Bali 9: The Untold Story (9 page)

W
ith a two-star rating, the Formule 1 Hotel in Sydney’s Enfield is not the flashiest joint in town. But it offers a good deal, with a standard room available for just under $70 a night. Not that Martin Stephens and Renae Lawrence were paying—the bill was being fixed up by their co-worker Andrew Chan. The rooms weren’t anything special, but they were clean and tidied daily, and each had a queen-sized bed with a single overhead bunk, which allowed for three adults. Only Stephens and Lawrence were in room 126, with Matthew Norman and Si Yi Chen nearby in room 129, so there was plenty of space for their luggage. Not that they needed much of that, either—Chan’s girlfriend, Grace, had come around the day before and removed much of it, replacing garment after garment with other items.
Bandages, fabric bands, a pair of tight, short Adidas pants—an item unlikely to have found a place in Renae’s closet—adhesive tapes and a waist belt. Grace had then carefully repacked their suitcases.

Stephens and Lawrence now carried the suitcases out the door and down to the waiting taxi. It was only early, and the 5 millimetres of rain that had fallen the day before had cleared the skies. The low cloud had put a lid on the city then, seemingly dampening its spirits, but the cloud had since vanished and the mild easterly wind turned into an even milder westerly. The temperature was already climbing to the maximum of 25.5 degrees Celsius that Sydney would enjoy this day.

Everything seemed promising as Stephens and Lawrence put their luggage into the taxi, checked they had their passports and sped off in the direction of Sydney’s international airport. Matthew Norman, the young lad from Quakers Hill, and his friend Si Yi Chen were in a second taxi not far behind, and they were also headed for the airport. It was 6.30 a.m. on Wednesday, 6 April 2005.

On the same day, not far up the road in the neighbouring suburb of Strathfield, Scott Rush and Michael Czugaj were enjoying the hospitality at the four-star Spanish Inn Motor Lodge. They had flown down from Brisbane—Rush for the second time—on the invitation of Tan Duc Thanh Nguyen. Rush’s first visit had been only a few days earlier, when he had joined in the birthday celebrations of Nguyen’s friend’s
girlfriend. They’d partied in a club, and he’d flown back to his home town a couple of days later.

Now he was back in Sydney with Michael; they were picked up, taken to their motel and told the bill would be looked after. That wasn’t a bad way to start their sojourn: room 204 at the Spanish Inn—a colour television which offered Foxtel, a video and DVD player, along with a refrigerator, toaster and microwave, all at their disposal, as well as the services of the Lodge’s 24-hour reception. The drudgery of their Brisbane lives seemed a world away as they enjoyed a fine Sydney day. And things seemed only to get better when, a little bit later, they met up with Myuran Sukumaran.

Sukumaran had an order for Rush: he was to do a job for him in Bali. Sukumaran would fund the trip for both Rush and his Brisbane friend, so they should go and buy a travel package. Stories vary on whether it was Sukumaran or Nguyen who then gave Rush a wad of cash. But Rush took it, the fat stack of dollars no doubt promising something new and exciting. Three thousand dollars. In cash. And it had just been handed to him.

The money was to cover both the cost of an airline ticket to Indonesia and accommodation in Bali, and Rush was told to buy the travel package at the local Flight Centre travel office. It wasn’t long before Michael Czugaj and Scott Rush were booked onto an Australian Airlines flight to Bali, leaving on Friday, 8 April 2005—just a day away.

Rush and Czugaj didn’t know Stephens and Lawrence, who had already travelled the skies above Australia, but all four were heading for Bali’s Ngurah Rai international airport. It was where they would all eventually meet, eleven days later, when their lives would become inextricably linked in life and, perhaps, even in death.

Two different groups, on two different flights: it wasn’t chaotic planning, but a deliberate strategy. Indeed, both trips had been plotted, and re-plotted, the operation schemed to the nth degree. Every ‘i’ had been dotted, every ‘t’ crossed. And then checked. And re-checked. This trip had to be a good run. Sure, it was a practised track now—Sydney to Bali and back—with previous trips in December, October and August. Not necessarily for this bunch, but others had done it. And while there had been successes, one of those trips had been a complete waste of time and money. That trip took place only a few months back, in December 2004, and this new trip had to be different: it would run like clockwork.

