The Malacca Conspiracy (19 page)

Anton leaned back in his chair and studied his brother’s face. Guntur would indeed do this with him or without him. He had always admired his brother for his ambition, for his courage, for his bravery.

And now, Anton was also prepared to give his all, to give his life for a cause that the brothers had believed in since their birth.

Guntur’s persuasive powers were immense. They always had been. No wonder he had risen to the top of the medical profession, or that he became the president’s personal physician, even if the president had prostituted the great religion that they believed in. Still, this was all happening so fast, so suddenly. If only there were more time…

“Please, brother,” Guntur said. “You are a thoracic surgeon. Thus, you are uniquely qualified for this very task. But I need your answer…or I must go on.”

The silence was deafening. And for at least a minute, Anton fixed his eyes out the window of his first-floor office, where two sun-drenched palm trees were swaying in the gentle breeze. A white seagull flew in from the sky, perching on one palm tree, then fluttering over to the other.

“Meet me tonight, my brother, at midnight,” Anton said. “Operating room number 3 is rarely in use. I will do it myself.”

“I love you, my brother.” Guntur gave him a warm embrace and kissed him on the head. “We shall be together again in paradise. I promise.”

Pelangi Island
The Java Sea

5:00 p.m.

T
he sun was headed down toward the sea. The soft swooshing of light swells lapping onto the warm, white sand, not far from where he had anchored the speedboat, and the rustling of palm tree branches far over their heads, interrupted by their occasional laughter—these were the only noises in this tropical paradise.

Captain Hassan Taplus leaned back on the blanket and sipped more red wine. He had forgotten the overwhelming beauty of this place. And why should he have remembered?

Pelangi Island was far out of reach for most of his countrymen. To get here, one needed money—something that most of his impoverished fellow citizens would never have—or some sort of high connection, as he had.

Perhaps he should stop drinking. His mind needed clarity for what he needed to do. He had thought that a few glasses would make this all easier. But in this state of mind, somewhere on the road between lucidity and the gateway to inebriation, he felt a concern that perhaps the alcohol was having just the opposite effect. Perhaps he should abort this mission.

The alcohol. The ambiance of it all…

He buried his left hand in the sand, stared at the sea, and then turned and gazed at her.

Madina was sipping her second glass of wine, and she seemed overwhelmed by the romance of it all. She smiled and beamed like a schoolgirl. And what an inviting smile it was.

Had he miscalculated the situation? Another sip of wine suggested that perhaps he had. Yet another sip left him hoping that he had, that he would be able to keep her around a while for his personal pleasure.

How luscious, how delectably irresistible she was, as she lay there on the blanket beside him, sipping wine in her lime-green sundress. Her smile was stunning, especially when the breeze blew those locks of long, curly brown hair onto her face, accentuating the slight dimples in her cheeks when she smiled.

Surely he had miscalculated.

Here, she seemed so naïve, so innocent, so totally enamored with everything other than politics. She could not be a double agent.

As her dancing brown eyes seemed to cast an enchanting spell on him, he looked for every reason to reconsider.

He leaned toward her, and instinctively, as if this were the most natural thing in the world, her lips moved toward him. Their kiss was long and passionate, and the touch of her hands and arms was gentle as she caressed his back. The magnetism was dynamic.

Perhaps she would make a good officer’s mistress.

Then he remembered.
The security breach!

Think, Hassan. All this could compromise the future national security of Indonesia.

Alcohol had gotten him into this mess to begin with.

He pulled away.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, disappointment set in her voice.

“Nothing,” he said. He took another sip.

She sat up and hugged her knees with her arms. “This place is so beautiful. It is amazing that we have the beach to ourselves, that no one is here.”

“A resort is on the other side of the island,” he said. “But it is rare that anyone is ever here.”

Her hand found his back, and she began to caress it. “You are amazing,” she said. “You leave out no details. A soldier who handles a boat, crossing over forty miles of water, as if you are an experienced sailor.”

