees, taking measure of his life, his decision to work in the field as a missionary and where it might lead.

* * * *

Jack McBride’s small but effective operation in the isolated and predominantly Christian township of Tentena was a ninety-minute drive from the district capital of Poso. The people were friendly and receptive to his presence and, apart from Nathan Glaskin, a cantankerous septuagenarian from Idaho who maintained authority over Jack’s operation, life passed relatively smoothly in his domain. The fire-and brimstone minister had been ensconced at the regional headquarters for more than two decades, Jack’s presence an obvious irritation to the ageing cleric.

Since arriving in the eastern Indonesian province, Jack had learned that medical missions were often considered to be an impediment to the indigenous church programs unless a clear distinction was made between a medical missionary practice and a general practice of medicine overseas. After a number of confrontations Jack accepted that the spiritual aspect of the ministry was to be left entirely to his fellow-American, Nathaniel Glaskin, ‘As a missionary,’ Jack was often reminded, ‘your purpose here is to raise the health standards of the local people, and meet their medical and surgical needs. I, however, am charged with caring for their spiritual needs, not you. And, as such, you should therefore refrain from referring to yourself as a medical missionary.’

Jack had worked tirelessly with Netty to establish the now successful clinic which provided medical services not only to Christian, but also to Tentena’s Muslim families. He understood that religious harmony prevailed throughout the district due to the wisdom of local authorities whose decision to implement power-sharing had removed the primary cause of most disputes. Strategic positions in district government were arranged informally so that a Christian appointee would be assisted by a Muslim deputy, and vice versa, the compromise bringing an appearance of social unanimity to the province. However, Jack’s superior, Nathan Glaskin scoffed at the system, citing the growing influx of Muslims into the region, predicting that there would be a significant shift in the social structure with the many thousands of transmigrants arriving from Java and other over-populated Muslim islands. When Jack raised this most delicate of subjects with Netty, she had confirmed that the Christian hold on such key posts had diminished considerably over the past five years and that there was, indeed, a resurgence of animosity between the two groups.

As he lay contemplating the possibility of future conflict, Jack considered the genesis of the archipelago-wide conundrum.

When Indonesia achieved independence from the Dutch fifty years before, the new leadership successfully resisted calls for Indonesia to become an Islamic state, offering the people pluralism and affirming a diversity of religions which embraced Islam, Christianity, Hinduism and Buddhism. Jack had read that the Republic’s founding fathers’ wishes were later frustrated by President Suharto who, in an attempt to shore up his presidency courted Islamic radicals, understanding that this alliance would, undoubtedly, lead to an escalation in attacks on Christian communities. These were the seeds of discontent, planted for political gain, destined to rip the nation apart.

Jack lit a kretek, the familiar fragrance of the clove cigarette soothing the moment he inhaled, an image of his mother looking down critically, intruding on his thoughts. He visualized her standing there waving a disapproving finger. He looked skywards and smiled. It was time to bid her farewell.

Jack McBride offered a silent prayer to his mother, the people of Tentena and Sulawesi’s fourteen million inhabitants. He cast his eyes across the horizon towards the east where the archipelagic province of Maluku accommodated a further two million Indonesian citizens, conscious that the majority were also Christian, their number spread across a thousand small islands covering a vast expanse of ocean. And, in that moment, he experienced the tug of history and vowed to visit the famous Spice Islands which had drawn Indian, Chinese, Arab and European traders to that destination.

East Indonesia –

The Moluccan Islands (Ambon)

Nuci recognized the modernized melody as one of the traditional Moluccan songs; the foot-tapping reggae beat lifting her spirits as she went about the household chores. She paused, a brief moment from childhood triggering images of her mother singing in church, the memory momentarily distracting her from the chore at hand.

Born into a Christian Ambonese family, Nuci had been raised in an environment of want and despair following the collapse of the Maluku independence movement in 1950, tales of those events as related by her father, caught in the cobwebs of her mind. Nuci recalled that both her parents had fought for the Dutch-inspired autonomous state of “East Indonesia”, the formation of the RMS, the short-lived Republic of South Moluccas, and participated in the Christian-led revolt against the Indonesian government.

