Java Spider (48 page)

To his left the shore looked dirty and weed-clogged. It smelled of decay. To his right the terrain was stony and arid. Where there were trees, he ducked under them for shade and to hide from the occasional vehicle.

Then he saw the villa. Glazed green roof tiles glinting in the sun amidst a clump of vegetation, flat ground behind it. He crouched beneath a stumpy, thick-leaved tree. The house looked to be two hundred metres away. No sign of life when he scanned it with the glasses.

The villa was a bungalow, the side wall facing him comfortingly blank. Windows at the front overlooked the sea, and at the back a garden, surrounded by chain-link fencing and a dense hedge. A clump of eucalyptus grew by the roadside twenty metres short of the house. Minimal cover but all there was.

He unzipped the top of the bag so the gun was ready. His instinct was to run, to cross the open ground between him and the trees in the shortest possible time. But in this heat
nobody
ran. Mustn’t attract attention. Heart battering his ribs, he started walking. He heard a vehicle coming up behind. It began to slow.

Please God not a patrol! With forced casualness he glanced round. A
bemo
, the fare collector leaning from the door with his arm like a scoop.

‘Hey, mister!’

‘No.
Tidak
!’ Randall waved them on.

‘Yes, mister! You want to go Piri! Yes, yes!’

‘No.
Tidak! Tidak
,’ Randall scowled. With a shrug and a grin the boy gave up and the
bemo
sped on, tootling its horn in a way guaranteed to attract a glance from a guard on watch.

‘Fuck! Fuck!’ Randall hissed, his eyes sweeping from one end of the villa’s compound to the other. Nothing. Doubt crept in. Maybe this wasn’t the place. Maybe Charlie was still at Kadama.

He reached the trees and stopped, crouching as if to tie a shoe lace. A stone’s throw from the chain-link fence, he saw blue behind the hedge – a van parked in front of the house. There
was
someone here.

Then he froze. The terror of a rotor-beat. Coming from the direction of Mount Jiwa, pulsing towards him like a blast of icy air. Out of the hazy blue he saw a small, dark speck grow into the shape of a UH-1 and drop towards the landing strip behind the house. Motionless, he watched it disappear behind the hedge.

And he’d been seen. Bloody pilot had looked straight at him. Fifty metres between them, no more. Game up. The clock had stopped. Had to move before
they
did.

He grabbed the rifle, sprinted to the fence and searched for a break in the hedge that would let him see through. He found it.

Charlie. His heart stopped. Through the leaves of a hibiscus. Blindfolded and gagged, feet and hands bound, with two men in uniform, one on each side, dragging her to the helicopter. Next stop the volcano.

Randall fired. Single shot. High, to avoid Charlie. The head of the soldier nearest to him flicked sideways and seemed to burst, as his body crumpled. The second man, wearing an aviator’s helmet, recoiled, let Charlie fall, then ducked and lurched forward, propelling himself back to his machine. Randall fired twice, dropping him before he reached a gate in the fence.

The rotors clattered, the engine pitch rose in panic. Randall’s fevered brain said the chopper was a dragon that had to be slain. He darted to the end of the fence as it lifted, firing wildly, but the machine banked away unscathed.

By the open gate into the villa’s grounds, he crouched, gun to his shoulder. The helicopter crewman lay just inside, a gaping wound in his flank. In the middle of the grass Charlie was on her knees, rigid with terror. One man dead to her left, his uniform clinging like a second skin.

Randall looked up to the villa. Open patio doors, two men crouching inside, pistols in their hands. They fired, then ducked further back. Randall loosed off two rounds, then crouched by Charlie.

‘Charlie!’ he barked. ‘It’s me!’

Tape across her mouth, a squeal from beneath it.

‘Sit on your bum. I’ll have to drag you backwards.’ Gun in his right hand, he grabbed the collar of her bush shirt. ‘Shove with your legs, understand?’

She nodded frantically, flopped on to her backside, then kicked with her bound feet as he pulled her towards the gate.

He felt it before he heard it. A thwack to his left shoulder, then the crack of a second shot that grazed his ear. His left hand lost all strength. He let go of Charlie’s shirt. Dropping on to one knee, he fired twice into the open doors of the house, searching for where the shots had come from.

‘Keep going!’ he yelled to Charlie, diving sideways. Pain knifed through his shoulder. ‘Straight back!’ he screamed, flinching.