He looked out over the sea, now imbued with tinges of orange on the blue wavelets, a reflection of the setting sun.

“Has this place always been so peaceful?”

“No.” He finished his second glass of wine and poured a third. “The waters once played host to one of the fiercest naval battles in modern history.”

“Really?” She massaged his neck now with a renewed vigor. “Who would want to have a battle in paradise?”

Hassan pulled out a cigarette from the picnic basket and lit it. “It was 1942. The Dutch controlled all of Indonesia at the time. They called our country the Dutch East Indies. Stretched across more than two thousand miles of the peaceful waters to the south are the many islands
of our country. And then beyond that”—he found himself pointing in a southerly direction—“is Australia.

“The Japanese wanted Australia. But to get it, they needed to go through Indonesia, or the Dutch East Indies, as we were then called. So the British and the Americans brought their Pacific fleets here, just north of our coastline.” He took a satisfying drag of nicotine. “The Dutch and Aussies had their ships here too, but even then not much was different than now. Mostly the Americans and British getting involved in areas of the world in which they have no business.”

Another drag. Another sip of wine.

“What happened?”

“The biggest, bloodiest naval battle since World War I happened. The Americans attacked the Japanese fleet, but things went bad for them. The historians call it the Battle of Java Sea. Before it was over, more than ten American and British ships were sunk, and more than two thousand sailors died. It was a crushing defeat for the US and the UK.”

“Hmm,” she said. “At least perhaps they were trying to protect us from an invasion by the Japanese, no?”

“It wasn’t us they were interested in protecting. Oh, the Dutch wanted to protect their colony, but the Americans and the British were interested only in protecting Australia. The Japanese needed our homeland as a springboard to attack Australia.”

He buried the cigarette in the white sand, and in one huge gulp, downed his third glass of wine.

She sipped from her glass and scooted closer to him. “You are so knowledgeable. So confident.” Her adoring eyes gazed at him for a moment. “You are the most amazing man I have ever met, Hassan. You are destined for greatness.”

She fell into his arms once again. She closed her eyes, her lips found his, and their long kiss fueled the chemistry between them. She was right about one thing. He
was
destined for greatness. And his greatness would bring about more opportunities with beautiful women like this.

She knew nothing of the assassination plan, he now decided. She would be good to keep around, as a paramour if nothing else. After all, the general had his paramour. Men of power needed women at their disposal for their pleasure.

He, Captain Hassan Taplus, had become a man of power. And he would rise as a comet streaking through the sky to even greater heights.

“I think I will need air soon,” she said flirtatiously, beaming with adoration as she allowed their lips to separate for a moment.

“What’s the matter?” He stroked her chin. “The air here isn’t fresh enough? We are forty miles across the sea from all the fumes and smog in Jakarta.”

She ran her hand through the back of his hair. “Oh, by the way, the television people came by before I left.”

“The television people?”

“Yes. From TVRI.”

“What did they want?”

“They wanted to come into the general’s study to set up television cameras.”

“And you let them?”

“Yes. They said Colonel Croon had ordered it. They even showed me his signature on the authorization form.” She massaged his shoulders. “Come, my dear Hassan. Can’t you tell me what is going on? They wanted to transform the general’s study into a television studio.” She poured another glass of wine, handed it to him, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Maybe the general is going to address the nation on television? No?”

An instant sensation of hot and cold flushed through his body. His neck was still hot and his head was swirling, but at the same time, his shoulders felt as if someone had just dumped bags of ice on them.

He glared at her. Her pretty face bore a dazed smile. “Why would you say something like that?” he demanded.

“Ahh, Hassan.” She kissed him again and rubbed her soft hand on his thigh. “You are so cute when you are angry.” She sipped more wine and smiled even wider. “You mean, why would the general go on national television to address the nation, when we already have a president who goes on national television to address the nation? Hmm…Now come, my Hassan. Your secret will always be safe with me.”