It was the first trip to Bali for the two Brisbane boys, the dashing and charming young Rush and his quieter, younger-looking friend who didn’t boast the same confidence but seemed willing to go along for the ride. The two of them looked the part—they could have been any of the hundreds and hundreds of young men who venture over to soak up the sun and the surf on the island each year. They were young and athletic and
in search of a good time, like the hordes of others heading in the same direction. There was no doubt that they would blend into the streets of Kuta, where bars fill early each night with people just like them.

The couple of ordinary-looking, twentysomething friends from Sydney—one of whom had already been to Bali a couple of times before—fitted the part too. Nothing about Renae Lawrence or Martin Stephens really stood out. They were not stunning-looking but they weren’t unattractive either. They wore clothes similar to those of the rest of the Bali-bound holiday-makers. Not that that mattered—one of the good things about Bali was the fact that anyone could mix in. It offered a good time to everyone, as long as you went there with enjoyment on your mind and a spring in your step. And there was no doubt that the recruitment for this sojourn had gone particularly well.

Now, with one group on the plane and the other with tickets at the ready, every detail had been taken care of. Flights: check. Times: check. Places: check. Accommodation: check. The Job: check. And then they were checked again. And again. Scott Rush and Michael Czugaj; Renae Lawrence and Martin Stephens. They didn’t need to know about each other. Not now. Not ever, really. They were on an all-expenses-paid return trip to Bali. And it was looking mighty lucrative for everyone involved.

Martin Stephens thought it was Andrew Chan’s mother and sister who had been at home when he pulled up
outside the Enfield address about a week or two earlier. Of course, he knew Chan from work, but not too well. They did the same kind of job at the Sydney Cricket Ground, but both were casual employees and not always assigned to the same events on the same days. And Chan had been there for a while, having joined the catering company almost two years to the day before Stephens started only months earlier. But today, at his home, Chan was all about another sort of business.

Chan sat down and talked to Stephens, who remembers the menacing tone in his colleague’s voice and the warning that stuck in his mind: he was not to talk to anybody, not a single word. Stephens’s task seemed simple enough: he was to do everything asked of him by either Chan or Sukumaran.
Everything
. And that was the end of the conversation—it stopped as abruptly as it had started. Renae Lawrence walked in; Chan asked Stephens to leave. And he did.

Lawrence, too, was given similar instructions—to be prepared to do exactly as she was asked. First up, that meant pretending that she did not know her co-worker Matthew Norman, or Si Yi Chen. If Lawrence wanted to find out more about the trip, it seems she did not ask. Besides, she had done this once before. She had been roped in once again, this time with Stephens, and was going along for the ride.

A day or two later, on Wednesday, 30 March, Lawrence and Stephens met up with Chan again at the big and busy four-level Roselands Shopping Centre in
Sydney. Here anyone can fade into a crowd, as thousands of people use the one big centre to do their weekly shopping and banking. Myuran Sukumaran, Si Yi Chen and Matthew Norman were also there this time, and the group of six Sydneysiders sat down and, according to their accusers, designed and planned the heroin run from Bali to Australia.

That’s not the story Lawrence and Stephens tell, though. They say they were told that they were required to do something in Bali, but it was never fully explained to them what that was. Stephens says that when he specifically asked, he was threatened and told to wait for instructions.

Regardless of who is to be believed, it was on this day that at least part of the plan was shared. The group was to go to Bali, almost straightaway. They would all leave on the one flight, it was explained, and Chan then took Stephens down to one of the ticket agencies. There Chan inquired about flights and fares and, armed with that information, went off to his bank, withdrew the required amount and handed it, in cash, to Lawrence. It was more than $2000 and it was to cover airfares and accommodation, she was told. Carrying the wad of cash, Lawrence and Stephens then went back to the ticket office and bought their seats on Australian Airlines flight AO7829, leaving Sydney for Bali on the morning of 6 April. It was less than a week away.