Another shot. He saw the flash this time. Not
inside
the house, but from a path at the side. He cracked back two rounds, then the gun died. A dead click on an empty chamber.

‘Damn!’

Pinning the useless rifle under his weakened left arm, he grabbed Charlie’s collar with his right hand and dragged her the last few metres through the gate as a bullet clanged off the metal post.

Hidden by the hedge now, they lay flat. Trying to stop his good hand shaking, he unclipped the rifle magazine, turned it over and slotted in the spare. Fifteen rounds left – each one had to count. How many was he up against? Two at least. Sumoto one of them, he guessed. Colonel Widodo the other? Both armed, both driven by the compelling need to eliminate anyone who knew their secrets.

They’d be coming for them. He jammed the barrel through the hedge, fired two rounds as cover, dragged Charlie back another few metres, then thrust a hand into his trouser pocket for the knife he’d put there earlier. Just enough feeling in his left hand to open the blade.

Had to free her legs before anything else. The cord was thin and parted easily. Then her hands. As the string frayed under the blade, Charlie wrenched them free, pushed off the blindfold and blinked at him in disbelief.

‘Now we run. Like fuck!’ he growled.

At a crouch, they sprinted for the eucalyptus trees, Charlie ripping the tape from her mouth. She gulped in air. She’d faced death for the past hour. Now she was glimpsing life again.

Two shots cracked over their heads.

‘Down!’ Randall screamed. ‘Where are you now, you
bastards
?’

Grass and stones. Useless cover, but the trees were still too far. Rifle sight to his eye, raking round for a target, he saw a blur of green-brown – a uniformed arm reaching round the fence at the front of the house. He
squeezed
the trigger. One round. Had to ration them. The recoil shot through his frame to his injured shoulder. He winced. Then came the thud of a gun from behind.

‘Back there!’ Charlie croaked, pointing.

Randall swung the barrel and blatted off another single shot.

Without cover they’d soon be dead.

‘Got to make it to those trees, understand?’ he whispered. ‘You first. Weave side to side. I’ll cover …’

‘Nick …’

‘
Now!
Go!’

He elbowed her away, then fired twice, once in front, once behind at the spots in the fence where the targets had been a moment ago.

No response. No sign of uniforms now. Moving again. The buggers were moving, moving.

He scrambled up and sprinted after Charlie. Bullets cracked and zinged. Automatic fire now. Shit! The bastards had an arsenal in there. He dived to the ground, then rolled over twice to put a thin eucalyptus trunk between him and the guns, nearly blacking out from the pain.

‘You all right?’ Charlie gulped.

‘Wonderful,’ he croaked.

‘They were going to
kill
me …’ she choked, disbelief in her voice.

‘Yep.’ Still might, the way things were going.

Suddenly a motor roared to life. A patch of blue moving behind the hedge. The van backed out on to the verge.

Randall looked round at the road. Traffic backing away wildly. Not a healthy place to be.

The van swung towards them, creeping forward in low gear. The face behind the wheel was hard to see, as if the windscreen was opaque. But it was there.

Randall fired. Couldn’t miss. But nothing happened. Crazing of the glass, nothing more. The face still there, teeth clenched with determination.

‘Shit!’
Armoured glass!
‘It’s a fucking tank …’ he hissed.

They were staring at death. Motorised death. The passenger door opened as a shield. An automatic rifle poked round it. Bullets chipped bark from above their heads.

‘No …!’ Charlie screamed. To be rescued and then
both
of them die …

Randall aimed for the tyres. One exploded with a whoop. He’d lost count of the rounds. Five left. Five at the most.

Relentlessly the van crept towards them. Two options. Stay put, or run. Neither promising.

‘Charlie …’ Nick croaked, suddenly. ‘I think we’re stuffed.’

Then the van stopped. Nick cringed, expecting grenades. A bad way to die. He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes and waited.

Nothing. Instead of an explosion he heard the wap-wap of rotors. The flying hearse was back.

‘Look!’ Charlie moaned, pointing towards the beach.

Helicopters. Not Hueys this time. German-made Bo 105s. Four of them sweeping in from the sea, disgorging soldiers as they skimmed the sand.

Overkill. He reached out to Charlie. Wanted to say sorry, but his throat blocked up.

