No Man's Land

1

Charles Peacock stretched his lanky near-naked six-foot frame along the stained sofa, pumped his fist and yelled, “Go, you Hammers!”

He was watching his soccer team, West Ham United, play Fulham on a small television set in his Kuta studio at the Peaceful Garden Apartments, which were anything but.

A couple of kids were crying in the apartment next door and heavy traffic roared along Legian Street, just a stone’s throw away. A fan stuck on full blast whirred overhead, clicking to a rhythmic beat.

He adjusted the crotch of his navy boxer shorts and wiped the sweat off his face with a threadbare handtowel lying next to him.

Yet another siren wailed outside the open window, drowning out the football commentary. The blast he’d heard a couple of hours ago had stirred the local police into a frenzy of activity. Having served in the first Gulf War, he’d bet a sizeable sum on it being a bomb.

He turned up the television to drown out the distracting noise and looked at the half-empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label sitting on the coffee table beside him. It was lined up next to a jug of water, a cracked glass, a foil of hash, a pipe, a razor blade and a disposable yellow Bic cigarette lighter.

Through an act of great will, he’d held off having his first drink of the day. He had a flying job the next morning at 6.30 a.m. and needed to be in control. He figured if he stayed straight and sober until 7.30 this evening, he’d be fine.

A West Ham striker scored another goal, making it 2–1 in their favor. He double-pumped his fist in the air and sung out, “Yeeesss! We are the champions!”

Football was his religion and reminded him of how much he wanted out of this shithole of a country and to return home to the United Kingdom.

After fifteen years Bali had long lost its charm and he’d been trying to sell his helicopter for the last five months without a nibble, let alone a bite.

He sneaked a look at his watch: 7.25 p.m.

Close enough. After all, West Ham were now in the lead, a good enough reason to celebrate. He poured three fingers of whisky and a splash of water into the glass.

He lifted his drink, toasted the television and swallowed. The Johnnie Walker slid down his throat and warmed his stomach.

He let out a deep satisfied sigh, then bent over the table, cut a small chunk of black hash from the block with the razor blade, crumbled it into fragments between his thumb and forefinger and packed it into the black pipe.

As he lifted the pipe to his lips, a sharp double knock on the hollow plywood door made him look up.

His first instinct was to ignore it, but his dealer often called uninvited and he’d hate to miss him. His stash was getting low.

Another loud knock sounded.

He pushed himself up from the couch, pulled on a cotton shirt and a pair of baggy rugby shorts, then trudged to the door, mumbling, “Hold your damn horses. I’m coming.”

The sweet smell of a clove cigarette wafted from under the door. He opened it.

Two well-dressed and clean-cut Indonesians stood in front of him. Both around thirty years old, they wore sandals, black trousers and batik shirts. The taller one stared at him through cold brown eyes.

“Are you Charles Peacock?” he asked in fluent English.

“Who wants to know?”

The man levelled his hard gaze at him. “You don’t need to know.”

Peacock ran his eyes over the two men. “What’s this about?”

“We have a business proposition for you. I understand you have a helicopter for sale?”

The taller Indonesian moved toward the doorway without being asked. His mate followed.

Peacock stepped aside to let them in. He stood just inside the door and watched them cast an eye over his apartment. Then he looked down the hallway to make sure no one else was there, closed the door and said, “I’m listening.”

2

Carter sat strapped into the front passenger seat of a red and black Bell 407 helicopter next to the pilot, cruising across the Indian Ocean at a hundred and forty miles an hour toward Lengkuas Atoll, nearly five hundred miles from Bali. After refueling at an island en route, they expected to arrive in forty minutes.

He checked his watch and ran through the time line in his head. It was now 2.40 p.m., twenty-two hours since Jacko’s death and just under two and a half days from when he was attacked in the surf at Lennox. If everything went according to plan, which he knew was unlikely, they’d rescue Thomas and Wayan that night from Batak Island and be back in Bali tomorrow, 28 December. They’d then set about determining the best way to deal with Samudra’s planned terrorist attack on Sydney.

