The Malacca Conspiracy (25 page)

1:28 p.m.

M
erdeka Square, the large, grassy plain in the midst of Jakarta, was at the sprawling city’s geographical center.

Surrounded by the most important buildings of the government, including the Merdeka Presidential Palace and the nation’s supreme court building, at the center of the square was the prized Monas, Indonesia’s version of the Washington Monument. The national monument of Italian marble soared four hundred fifty feet skyward.

Anton gazed at the towering obelisk, its gold tip reflecting the afternoon tropical sun.

He had always shivered with pride at the sight of it. So had his father, and so had Guntur. The monument was a national treasure, a proud proclamation of Indonesia’s independence from the Dutch.

How ironic, Anton thought, that despite his country’s freedom from Dutch colonization, Indonesia was now the colonial puppet of America, for all intents and purposes.

Soon that would end.

Anton checked his watch. One twenty-eight.

The gravity of the moment hit him. In less than thirty minutes, his brother’s life on earth would be over. He would never see Guntur again this side of paradise. But he would see Guntur again. Wouldn’t he?

Could he go through with this? To kill his own brother, even if it meant purifying Indonesia from an American-loving president?

Of course he would see his brother again, he assured himself. If not, his faith was meaningless. And his faith was not meaningless.

He pulled the detonating transmitter out of his pocket and stared at it. It was just a black plastic box about the size of a cell phone. In the middle, there was a red button for him to depress at the proper time, and below the button, a simple safety switch, which would have to be turned off before the button could be depressed.

Could he press that button? Could he kill his own brother?

Perhaps he should just toss the box in the grass and run. Or he could walk down to the shores of the Java Sea and toss it in.

But even if he threw it away, Guntur was going to die of infection from all the unsterile plastic in his body.

“I am proud of you, my son. I gave my life for the cause. Do this day what you must do.”

“Father?”

Anton looked around.

Nothing—other than a few tourists and mothers with their children playing on the grass of the square. But that was his father’s voice. He knew it. Or was he hallucinating?

“Father?”

Again, no response. Maybe he was hearing things. After all, he’d not gotten much sleep.

Guntur looked over toward Merdeka Palace. He would need to be closer to be in range. He started walking across the grass toward it.

Two police motorcycles pulled around the corner, followed by a black Lincoln Town Car flying on each bumper the flag of the United States of America. Two more motorcycles trailed the car.

The car stopped in front of the palace. One policeman dismounted his motorcycle and opened the car’s back right door. A distinguished, gray-haired man, wearing a blue pinstripe suit, stepped out.

A second policeman opened the other back door. An attractive woman, with red hair and wearing the uniform of a female United States naval officer, stepped out.

The United States ambassador.
It had to be.

The sight was an answer to prayer. Divine providence had brought him to this time and place.

Merdeka Palace
Jakarta, Indonesia

1:30 p.m.

T
his place is gorgeous,” Diane remarked, as she stepped out of the black Lincoln Town Car belonging to the United States embassy. “It looks like the White House, except for all these palm trees and pink and white tropical flowers.”

“A lot of people make that comparison,” Ambassador Stacks remarked. “Merdeka Palace was built during the Dutch colonial era. It’s one of two presidential palaces here in Jakarta and the main one used by the president.”

“Right this way, Mr. Ambassador,” a staff member said. “I see you have a guest today?” the man asked as they stepped out of the sunshine and past a security checkpoint, and then into a tunnel just next to the main entrance.

“This is Commander Colcernian, my new naval attaché,” Ambassador Stacks announced, as the trio swiftly walked through the long tunnel.

“Nice to meet you, Commander,” the man said. “The president is having a routine physical right now, but he is running ahead of schedule. He hopes to see you a few minutes early.”

“That would be fine,” the ambassador said.

They came to the end of the long tunnel. The aide punched in a security code and a steel door opened. Behind it, there was a security checkpoint with a metal detector and three uniformed guards.

“My apologies, Commander,” the man said. “The ambassador is aware of this”—he nodded at Ambassador Stacks—“but our security procedures require even the president’s eight-year-old daughter to pass through here.”

“The president has an eight-year-old daughter?” Diane asked. “President Santos must be a young man.”

The man smiled. “Second marriage. Our first lady is much younger than the president.”

“Ah,” Diane nodded. “I see.”

“I have two teenage girls,” Ambassador Stacks said. “Guess that makes me young for my age too, huh?”

“Oh, yes, sir, Mr. Ambassador.”

President’s office
Merdeka Palace

1:50 p.m.

B
reathe deep, Mr. President.” Guntur positioned the stethoscope against the T-shirt on the president’s back. “Cough.”

The president was sitting on his desk, wearing his dress pants and shoes, but stripped down to his T-shirt on his upper torso. He reluctantly complied.

In the three years that Guntur Budi had served as personal physician to the president, he had seen that the president’s reputation for impatience was well deserved. Actually, the president was patient with the things that interested him, and impatient with the things that did not.

Seeing the doctor for anything, even for a routine physical, was not something that President Santos would tolerate much of.

Santos was already restless, beginning to complain about ending the examination.

“Guntur, I’m fine,” Santos was saying. “You’ve drawn my blood, you’ve checked my pulse, you’ve poked in my ears, and you’ve wrapped my arm with that blood pressure thing. I’ve got a country to run. Let’s wrap this up.”

Guntur glanced at the wall.
Ten more minutes.
He had to stall.

“Now, Mr. President, it is precisely because you have a great country to run that we must ensure that you are in the best physical condition possible.” He artfully repositioned the stethoscope on the president’s back. “Besides that, I promised the first lady and your daughter that I would make sure you are in good health.” He forced a chuckle.

The phone buzzed on the president’s desk. Santos punched a button. A woman’s voice came over the speaker phone.

