Java Spider (12 page)

‘
STArT has campaigned for many years against Downing Street’s double standards, and will continue to do so with any legal means at its disposal. STArT has never resorted to criminal acts in pursuing its cause and never will. STArT wishes to extend sympathy to Mrs Sally Bowen for the suffering she is undergoing, just as we sympathise with the thousands of victims currently suffering at the hands of the Indonesian regime because of arms sold to them by Britain
.’

Charlie tore off the curling paper. Returning to her desk, she glanced towards the editor’s office. The door was closed, but the Venetian blind was open. Sankey sat behind it facing her. Her heart gave a little flutter. Sitting opposite him was Steve Paxton, the blonde, tooth-brush-haired guardian of the Channel’s finances. Sankey was pounding his chair arm to emphasise a point.

She felt a tremor in her stomach. Excitement and fear. Sankey loathed Paxton. Never talked to him unless he absolutely had to. And the only reason she could think of for a dialogue at this particular moment was because Sankey urgently needed money. Money for her to be sent to Kutu.

Help! Her dream could yet become fact.

She returned to her desk, tapped at the keyboard until the PA wires came up, browsed them for anything new, then dialled STArT again. Lucky. It rang out. Twice in a row.

‘
Stop the Arms Trade
.’

‘Hello. Charlie Cavendish again. Thanks for the fax. Is Melanie free now?’

‘
She’s on a call. But I gave her your name and she does want to talk to you. Will you hold?
’

‘Yes, please.’

She checked her watch. On air again in fifteen minutes. The pictures were edited. Just needed to update her script and record her voice, then tidy up her words for the live-spot in the studio.

‘
Press office
.’

‘Melanie?’

‘
Who’s that?
’

‘Charlotte Cavendish at the News Channel.’

‘
Hello Charlotte! Long time no speak. I’ve been watching your stuff. Congrats. What can I do for you?
’

‘Well, two things, Mel. First, can you confirm the police have been round to see you?’ Silence from the other end. ‘Come on, I know they’ve been there.’

‘
Then why do you need me to confirm it?
’

‘Melanie! Come on. Just a line about what you told them.’

‘
We’re just not talking about this, Charlotte. Even off the record. The point is we don’t have a problem with the police and I don’t want the media creating one. You’ve seen our press release – we think kidnapping’s a lousy way to further the cause of human rights
.’

‘But do they suspect you?’ Charlie pressed. ‘Do they think
you
’ve got something to do with Bowen?’

‘
You’ll have to ask them
.’ She lowered her voice. ‘
Frankly I think they came to see if we had any ideas. But that’s utterly unattributable. And you didn’t hear it from me
.’

‘Fine. Thanks. But
do
you? Have any ideas, I mean?’

‘
Charlotte, you can
read,
can’t you? The press release is quite clear
.’

‘Yes. OK, OK. You don’t indulge in criminal acts …’ She remembered now why she’d not kept in touch with Melanie. The woman became supercilious when irritated.

‘
What was the other thing you were after?
’ Melanie prodded. ‘
No. Let me guess. You’re trying to get to Kutu and want some contacts … You and the rest of the British media
.’

‘More than that, Mel. Advice really. People keep telling me it’s impossible to get in.’

She heard Sankey’s door open and glanced up. Paxton marched out, glaring at her.

‘
Not impossible to get in, Charlotte. Hard, yes. And extremely dangerous. The Indonesians don’t like journalists. They’ve killed a few over the years. But if you really want to try
…’ She paused as if uncertain how far to go. ‘
Um, look. There
is
a woman in Darwin who’s made it in a few times. Shot video in Kutu secretly. Quite good stuff. I’ve seen it. And she knows more about the place than most. I’ve not mentioned her to anyone else, but if you could come to some arrangement so she does camera for you, you’d have one hell of a headstart. Want me to give her a call? I think you two would get on
.’

‘Um … well, yes. That’d be great. But don’t commit us. If she expects to be paid big money, it won’t work. We’re cheapskates at the News Channel.’

‘
I guessed that. She might do a deal. Want me to try?
’

Uncertainly Charlie flicked a glance at Sankey’s office. If only she knew whether his no
had
become a yes. Then she saw Tom Marples frowning at her and pointing at the clock.

‘Yes, Mel. Please. See what she says. Got to rush now. Another bulletin coming up. Great to talk. Speak in a while.’