As a child, Nuci had soon become aware that this close identification with the Dutch had stigmatized her people – branded as traitors by Jakarta – punished, when the Sukarno-inspired revolutionaries finally prevailed and the Moluccan Islands were absorbed into the Republic. She knew that many Ambonese Christians had either fled or were forcefully deported to the Netherlands, whilst those who remained behind suffered the ignominy of being treated as second-class citizens by their new colonial masters, the Javanese. During her formative years she became more aware that the Indonesian military had a very long collective memory, treating most harshly those ethnic minorities who had ‘betrayed’ the country during the War of Independence against the Dutch.

Nuci’s family had enjoyed the comforts accorded to civil service employees. She had attended a Sekolah Menengah Atas, her studies at the middle high school interrupted when her father was retrenched along with many others – replaced with Muslim workers transported from Java and Madura under the transmigration scheme. Ambon’s lucrative spice trade had diminished dramatically over the past century and, unable to find employment in what was rapidly becoming a Muslim-dominated provincial administration, Nuci’s parents had relocated from the capital to Benteng Karang village. Her father had found work teaching at the local school; her mother retreating into a world filled with hymns and prayer. Nuci married early, withdrew into a life smothered by domesticity and reconciled herself to life in Benteng Karang village; her childhood dreams now mists from the past.

‘Careful you don’t burn my best shirt,’ her husband, Lauren’s voice jolted Nuci from her brief reverie. Ignoring the interruption, she placed the charcoal-fired iron to one side then placed the white shirt on a homemade wire hanger.

‘I’d best get ready,’ she murmured lethargically, her eyes dropping to the traditional meat dish she had spent the early hours preparing. ‘We can have the patita before leaving.’

‘Think I’ll save my appetite for some more of Grace’s lalampa,’ Lauren said, immediately wishing he could retract the words.

Nuci’s face clouded, piqued from the last visit to Grace Matuanakotta’s home to finalize wedding plans between the two families. Nuci still smarted from Lauren’s overly gracious servings of the steamed rice finger dish that Grace had prepared. Nuci flared, hands on hips, ‘It’s only migrant street-vendor food…and if you prefer that Minahasa woman’s cooking to mine then why not just say so?’ She stormed from the kitchen before her husband could defend himself, mumbling as she bustled down the hallway.

Nuci’s mercurial mood swing had been triggered more by her husband’s wish for their daughter to marry within the pela gandung, a centuries’ old, Moluccan inter-village alliance social-bond structure that was based on an idiom of kinship, than Lauren’s penchant for the banana-leaf-wrapped delicacy. Pela villagers exchanged mutually binding oaths and had been known to drink one another’s blood at the conclusion of a pact. Before Javanese migrants had inundated the province, Moluccan Christians and Muslims had lived in relative harmony, the tranquility of interfaith relations protected by the pela alliance system. Under pela tradition, a village of one faith was “twinned” with a village of the other, with both charged to defend the others interests in the event of conflict.

Intermarriage between members of pela-tied villages was taboo, Nuci’s husband having successfully arranged for an exception arguing that Grace Matuanakotta had migrated into the area from Minahasa in the north, and her son could therefore be considered outside the pela constraints. Although Nuci sympathized with her daughter, accepting that her choices were severely limited due to the increasing number of pela villages listed within their fold, Nuci was obstinately against the match – fearful that Grace’s contumacious son Johanis, whose rebellious pursuits had placed him directly in the local authorities’ sights, was destined for tragedy.

At first, the village elders had been unreceptive to Lauren’s pleas on behalf of Lisa, arguing that it was a person’s village affiliation that determined with whom a person is pela, as reckoned patrilineally. Eventually, because Grace was now widowed and the elders harbored a desire to see the end of her son’s presence in their village the elders acquiesced, and the marriage plans moved forward – the meeting between the two families that day scheduled to finalize the wedding arrangements.