“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. President,” the secretary said. “But you asked me to notify you when Ambassador Stacks arrived.”

The president’s face broke into a smile.

That was part of the problem. Santos was an American lover.

“Ah. We are finishing this physical right now.” The president checked his watch. Guntur checked the wall clock. One fifty-five. “Send the ambassador in.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But, Mr. President—”

“We can finish this later,” Santos said, as he started slipping his dress shirt on. “The ambassador has an urgent matter he wishes to discuss. It has something to do with the tanker attacks in the straits.”

“But—”

Santos buttoned his shirt. “Guntur, you may hang around for a couple of minutes and meet the American ambassador. He is a nice man, and you will like him. Then I have to get to work.”

Guntur checked the wall clock. One fifty-seven.

“Of course, Mr. President. It would be a pleasure to meet the ambassador.”

Merdeka Square

1:59 p.m.

A
single cloud floated in front of the sun, sweeping a large shadow over the green grass of the square. Sunlight still crested the buildings surrounding the grassy plain in the midst of the city, but it was as if Allah was dimming the lights to provide cover as the clock ticked down.

Anton gazed at his watch.

1:59:30

1:59:35

1:59:40

He squeezed the plastic transmitter with his right hand, his thumb on the detonation switch. He walked toward the palace. His heart pounded like a jackhammer.

1:59:48

1:59:52

1:59:55

1:59:57

Anton closed his eyes, held his breath, and waited for the alarm.

Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep-beep.

Click.

A delay.

Boom!

Silence.

A single plume of black smoke rose from atop the palace.

Eerie silence.

Then, screaming.

Confused voices, more screaming, followed by the sound of chaos pouring from the palace.

Anton turned away. The first siren wailed in the distance, growing louder. Now a second siren.

The cloud passed from beyond the sun, and a bright reflection glowed from the gold tip at the top of the Monas.

The Monas. The monument of independence. The monument of freedom.

At last, freedom!

Anton walked toward it. A third siren pierced the air. Now a fourth.

Armed troops in shining helmets scrambled across the grass, brushing his shoulders as they ran right by him, headed to the palace.

The air filled with sirens screeching as he approached the Monas. He stopped at the base of the great tower and looked straight up. From here, the Monas was a great arm reaching into heaven, its gold tip glowing, basking in the afternoon sunlight.

What a glorious, final sight to pass from this world into the world of his father and now his brother.

The sound of helicopters roared over the square and over the palace, muffling the ear-splitting sound of the sirens. Whirling lights atop police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances filled the streets surrounding the square.

Good. No one would hear what was about to happen.

The gun had been wedged under his belt. It was a nine-millimeter Glock that his father had used in Aceh.

He pulled the pistol from his belt and carefully worked the action. Soon, they would be scouring the area for suspects. Anyone with a pistol would be arrested or shot. He would have to be swift.

He brought the barrel to his mouth. The steel was cold to his lips and tongue.

“You with the gun!”

He turned toward the smoking palace. Two armed soldiers were charging him from across the grass. They brought their rifles up, aiming squarely at him.

“Drop it!” one of them shouted.

Anton stepped back, pressed his skull against the base of the Monas, and squeezed the trigger.

Chapter 12

The White House

3:15 a.m.

T
he staticky buzz prompted a murmur and a grunt from the First Lady of the United States, who responded to it by wrapping her leg around the president and grunting again.

Now in his eighth year in office, Mack wished that he could ignore a post-midnight call on the presidential hotline. But he had campaigned for this job, and part of the territory of holding the most powerful job on the planet was taking calls at all hours of the night. And a call on the hotline at three-fifteen in the morning could not be a good thing.

He pushed himself into a sitting position and reached over to pick up the phone. “Whatcha got?”

“Sorry for the interruption, Mr. President,” Chief of Staff Arnie Brubaker said, “but we’ve got an emergency situation in Indonesia, sir.”

Mack rubbed his eyes. “Not another tanker attack in the straits, I hope.”

“Even worse, Mr. President.”

A twisting wrenched the president’s stomach. “What?”

“Mr. President, there’s just been an attack at the Merdeka Presidential Palace in Jakarta. We think it’s an assassination attempt on President Santos.”

“Dear Lord.” That one word—
assassination
—sent chills up the spine of any red-blooded politician. Even the president wasn’t immune to it, and the first lady went into a clammy near-panic at the news of an
attempt on the life of any leader anywhere in the world. She had seen the Zapruder film of the JFK assassination and tried her best to keep Mack from running. “When? How?”

“Fifteen minutes ago, sir. Apparently a bomb in Santos’ office. And there’s something else.”

Mack swung his seat over the side of the bed. “Let’s hear it.”

“Ambassador Stacks may have been with President Santos at the time.”

“Not Martin.” Mack wiped his forehead. The president and Martin Stacks had been fraternity brothers at the Sigma Chi fraternity house at the University of Kansas. “Have we heard anything from him?”

“No sir, Mr. President, we haven’t. And I’m afraid there’s more potentially bad news.”

“Arnie, just give me all the bad news at once. This business of doing it piecemeal is driving me bananas.”

“Sorry, Mr. President. The last thing involves Lieutenant Commander Colcernian.”

Mack could not bring himself to respond. He had gotten to know Diane Colcernian four years ago in connection with her duties as a US Navy JAG officer when she had assisted JAG officer Zack Brewer in the prosecution of three Islamic chaplains, all members of the Navy Chaplain Corps. The case had gotten international attention, and when it was over, Mack had invited Zack and Diane to the White House.

Diane was later kidnapped by terrorists and presumed dead, but thanks to the brilliant investigative work of a young agent in the Naval Criminal Investigative Service named Shannon McGilverry, evidence surfaced suggesting that Diane might be alive.