She dropped the receiver back on its rest, then keyed her screen to the script slot. She typed fast and accurately. Her mother had forced her on to a course straight after school.

Mother.
Father
. God! She’d forgotten all about them. Better ring after the programme to see how he was.

‘How you doing, Charlie?’ Marples yelled, heading out of the newsroom.

‘Fine! It’ll be there.’

She finished and saved her work, then hit the print key. Five minutes to on-air. Jeremy would be waiting for
her
to record her track. She ripped her script from the printer and headed for the technical area.

‘Charlie?’ Sankey’s secretary ambushed her by the corridor. ‘As soon as you’re off air can you see Ted? Quietly. He says it’s rather sensitive …’

‘Oh … yes of course.’ Her pulse raced. She
had
won! ‘Sure. I’ll be there.’

But why
quietly
? Why rather sensitive? Suspicion bubbled up in her head. Sankey was a schemer and a ram. Maybe she’d gone too far with her sexy smiles. Wouldn’t put it past him to demand some little
personal
favour for sending her to Kutu.

The question was, how would she answer him?

Scotland Yard

13.45 hrs

Nick Randall emerged from Assistant Commissioner Stanley’s office, feeling he’d had a collision with a punch-bag. The head of the security group had made it perfectly clear that refusing the mission was not an option.

The world’s gone mad, he thought to himself as he stepped into the corridor. Normally if someone were to offer a free ticket to a tropical island in the South Pacific he’d grab it like a shot, but this little outing appealed as much as a month in Wolverhampton.

Stanley had flattered him. Told him he was the only man on the force with the qualifications for the job. That it was a coup for the Met to be able to fill the breach left by MI6. And that the PM himself had given his full backing.

Bollocks. As he walked to the lifts, he knew in his guts that the main reason he was being sent to Kutu was for an over-the-hill guvnor to get his name in lights.

The lift took him to the basement. His mind on autopilot, he opened his locker and sifted through the oddments of clothing he kept there as disguises. His passport was what he was looking for. He found it and returned to the sixteenth floor.

In the assistant commissioner’s outer office, Stanley’s PA presented him with an application form for an Australian visa.

‘Fill it in, then I’ll take it with your passport to the High Commission,’ she told him briskly.

She was a thirty-something for whom nothing ever seemed to come as a surprise. Nick imagined orgasms wouldn’t even quicken her pulse.

‘I’ll get you some malaria pills too,’ she added, ‘and here’s the chit for your allowance.’

On the rare occasions an officer went somewhere exotic he got a bonus for special clothing. Hadn’t happened to Randall before. In eight years with the Met, he’d never gone beyond the M25.

Four floors down to the cashiers’ office to collect the money and a wad of travellers’ cheques, then to the travel bureau for his ticket. Singapore and Darwin. A 747 leaving at 23.30 from Heathrow tonight. Kutu was best reached from Australia, he’d been advised. He felt as ready for the assignment as for a trip to the moon.

Back on the security group floor he thumbed a coin into a drinks machine and extracted a plastic cup of coffee. In the Ops Room it was quiet. There’d been no more Revenue Men incidents since the Wag’s Bar bomb six days ago.

‘Having chats with the guvnor, I hear? Our company not good enough for you any more?’ cracked a colleague looking up from a VDU.

‘Someone wants rid of me, more like,’ Nick growled, stopping by the bank of monitors for the surveillance cameras. ‘Anything new on the Revenue Men?’

‘Sod all. What are you up to?’

‘A bit of sightseeing.’

‘So you won’t be around for the game on Saturday?’

‘Shit! Forgotten about that.’ Special Branch versus the Flying Squad. Annual match in the Met’s soccer league. ‘Sorry mate. But Chris can do goal instead of me.’

‘He can let ’em in too,’ his colleague complained. ‘We lost six-two last time he stood between the posts.’

‘Well, can’t be helped, friend. Tell him to try contact lenses.’

Nick moved to the end of the room and tapped on the SIO’s door. DCI Mostyn beckoned him in.

‘SIS are on their way over,’ he said in his Midlands mumble. ‘Fifteen minutes, then they’ll brief you. Sounded on the phone like they’d been told to eat shit.’

Mostyn had his collar undone and his tie loosened. One of his big, grubby hands held a small cigar. His was one of the few offices where smoking was permitted.

