Java Spider (30 page)

The passengers were mostly businessmen in suits. Their passports were given a cursory glance by the immigration officer. A young man with hair cropped to within a centimetre of his scalp presented his maroon
document
. Upon reading the name the immigration man scratched his cheek. At the signal Harding hurried out into the customs hall.

Ricky Smith had a face bronzed by a sun-lamp, a denim shirt open to his navel, and a gold medallion glittering against his sternum. His face wore an expression of unjustified self-confidence.

‘Excuse me sir, could I see your passport?’ The transport policeman blocked the TV technician’s path.

‘Eh? Just done that, mate,’ Smith protested.

‘Don’t fuck us about, Ricky,’ Harding snapped, gripping his arm.

Wesley Street, Westminster

12.59 hrs

Since watching Keith Copeland condemn her husband to death on television just over an hour ago, Sally Bowen had paced around the little flat, clutching the boarding pass on which the unexplained account number was written. From time to time she stopped to stare from the window.

She’d decided she couldn’t let it go. She was still Stephen’s wife, whatever she thought of him. Still the one person he would be counting on to save him if she could. In her hands she held
something
. Didn’t know what. Didn’t understand the relevance of the words:
Keith’s account: N
465329.

It might be nothing. But knowing how gambling had stripped Stephen of all financial morality, knowing how close he and Keith Copeland had become in the past year, she realised that what she held in her hand could
just
turn out to be a lever as strong as a crowbar.

The television was on with the volume low. She heard the jingle for the lunchtime news, crossed to the set, turned up the sound and sat on the edge of the sofa.

‘
PM gives final “no” to Stephen Bowen’s kidnappers
,’ the newscaster intoned. ‘
Police say the minister’s whereabouts are still unknown
.’

She watched as they reran the shot of Copeland with the Indonesian ambassador. That smirk on his face. That dreadful smugness. That appalling look of satisfaction just after condemning Stephen to death. It decided her.

She stood up, paced to the rosewood table with the phone on it and dialled the number for 10 Downing Street.

‘Hello? This is Mrs Sally Bowen speaking. I’d like to speak to the prime minister.’

‘
I’ll put you through to the secretary, Mrs Bowen
.’

A moment later a man’s voice came on.

‘Mrs Bowen? The prime minister’s in a meeting just now. Can I help?’

‘Yes. I want to see Keith. He said I could. Whenever I liked. I want to fix a time. As soon as possible. It’s really quite urgent.’

Kutu – Hotel Touristik

21.25 hrs (13.25 hrs GMT)

Inside the lobby of the Touristik Hotel the intel man who’d let them slip through his fingers an hour and twenty minutes ago gave them a look that could have flayed the skin off their backs.

‘Evening,’ said Randall.

They walked past him into the empty, central courtyard.

‘That’s one very unhappy bunny,’ Randall muttered. ‘Now, I don’t know about you, but I’ve got to eat something. You hungry?’

‘Yes. If we’re not too late.’ The dining terrace was deserted, the gamelan orchestra gone, the tables draped with white cloths but no cutlery. Charlie put a hand on his arm. ‘They wouldn’t bug this bit of the hotel would they? Put things under the tables?’

Unlikely, thought Randall. Beside the lit-up swimming pool however the furniture was plastic and portable. Safer to sit there.

‘Over there,’ he pointed, leading the way.

They sat, looking round for some sign of serving staff. Charlie lit a cigarette and drew on it tensely, relieved to be back in the hotel.

‘So, what d’you make of all that?’ she prodded, desperate for Randall to open up. ‘Our Australian friend and his rumours …’ She’d watched Nick’s face while Dugdale was talking and was convinced something had clicked with him.

‘Not sure,’ he shrugged. ‘But I think he’s up to something.’

‘Knows more than he’s saying, you mean?’

‘Maybe. Had a feeling at one point he knew where Bowen was …’

‘Wow! Why d’you say that?’ She hunched forward, drawing in a mouthful of smoke.

Randall puffed out his cheeks. ‘Just a feeling …’

‘… born of years of policemanly experience, I suppose,’ she needled, hoping to goad him into giving away more.

‘If you like.’

‘Or … because of something you
know
. Something
about
Brad that’s come up elsewhere? Something dug up by MI6 perhaps?’ she gushed, desperate for Randall to give. ‘Something they told you on the phone when you spoke to London from Darwin airport, perhaps?’