Erina was in the passenger seat behind, working on her computer. They’d met the pilot, Charles Peacock, at Denpasar Airport shortly before dawn. He’d been half an hour late, his breath smelled of whisky and their scheduled 6.30 a.m. departure was delayed until nearly 8.30. Peacock claimed the short notice he was given had resulted in a tangle of unavoidable problems that had caused the hold-up.

Erina had suggested to Carter that they knock Peacock out and fly the helicopter themselves, but he’d managed to convince her that they might need him and it was best to wait and see how the operation panned out.

They were both struggling to keep it together after Jacko’s murder. There was no time for grief, no time to stop and try to make sense of his death. The violent attack had made their concern for Thomas and Wayan even more intense and the tragedy had brought them closer together. They’d slept in the same bed that night, just holding each other, silent. Though they’d barely even spoken, what they’d shared was more tender and intimate than if they’d made love.

Before going to sleep, Carter had made a promise to himself. Not only would he rescue Thomas and Wayan, but he’d take down Alex, Samudra and his mujaheddin or die trying. He hadn’t chosen to start this fight, but after Jacko’s murder he intended to finish it.

They’d woken at 5 a.m. and listened to the early-morning news on Asian CNN. It reported that the blast had killed an unnamed Australian, two Balinese cafe workers, three Swedish and two German backpackers and a man believed to have been the suicide bomber. Six others had been seriously injured and no one had yet claimed responsibility. Good luck or fate rather than good management had allowed Carter and Erina to escape unharmed.

He looked over his shoulder at her now, headphones in place. She was poring over the information from Jacko’s memory stick. Throwing herself into a task was her way of dealing with uncomfortable emotion. She lifted her head and they exchanged the weakest of smiles. Carter turned to the front and sneaked a quick glance at Peacock. The long, lanky Englishman sat in the driver’s seat staring stony-faced toward the cloudy grey horizon.

The muffled roar of the engine hummed through Carter’s headphones, somehow comforting him. If all went according to plan, he and Erina would take the jet ski stowed in the rear cargo section to Batak Island and be there in just over an hour. Peacock would remain on the atoll with the helicopter until they returned with Thomas and Wayan.

Carter ran his fingers over the waterproof daypack that lay nestled between his feet, then slipped his hand into the thigh pocket of his pants. He felt the smooth steel of three drug-tipped darts and their hard plastic covers.

Using them on Peacock would be a last resort. But, like Erina, something about the man bothered him. They would need to be sure both pilot and helicopter remained on Lengkuas Atoll until they returned from Batak Island or called him in to pick them up.

Twenty minutes later, what looked like the haze of an island appeared on the horizon in front of them. Carter lifted the high-powered binoculars hanging round his neck.

A crescent-shaped beach came into focus, a curve of white sand about four hundred yards long. The water was blue and clear. Half-a-dozen children played at the western end in between two run-down fishing boats pulled up onto the sand.

He switched on the headset. “I presume that’s Lengkuas Atoll ahead?”

“That’s where I was paid to take you.”

Carter refocused on the island in front of him. A couple of malibu surfboards lay in the shade of a palm tree. He made a mental note and scanned further down the beach.

A group of a dozen or so Indonesians were gathered at the eastern end. He zoomed in closer.

They were fanning out in military formation, carrying what looked like automatic weapons slung over their shoulders.

He swore under his breath.

Two things were clear. The villagers were expecting them and this was definitely not the atoll he’d seen last night on Jacko’s memory stick.

He refocused the binoculars and a shot of adrenalin pulsed through his veins.

Two villagers were mounting a surface-to-air rocket-launcher onto a wooden platform.

3

Carter turned to look at the pilot. Peacock was staring into the distance, apparently oblivious to the looming danger.

There was no way the guy was a born-again fundamentalist willing to sacrifice his life for Allah. From what Carter could tell, his only religion was alcohol, maybe drugs and probably the dollar. He might well have sold them out, but he didn’t appear to be expecting any welcoming committee that might threaten his personal safety.

Carter spoke into the headset. “Peacock, you need to cut the speed.”

