The Malacca Conspiracy (2 page)

“Thank you,” Dr. Budi said. He looked over at General Perkasa, as if unsure of what to say next.

“I am a busy man, Mr. Al-Fadil,” the general said. “My time is valuable. What is your point?”

The Arab smiled. “My point is this: we have watched Indonesia for years.” Al-Fadil motioned to one of his assistants. “Bring us drinks, please.”

“Right away.” A servant wheeled in a silver tray displaying bottles of Indonesian and Malaysian hard liquors and wines, along with an assortment of fruits, cheeses, and breads.

“General?” the servant asked.

“No.” The general waved his hand and eyed Al-Fadil. “I am sure you did not bring us here to discuss international politics or to sip wine and eat cheese. You did not answer my question.”

“Your finest red wine, please.” Al-Fadil nodded at the server, who uncorked an expensive bottle of Malaysian merlot. “Ah, yes. My point…” He sniffed a splash of wine in his glass and took a sip, nodding approval at the server, who filled his glass. “We know your background, General. We know your fervent devotion to the faith. We know that under the circumstances your power is limited. The problem is not you. The problem is with your president.”

Perkasa chomped his cigar between his teeth, studying the man’s face.

“You are an Arab, Mr. Al-Fadil. And you are Islamic. Indonesia is the world’s largest Islamic country.” A drag from the cigar. “More than one hundred eighty million Muslims live in Indonesia. We are the fourth largest nation in the world. What is your problem with Indonesia?”

Al-Fadil sipped his wine. “Your country is like Pakistan was. A great nation full of Muslims, but with lukewarm leadership that is Muslim in name only, leadership that embraces our greatest enemy, the United States.” Another smile. Another sip. “We took care of the problem in Pakistan.”

“Bring me an ashtray.” Perkasa waved to the servant.

“Yes, General.” A sterling silver ashtray appeared on the table.

Perkasa put the stogie into the ashtray. “Yes. I heard that your organization was helpful in the elimination of Bhutto. If that is true, accept my compliments.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny any such thing,” Al-Fadil laughed. “Nevertheless, I accept your compliments.” He raised his glass, as if to celebrate a great accomplishment. “Are you sure you do not wish to drink, General? Perhaps a toast to the unfortunate demise of Benazir Bhutto?”

“Perhaps later,” Perkasa replied. “Bhutto sided with the Americans. So does Santos. Both purport to be Muslim.” Perkasa took a drag from the cigar. “What are you getting at? You wish to assassinate Santos too?”

“Not so fast, dear General.” Al-Fadil set the glass on the table. “Since you are unwilling to drink with me, perhaps I could smoke with you?”
His eyes locked onto the stogie, casting a longing look upon it. “Would you share one of those with a brother of the faith?”

“Why not?” Perkasa slid a cigar, a cutter, and a lighter across the table.

The Arab cut the cigar with the ease of an experienced aficionado, lit it, and exhaled smoke off to the side. “This is not as simple as you would suggest, General. Indonesia and Pakistan are different nations.”

“Not so fast, my friend.” Perkasa flung his hands in the air. “I suggested nothing. And I by no means proposed or suggested the assassination of Santos.”

“Of course you did not, General,” the Arab said. “I was addressing the great geographic and political differences between Indonesia and Pakistan.”

“Very well,” Perkasa said, having set the Arab straight. Not that he would mind seeing Santos dead, but no one would ever be able to say that an assassination was
his
idea. “Please proceed.”

“As I was saying,” Al-Fadil nodded, “unlike Pakistan, Indonesia controls, or at least has the
potential
to control, the most strategic sea lanes in the world. Your islands stretch across the waters from east to west in a distance greater than New York to Los Angeles. Your country, unlike any other Islamic country in the world, has all that is necessary to become the world’s first Islamic superpower.” The Arab took another drag from the Cuban stogie. “Except for one thing…”

General Suparman Perkasa let that sink in. “And that would be?”

“Leadership,” Al-Fadil said, without hesitation. “And related thereto, courage and vision.”