A few days later, Andrew Chan himself headed for Sydney’s international airport, and a flight to Bali. The
young Sydneysider had booked an eleven-day holiday, to be filled with jet-skiing, parasailing, snorkelling, shopping and drinking, and his base would be room 5314 in the Hard Rock Hotel. As Chan booked in there, Lawrence and Stephens were preparing to stay in the Hotel Formule 1 in Enfield, room 126—their home until their departure a few days later. But that time flew as they ran errands, held meetings and caught up with a colleague for a drink. The day after they moved in, Lawrence remembers being given an extra $500 in cash by Sukumaran, along with a grey Nokia 1100 mobile phone. On the same day, Chan’s girlfriend, Grace, came to repack their luggage and Lawrence had to run errands, like picking up Si Yi Chen and Matthew Norman from a local train station. Stephens remembers receiving some advice from Sukumaran: to not let on that he knew Chen or Norman, despite the fact that he sometimes worked with the latter at the Sydney Cricket Ground. Stephens has since said that he was told the consequences would be severe if he broke that or any other instruction: he and his family would die.

Late that night, at about 11 p.m., with their plane set to take off less than twelve hours later, Lawrence and Stephens went for a drink.

Lawrence, Stephens, Norman and Chen didn’t know that another group of young people would embark on the same journey only two days later. On 8 April, when Rush and Czugaj headed for Sydney Airport and their
mid-morning Australian Airlines flight, the temperature was just tipping 19 degrees Celsius, and a light westerly wind was blowing. They seemed like perfect flying conditions. The boys joined the throng of others in Sydney’s departure lounges, booking their luggage in and being assigned a seat before heading through security and immigration.

Sukumaran and Nguyen, who had first met Rush in Brisbane a short while ago, were heading for the same flight. The date: Friday, 8 April 2005. Destination: Bali’s Ngurah Rai international airport. Estimated time of arrival: 2 p.m. local time. The ‘holiday’ was about to begin.

L
ike everyone else in the line, Scott Rush handed his passport to the Customs officer on his way to board Australian Airlines flight AO7829 to Bali. It felt brand new, having just been issued four days earlier in his home town of Brisbane. As his passport number, M2456566, registered in the computer at Sydney Airport, it triggered an alert for the on-duty officer processing it. The pass or PACE alarm is owned and maintained by Customs but used by loads of enforcement agencies, from the Family Court to State and Federal police bodies.

The officer, trained to follow instructions meticulously when a warning was set off, read the note on the screen in front of him. He knew that the alert was used for one of two reasons: either to gain intelligence
on someone, or to prevent a targeted passenger from entering, or leaving, the country.

If Scott Rush knew that the officer behind the screen was about to make a phone call and check the origin of the alert, he never let on. He was less than an hour away from boarding his flight to Bali for an all-expenses-paid sojourn. Take-off was scheduled for 10.15 a.m. He waited patiently, just like the others in the queue. The Customs officer behind the screen no doubt looked at the young lad in front of him before putting in a call to Paul Collins, an AFP investigator at Sydney Airport. Collins had arrived at 7 a.m., and it was 8.55 a.m. when he took the call alerting him to the fact that the name of Scott Rush had just been activated for a flight that was to leave in eighty minutes’ time. Collins followed the rulebook: he put in a call to the AFP officer in Brisbane who had requested the alert.

The officer had received a telephone call from Bob Myers, a friend of Scott Rush’s father, Lee, the previous night. Myers had told the police officer that Lee Rush had found out that Scott was scheduled to leave the country, and he was worried that his son might be up to no good. He wanted him stopped. Myers, a Brisbane barrister, offered to call someone he knew in the AFP.

Once he had spoken to the officer, Collins also called the Queensland Police seeking information on Rush’s bail conditions. These things take time, finding the right person and accessing the conditions of bail. Collins waited patiently. Meanwhile, Scott Rush
carried on, unaware that the details on a screen he couldn’t see might prevent him joining his friend Michael Czugaj and others on the flight.

