Rogue Element (36 page)

When the news of the rescue came through, a feeling of triumph swept the room. Something positive, at last. But the handshaking and the smiling had subsided quickly. Too many people had died over the past few days for overt expressions of joy. And two more Australians had lost their lives, members of the SAS. Apparently, the butcher’s bill on the Indonesian side was far worse.

The survivors had been found and both were reasonably healthy. Remarkable, considering their ordeal. More astonishing was the twist that one of those survivors was the young man who had started this deadly snowball rolling, one Cee Squared, Joe Light. What were the chances of that? Somehow, one in around four hundred didn’t seem to do the unlikely event justice. That was a bonus. He was a fact of life the non-believers within the DPRD wouldn’t be able to deny. Not only that, there was apparently an overview of the invasion captured on disk, the very thing the 747 was shot down to keep secret. It was an incredible stroke of luck.

There was no doubt in Niven’s mind that Joe Light was a hero. If not for him, perhaps the first indication of the invasion would have been the fishing boats swamping the northern Australian coastline.

‘This isn’t a triumph, Air Vice Marshal,’ said Sharpe. ‘It’s a bloody disaster.’

‘What’s on your mind, Phil?’ Niven asked, distracted.

‘What are you going to do with these survivors?’

‘Ever heard the phrase, “and they lived happily ever after’’?’

‘Don’t be naive. I’d be thinking very carefully if I were you about the wisdom of letting someone like Joe Light loose on the national media.’

‘I’m afraid he’s right, Spike.’ Blight had his arms folded – the body language said it all. ‘The details of the last three days – the reasons for the crash – have to be kept out of the public domain.’

‘Bill, I don’t think it would be possible to keep it quiet,’ said Niven, his respect for the Prime Minister on the verge of dissolving.

The CDF knew he wouldn’t win the political argument against the Prime Minister. He wondered how much Sharpe had been in the PM’s ear. If these men were thinking cover-up, survivors presented a problem. What were they going to do with them? And then the penny dropped.
Jesus Christ, we’ve just lost more men to keep the poor bastards alive!

‘Sir, you’re not suggesting –’

Blight read his mind, horrified. ‘Jesus, man!’

‘Well then, what?’ asked Niven bluntly. They’d all been through a lot over the past few days and the polite formalities had been dispensed with.

‘Frankly, I don’t know, but the national interest has to be considered here.’

‘We’re not the bad guys,’ said Sharpe. ‘We just need some kind of contingency plan.’ Niven glanced at Sharpe who was behind the PM as he drew a finger across his throat, smiling. It took a supreme effort of will for Niven to ignore him.

‘Spike, what do you think the Australian people will demand if the full horror of this gets out?’ Blight asked. ‘Over four hundred people dead, a Qantas plane shot down, plans for invasion . . .’

Niven realised the PM’s fear. ‘They’d want to even the score,’ he said.

Blight nodded slowly. ‘Revenge.’

Niven surprised himself that he hadn’t considered what was so obvious. The very thing they’d just managed to avert might happen anyway. And what if Australia and Indonesia did slug it out? Aside from the destruction wreaked by the conflict itself, would that then make Australia a target for Islamic terrorists from all over the world? ‘Okay, I see your point, Bill.’ Blight was right, yet, in Niven’s view, he was also morally wrong. What about the truth? There was no perfect solution. There were too many possibilities and variables, no matter how things were handled, and all of them had potentially dire consequences attached. Perhaps secrecy was the right way to go. Sharpe grinned behind the PM’s back. Niven just wished he didn’t have to agree with
him
.

The fate of Flight 007 on Sakhalin Island flashed into his brain again. The realities of the incident had been buried somehow – that was obvious to him now. But why? There was supposedly a well-known outspoken anti-Communist congressman on the flight. At the time, both sides were seeking détente. Had he been silenced to make peace a reality?

If the aircraft
hadn’t
crashed into the sea as reported but had actually made it to the military base on Sakhalin itself, around 270 passengers and crew would have been spirited away. If that was the case, what had happened to them? Where were they now? If one passenger had turned up alive, questions would have been asked about what happened to all the rest. The fact that very little wreckage and only four bodies were found made that theory quite plausible. Images of frightened passengers swam in his mind – men, women and children being herded off to some unknown fate, their lives and dreams terminated
because of some foreign policy manoeuvring.

We don’t have anything like that kind of problem here, Niven reminded himself – just two people. ‘If you don’t mind, Bill, I’d like to handle it,’ Niven said. If he took over, Niven reasoned, then at least it’d be done right. Two fine Australian soldiers had paid the ultimate price to protect the survivors. He didn’t want that sacrifice to have been for nothing.