* * * *

Johanis Matuanakotta gazed indifferently at his fiancée’s family. ‘I still want the wedding to be held at the Marantha Church.’

Lisa tensed, her eyes fell from her mother’s, dropping sub-serviently to her lap.

‘We cannot afford such luxury,’ Nuci argued. ‘If you insist, then you will have to meet that expense yourself.’

Johanis smiled insolently. ‘My Coker friends will contribute.’ Then, with a contemptuous look at his in-laws-to-be, ‘and we wouldn’t want to disappoint the Cokers, would we?’

Intimidated by the not-so-masked innuendo, Nuci and Laurens exchanged anxious looks. The Cokers, the street name for the delinquent Ambonese Cowok Kristen, or Christian Boys, used the Marantha Protestant church as their headquarters. Rumor had it that they were closely associated with other Moluccan gangs in Jakarta where they dominated the shopping centers and gambling dens – and had access to the Palace. ‘It’s settled then,’ Johanis announced with youthful arrogance, the decision now a fait accompli. He pushed a plate in Laurens’ direction.

‘Now, why don’t you have some more of my mother’s lalampa?’

Malaysia – Kelantan

Mohamed Aziz Derashid looked out across the verdant sawah, the paddy fields stretching all the way across this northern Malaysian state of Kelantan to the southern Thai border, where towering cumulus clouds stacked the horizon. Sensing that weather conditions would imminently terminate the satellite conversation the Malaysian strained to capture Mohammed Atef ’s drifting words, Derashid’s passive understanding of French exacerbating the problem.

‘Hambali’s visitor… from the Philippines… should be there… by now.’ With the atmospheric interference the al-Qaeda military commander’s voice sounded more strained than usual.

‘Ramzi?’ Mohamed Aziz Derashid was surprised.

‘This is an open line,’ Atef warned. Aware of foreign intelligence agencies’ sophisticated monitoring systems, their conversation was deliberately ambiguous.

‘No,’ Osama’s trusted lieutenant added, ‘from… further south.’ Derashid guessed that Atef was referring to the young Abu Sayyaf leader Abdurajak Janjalani who had recently established dialogue with al-Qaeda via Ramzi Yousef, in Manila.

‘Then they’re about to make their move?’ Derashid was pleased that Atef was keeping him informed.

‘Insha Allah,’ came the reply.

Derashid replaced the receiver and beckoned to his personal assistant standing courteously out of earshot at the far end of the bungalow’s veranda. ‘Get the plane ready,’ was all Derashid said; his PA disappearing as would a ghost in sunlight to ensure that the crew and aircraft were placed on standby. Alone, Derashid leaned back in the heavily cushioned rattan chair and absorbed the natural beauty of the terraced landscape below, the steep hillside contoured to accommodate never-ending fields of rice, shaped to enable the intricate irrigation system to flow harmoniously. The isolated country retreat was seven hours by car north of Kuala Lumpur’s forest-fire-polluted atmosphere and he filled his lungs with country air and lay quietly, thinking, contemplating his relationship with those with whom he shared similar ideologies.

* * * *

Derashid was the son of a wealthy Malay Datuk, his father’s title having been acquired through substantial donations to the local state government officials. The Datuk was a prominent player in developing the Malaysian economy, the entrepreneur’s considerable holdings and wealth continuing to swell over the years, the consequence of the successful completion of a string of major infrastructure projects won through closed-door tenders. Bulan Sabit Holdings Sdn Bhd had then branched out into the resources sector, the group’s subsidiaries growing expo-nentially with Malaysia’s energy development boom.

An only child, Derashid had enjoyed an upbringing surrounded by wealth and envy, his ethnic heritage as a Malay bumi putera or indigene, a point of considerable pride.