He wanted to slow down rather than change course, so as not to alert the reception committee that they were onto them.

Peacock turned toward him. “What are you talking about?”

Carter put a hard edge into his voice. “Don’t fuck with me. I’m not asking. Slow down now.”

Peacock spoke without looking at him. “Back off, you Aussie dickhead. I’m flying this—”

Carter placed his hand on Peacock’s shoulder and jammed his thumb into the pressure point at the top of the neck.

Peacock winced, let go of the control stick and yelled out, “For Christ’s sake.”

The helicopter slowed dramatically and wobbled. The nose dipped.

Carter braced himself with his feet, maintaining his grip on Peacock’s shoulder. He knew exactly what was about to happen.

The helicopter lurched downward, freefalling fifty feet before levelling off.

Erina’s voice cut through the headset. “What the fuck?”

The helicopter tilted hard to starboard, the nose pointing down at an acute and dangerous angle.

They’d start to dive at any moment.

He released the pressure on Peacock’s shoulder.

Peacock snatched the controls. “You crazy bastard! You trying to kill us?”

“Just getting your attention. You lied to us.”

The helicopter levelled out and hovered above the ocean without moving forward.

“I did nothing of the sort.”

“If this is Lengkuas Atoll,” Carter said, “Erina is the Virgin Mary and the reception committee assembling on the beach are the three wise men.”

“You’re just being paranoid,” Peacock said, obviously trying to maintain the charade. “It’ll just be a couple of villagers out and about, wondering who we are.”

“Bullshit,” Carter said.

He thrust the binoculars in front of Peacock’s face. “Focus on the beach. West of the village. At eleven o’clock.”

Peacock grabbed them in his left hand and did as he was told.

Carter watched carefully to gauge his reaction and make sure the rocket-launcher came as a complete surprise.

Peacock swung the binoculars along the coastline.

Then he stopped and leaned forward.

“Sweet mother of God.”

The bravado had evaporated. He appeared to be genuinely shocked by what he saw.

“What the fuck is going on?” Erina asked.

Carter took the binoculars from Peacock, passed them to her and pointed to the beach.

She took hold of them and focused. “Holy shit. Is that Batak Island?”

“You better ask Peacock,” Carter said.

Peacock said nothing.

Carter heard Erina unbuckle her seatbelt. She leaned over Peacock and held a knife to his throat. “Well?” she said.

“Yes,” Peacock said. “That’s Batak. But don’t do anything rash. You need me.”

Carter looked through the binoculars again.

“Shit.”

The villagers were aiming the rocket-launcher directly at them and looked like they were getting ready to fire.

4

Batak Island loomed a little over a mile away.

Peacock sat rigid at the controls. Erina continued to lean over his shoulder, still holding the blade an inch from his neck.

“Watch the knife,” Peacock said.

“Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t slit your throat,” Erina said.

“You need me.”

“Keep talking.”

“That missile has a range of over two miles,” Peacock said, shooting the words out. “If they open fire, we can’t outrun it. I’m your best hope.”

“You got us into this shit storm.”

“And I can get you out.”

“Convince me.”

“I’m ex — Royal Air Force. I’ve trained for this. I was one of the best. But to do this, I’m going to need a drink.”

“What do you think, Carter?” Erina asked.

Carter could fly a helicopter but was far from an expert and hadn’t done so for five years. Plus, he’d never flown a chopper like this and he knew the Bell 407 was a sensitive beast.

It required deft handling, with three sets of controls. The collective control stick, positioned to the pilot’s left, changed the pitch of the rotors and forced the nose to rise or fall. The cyclical control stick, situated just in front of the pilot, between his legs, adjusted the angle of the rotor blades, turning the bird to the left or right. Finally, there were the pedals on the floor, which controlled the tail rotor, counteracting the torque of the main rotors and stabilizing the flight. They also helped turn the helicopter to the right or left.

The idea was to work all three controls together to create a smooth flight. Normally a skilled pilot used subtle pressure rather than any sudden or dramatic movement. In a situation like this the pilot needed to know his machine as if it was an extension of himself.

