The Malacca Conspiracy (20 page)

Perkasa nursed the cigar as the waiter returned with water and hot tea. “Your guest just called. He will be here momentarily, sir.”

The door closed, and Perkasa checked his watch again. Five minutes late. Suparman Perkasa did not appreciate waiting.

Once again, the door opened. A man stepped onto the veranda. He was of medium build, was dressed in a blue business suit with a red tie, and looked to be in his late forties. The door closed.

“It is beautiful out here this time of day, isn’t it?”

“Yes, indeed,” the general replied, again drawing on his cigar while eyeing the man.

The man nodded his head and pulled out an envelope. From it, he extracted a note card. “Zero-eight, one-seven, four-five, zero-eight, onefour, four-seven, zero-nine, one-one.”

Perkasa set his cigar on a crystal ashtray and extracted from his inside jacket pocket the envelope that Captain Taplus had handed him in Jakarta. “Read those numbers once again. Slowly, please.”

The man did.

“The numbers match. And I believe that I have some numbers that you will need to hear?”

“Please, General.”

“Ah, you believe that I am a general, do you?”

“I
suspect
that you are a general, and I will know not only that, but I will even be able to verify your name…if you give me the correct combination.”

Perkasa raised his eyebrow and looked down at the paper, which was becoming slightly difficult to read because of the evening shadows. “Eight-nine, eight-seven, zero-one, four-five, one-seven, zero-one.”

Perkasa folded the paper and reinserted it in his jacket pocket.

“It seems that destiny has brought us here, General Perkasa.”

“So it would seem,” Perkasa said. “Destiny, or millions of American dollars.”

“Isn’t it fitting that their own dollars will eventually bring them down?” The man smiled. “May I join you?” He pointed to another wrought-iron chair across from the table.

“Of course,” Perkasa said.

“I am Nisar Sharif. I, too, am a general. I am chief of staff of the Pakistani Air Force.”

“I have heard of you, General.” Perkasa extended his hand across the table to shake the Pakistani’s hand.

“Tell me, General.” Sharif released Perkasa’s hand. “What can Pakistan do for our brothers in Indonesia?”

Perkasa sat back, puffed the cigar, and contemplated his words. “You have something that your Indonesian brothers need.”

Sharif laughed. “Everybody has something that someone else needs.”

“We are prepared to pay you one hundred million dollars, General, if you will help us.”

Sharif folded his hands on his laps. If the offer had any impact on him at all, his face did not show it. “As a high-ranking officer of the Islamic Republic, I still must be assured that whatever you need will not undermine the interests of my country. This you will understand.”

Sharif was playing it very closely to the vest.

Impressive.

“General Sharif, you have my word as an Islamic brother, sworn upon the grave of my mother, that what we need will never be used against Pakistan, but will, in fact, give Pakistan a geostrategic foothold in one of the most important regions in the world.

“In addition to the money, I offer Pakistan an air base and a naval base on one of our islands in Indonesia, to be leased for fifty years at a price of one dollar per year.

“Pakistan can extend her power and prestige to another point on the globe. Working together with the soon-to-be-formed
Islamic
Republic of Indonesia, we shall see to it that Allah’s will extends to the most important sea lanes in the world.”

Silence.

“You paint an interesting scenario, General.” Sharif scratched his chin. “I do not suppose that whatever else you want involves certain types of weaponry?”

Perkasa smiled. “We both know the answer to that, General Sharif.”

Another pause. “How many did you have in mind?”

Perkasa sipped his water. “Surely Pakistan could spare a half dozen? That would not affect your security. Would it?”

Sharif sat for a moment, his eyes transfixed by something down on the beach. “It’s a beautiful flag, is it not?”

Perkasa looked around at the giant Pakistani flag, fluttering gloriously in the setting sun. “Yes, it is, General. And with your help, the glorious crescent moon on your flag will be on our flag. And you, more than anyone else, will be the reason for a great, new Islamic Republic on the face of the earth. Join with us in making history.”

The generals eyed one another. “You are persuasive, General Perkasa.”

“I am only committed to what I believe in.”