Immersed at an early age in the teachings contained in the Koran, Derashid evolved into a devotee of Islam’s more fundamentalist leanings, his commitment to the purist interpretations slowly creating an inner conflict and challenges he could not share with his father. Educated in England where he earned degrees in commerce and engineering, the Malaysian established strong personal links with a number of Saudi students. Upon graduation, he departed for Riyadh, already markedly resentful towards the British establishment and its not-so-disguised colonial distaste for those who dared to challenge the social divides. Derashid remained in Saudi Arabia for a year consolidating his relationships with his former fellow students and their families. He journeyed to Mecca on Haj – his outlook on life for a man still in his early years maturing immensely during this extended sojourn away from home.

Upon his return to Malaysia, Derashid announced that he was not ready to launch himself into the family’s commercial activities; instead, he went in relentless pursuit of others who shared his opposition to the American presence in Saudi Arabia and the West’s growing influence in Asia.

One evening he was invited to attend an usrah, a religious discussion held in secret at the Kampung Sungai Manggis village in Banting, Selangor. It was there that Derashid first sighted the Indonesian speaker, Riduan Isamuddin. The meeting had been arranged for members of the Kumpulan Militan Malaysia, the Malaysian Militant Association grass roots’ supporters of the Indonesian-founded militant group, Islamic Community, Jemaah Islamiyah. He had been moved by Riduan when the cleric addressed the meeting chronicling his exploits in Afghanistan, Derashid observing closely as others in attendance were seduced by Riduan’s charismatic spell. The following month and much to the consternation of his parents Mohamed Aziz Derashid assumed another identity and disappeared from his homeland. When he returned the following year he was visibly changed, hardened by the time he had spent in Afghanistan, his sentiments now placing him on a road blighted by fanaticism which blurred the true Islamic way.

At the age of thirty and at the request of his ailing father, Mohamed Aziz Derashid assumed the role of CEO of the family company, managing assets in excess of two hundred million Ringgit, further enhancing his attraction to the man identified by a select few as ‘ the Sheikh’, aka Osama bin Laden.

As of that time, only bin Laden and his inner circle were privy to Derashid’s double identity, the relationship forged during his odyssey in Afghanistan and later nurtured by Atef through frequent communication.

Derashid remained in contemplative mood and considered how he might do even more to limit his exposure; his association with the terrorist group delicately concealed by a series of firewalls through his myriad of corporate entities held under his Malaysian flagship company, Bulan Sabit Holdings Sdn Bhd. The Malaysian was in no way involved in any operational aspect connected to al-Qaeda or its many loosely-knit offshoots, although Atef had sought Derashid’s advice in establishing the front organizations through which funding for field operations would flow. Amongst these was Konsojaya Sdn Bhd, a corporate entity for which the Kuala Lumpur companies’ registry would list Hambali and Wali Khan Amin Shah as co-directors and shareholders.

Initially, Derashid had suggested that Atef veto Shah’s involvement, citing the United States claim that he had been a principal instigator of the 1993 World Trade Centre bombing in New York. However when Atef reported that Mohammed Jamal Khalifa had insisted the company composition remain as originally contrived, Derashid refrained from further comment, pleased that he was in no way connected to the slow burning fuse.

Malaysia – Petaling Jaya

Riduan Isamuddin, better known by his nom de guerre, Hambali, sat silently also considering his relationship with Wali Khan Amin Shah and Ramzi Yousef, accepting that they were tied at the hip and would remain so, until death did them so part.

Hambali’s given name at birth was Encep Nurjaman, and he was second in a peasant farming family of eleven children that had seen little of the world outside their mountainous West Java village. A serious student from the outset, Hambali attended the Al-I’annah Islamic high school. It was at this time he became drawn to Abu Bakar Bashir, an Indonesian of Yemeni descent whom President Suharto had jailed for attempting to form an Islamic militia called Komando Jihad. Upon Bashir’s release from prison in 1982 and facing further arrest for subversive activities, Bashir fled to Malaysia and Hambali followed. The pair became inseparable, Abu Bakar Bashir treating the younger man as if he were his own son.

It was during their self-imposed exile that the vision for a Pan-Islamic state was conceived; their dream to incorporate the ASEAN countries into one Islamic community group: a concept that would predicate the re-birth of the Jemaah Islamiyah.