‘Hey, hang on chuck. Hang on. You’re way off beam. And anyway, don’t push your luck. When there’s something I can tell you, I will. OK?’ His voice was firm but gentle.
He
’d try it on if
he
were her. ‘But the answer’s no. None of that stuff. It’s just a gut feeling.’

Charlie sat back and flicked ash on to the soil of a pot plant. ‘Well, do your guts also tell you whether we can get anything to eat around here?’ She peered into the shadows that ringed the dining area, then looked at her watch. It felt like midnight. ‘Only half past nine. Must be
someone
around still.’

Nick tapped his metal watch-bracelet on the table, hoping the noise would attract attention. He felt desperately tired suddenly. The lack of sleep was catching up.

A waitress appeared, dressed in knee-length skirt and white blouse. Silently and from nowhere.

‘Kitchen close …’ said the woman. She had a pretty face but sad eyes.

‘You can find us something,’ Nick replied, slipping a banknote into her hand.

‘
Terima kasih
!’ she smiled, bowing. ‘You like
nasi goreng?
’

‘She says there’s fried rice with chicken and veg,’ Nick translated.

‘Fine. Anything.’

‘Beer to drink?’ he checked.

‘No. Diet Coke.’

‘And a beer for me,’ he told the girl.

‘The power of money,’ Charlie breathed as the waitress disappeared.

They sat staring into the clear blue depths of the pool.
For
a full minute neither spoke. Then Charlie broke the silence, reading his thoughts.

‘Soleman Kakadi.’

‘Yes. All the signs seem to point. Tomorrow we have to find a way of getting to him.’

Charlie felt warmed by the way he’d said
we
. He gave her a smile that was a little sheepish. Looks like a kid at times, she thought. He’d be cuddly if he let go a bit. She stubbed out her cigarette.

‘Got any kids?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Eh?’

‘On the plane from Singapore you told me you were married once.’

‘Yes. One daughter,’ he frowned, not wanting the distraction of thinking about Sandra.

‘How old?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘And trouble, I imagine,’ she smiled. ‘What happened?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Between you and your wife. You broke up …’

Randall puffed his cheeks. ‘Look, I really don’t want to talk about it …’

‘Sorry.’ She blushed. ‘That was rude. Typical journalist. Never know when to stop.’ She smiled meekly. ‘It’s just that when I share a bed with a bloke I like to know a bit about him.’

He sat up with a jolt, sensing her remark had been more than an idle one – that she was telling him something. A gentle come-on perhaps? Too bad. He’d decided right at the start that, however tempted, sex with Charlie was a complication he could do without.

He was about to remind her of his promise to sleep on the floor, when the waitress returned, beaming. She set a tray down, off-loaded bottles and glasses, then the two plates of food.

‘That was quick,’ Charlie breathed. ‘How much did you tip her?’

‘Too much by the look of it.’

‘
Selamat makan
,’ she purred, slinking away.

‘What did she say?’

‘Nothing much. Just
enjoy your meal
. But it’ll probably be cold.’ He took a forkful of rice. ‘It is.’

Charlie didn’t care, so long as it stopped her stomach rumbling.

‘How much of this language can you understand?’ she checked.

‘About half. It’s not hard to learn, but I’m rusty.’

Charlie watched his mouth as he ate, her fear of the place sufficiently diminished to wonder, just for a moment, what he would be like as a lover.

‘Look, as far as the bedroom arrangements are concerned …’ Randall began, deciding he’d better clarify matters. He stopped mid sentence. Footsteps were crossing the terrace to their left. They both looked. It was the intel man sneaking past hoping not to be noticed. He disappeared through a door.

‘That … that’s the room next to ours,’ Charlie gulped.

‘Yes.’

Their eyes locked.

‘Umm … so there’ll be somebody actually in the room next door to us, listening?’ she whispered huskily.

‘Looks like it. Listening and maybe watching, I suppose …’

Her jaw dropped. Then she frowned. ‘This is actually quite serious, isn’t it?’

‘How d’you mean?’

He saw a blur of embarrassment in her eye.