More silence. “What about payment?”

“Fifty percent wired to any account of your choosing immediately. Fifty percent upon delivery.”

“You know,” Sharif said, “I see the passion in your eyes, and I hear your passionate voice for Islam, General. I feel that you are trustworthy. Perhaps we can do business.”

“You are kind, General.”

“In fact, assuming the proper financial arrangements are made as you have offered, we can deliver the weaponry as soon as tomorrow. Come. Let us take a walk on the beach and discuss the details of this newfound alliance.”

North Jakarta Islamic Hospital

12:01 a.m.

B
ecause some of the equipment in operating room 3 was more antiquated than the modern, up-to-date equipment in operating rooms 1 and 2, the third OR was rarely used these days.

Dr. Anton Budi was counting on this fact, and on the fact that the surgery would be taking place under the cover of darkness, to pull off the plan.

Anton locked the door leading into the hallway, then pulled dark curtains across the glass windows, making the inside of the OR invisible to any duty nurses who happened to walk by during the night.

He donned a green surgical mask. “Are you ready, my brother?”

“I am ready,” Guntur said with a peaceful smile under the bright glare of operating room lights.

“I will see you when you wake up,” Anton said, hoping and praying that his brother would awaken after the procedure.

He placed the mask over Guntur’s face, secreting a combination of oxygen and nitrous oxide into his brother’s lungs.

Guntur coughed a bit, then closed his eyes and fell into the first stage of sedation.

Beep-beep. Beep-beep.
The heartbeat monitor blipped a normal, sharply spiked green line across the black screen. Good. Now to make sure that Guntur didn’t wake up…

He lifted a syringe against the overhanging spotlight and worked the plunger slightly.

Here he had to be careful. The tranquilizer succinylcholine, which was in the syringe, had been used in euthanasia killings of horses around the world. If not controlled carefully, the drug could easily kill a man.

He held the syringe up again against the light, just to be safe. The bright light showed the standard dosage of 1 mg/kg in the barrel.

He plunged the needle into Guntur’s upper arm, then pushed slightly on the plunger…slowly…slowly…until a one kilogram dose of succinylcholine had oozed under the skin.

Beeeeep beep. Beeeeep beeeeep. Beeeeep beep. Beeeeep Beeeeep.

The beeps grew elongated as Guntur’s pulse slowed. Anton watched the heart monitor for a minute or two.

Good. Pulse, breathing, oxygen content in the blood had all stabilized. Anton buffed sweat from his forehead with his forearm.

Now for the next step.

He would employ a surgical procedure that was being used in the United States. Anton had read about it but had never performed it. He would access the lung by cutting an incision under the arm. Then, after cutting through cartilage, he would separate his brother’s ribcage at the entry point with a mechanical clamp.

From there, he would use probes, scalpels, and suction devices to remove the lung.

Although Anton had never tried this procedure, the techniques in the manuals seemed simple enough. So it was not the risk of trying something for the first time that concerned him.

Infection was always a concern whenever a foreign object was inserted in the body.

Guntur was going to die anyway. But Anton wondered if Guntur could live long enough to carry out his plan before infection would set in and either debilitate him or kill him.

Most foreign objects inserted by surgeons, whether shunts, prosthetic devices, or artificial kneecaps, were sanitized to kill germs and bacteria.

But there had been no effort to sanitize the considerable amount of C-4 plastic explosive that would be inserted in Guntur’s hollow lung cavity.

Nor had there been any effort to sanitize the remote-controlled detonator that would be inserted into the chest cavity and would look like a pacemaker to any metal detector that Guntur passed through.

To counteract the certain onset of deadly infection, he would pump Guntur heavily with antibiotics and hope that a combination of penicillin and other drugs would keep him alive long enough to finish the mission.

Anton again checked Guntur’s vitals. All signs were still stable. Good.

He took his sleeping brother’s left forearm and lifted it up over his head, laying it at the head of the operating table. Next, with a flesh marker, he carefully marked off a line under the arm in the chest area where he would begin this incision.