In 1987 Hambali traveled to Pakistan where he underwent arms training at the Sadar Camp. He was twenty-three years old. After entering Afghanistan as a volunteer Mujahideen he joined in the fight against the Soviet Union. There he met Ali Ghufron, a fellow Indonesian. Together, they fell under the influence of Osama bin Laden and, by 1990 when the billionaire Saudi considered Hambali ready for the mission, Hambali was charged with extending the al-Qaeda network into S.E. Asia and Australia, while Ghufron, who had adopted the name Mukhlas, concentrated on developing Indonesian cells.

Upon Hambali’s return to Malaysia he secured residency and met a Sabah Chinese national, Noralwizah Lee Abdullah who was attending religious studies at the Luqmanul Hakiem School in Johor. By then Hambali had developed an affinity for wearing a kopiah – the white skull cap, bearded face and accompanying glasses providing Osama bin Laden’s nominee with the image of a religious figure – essential to his self-appointed position as a teacher. Assisted by his wife, Hambali ran religious classes that encouraged discussion relating to rebellion and holy war. With the growth in membership in the resurrected Jemaah Islamiyah, Hambali’s reach across ASEAN then stretched through Malaysia, into Indonesia and the southern areas of Thailand and the Philippines. Next, he planned to forge alliances in Australia.

His Malaysian company, Konsojaya Sdn Bhd, was a front import-export operation that provided financial and material support from Osama bin Laden, to many of the terrorist cells deeply ensconced throughout S. E. Asia. The company also provided funding and operational support to the Abu Sayyaf (Father of the Sword) Islamic separatist group through its Manila cell, The Benevolence International Corporation, an entity utilized to disguise their Philippines’ operations.

Recently, Hambali had become increasingly dependent on Dr Azahari Husin. The Malaysian university lecturer had joined the Jemaah Islamiyah whilst engaged at the Universiti Teknologi Malaysia and had trained with Hambali in Afghanistan. He had been instrumental in establishing the first direct links with the Abu Sayyaf the year before, preparing the groundwork for al-Qaeda. Azahari, who held a doctor-ate in engineering from Reading University in the UK, had the necessary credentials to support his expertise as Hambali’s chief explosives expert. As for Indonesia, Hambali had agreed to leave most of the network building to his close associate, Ali Ghufron who continued to enjoy the freedom of travel without raising suspicion.

A knock at the door interrupted his deliberations.

‘Our guest has just cleared immigration,’ his wife Noralwizah reminded from the other side of the door. She would not enter without being invited to do so.

‘Have you checked the hall to ensure everything is in order?’

‘Yes,’ she confirmed, ‘and security is already in place.’

‘Good. I shall join you in a few minutes,’ he said pompously then checked his appearance in the full length mirror attached to his side of the door. Satisfied, Hambali smiled, confident that the evening fund-raising event would be a success.

Indonesia – Jakarta

The Javanese twins ignored the fleeting, quizzical looks as they stood talking in the Sukarno-Hatta International airport con-course, the two Indonesian pilots identical in every way but for their uniforms. The Garuda officer smiled at his mirror image, Imam, and indicated the bars on his sibling’s shoulder. ‘So, now we are of equal rank?’

Imam Suprapto wrapped an arm around his older brother. ‘The ranks may be the same but first lieutenant has a better ring to it than first officer,’ he bantered.

‘Maybe,’ Anwar countered, ‘but Garuda pays us better than you air force pilots.’

Imam laughed. ‘True – and you get to pick and choose from the cabin crew as well.’

‘How much time do we have?’

Imam checked his watch. ‘I have to get back to Halim by 1300.’

Anwar steered his brother towards a coffee stall. ‘How are you handling the Hercs?’

Imam shrugged. ‘Surprised we manage to keep them operational. They’re old, and spare parts continue to be a major issue.’

‘How’s that transfer request coming along?’

Imam cast a wistful look at an elegant tourist when she legged her way past and smiled. ‘Haven’t heard anything yet. If all else fails I’m going to take a shot at transferring to one of the outer squadrons, perhaps even get some time on those Broncos.’