Peacock was their best option.

“Give the man a drink,” Carter said.

Peacock’s whole body relaxed. “There’s a bottle in the rear port-side locker.”

Carter studied him. Blotchy, pale and gaunt, the guy was a burned-out shell of a man. But he suspected a skilled pilot lay underneath the wreckage.

Erina placed an opened bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label into Peacock’s left hand. He lifted the bottle to his mouth and took a long pull. He then took a deep, satisfied breath and positioned the bottle between his thighs.

There was an immediate shift in his demeanor. The color returned to his face and the set of his jaw hardened.

Carter raised the binoculars. A ball of fire was flying through the air, heading straight toward them.

Peacock had seen it too. He turned the throttle up full and adjusted the controls decisively and aggressively. The generous shot of alcohol had transformed him. Carter knew the hit was temporary. But it only needed to last long enough to get them to the island.

The helicopter’s engine roared. The vibrating body started to shake and shudder like it was about to break apart. For a long half-second the bird’s position remained unchanged.

Then the adjustments kicked in. The quivering helicopter swayed sharply to the left and the nose plunged toward the ocean.

Carter gripped the side of the smooth leather seat and concentrated on the slow inhalation and exhalation of his breath, aiming to become totally alert and yet detached, as if watching a movie.

Thomas said a man afraid to die was of no use to anyone. Panic guaranteed defeat, and in this case certain death. But if a man remained calm, regardless of circumstances, there was a chance of victory.

Carter entered an emotionally neutral zone — a place between life and death, where time slowed and everything around him became clear and still.

Peacock adjusted the controls and the helicopter hurtled to the right.

Carter thought the radical move might have averted a hit. But then Erina’s urgent voice came over the headset.

“Hard right, Peacock. It’s coming straight for the tail.”

Carter looked out the back window and saw the ball of flame heading straight for them. “Must be programmed to track heat.”

“Yeah,” Erina said, “us.”

Peacock adjusted the controls, but the warning had come too late. The missile slammed into their tail with a sickening shudder and the helicopter’s rear end swung wildly to the left.

It kept going, spinning three hundred and sixty degrees.

Once around.

Then another full circle.

Again and again.

The sky flashed by the window.

Peacock worked the controls frantically.

In less than three seconds, but what felt to Carter like a timeless eternity, the helicopter came out of the spin.

It pitched forward and swayed from side to side as if drunk.

“Rotor’s down,” Erina said, her tone urgent but calm.

Carter looked over his shoulder out the window. The back rotor had been knocked out and a trail of black smoke ballooned behind them. But though the engine whined and screamed, they were still in the air.

The helicopter only had to hold together for another minute for them to reach the island.

Then everything changed again.

The engine shut down and the helicopter stopped swaying. Carter glanced at Peacock.

He took another slug of whisky. The combination of the alcohol and this latest threat galvanized him into action. He switched the controls back and forth at a great rate in a desperate effort to restart the stalled engine.

Peacock was making all the right moves, but so far without success. They seemed suspended in time and space, hanging in midair.

Then, like someone had pressed play in a video game, the nose pointed down and the helicopter started to plummet at an alarming rate.

The ocean rushed toward them.

Carter knew if they hit the water at this speed, the impact would kill them. Peacock had just 1.2 seconds to make the appropriate response.

He adjusted the collective control stick to his left. This flattened the blades, allowing them to be driven by the wind, and slowed their rate of descent to around two thousand feet per second. A step in the right direction.

Simultaneously, he maneuvered the cyclical stick in front of him, positioning the rotors so they sustained forward momentum, and the helicopter headed in the general direction of the island.

Through the headset, Erina said, “It seems you can drink and fly.”

A hint of a smile formed on Peacock’s face.

If they continued at this speed and trajectory, they’d hit the water at a workable speed and have a good chance of surviving the crash — but Carter knew better than to make any assumptions.

The back of the helicopter began fishtailing back and forth. The nose jerked up and down in a bucking motion. Telltale signs of a giant bird in the throes of death.