Rush sauntered to the gate and began boarding the plane, along with all the other excited passengers. It was 9.45 a.m., and Collins finally had his information: there was no reason to detain Scott Rush under any bail conditions. Collins also believed that, despite the concerns of Lee Rush, Scott was an adult, and there was no basis for detaining him.

He ran his decision by his supervisor and then called Customs back. The AFP would not be taking any further action. The Customs officer had done his job. Collins had done his job. And Scott Rush sat in his seat. Within hours, he and Michael would be landing in Bali.

Sukumaran and Nguyen soon boarded the same flight, taking the same path through the departure floor of Sydney Airport. As they moved through Customs, the pass alarm was triggered again. This time, when the officer investigated, he found that he had to alert the Australian Federal Police again. He picked up the phone and dialled through. Officers listened as they were told that one of their suspects in an international drug-smuggling operation was attempting to leave the country. It was a piece of gold in their ongoing investigation, a clue that allowed them to build a bigger case, the piece of the jigsaw that would help show the complete picture of what they were up against.

The AFP investigators wasted no time—they quickly started checking their files, making telephone calls, and finding out who their target was travelling with, all the information adding to the profile they had already built of several other suspects.

At the same time as the Australians’ Bali adventure was being planned and they were boarding their planes, the award-winning film
Maria Full of Grace
was being reviewed in Australia to critical acclaim. ‘Once a decision is made, there is no turning back’—it’s just one line in the film, delivered to the star character, Maria Alvarez, but it signals the start of a young woman’s desperate journey to escape rural Colombia. She is still in her mid-teens when she makes the life-changing decision to act as a drug mule; to stuff her stomach with handfuls of heroin pellets which would sit alongside her unborn baby. Each pellet was weighed exactly, coming in at 10 grams. Each was measured meticulously: 4.2 centimetres long and 1 centimetre wide. And each one had to be swallowed whole. There was a risk one would burst, and that she would die as a result. Perhaps even a greater risk that she might get caught. But that risk seemed to diminish with the promise of money and the new life it would bring.

Learning to swallow the pellets was hard, but before long Maria shut her eyes, and the plane took off. It was her first-ever flight and it traversed the skies from Bogota in Colombia to New York City. Ensconced in her seat, the sense of hopelessness and endless poverty that coloured Maria’s childhood seemed forgotten,
replaced by the escape plan offered by the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Maria saw her friend Lucy on the flight. It wasn’t Lucy’s first time—she had helped Maria learn to swallow the pellets. Maria saw her other friend too, but none of them acknowledged each other. These were the orders. And she took the orders seriously.

‘One more thing,’ the supplier told her after watching her swallow pellet after pellet of heroin before boarding the plane, ‘if anything of what you are carrying gets lost along the way or doesn’t show up, we’ll go and have a little conversation with your grandmother, your mother, your sister and little Pachito. We know exactly how much each one of those sixty-two pellets weighs. Understood?’ Maria knew there was no turning back, and when nature expelled one of the pellets, we see her in the plane toilet swallowing it again.

The movie is dirty and gritty and real; based on 1000 true stories of young mules, chosen for their innocence and naivety. Maria is just one of them. As the flight droned on, we saw her friend Lucy become very sick. We saw Maria saved from an X-ray on landing in New York because, while suspicions prompted investigators to question her, the X-ray could damage her unborn baby. Maria walked out into a city as foreign to her as her future. Others weren’t so lucky. One mule Maria didn’t even realise was part of the same racket was arrested. Another went back, no doubt to do it again. Her friend Lucy died an agonising death, her stomach later cut open to extract the heroin.

Lucy was the pretty young girl who had taught Maria to swallow the pellets. ‘It’s not easy,’ she had told Maria. ‘But it’s not difficult either.’

The lure of an all-expenses-paid trip to Bali, with or without the knowledge that they would be used as dispensable mules in a risky drug-smuggling operation, could have been the ticket to freedom for many of the young Australians heading for Bali in that first week of April. It might have been an escape from home, a chance to forget the unrequited love of a partner, or the opportunity to make some money and a new start. Or it might have been plain greed, the chance to pocket a few bucks and have a holiday on someone else. Or perhaps plain ignorance as to what they would truly be expected to do, once there.