He leaned into her and kissed her again. She pulled herself to him, but for him the chemistry had fizzled. He faked the kiss for a moment longer, then pulled away. “I have an idea, my dear.”

“Really? And what might that be?”

“The sun is setting. Why don’t we take a stroll in the surf? And maybe, just maybe, I will tell you all the secrets you wish to know.”

“That’s a great idea,” she said.

He stood, took her outstretched hand, and pulled her up.

The water was warm and refreshing to their feet. He put his arm around her shoulders and led her into the gentle, lapping waves until they were about knee-deep.

Then he put his arm around her waist, holding her tight, and pulled her with him down into the water.

She popped up for a moment, giggling. “You are such an animal.” She giggled with glee and tried to thrust her face toward his.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I am.” He cupped her mouth and nose with his hand, and pushed her head under the water.

Her body began to squirm and struggle. He heard her desperate screams, muffled but clearly reaching the surface.

She kicked and screamed and scratched. Her head popped out of the water. “Hassan!”

He pushed her back down again. She fought for her life. But her physical resistance lessened by the second.

The fight left her limp body.

With his hands around her throat, Hassan held her down. Just to be safe. Out loud, he counted. “One thousand one. One thousand two.”

Three minutes had now passed. All her resistance was long since gone. He pulled her to the surface, cradling her in his arms, and sloshed over toward the speedboat.

He lifted her up and dropped her into the boat. He would take her out about twenty miles and dump her into the Java Sea, then return to Jakarta Bay.

Custodians and housekeepers were easily replaceable. He would fill the position immediately and tell the general that she had quit.

Hassan jogged back to the beach, gathering up all evidence that anyone had been there—the picnic basket, the blanket, the wine bottles, even the cigarette butts. He tossed everything into the boat.

She would have a proper burial at sea, he decided, and these items would go with her.

He hopped into the boat, then pulled up the anchor. A minute later, the twin inboards ignited. With the sun now halfway down on the west
ward horizon, the boat sliced at full speed south across the Java Sea back toward Jakarta.

Delhi Muslim Kali Restaurant
Karachi, Pakistan

6:15 p.m.

T
he white, wrought-iron table located on the back veranda of the restaurant overlooked the gentle, lapping waters of the Arabian Sea.

At the edge of the sea, the sun was now a large, orange ball, setting on a deep, bluish-green watery horizon. From it, an orange glow swept inward across the water extending from the horizon to the shores of Clifton Beach, where a few women clad with Muslim headgear waded in the surf. Three camels, seemingly unattended, meandered in the sand on the landward side of the seawall not far from the women.

Next to the table where General Perkasa sat alone, a sign proclaimed in English, “Reserved for Private Party.” Perkasa checked his watch.
Ten minutes ahead of schedule.

The sounds of traffic could be heard, faintly, along the roads in front of the restaurant. But out here, except for the sounds of the evening sea breeze rustling a few canvas umbrellas on the canopy and the giant green-and-white Pakistani flag flapping atop a huge flagpole down on the beach, all was quiet.

He extracted a Cuban cigar, struck his lighter, sucked in, and for the moment decided to enjoy the ambiance. The back door of the restaurant opened. A waiter walked out.

Blended voices of patrons inside poured onto the veranda, then subsided as the door closed behind the waiter. “Something to drink, sir?” the waiter asked in English.

“Water and hot tea, please,” the general replied in English.

“Right away, sir.”

The waiter stepped back into the restaurant.

The wind whipped into the large Pakistani flag again, unfurling the crescent moon and star, the symbols of Islam, glowing in white against the green background, and lit in the setting sun’s rays. The sight angered him, reminding him that the world’s largest Islamic country, his native
Indonesia, had nothing on its flag to symbolize the Great Faith. Even the flag of neighboring Malaysia displayed the Islamic half-moon.

The Indonesian flag would change soon, if he had anything to do with it.