Anwar sympathized with Imam. Neither had achieved their ambition to fly their aircraft of choice. Imam had yearned to fly the F16A fighters but fate had placed him in the cockpit of an ageing C-130 Hercules whilst Anwar was driving Garuda F-28s around the archipelago. His brother’s suggestion that he might go down scale and spend some time flying the OV-10s did not come as a surprise.

Raised on the Madiun-Iswahjudi base within site of the grounded ‘Badger’ Soviet TU-16 bomber tactical strike wing, the Javanese brothers were destined to fly. Their father had piloted these long range bombers until they were grounded by British threats to destroy Jakarta and Surabaya with atomic warheads. As children they had listened, mesmerized, whilst their father had recounted his version of the brinkmanship displayed by the founding President, Sukarno in his quest for domination of the Malay and Singapore states. Even today both the Suprapto men could recall, verbatim, their father’s revelations of how the Soviets had armed Indonesia to the hilt with the most sophisticated weaponry during the early Sixties which, in turn, emboldened Sukarno into declaring a war of ‘Confrontation’ against the Commonwealth states of Malaysia and Singapore. When their father had explained that his aircraft could carry 3,000 kilos of nuclear weapons a distance of 8,000 kilometers, the youngsters were treated to a regional geography lesson pinpointing the Australian and Asian cities that lay within the TU-16s strike capacity – the twins’ vivid recollection of Colonel Suprapto’s rendition of how his flying career had ended and the confusion that had ensued, a constant reminder of the capricious world of aviation both had grown to embrace.

Anwar and Imam had often debated how the former President had folded to the British ultimatum and grounded the TU-16 squadron. They had not understood why the country’s leadership had permitted the emasculation of their Indonesian Forces and, adding to the military’s chagrin, why the Royal Air Force was not prevented from flying missions over Java’s airfields. It would be decades before the pair would read Australian and British Cabinet papers released under the Thirty Year Rule revealing how British Vulcan bombers flew from Singapore to Darwin, the RAF crews carrying their deadly cargo low across Indonesian airstrips with bomb bay doors open, the threat significant as the Vulcan’s were armed with atomic warheads. Anwar had scoffed at the reports of how ABRI, the Indonesian Armed Forces were then secretly subjected to an Australian-British blockade, the West alarmed when Moscow attempted to ship ballistic missiles to Jakarta. The Suprapto twins elected to believe their father’s version of how the failed flow of spare parts had precipitated the squadron’s demise, Colonel Suprapto amongst the many Indonesian pilots grounded in the absence of serviceable aircraft.

Imam again checked his wristwatch. ‘Have to go.’

‘We’ll catch up again during Hari Raya?’ Anwar asked. They had never missed returning home to celebrate the end of the Ramadan fasting month and the ensuing celebrations of Idul Fitri. Even though fasting would commence within that week neither would comply with the Islamic tradition as the strict restraints placed on their daily lives would impinge on their capacity to execute their flying duties effectively.

‘You can count on it,’ Imam assured.

‘Keep me posted on that transfer,’ Anwar insisted.

‘Hopefully, I’ll have some news regarding the OV-10s,’ Imam responded, optimistically. Anwar punched his brother playfully on the shoulder, shook hands then went to join his Garuda crew to prepare for their shuttle flight to Medan, in the oil and gas-rich province of North Sumatra.

An hour passed since Anwar had farewelled Imam. Airborne, he stared out across the haze that covered Sumatra, the product of forest burn-off and the failure of corrupt officials to oversee the implementation of regulatory controls designed to prevent such environmental disasters. He looked out the star-board window across the Malacca Straits, his view impeded by the drifting smoke as far as the eye could see. The Javanese pilot slipped into sombre mood reminded that he might never be selected to crew international flights – the competition so fierce. An impatient sigh passed his lips.

With his mind revisiting what the future might hold Anwar Suprapto remained deep in thought, oblivious to events unfolding across the South China Sea and the machinations of the one solitary figure whose treachery would impact so disastrously on the Suprapto twins’ lives.