Java Spider (11 page)

‘Yes, but are they up to kidnapping Stephen?’ Copeland asked, uncomfortable at being reminded what was being done there.

‘Our assessment is no, not on their own. However, with outside help, it’s possible. There’s a bunch of Australians who’ve made Kutu a big issue in the Pacific.
They
’ve got money and, I imagine, people who know how to use TV satellites.’

‘So what are you doing about them?’

Commissioner Stanley cleared his throat. Time to get his elbow back in.

‘At the Yard we have good contacts with ASIO, the Australian security people. It’s the middle of the night there now, but we’ll be on to them in a few hours. I imagine the SIS will too. Different channels. Belt and braces, prime minister.’

Vereker gave a watery smile.

‘And as for Europe,’ Stanley continued, ‘the French and German liaison officers at the Yard are already kicking arses, so we’re confident of a lead soon on tracing that satellite uplink.’

Copeland became agitated. ‘Speed is of the essence gentlemen and ladies, if we’re going to be able to save Stephen’s life
and
the arms contract,’ he said. ‘I can already feel pressure building to cancel it. Half a billion
pounds
’ worth of jobs up the spout.’ He looked round at the assembled faces for support. ‘You know, most people in Britain simply don’t care who we sell arms to. But when the nastiness of one particular regime gets thrust in their faces by something like this, then they begin to think they have a conscience.’

There was no disagreement. Copeland looked down at the notes he’d made, then frowned.

‘So on balance of probabilities, Stephen’s still in the far east. Right?’

‘Ye-es,’ answered Vereker, glancing at Stanley for backup.

‘So, what powers do
we
have for pursuing our investigations there?’ the PM asked pointedly.

‘It’s really down to the police in the countries concerned, prime minister,’ Vereker explained. ‘We can offer assistance and feed them any intelligence we get, but it’s up to them what they do with it.’

‘I don’t much like the sound of that.’

‘Probably be wise to put the SAS on standby,’ the assistant commissioner suggested, ‘for advice if nothing else. And I’ve a couple of blokes ready to go anywhere at a moment’s notice if we get into a hostage negotiation. They’ve been before, when those students were kidnapped on Irian Jaya a couple of years back. The problem this time of course is we don’t even know which country Bowen’s in.’

‘Isn’t there something else we can do?’

‘If you’re thinking, prime minister, that we should send an undercover team to Kutu to make contact with the OKP, that may not be possible,’ Vereker announced. A thin line of sweat glistened on his upper lip.

Assistant Commissioner Stanley felt a buzz of anticipation. He sensed a door opening.

‘To be blunt, we’re short of resources in the far east,’
the
SIS man explained, ‘what with budget cuts since the end of the Cold War. Our agents in the region are all committed to catching drug smugglers and can’t be extracted quickly.’

‘God almighty! Another victory to the media!’ the PM howled, ‘
They
’ll be into Kutu like rats up a drainpipe.’

‘Wouldn’t be too sure, prime minister,’ Vereker mumbled. ‘The Indonesians have managed to keep journalists out of there for most of the past year. They can smell a reporter a mile away.’

Assistant Commissioner Stanley cleared his throat. ‘
We
might be able to help,’ he offered quietly. He felt the burn of Vereker’s stare. ‘It’s just occurred to me that one of my officers in the Anti-Terrorist Branch who’s already involved in this case happens to speak Malay which I believe is very similar to Indonesian. And he’s had experience in hostage situations. I’d be happy to make him available.’

Vereker looked as if he’d been shot. ‘Hardly think that’s wise,’ he protested. ‘It’d be extremely embarrassing diplomatically if he cocks up.’ He looked to the foreign secretary for support. Hugh White seemed on the point of backing him up, but Copeland cut him off.

‘Go on, commissioner.’

‘DS Randall could try to get into Kutu and see if he can stand up the OKP involvement in the kidnap, which would leave the SIS to dig up what they can in Jakarta and Singapore where they already have desk men in place.’

‘It’s a very difficult environment out there,’ Vereker whined. ‘Not the sort of place for a London bobby.’

Stanley let the sarcasm wash off his back.