Carter glanced over at Peacock again. The pilot’s concentration and breathing were steady. Good signs.

The nose dipped to the near vertical.

They began freefalling again toward the on-rushing ocean.

Peacock needed to come up with the perfect counter move.

Carter said nothing, wanting to give him the space to allow whatever skill and ingenuity he possessed to come through.

The pilot worked all three controls at once, making all the right adjustments in his effort to wrest back his dominance of the plunging beast and flatten out the near-vertical dive.

Carter glanced at Erina. She gave him one of her short nods.

He nodded back at her and braced his feet against the front of the helicopter to protect himself from the crushing force of impact.

For once in his life the prospect of entering the ocean did nothing for him.

5

The helicopter shook and vibrated, plunging toward the choppy water a thousand feet below but closing fast.

Peacock yanked back on the cyclical stick and the chopper jerked upward like a parachute had shot out its backside, slowing their fall.

He worked the controls with fierce determination and concentration.

Back and forth. Left and right.

Carter noted that the helicopter decelerated further, but to give them a decent chance of survival, Peacock needed to level out their dive. The helicopter’s belly rather than its nose needed to hit the water first.

Peacock pulled the stick back hard, flaring the helicopter’s rotors and creating upward pressure on its body. Their downward velocity slowed and the wounded bird’s nose lifted to a healthier forty-five-degree angle.

Three hundred feet from the water, Peacock slammed the stick forward, releasing the flare of the rotors. The stored energy in the blades pushed against the force of gravity, restoring the angle of the hull and bringing it practically parallel to the ocean.

Peacock had one move left. He raised the collective stick, slowing their fall even further.

Carter had to hand it to Peacock. It’d been a brilliant piece of flying.

Peacock took a final slug of scotch. In a few short seconds they’d smack into the brick wall of water.

“Brace for impact,” Peacock said over the headphones.

“Thanks for the tip,” Erina replied.

Carter clenched his neck muscles to stop his head from whipping forward on impact.

An instant later the underbelly crashed into the hard surface of the water. The excruciating sound of shrieking, twisting metal filled their ears.

Carter was hurled forward against his four-point safety harness, then thrust back into his seat.

The helicopter bounced once.

Twice.

It shuddered, then came to a stop.

A quick glance out the window told Carter the hull was intact and the buoyancy floats had activated. They’d crash-landed on the far side of the rocky headland, out of sight of the group of armed Indonesians.

Water started to flow into the cockpit. He unbuckled his seatbelt.

“Erina, you okay?” he asked.

“All good here,” she said, unbuckling her belt. “But what are we going to do with Peacock?”

Carter turned toward the pilot. It wasn’t a pretty sight. The force of impact had dislodged the Johnnie Walker from his lap, breaking the bottle and thrusting it upward into his neck. Blood poured out of the jagged cut and down his front.

Carter checked his carotid pulse and said, “Nothing can be done for him. He’s dead.”

Erina bent over Carter and looked at Peacock.

“Shit, what a mess,” she said. “Ironic that the bottle got him in the end.”

“At least he got us down and we don’t have to figure out what to do with him.”

“That double-crossing drunk just delivered us safely into the hands of the enemy. So much for flying under the radar.”

Water continued to pour into the cockpit.

“Come on,” Carter said. “We need to get out of here before the bird flips.”

6

Djoran lay flat on his belly at the edge of the rocky cliff, squinting in the harsh sunlight, praying to God for guidance.

The wounded helicopter bobbed up and down in the choppy water below, about a hundred and fifty yards from shore. He assumed it was Erina, Thomas’s daughter, and his man Carter — despite the fact that he’d been told they would be arriving by jet ski.

The sun reflected off the transparent bubble, making it impossible for him to tell whether the people inside were alive or dead.

Though he’d prayed for their arrival, he dared do nothing to help. If he exposed himself and the clan’s men captured him, there’d be no one to help Kemala, Thomas and Wayan.

It was almost like God was punishing him for praying for a specific outcome.

Djoran had devoted his life to Sufism. His religion had taught him to transcend the physical world, detach from all desires and live on a spiritual plane. Yet here he was on Batak Island caught up in a life-and-death struggle for a cause he believed in.