The troops ran from the beach, their rifles tut-tutting. Randall jammed his face to the earth. Bullets smacked against the wall of the villa. The
villa
? He lifted his head again to see the two men from the van running back to the house. One, taller and older than the other, raised a hand to protect himself, then toppled as a bullet caught him.

‘Fu-uck! It’s
them
they’re shooting at, not us.’

He swung round and tossed the gun away. Best not to be seen with it.

‘Sit up, quick,’ he gabbled, scrabbling to his knees and ignoring the pain in his shoulder. ‘Hands on your head.’ Charlie couldn’t move. ‘It’s OK. We’re going to be OK.’

Suddenly the shooting stopped. Silence apart from the grind of the helicopters peeling back out to sea. Steel-helmeted commandos ran past them to secure the rear of the house. Then one stopped in front of them, berry-bright eyes in a tight, war-painted face, his rifle levelled at their heads.

‘
Teman
…’ Randall croaked.
Friend
. It was all he could think of to say.

Charlie gulped back tears, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

‘W-what’s happening?’ she stammered.

‘Don’t know yet.’

With a jerk of his gun, the soldier bade them stand, while jabbering into a radio.

‘Y-your arm,’ Charlie choked, seeing the growing mess on Randall’s shirt.

‘It’s OK,’ he whispered, his eyes on the soldier. ‘He wants us to walk.’

The soldier hurried them past the villa, towards a cluster of jeeps. Striding towards them in crisp camouflage and a shiny helmet that looked straight out of the box was a senior-looking officer, short of stature with a round, dark face and thin, black moustache.

‘Mr Nick, Miss Charlotte?’ His voice was snappy. Authoritative.

‘Yes.’

‘I am Brigadier General Effendi.
Police
. You are safe now. Come, please.’

The soldier trotted back to the house. Effendi hustled them to where a first aid tent was being pitched. He
gabbled
orders in Bahasa. Orderlies grabbed Randall and sat him in a canvas chair, cutting the bloodstained shirt from his shoulder.

‘You hurt?’ Effendi asked Charlie. His look was hard, as if angry at the trouble they’d caused him.

‘No. Falling apart, that’s all …’ Tears filled her eyes.

More shouts in Bahasa, then another chair was produced for her.

Effendi crouched beside Randall. ‘Mr Maxwell told me about you,’ he said softly.

‘Good.’

‘Tell me please if you have seen Mr Bowen? You can speak free. These men have no English.’

Randall told him. Told him everything except Bowen’s confession and the identity of the Kutuan who’d helped him. Charlie listened open-mouthed.

When he’d almost finished, they heard rubber-soled feet running towards them.

‘My bag!’ gasped Charlie, turning to look. She stood up.

A soldier carrying the grey holdall jogged to a halt in front of them. He saluted, then Effendi took it from him. Charlie touched her fingers to her mouth.

‘It’s mine,’ she repeated feebly, her hand reaching out pointlessly.

Effendi searched the bag, pulling out the Handycam with a gleam of triumph. He looked it over then pressed the eject button, removing the tape and stuffing it into a breast pocket. Satisfied the bag now contained just binoculars and a water bottle, he gave it to Charlie.

‘Thanks …’ she murmured, taking it. ‘But the er …’

‘
Camera
not permitted in Kutu, Miss Charlotte,’ Effendi told her, closing up the cassette mechanism and handing it to the soldier with a gesture that it should be put in his command vehicle.

‘But you’ve taken the
tape
, why d’you need the camera?’ she protested.

‘Camera not permitted in Kutu,’ he repeated icily.

The orderly cleaning Randall’s wound stood to attention to report.

‘He says it only small wound,’ Effendi translated. ‘You lucky the bullet miss the bone. In a minute they take you to hospital where they fix it. But first I see what happening.’

He left them, marching briskly down to the villa.

‘Shit!’ Charlie sat again, the bag on her lap, her fingers feeling inside it. Gone. The whole sodding lot. Camera, tapes. Not a frame of bloody picture. Or …? She looked up at him, eyes wide, remembering the bag had a false bottom.

‘Not now …’ Randall warned out of the side of his mouth.

She flicked him a smile. The man was a saint. Not only saved her, he’d saved the tapes.

A few minutes later Effendi reappeared, his face drawn and tense.

‘Sumoto?’ Randall asked gently.

‘The general is dead,’ he answered curtly, as if it were none of Randall’s business. ‘And Colonel Widodo,’ he added, relenting, ‘And Captain Sugeng.’