Whatever their motivations, nine young Australians were on their way to Bali, and it was a journey destined to go the same way as that travelled by Maria Alvarez in
Maria Full of Grace
. Maria was just seventeen, and the Australian lot were not much older. Matthew Norman was only eighteen; Michael Czugaj just nineteen. So was his friend, Scott Rush. Si Yi Chen was twenty. Renae Lawrence was a few years older, at twenty-seven, and so was Martin Stephens, at twenty-nine, but the two of them seemed younger than their years. Andrew Chan, who had led the delegation heading off to Bali by himself on 3 April, was only twenty-one. And Myuran Sukumaran and Tan Duc Thanh Nguyen, who now sat a row apart but on the same flight as the two Brisbane
youths, Rush and Czugaj, were only twenty-three and twenty-two respectively. Nine young Australians; a secret plan to smuggle chunks of heroin back into Australia; and a gamble that, if they won, could earn each of them thousands.

On 3 April 2005, Andrew Chan’s flight from Sydney landed at Bali’s Ngurah Rai airport. He grabbed his bags, jumped into a taxi and headed off in the direction of Kuta. It was a drive he was becoming used to, having previously been to Bali a couple of times. At the Hard Rock Hotel in Kuta, he booked into room 5314.

Three days later, Renae Lawrence and Martin Stephens walked off their flight at 2.30 p.m. local time and into the tropical climes of Indonesia’s playground. It was Lawrence’s third trip to Bali and Stephens’s first, so she was able to take the lead. The two of them shared a taxi, going straight to the Kuta Lagoon Hotel, where they were handed the keys to room 126. Si Yi Chen and Matthew Norman had shared the AO7829 flight with Lawrence and Stephens, but they didn’t acknowledge each other at any time. That had been the instruction—pretend you have never met—and that’s what they had done. Chen and Norman picked up their bags, hailed a taxi and ordered it to go to the Hotel White Rose. Room 1022 was prepared for them.

Two days later, on Friday, 8 April, the remaining contingent of young Australians on this journey finally arrived. Scott Rush and Michael Czugaj joined the
crowd of other holiday-makers leaving the airport in search of their accommodation. They were headed for the Hotel Aneka in Kuta, where they were told to dump their bags in room 404. Their Brisbane friend, Nguyen, who had recruited them for the holiday, stepped off the same plane but didn’t join them at the Hotel Aneka. He grabbed the two backpacks he had brought, one red and the other black, and headed for his hotel. He was booked into the Hard Rock Hotel, the same place as Andrew Chan and Myuran Sukumaran.

Sukumaran had been on the same flight, and had even sat next to Nguyen for part of the journey. Sukumaran had originally been allocated a seat a row away from Nguyen, but the seat next to him was vacant; during the flight, Nguyen, annoyed by the person snoring next to him, ducked over and sat on the seat to the right of Sukumaran. But, off the plane, they were strangers again, just as Nguyen was to his Brisbane friends. Sukumaran ordered his own taxi to go directly to Kuta. And he, too, booked into the Hard Rock Hotel.

Back in Sydney, AFP investigators were working fast, putting the final touches on their request to the Indonesian National Police for assistance. They had already built a detailed picture, and pieces were starting to fit into the giant drug-smuggling jigsaw. As in any investigation, there were two steps forward and one step back, but everything was beginning to pay off.

Several names appeared on their list, and eight had left the country in the past five days. It was all panning
out as expected: the eight had all been linked through ticket purchases, holiday bookings and information supplied during the AFP’s investigation and through telephone calls. Andrew Chan. Renae Lawrence. Martin Stephens. Matthew Norman. Si Yi Chen. Tan Duc Thanh Nguyen. Michael Czugaj. Scott Rush. As well as a few others.

The AFP drafted a letter and sent it through to their counterparts in Indonesia on 8 April, the same day Rush, Czugaj, Nguyen and Sukumaran left Australia and landed in Bali. ‘The AFP in Australia has received information that a group of persons are allegedly importing a narcotic substance (believed to be heroin from Bali to Australia),’ the letter began.