‘I totally agree. But the man I’m talking about is no London bobby. He’s ex-army, served in the far east. Won a medal after negotiating the release of a military
hostage
, and is one of the best undercover operators we have.’

‘Sounds worth exploring,’ the PM decided, raising his eyebrows at Vereker. ‘Why don’t you two come up with a plan in the next couple of hours, then we’ll take a decision.’ He got to his feet, wincing. For some reason stress always made his leg hurt more.

‘Give my office a call when you’ve worked something out, will you?’

‘I most certainly will, sir,’ nodded Stanley.

Keith Copeland walked along the tunnel linking the Cabinet Office with 10 Downing Street. Ten thirty. Just over three hours since the nightmare erupted and he’d begun to panic. Time was of the essence he’d told them, but thankfully they’d not understood what he meant. It wasn’t just Stephen Bowen’s life and the arms contract at risk, but his entire future. The longer this case remained unresolved, the greater the danger of a revelation that would destroy him.

There’d been three hours of speculation this morning by a media short of facts. Time now for him to go on camera and give an impression of being in charge. Couldn’t delay it any longer. Yet
in charge
was something he certainly didn’t feel.

His boyish-faced press secretary was waiting as he climbed the stairs into Number 10.

‘All right, Gordon,’ Copeland declared, forestalling the question. ‘I know it’s feeding time. How many animals out there?’

‘A full cage, PM. Shall I tell them five minutes?
If
that gives us long enough to discuss what you’re going to say …’

‘Nothing to discuss. You see I’m not going to
say
anything, Gordon. Words, but no content.’

The press secretary bristled at having his offer of advice rejected. ‘Five minutes it is then, PM.’

Copeland slipped into his office and closed the door, desperate for a few moments alone in which to compose his thoughts.

The TV pictures of Stephen had been deeply shocking. Horrible to see such terror in the face of someone he’d known for so long. They’d been at Cambridge together. A friendship, it had to be said, founded more on pragmatism than affection. Thirty years of scratch-my-back that had paid off handsomely just eighteen months ago.

The party had been in crisis. A demand for a leadership contest. Copeland had been pushed into standing. He’d won, but with an infinitesimal margin. Bowen’s change of heart had clinched it. His old ‘friend’ had originally planned to support a competitor.

To Copeland’s further amazement, the party had gone on to win the general election by one seat. Which made him prime minister. It had been time to pay his dues, so he’d found Bowen a job in government.

And now he regretted it bitterly. Regretted the deals he’d made to get where he was, and more important, regretted the other little ‘arrangements’ Bowen had tempted him into.

Outside his front door the media vultures were hovering. But it’d be worse later when they knew more. Best to confront them now.

Gordon was waiting for him in the hall. He checked his watch.

‘Two more minutes, prime minister …’

‘No. I’ll do it now. If they’re not ready they can lump it.’

The signal was given for the constable to open the door. Copeland strode out towards the microphones on the pavement opposite.

‘
We’re now live from Downing Street
.’ He heard the urgent words of a correspondent alerting viewers.

‘It’s time I said a few words,’ Copeland began, his mind threatening to go blank. ‘You er … will understand there’s little I
can
say at this stage. The situation is still very confused. What is clear is that Stephen Bowen is being held a prisoner somewhere against his will.’

A questioner tried to interrupt, but Copeland held up a hand.

‘As you know, last week Stephen was on an official visit to Indonesia. At its conclusion he decided to spend a few days travelling privately. Perfectly understandable. The far east is a beautiful and fascinating part of the world … Anyway, during that time it seems he was taken prisoner. We don’t as yet know when or where. As I said, he was not on ministerial duties at the time and therefore didn’t need to be in daily contact with officials. Scotland Yard is leading the investigation. They will I’m sure be given the fullest co-operation by the relevant authorities in the countries concerned.’

‘Which countries, prime minister? Was he still in Indonesia?’ A woman from the BBC.

‘I can’t answer any questions at this stage. The investigation is very sensitive. I’m sure you’ll understand. Now, that’s all …’

An inbred politeness made it hard to back away. It’d be his downfall one day, his wife always said.

‘Will you cancel the arms contract with Indonesia?’ He recognised the Glaswegian tones of the terrier from the News Channel.