It didn’t make sense, but Djoran had learned many years ago that nothing in the world made sense and all one could do was follow one’s heart and pray for divine guidance. God and his heart had led him to this point.

The helicopter door swung open.

Djoran saw a woman look around and then dive into the water, followed by a man. Both carried a small pack on their back.

They started swimming toward shore, stroking fast and smooth as if they were in an Olympic hundred-meter final.

The helicopter’s nose dipped under the water, lifting the rear end to near vertical.

In a blur of movement the great bird flipped over and crashed onto its back, submerging the rotors and exposing its landing gear.

Slowly the helicopter started sliding under the water.

Ten seconds later all that was left were a few bubbles.

From the other side of the headland two outboard engines started up.

Djoran turned toward the sound.

Eight men sat close together in two overladen boats, chugging slowly toward the crashed helicopter.

It would take them less than two minutes to reach the headland.

He glanced in the direction of the two swimmers, halfway to the beach by now, and willed them to go even faster.

7

At exactly the same time on the other side of the island, Thomas’s eyes snapped open. He was in a cement cell, flat on his back on a hard wooden bench, his wrists and calves locked in iron manacles.

He looked up through the grille of the high solitary window above. The sun broke through a cloud and shone in his eyes. The angle of the light told him it was midafternoon.

Something caused his heart rate to quicken. Carter was nearby — he was sure of it.

A psychic thread had connected them ever since Carter first slouched into his Bangkok dojo, an undisciplined, troubled teenager with a prodigious gift for the martial arts.

Their bond had been instant — yet they differed in so many ways.

Thomas’s mother had been a Chinese aristocrat; his father an American philanthropist. They had given him a life of privilege, and his upbringing had been rooted in Eastern religion and philosophy.

Carter’s father had abandoned him, and his mother was a drug addict. The chaos of his childhood could have destroyed the sensitive young boy, if not for his innate strength of character.

Thomas had worked hard over many years to help Carter find his center, quiet his demons and harness his talents. Though he’d been disappointed when Carter had left the order, he’d always known he would come back to the fold. The order was Carter’s spiritual home, and Thomas had been both father and mother to him.

A groan came from the adjoining bench, where Wayan, also restrained by iron manacles, drifted in and out of consciousness.

Earlier that morning four of Samudra’s men had beaten them with wooden batons and then chained them up like dogs.

Wayan had abused their attackers, causing them to give him an even harsher beating. They’d delivered vicious blows to his head and body.

Thomas, who had watched it, powerless to intervene, suspected they’d fractured the boy’s collarbone and jaw, as well as creating severe internal injuries.

Since the beating, they’d been left in the cell without food or water, suggesting Samudra considered them already dead.

The naive courage of the young man’s gesture had made Thomas want to weep. He saw Wayan, like Carter, as a surrogate son.

His fears for Wayan, the probable collapse of the order and the seemingly inevitable failure of his life’s work had taken their toll on his spirit. Despair had engulfed him — a feeling he had hardly known, till now.

If Carter was nearby, most likely Erina, his courageous and headstrong daughter, was near too, but even that thought failed to lift his mood. Stopping Samudra and his jihad should have been their number-one priority, not rescuing him and Wayan. They should’ve recognized that his and Wayan’s fate was ultimately unimportant, and that they were needed elsewhere. By listening to their hearts and not their heads, letting their feelings master them, they had failed him.

He adjusted his position slightly on the unforgiving wooden bench. His left ankle, which he suspected was fractured, screamed at the movement. Two broken ribs made breathing painful.

He let out a deep sigh.

The situation appeared hopeless. Even if Carter and Erina succeeded in freeing them from the cell, their actions, like Wayan’s, would most likely prove nothing more than a brave but futile gesture.

8

Carter and Erina ran down a dirt track through the jungle, Carter in front, their feet creating a rhythmical beat as they matched strides. A dense canopy of vines and leaves whipped them as they charged through.