‘Thanks for your report on the News Channel. I agree there has to be a good reason the kidnappers chose that mob. We’ll chase their personnel people for the staff list.’ He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. ‘How d’you feel about this jaunt?’

‘Not happy, sir. Feels like the booby prize,’ Nick scowled. ‘Working on my tod in a hostile environment with no backup to speak of – not my idea of fun.’ He was a team man. Liked mates around him. People he trusted and who trusted him.

‘Yeah. Know what you mean. Still, it’s better than a panda car and wellies,’ Mostyn quipped. ‘And you might get lucky. Might find the bugger and get another gong!’ He crushed his cheroot into an ashtray.

‘Pigs might fly …’

‘Look, old son, just do what you can. Make Assistant Commissioner Stanley happy, then get back here and sort out these effing Revenue Men.’

Mostyn’s phone rang and he grabbed the receiver. Nick ambled to the window, sipping the scalding coffee. Outside, the morning rain-clouds had moved on. Shafts of pale sunlight lit up Horse Guards Parade and Trafalgar Square beyond. He liked London.

He breathed in deeply. Time to stop moaning and get his act together. He would be on his way in a few hours, no matter what he thought. He’d need to pack in some briefings. Work out his kit.

Freelance news photographer would be his legend. He knew the role well. Played it before. And he knew cameras ever since he bought a Canon for baby photos when Sandra was born.

Sandra. Had to remember to ring her. He’d promised to try to see her one evening this week to compensate for Sunday, but now he’d have to cancel again.

‘Got your allowance?’ Mostyn asked, finishing with the phone and jerking Nick’s mind back to the job.

‘I have.’

‘Don’t ever say the Grief doesn’t look after you, son. Hey, if you’ve got any cash left bring me back one of those flowery shirts, OK? Now, here’s your bumph. Light reading for the flight.’

He handed over two files of background material, maps and a Lonely Planet guide book on Indonesia.

‘You really are going to be on your own out there, old son. We’re not declaring you to anybody, not even the Aussies. That’s the deal. The SIS resident will be the only friendly face, but he’s in Jakarta fifteen hundred miles away. Maxwell’s the name. Harry Maxwell.
Vereker
will fill you on the contact procedure when he gets here.’

Mostyn opened up one of the maps.

‘You’re familiar with this part of the world, I understand.’

‘So it says on my file.’

‘Well there’s a brief here from the Foreign Office to freshen your memory. And some stuff on Bowen.’ He held out a sheaf of photocopies.

One press cutting caught Randall’s eye as he flicked through them – Bowen in dinner-jacket surrounded by high-rollers at a roulette table. From the
Sun
in the late 1980s. Snapped at an ill-judged lunch with a casino manager who’d been done for gaming irregularities.
THE MP AND HIS DODGY FRIENDS
, said the headline.

‘One other little nugget for you,’ Mostyn growled. ‘Before our Stephen became a minister of the crown he was … wait for it … a non-exec director of Metroc Minerals, the very same British company that’s in the consortium digging up Kutu.’

‘Interesting!’

‘Indeed. But so far that’s all it is. No evidence of a link with the kidnap. But at this stage we know sod-all anyway …’

‘Anything new on the video business? Like where the pics were fed from?’

‘Not yet. Every force in Europe’s been contacted. Something’ll come up … We’ll be running you as a joint op with Vauxhall Cross by the way, but running it from here, right? I’m your man. There’ll be a couple of others manning a twenty-four-hour phone line. Don’t know who. Haven’t picked them yet. Oh, by the way, we’re calling him Bob. The minister, that is. Use that name for him on open phones.’

‘OK, sir. Just one question. Supposing by some
bloody
miracle I do find him in Kutu. How am I supposed to get him out?’

‘Up to you, old son. Use your head. You’ve done it before. Only this time, if you wouldn’t mind, try not to kill anyone.’

South London

It took the police Rover an hour to hack through the evening crush to Nick’s home in Wimbledon. Balanced on his lap for much of the journey was the briefcase of files he would have to memorise on the flight out.

Vereker of the SIS had been uptight and miserable in the briefing. Harry Maxwell in Jakarta was to be contacted only in emergency he’d said, because the phones would be bugged. What did the geek think he would do, ring up every time he felt lonely?