Anton put down the marker. He took a deep breath. Turning to the table full of surgical instruments that was right beside him, he lifted a stainless-steel scalpel between his fingers.

Carefully, he brought the tip of the razor-sharp blade to the beginning of the line on his brother’s body. He pushed slightly, and the blade sliced through the skin, giving way to red, oozing blood.

It had begun.

F
ive hours later, Anton looped the last thread of suture through the incision. The surgery was now complete. He laid the forceps and threading needle on the instrument tray.

He checked the monitors for vital signs.
Pulse. Body temperature. Blood pressure. Respiratory rate.
All normal.

He adjusted the penicillin drip that was already flowing into Guntur’s body via intravenous administration. The key here, he again reminded himself, would be battling infection long enough to complete the deed.

Guntur’s pulse was starting to pick up. The effects of the succinylcholine would soon be wearing off.

Physically exhausted, Anton slumped into a hospital chair at the foot of the operating table.

He would be implicated in this.

He knew it from the beginning. Guntur had to know it too.

But what could he do? Refuse to do it because he was afraid of becoming an accomplice to the murder of the president? Guntur was right. The president’s Western-oriented army had killed their father.

It had always been about Guntur. And rightly so. Guntur was the brave one. The visionary. If Guntur would lay down his life to avenge their father’s murder, how could he not? He would be with his father…and his brother again soon, in paradise.

Guntur’s body moved slightly. A grunt came from his vocal cords. Then another grunt.

Anton stood and walked over to his brother. Guntur’s eyelids flickered and then opened.

“How do you feel?” Anton asked.

“Fabulous,” Guntur whispered. “Are we done?”

“We are done,” Anton said, “and you responded beautifully.”

Guntur reached his hand out and took Anton’s. “I am doing well because I was just operated on by the finest surgeon in all of Indonesia.”

“You are prejudiced, Guntur.”

“Prejudiced, but also truthful. When can I resume my duties?”

Anton released his brother’s hand. “You will have to attend to your duties quickly, Guntur. Infection is inevitable. You know that.”

Guntur’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I know. My choices are death by bacteria or death by bomb. It is my destiny.”

“It is
our
destiny.”

“Tomorrow.” Guntur’s black eyes glazed. “Tomorrow I have an important examination to conduct. Will the antibiotics hold me until then?”

Anton hesitated. Guntur knew the answers to these questions as
well as he did. But he seemed to be relishing his role as patient. Perhaps he knew that he may be Anton’s last patient.

“This depends on how rapidly infection sets in, my brother. I am going to take you home and keep you on an antibiotic drip. I am canceling all of my patients today.” He took his brother’s hand again. “Whatever happens tomorrow, my brother, I am with you.”

Guntur smiled beatifically. “To tomorrow.”

“To tomorrow.”

Chapter 10

United States Embassy
Jakarta, Indonesia

9:00 a.m.

T
he waiting area outside the ambassador’s office was surprisingly plain, Zack thought, especially in contrast to the embassy offices in Singapore, where the anteroom outside Ambassador Griffith’s office was ornate, complete with intricate wood carvings adorning the bookcases, swanky loveseats, silver tea trays, and an expensive grandfather clock.

But here in Jakarta, a black leather sofa and a couple of end tables that could have come from OfficeMax filled the room. The secretary’s pitiful, Rooms-to-Go-ish desk was not even manned at the moment.

Perhaps this should not be surprising.

Indonesia, for all its geostrategic importance to the free world, was out of sight and out of mind for most Americans.

Unlike Singapore, Indonesia was a poor country. Poor countries rarely get noticed by rich countries.

Its moderate Islamic government had made no waves, and other than the horribly devastating 2004 tsunami, Indonesia had pretty much stayed out of the news in the United States.

Most Americans could not say, if pressed, which country around the Indian Ocean had been most devastated by the tsunamis, nor could they finger Indonesia on the globe if someone put a gun to their heads.

Yep. Out of sight, out of mind.

He turned and looked at the stunning naval officer, sitting in her
summer white dress uniform, complete with white skirt and shiny white pumps. He gave her an affectionate tap on the hand.