‘I …’ Dangerous ground. ‘The contract was a hard-fought one, involving weapons suitable for Indonesia’s national defence and nothing else. There’s no question of them being used in any internal repress …’

Damn, he thought. Cocked it up.

‘
Repression
, prime minister? Why does Britain sell weapons to a country with such a lousy human rights record?’

‘The British government has repeatedly made its views on human rights known to the Indonesian government. Repeatedly. Now that’s all …’

‘Is it true, prime minister, that a substantial aid package has been offered to Indonesia as an inducement to buy British arms?’

The prime minister flinched. The man was fishing.

‘No. It is not true,’ he flannelled. ‘We do provide aid to Indonesia, as we do to a great many countries all over the world. But there is no link whatsoever between aid and arms. Thank you.’

He turned on his heels, pulse thundering.

‘Any plans to send in the SAS?’

Copeland heard a ripple of laughter amongst the press. As the door closed behind him he paused by the mantelpiece in the hallway to steady himself.

Got away with it that time, he thought. But he knew in his heart that with every hour that passed, his chances of surviving their relentless probing could only reduce.

Six

The News Channel

12.20 hrs

THE WORDS ON
the VDU were a blur. Charlotte was flagging. On the go now for nearly nine hours. Her hair felt like it had been rolled in cooking oil. One more bulletin to perform for, then she’d slip out for a sandwich, a Diet Coke and a cigarette.

Her hopes of reaching Kutu were dimming by the minute. Every time she’d cast eyes on Sankey in the last few hours she’d flashed him her sexiest smile, but there was no sign of him softening. And to cap it all a friend at Reuters had warned her the Indonesians were already watching like hawks for foreign journalists. A total waste of time trying to get in, he’d said.

No point in her snuggling up to Sankey for an air ticket, then going all that way only to be turned back on arrival. Suicidal from a career standpoint. However, before she gave up there was one last avenue to explore.

The picture elements for her lunchtime news package were mostly in place. The PM’s inadequate statement, police chief arriving at the Cabinet Office, file footage from Indonesia and the kidnappers’ video itself. All she needed were new facts to move the story on.

There was a number she’d been trying to ring all morning, but unsurprisingly it had been permanently engaged. This time it rang out.

‘
Stop the Arms Trade
.’ A mature, female voice.

‘Cindy Holdsworth, please.’

‘
Not available at the moment. Who’s calling?
’

‘Charlotte Cavendish at the News Channel. Tell me, do you have a press officer called Melanie?’ Some faint memory. Something she’d read. In the
Guardian
probably. A personal connection she might be able to exploit …

‘
Yes. Melanie Carter
.’

Bull’s-eye. They’d been at Oxford together. Hadn’t known her well. Not seen her since. But it was an ‘in’.

‘
She’s on another line. It’s been very busy this morning
.’

‘Not surprised,’ Charlie remarked. ‘I suppose Cindy’s had the police round …’ she added casually, stabbing in the dark.

‘
Oh … well I couldn’t say
.’ Charlie’s hook had caught a fish. ‘
Do you want to hold for Melanie in the press office? You’re third in the queue. If you like I can fax you the statement she’s given out
…’

‘Maybe that’s best for now. But can you slip her my name before you put the next call through? Charlotte Cavendish at the News Channel. I’m an old friend.’

‘
Can’t promise. But I’ll try
.’

‘Thanks. Are the police still there by the way?’

‘
I really don’t know anything about that, Miss Cavendish
,’ she replied testily. ‘
Now, do you have a fax number
?’

Charlie gave it to the woman then rang off.

Melanie Carter. The only female she’d ever met who didn’t seem to mind being overweight.

She tried the Scotland Yard press office number again.

‘
Your call is in a queue. Please hold
.’

‘Who in the world’s got time to hold,’ she snapped, ringing off and hurling herself at the fax machine. The first page from STArT began to emerge.

‘
The British Government’s approval of arms sales to Indonesia is a disgraceful act which gives unwarranted international respectability to a regime that continues to defy the world on
human
rights. Arrest and torture, imprisonment and murder are the Indonesian government’s answers to protests against injustice
.