‘Thanks, Spike,’ said Blight. ‘I was hoping you would.’

Sharpe placed a hand on Niven’s shoulder and said quietly in his ear, ‘Me too, Spike. I can think of no one better to screw over if things get fucked up.’

Niven shuddered, and not just because of the physical contact with Sharpe. Lying went against his grain even if, in this particular instance, there was a reasonable argument that doing so served the national interest. And then there was the problem of making that lie stick. Would it be possible to pass off the plane crash as some kind of bizarre accident? Alternatively, what if there was no attempt to hide the truth? Could there be advantages in that? Indonesia had to face up to the reality of its fractious military establishment once and for all. The world condemnation that would follow when the full story was known might force all kinds of changes on Jakarta. Perhaps the fate of QF-1 might be just the right catalyst. Niven wrestled with the competing voices in his head, and a small part of him was thankful that the decision about which way to jump had been taken out of his hands.

Niven glanced around the room quickly sizing up the men he’d followed the crisis through with over the past three days. Griffin and Greenway were nodding as Blight and Sharpe spoke to them, drumming up support no
doubt. Griffin caught the nervousness on Niven’s face and came over. He said, ‘The PM just told us . . . I know you, and I can see this sticking in your throat. Spikey, for what it’s worth, Lurch and I think the PM’s right. Can’t see any other way.’

‘There’s always another way, Griff,’ said Niven obstinately.

‘Okay, forget about Australia and Indonesia and the geopolitical issues at stake. Try and look at it from the two survivors’ point of view. They’re going to want to return to some semblance of a normal life. Find some way to make that possible for them, because if all this ends up in the media, I guarantee they’ll be dead within the year – think what juicy targets they’d make for extremists.’

‘Yep, okay . . . that hadn’t occurred to me, Griff,’ said Niven. ‘And the PM’s reasons are valid too, I suppose. Frankly, I’m just not happy about doing another Sakhalin Island here. And y’know, no matter what we do to prevent it, it’ll all come out sooner or later.’

‘Too many loose ends?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Well, let’s hope when it does we’re all retired,’ Griffin said, forcing a smile. He knew Niven was right. And when it all boiled down, the reason for the cover-up was simply to protect people’s lives. ‘Come on, Spike, let me get you a drink. Lord knows we deserve one.’

‘Thanks, Griff, but I’ll take a rain check if you don’t mind. I’ve got a bit of planning to do and once I start drinking I don’t think I’ll want to stop.’

‘Know what you mean. Care to bounce anything off me?’

‘Actually, yes.’ Niven’s mind was already racing with a
plan half formed. An invasion was imminent unless something could be done about Suluang and the rest. Leaking the satellite photo of the crash to the Indonesian parliament just before releasing it to the Australian media had been a clever ploy
.
Blight’s idea. The impression was that the photo had come from a source within the TNI – more factional infighting? And then there was allowing Batuta to join the team at the videoconference, where General Masri gave up his story. Another Blight masterstroke. A risk, of course, because in reality the PM couldn’t have known for sure exactly what Batuta did or didn’t know. Blight had gambled that the diplomat was completely in the dark, and won. No doubt about it, the man was an excellent strategist. Now they knew exactly where the Indonesian government stood, and a counter-move could be made with some confidence. Perhaps the PM was also right about these next uncomfortable steps.

A videoconference would need to be set up as soon as possible between Batuta, Blight, and the President of Indonesia and his foreign minister. It would then be up to Batuta to convince his President to side with Canberra against the common enemy. At least Canberra had something to work with now, facts they didn’t have even a few hours ago, some certainty. The Indonesian politician, Achmad Reza, the man Griffin had chosen to reveal the satellite photos of QF-1 to the Indonesian parliament, was a further asset they could harness.

Niven’s plan was chancy and violent, but there wasn’t much time up their sleeves for subtlety. Suluang had to be on the back foot. But there were a couple of major details Niven as yet had no answers for. The first was to find a reason for the 747’s crash. It couldn’t be attributed to human
error. With all the press coverage the incident had received, the public was now very well informed. The fact that aircraft didn’t just disappear from ATC screens without good reason had been widely canvassed. He saw no way around bringing Boeing into the loop. The manufacturing giant would thoroughly investigate the wreckage and the chances of it agreeing to attribute the cause of the crash to mechanical or systems failure were nil. Neither Boeing nor the world’s carriers could afford a crisis of confidence in the popular aircraft. Secondly, there was Joe and the woman – what was her name . . . Suryei? How to protect their identities?