‘Well, we’re … we’re supposed to be on honeymoon, right? And, as you so perceptively said in Darwin this
afternoon
, there’s only one thing honeymooners do when they get into bed …’

She half smiled. She was floundering. Wanting him to tell her what to do.

Randall knew that look. Knew what it meant. Knew for certain that if he wanted to make love to her, he could. Visions of having sex with her deluged his mind suddenly, flushing out all thoughts of Bowen, of Dugdale and the job. Everything that mattered bleached out by a testosterone surge …

That was the trouble with sex. It took over. Took over completely. And he mustn’t let it.

‘Turns you on, does it, chuck …’ he growled, in an instinctive and clumsy put-down to cover his confusion, ‘… the thought of being videoed shagging?’

She put a hand to her mouth. That aspect of it hadn’t occurred to her.

‘But then I suppose being videoed is what you get paid for …’ he went on, labouring the joke until it hurt. He bit his tongue.

‘Thanks.’ She looked bruised, and turned her eyes away.

‘Sorry. Didn’t mean …’

‘Forget it.’

But she couldn’t. There was nothing funny about this situation. It scared her to death.

‘Look, I’m serious,’ she continued, looking down at her plate. ‘What … what are we going to do about that bloke?’ She shivered at the thought of him behind the wall, watching their every move, listening to their every breath.

‘OK …’ Randall reined in his imagination. Back to the job. Back to what mattered. ‘Let’s
be
serious then. They
will
be listening. But what they’ll be listening for is some bit of careless talk. Some clue that we’re journalists or Amnesty workers instead of who we say we are.
That’s
what it’s all about. So, we just have to stick to our legend like glue.’

‘It was your idea.’

‘What was?’

‘The
legend
. Being honeymooners.’

‘Well … sure.’ She was making a point again, he realised. Making the point that they would have to do
something
. ‘Well yes, I suppose the guy listening to the bugs might find it odd if …’

Charlie reached down suddenly and slapped her leg. ‘Talking of bugs …’

Mosquitoes flitted round the light above their heads. Nick dug in the grey holdall and found a stick of repellent, glad of the distraction. Charlie smeared it on her legs and arms.

‘You
are
taking malaria pills?’ he asked, then wished he hadn’t. He was
not
responsible for her. Couldn’t afford to be. The woman had
chosen
to come here.

Charlie nodded. ‘Of course I am.’ She looked at him expectantly. She wanted a decision. ‘They might find it odd, you said, if …’

‘I was only thinking,’ he muttered uncomfortably, moving the food round his plate, ‘that maybe we should give them
something
for their bugs to bite on.’

‘Yes,’ she replied, lowering her eyes again.

‘I mean just something for their tape. Sound effects.’ He paused, waiting for a reaction, but there wasn’t one. ‘Tell you what, we could just turn the telly up loud and then provide a backing track of screwing noises.’ He shrugged at the nonsense of it. ‘How about that?’

Charlie lifted one eyebrow. This was becoming a black farce. She was scared stiff. Not of sleeping with a relative stranger – she’d done that a few times in her life – but scared of this place, of the spooky, sinister men who lurked in every shadow. Scared too of the dangers
she
would face tomorrow if she was to get the story she’d come for.

What she needed above all was for Nick to be on her side. To help her get at the story, and to keep her safe. In short she needed him to
care
about her. If achieving that meant being videoed shagging as he so poetically put it, then so be it.

‘Look … I think maybe you’re making more of a problem out of this than you need …’ she said softly, reaching out and touching his hand. ‘This honeymoon thing – it’s acting, Nick. Like you said back in Darwin.
Whatever
we do it’s acting …’ She held his look until she knew he’d understood. ‘So just give me the script, will you? Or we can ad lib it. Whatever … it’s fine by me. You lead, Nick – I’ll follow.’

She withdrew her hand.

‘You’re the boss, Nick.’

Yes, thought Randall. That was just the bloody trouble.

Fifteen

London – 10 Downing Street

19.00 hrs

PRIME MINISTER COPELAND
stood in the middle of the room, eyes glued to the TV set in the corner. There’d been a murder and the Channel 4 News was leading on it. The chief executive of Capital Electricity p.l.c. had been shot dead an hour ago. Bullets fired through the window of his 7-series BMW while being driven home from his office in Battersea. He’d demanded an urgent report from the Met. Assistant Commissioner Stanley was on his way over.