Perkasa flicked a segment of white ashes into the silver tray. The Arab was correct. “Look, you know that I am no admirer of our president, or you wouldn’t have gotten me here. But as you have pointed out, Mr. Al-Fadil…”

“Please, General, call me Farouq,” Al-Fadil interrupted.

“Very well,” Perkasa continued, “as you have pointed out, Farouq, Indonesia, because of her geography, possesses a greater geo-strategic importance to the world than Pakistan. Control of those sea lanes means billions of dollars to America. You cannot do in Indonesia what you did in Pakistan. The Americans did not step in there. Here, if you moved against Santos, they would send their navy. Perhaps their marines. They
would use force. And remember that President Williams likes to play John Wayne with the US Navy.” His cigar had gone out. With a single flick, a blue-and-orange flame leapt from the lighter.

“Ahh, the all-powerful Americans.” The smiling Arab sipped more wine. “Good. Our thinking is congruous.” He put the glass down and motioned for more. “What if I told you, General, that we have a plan for Mack Williams and the Americans? What if I told you that we have a plan to make you the most powerful Indonesian in the world? And what if I could show you a plan that will work to make Indonesia the first Islamic superpower, with you at the historic forefront of this great awakening?”

Perkasa glanced at Dr. Budi, who was raising an eyebrow and sipping a glass of water.

He looked back at the Arab.

Silence.

“You know, Farouq,” Perkasa said, “you have succeeded in piquing my curiosity. I will have that drink now. Red wine will be fine.”

“Excellent,” Farouq said, motioning the servants to attend to the general’s request. “Let us drink, General, to a new alliance…a new
strategic
alliance that will change the history of the world.”

“That,” General Suparman Perkasa said, “I will drink to.”

Chapter 1

One year later
New York Mercantile Exchange

1:04 a.m.

T
he headquarters of the mammoth New York Mercantile Exchange, located in New York’s World Financial Center and fronting the Hudson River, was sixteen stories high and more than five hundred thousand square feet.

From his office on the eighth floor, in the dark hours of the morning, Robert Molster enjoyed sipping cappuccino and watching the lights on the river and the sparkling shoreline across the way in New Jersey. The clear, cold night, even more biting because of the six-inch snowfall that had blanketed the city earlier in the day, leaving mounds of snow piled up along the concrete barricades down by the waterfront, seemed to magnify the lights shining on the other side of the river. A few boats, barely visible under blinking red-and-green navigation lights, glided back and forth along the dark river. Molster shook his head, still amazed that he sat here, in this job, at this very moment.

Two years ago, Molster was finishing his MBA at the University of Virginia’s Darden School of Business. He had hoped to land a job with a midsize brokerage firm in downtown Richmond. Any regional firm would do, he had thought at the time, as long as he stayed in Virginia.

He’d already decided that he had no interest in becoming either a broker or a trader. But the thought of being a stock analyst had intrigued him since his days as a junior in college, when a business professor had
introduced him to
The Wall Street Journal.
Becoming a stock analyst would have been prestigious and would have guaranteed excellent pay. Plus, in Richmond he could’ve bought a decent-sized home, perhaps in the prestigious West End or fashionable Shockoe slip. He had thought he would meet a nice, well-bred, well-mannered young Southern belle from Sweet Briar College, or the University of Mary Washington. Either would do. Then he would raise a family in a town with lots of history, without the hustle and bustle of big-city life.

All that changed one day just before graduation, when a young woman, a recruiter from the New York Mercantile Exchange, appeared on the Charlottesville campus.

“Ever think about being a commodities analyst?” she questioned him.

Commodities had never crossed his mind.

“You’d work the night shift, watch commodities trading on the overseas markets, and feed data to the media, the wire services, and then to floor traders who start work at 9:00
A.M.
But—and this is where you’ll make contacts that will help you write your own ticket—you’ll give a daily briefing to the chairman of the Mercantile Exchange or one of his assistants about overnight trading activities. You’ll learn everything there is to know about oil. You can become an analyst for one of the private commodities firms and make so much money you can retire before you’re forty.”

She reviewed his résumé, and raised a huge selling point.