‘Griff, if I remember correctly, you said that one of our people was Suluang’s lover?’

‘Well, yes . . .’

The CDF was so caught up in his thoughts, he failed to realise his cold had disappeared.

Sketchy news had just reached Suluang by phone of several F-16s involved in some kind of crash or mid-air collision in Sulawesi, but the report was unconfirmed. Hasanuddin AFB was in a flap. All planes were up, but they hadn’t as yet located the missing aircraft or recovered the pilots. But it wasn’t unusual to lose fighters through training accidents and other mishaps – that much he did know. Suluang wondered whether he was being hopeful or delusional. Something was wrong, definitely wrong. The 747 was located, the world was watching, and yet he was
blind, attempting to plan in a vacuum.

And then there was Sergeant Marturak. Static, a distant crackling on the appointed frequency – that’s all they’d received from him when they’d tried to make contact. Marturak had not called in at the appointed time. Another missed communication meant the problems were continuing. More reasons to be anxious. Marturak had been due to report and confirm that the crash site was secured at last, meaning the two survivors had joined their fellow passengers. But that communication had not been received.
What in Allah’s name was going on?
There was no contingency plan because the operation had been hurriedly cobbled together and executed. Perhaps Marturak’s radios had somehow been disabled. If he heard nothing within the next hour, he would dispatch another team of Kopassus troops to the area.

The problem with that, of course, was that the net was widening. Already too many people knew too much. Sooner or later there would be a leak and that was a real danger. Masri had deserted the cause after the last get-together, lost his nerve. How many others would lose their resolve with the uncertainties building? The government’s internal security would be digging around, hunting for irregularities. Lanti Rajasa would take care of that, should it become an issue. But he wouldn’t be able to keep the dogs at bay for long. And he wouldn’t be able to help at all if their plan was revealed. Rajasa would be one of the first to be isolated, excluded from the loop. Not true, he told himself. He would be – Suluang.

General Masri still hadn’t been found. His disappearance was Suluang’s main concern. Bigger, even, than not hearing from the Kopassus, or that satellite photo. Masri
could be dead, lying face down in a paddy field somewhere. Suluang hoped he was, because if he wasn’t, then he could also be somewhere talking to the wrong people. Again, he hadn’t heard anything. The hit had been ordered on Masri and the hitman had himself been killed. Masri, though, had disappeared. Vanished. And so had his driver, one of Lanti’s people. The plan, the beautiful plan, was unravelling fast.
There are too many variables. Get out now!
There were countries he could disappear to and live like a sultan on the money he had salted away over the years.

And yet, a competing voice told him he was panicking unnecessarily. That there was nothing to worry about. Elizabeth always had that effect on him, the ability to block out reality; a safe harbour. She’d called him forty minutes ago at the barracks to tell him that she had rented a room at a five-star hotel, and filled the bath with bubbles. She did that occasionally. Suluang had things on his mind that demanded attention, but the thought of Elizabeth naked but for lavender suds was utterly distracting. Reluctantly, after telling her he was too busy, he’d capitulated. Perhaps, he had reasoned, the diversion would do him good.
One last time?

Suluang was glad that he’d given in. He lay back on the crisp linen sheets in the cool, darkened room. The woman’s body was exquisite. She was young, with breasts that strained against the thin fabric of her dress. Her waist was narrow and her legs long and straight. He really should talk to his uncle about including more such delicious items on the menu. What a find she was. He’d been sleeping with her, when the opportunity presented itself, for some time now. He doubted that he’d ever slept with such a beautiful woman before. And she had a dirty mind.
The woman looked like an angel, but fucked like a whore.

Elizabeth smiled at the man lying on the bed. It wasn’t her real name, of course. She wore names, identities, like masks. When she was done with this assignment, she’d write the name on a piece of paper and throw it in the bin. The ritual helped clear her mind so she could adopt a new mask the next time it was needed.

No matter what the assignment, Elizabeth loved sex. Indeed, the more the better. She didn’t care who the man was as long as he was healthy, preferably not fat, and had a decent-sized organ. And not necessarily in that order, she thought. In the lexicon of modern neuroses, Elizabeth was a sex addict. She knew what her body demanded, and she satisfied that demand at every opportunity. She’d never suffered the indignity of having to fake an orgasm, no matter who she happened to be in bed with. She couldn’t understand women having problems reaching that glorious plateau. It was so easy for her. She often wondered if men had the same attitude to fucking that she did. It would be an interesting thesis – she’d certainly enjoy researching it.