“I see that you’re an officer in the navy reserve. If you’re worried about your navy obligations, don’t be. Our chairman, Mr. Goldstein, is ex-navy. You’ll have no problems doing reserve duty on the weekends or in the summer.”

Some high-paying employers were against his naval reserve obligations, which required him to be in Washington one weekend a month and who-knows-where in the world for at least two weeks each summer.

“Lieutenant
Robert Molster. What does this J–2 mean?”

“That’s the intelligence section of the Joint Chiefs of Staff,” he responded. “It’s in the Pentagon. I go one weekend a month and help them sort through boring data.” He figured that would blow over her head.

“The
Pentagon”
—a look of awe crossed her face—“Impressive,
Lieutenant
Molster.” She smiled. “Come to Manhattan for an interview. All expenses paid. Overnight at the Waldorf-Astoria.”

Three weeks later, he got the job.
And
he got an added bonus.

The young lady who interviewed him, the intriguing Wellesley graduate named Jane Morgan…well…she had accepted his invitation to dinner upon his arrival in New York. Two years later, they were still dating.

A Virginia gentleman and a Connecticut Yankee.

So much for settling down in Richmond with a debutante and a membership in the Country Club of Virginia.

At the Exchange, “Janie,” as he later learned that she was called, held the same job that he did. Except Janie worked the day shift. He worked nights. Then there was his time away in the reserves. Sometimes that made dating a challenge.

Somehow, they managed.

Overall, life was good. Plus, he was still able to keep his toes in the waters of the US Navy.

Enough reminiscing.

The cappuccino was gone now. His five-minute break was over.

No rush.

Trading in light, sweet crude oil futures had been halted at 1:00
A.M.
due to a limit move upwards of ten dollars in the market. That would slow things down for about five minutes before trading resumed. He had to get back to his screen. Probably, he’d see a big sell-off of profit taking after the move, with prices dropping back down. He’d need to document the data for his morning briefing.

Back to work. He tossed the paper cup in the wastebasket and walked across the hallway to his monitor.

He sat down and a cacophonous buzz rang from his computer speakers. What now?

Limit Alert…Limit Alert…Trading in January Light, Sweet Crude Calls halted due to limit move of $10.00. Trading to resume at
130 A.M.,
EST,
630 A.M.,
GMT.

A second trading halt in less than fifteen minutes? He’d never seen this before. Somebody would make billions in short order.

What was going on out there?

Should he call the chairman? Would waking the chairman make him look like an overanxious greenhorn?

He flipped out his cell phone and hit “1” on the speed dial.

“Good morning,” Janie Morgan’s velvety, if sleepy, voice said.

“Sorry to call so early. Something’s up.”

“Mmm.” The sound of sheets fluffing. “What?”

“Crude oil. Two limit moves in an hour. Light, sweet crude. Just got a second trade halt in the last fifteen minutes.”

A second passed. “Wow.” Janie sounded wide awake now. “Two in fifteen minutes? I’ve never heard of that.”

“No kidding,” he said.

“What’s going on?”

“Dunno. Think I should call Chairman Goldstein?”

“Hmm. I’m not sure,” she said. “Let me think.”

“I don’t want to look panicky, but still…”

“Hmm. Know what?”

“What?”

“I’d call. Better safe than sorry.”

That wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but it confirmed his gut instinct. “I thought you’d say that. I’ll call him right now. If he gets hacked off that I ran him out of bed, so be it.”

“He won’t,” she said. “If he does, blame me.”

“No chance,” he said.

“Call me later. Love you.”

“You too.”

Robert hung up, then picked up the phone again. He punched the speed dial ringing directly to the residence of the chairman of the Merchantile Exchange. After two rings, a groggy voice answered.

“Mister Chairman…Robert Molster at the sweet light crude desk…Sorry if I woke you…Yes, sir…I think we may have something strange going in the futures markets.”

USS
Reuben James
The Strait of Malacca

Two hours earlier

T
he sun beat down on the slate-gray steel, heating the deck near the bow of the guided missile frigate. From his station at the forward lookout post, Boatswain’s Mate, First Class Elliot Cisco swiped perspira
tion from his forehead, then positioned his binoculars off the port side of the ship.