Choosing a wardrobe had been difficult for this job. Ultimately, she’d settled on a range of cotton sundresses. They were cheap but, with the right colour and length of hemline, could be very sexy. She liked the ones with buttons down the front best of all. She could keep them buttoned to the collar at work. Afterwards, the buttons could be undone to the appropriate depth. And when the sun was just so in the sky, the cotton fabric hid nothing while covering everything.

Elizabeth leaned against the side table, one of her long brown legs parting the sky-blue dress to her thigh. She undid the buttons at her chest, her golden skin glowing.
She hadn’t even started and already she could see that the general was ready for her. This man was too easy. The dress fell from her shoulders, crumpling at her feet. The general swallowed dryly.

He was hard when she lifted the sheet to straddle him. Suluang felt the cool fabric of her panties against the heat of his skin. His excitement thrilled her and she sensed her own wetness.

Elizabeth rode him. The general’s thrusts felt good. She moved on him, positioning her body for the most pleasure. And then, like an engine on a cold morning, her orgasm began to catch, the pleasure exploding in a ball of light and heat between her legs. She tried to keep the feeling going forever. But inevitably its power subsided and she was left with the man beneath her, spent, useless.

Suluang looked up at her with a smile on his lips, the usual triumphant smile most men wore afterwards. It said, ‘Yeah, baby, I’m good.’ Elizabeth didn’t mind that. Leaving the man confident in his prowess was part of
her
power. Elizabeth smiled back and slid off, reaching for her Marlboros on the bedside table. She walked towards the bathroom, through the sun, in a swirl of grey-blue smoke. Suluang marvelled at the highlights that flashed blue-black in her hair. The woman disappeared behind the closed bathroom door. He heard the tap running in the bath. Ah, bubbles, he thought.

Suluang closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the pillow. He thought that he could probably become quite attached to this woman, even though she was perhaps only just half his age. And only a waitress. How could she afford a room in such an expensive hotel? he wondered. Maybe his uncle was also receiving ‘favours’. He shouldn’t
allow himself to get so attached.

A small click that came from another world distracted him, made him open his eyes.

He looked into the small black hole of a silencer attached to a Glock. He shifted focus to the pale green eyes behind it. He noted that, with only one ear, the man’s head appeared lopsided. Suluang wondered how he’d lost it. The gun made the sound of a cork coming out of a champagne bottle. At the instant the bullet smashed into his skull, Suluang’s mind registered blinding pain before closing down forever.

Vince had fired into the target’s mouth, up into the brain. He’d resisted the temptation to follow his first shot with one more round. Two shots to the head. Once ingrained, SAS training was hard to overcome. This was not to look like a professional hit. With the man’s brains all over the bed head, he didn’t need to check the carotid artery but did so anyway, out of a sense of professionalism. There was no pulse.

The air smelled tangy and salty, the combined perfume of sweat, sex and propellant. Vince’s nose twitched. He retrieved the small brass shell casing, rolled it between the dead man’s thumb and forefinger, then let it fall to the carpet. Next he removed the gun’s silencer, pocketing it, and placed the gun on the carpet close to the bed after pressing it into the man’s hand to ensure the stock was marked with the proper fingerprints. Forensics would fail to turn up evidence that supported suicide, such as grains of gunpowder burned into the skin of the general’s hand, but Vince knew that sort of inspection would take a couple of days to process. By then, he would be long gone. Vince could hear the water running in the bathroom –
Elizabeth. There was no reason to disturb her. Each knew what had to be done. He went to the door of the hotel room and placed the hole in the side of his head against it. There was no sound from the hallway on the other side. Vince was out and gone, just another European tourist in a five-star Jakarta hotel full of them.

Elizabeth exited the bathroom, dressed and ready to leave in a tan Chanel suit. Her hair was up and she wore expensive make-up. The young waitress was gone. In her place was a sophisticated businesswoman, a marketing director or an advertising executive, perhaps, from a big multinational agency. The man she’d left alive not ten minutes ago was now very dead, as she knew he would be. She was impressed – Vince worked quietly. White sheets, red blood, brown skin: very artistic. She observed that her g-string was still dangling from the general’s fingers. She shrugged. What would it hurt to leave it? She wondered if it would cause a stir. At the very least, it would give the police something tantalising to put under their microscopes. The thought made her smile, exciting her. Elizabeth, not her real name, left the suite without a backward glance.