Five minutes earlier they had reached the shore, sprinted across the narrow beach and burst through an opening in the dense vegetation, seconds before the approaching motorboats rounded the nearby headland.

The heat and humidity were intense, but their wet clothes clung to their bodies, providing some respite. Carter felt a heady mix of adrenalin and endorphins, a result of having survived the helicopter crash.

His plan to rescue Thomas and Wayan that night and get back to Bali by the next day, 28 December, now seemed impossible. Without the helicopter, they were going to have to come up with another way to get off the island.

Erina was behind him, not only keeping pace but pushing him to go faster. They’d covered a little over three hundred yards when they came to a clearing. He raised his right hand.

They slowed to a stop and stood next to each other, panting hard. He wiped the sweat dripping down his face from his eyes and listened.

The outboard engines had slowed to an idling putter, suggesting the boats following them had arrived at the site where the helicopter went down.

The fact that the bird had sunk without a trace would confuse their pursuers, making them suspect Carter and Erina might have been killed in the crash. But there’d been too little time for them to cover their tracks on the beach. It wouldn’t take long for Samudra’s men to figure out what had happened.

A distant sound caught Carter’s attention above the noise of the engines: the manic excitement of barking dogs.

He and Erina listened for a little longer. The noise intensified. The dogs appeared to be heading straight for them.

Erina pointed west along the track. “There’s a stream about a half a mile that way. I saw it on the map just before we got shot down.”

“You sure?”

“Carter, I may be a woman, but I can read a map.”

After roughly six hundred yards the track widened, allowing Carter and Erina to run faster through the dense jungle, away from the village and the sounds of the dogs on the hunt.

To their left, toward the ocean, came the now much louder rumble of two outboard engines. The villagers’ boats had started moving again, most likely patrolling the coast.

To their right the mountain range created a natural barrier that would make it impossible for them to turn inland and outrun the dogs. Finding the stream was their only option.

Carter grabbed Erina’s arm.

“Hold on a sec.”

He’d heard something — sensed it, almost — over the sound of the dogs and the motorboats and the rustling of the trees.

“What is it?”

He put his hand to his ear and pointed into the jungle.

Erina nodded and followed him into the thick undergrowth. They crouched down together, screened from the track by a shield of dense foliage, and listened to the steady beat of approaching footsteps.

He slipped his pack off. “Wait here and be ready to back me up.”

Twenty seconds later an Indonesian man with the whippet-thin build of a marathon runner charged around a bend in the path.

He ran past them barefoot, carrying a green cloth pack on his back.

Carter leaped out of the bushes, accelerated down the track after the man and caught up to him in half-a-dozen strides.

The man turned toward him, just as Carter launched himself through the air. He hit the guy with a flying tackle around the ankles and dropped him to the ground with a thud.

Carter wrestled him onto his back, pinned his shoulders with his knees, gripped his throat and clenched his right hand into a tight-coiled fist.

The guy grinned and said in English, “Mr. Carter — I am so very happy to have found you.”

“Djoran?”

“Yes, it is me. So sorry to startle you.”

Carter studied Djoran’s clear brown eyes and the expression on his handsome face. He was struck by the man’s openness and lack of guile.

He released his grip, stood up, put out his hand and pulled the guy to his feet.

Djoran gave him a broad smile. “Thomas says you are a very good man.”

“I have my moments.”

Erina stepped out of the bushes, holding a Glock out in front of her with both hands, pointing it at Djoran’s chest.

“And this is Erina,” Carter said.

He waved for her to lower the gun.

She hesitated, then did so.

Djoran held out his hand.

“I am so very pleased to meet you, Miss Erina,” he said. “I have heard very much about you.”

She shook his hand, but said nothing.

“We’re lucky you found us,” Carter said.

“Not luck,” Djoran said. “God’s will. And I have been watching very carefully. The wise camel driver trusts Allah, but hitches up his camel.”

“Too true,” Carter said. “Now tell me about Thomas and Wayan. Are they okay?”

“They are alive. Being held prisoner in a cell within the compound. And my very dear friend Kemala is under twenty-four-hour guard.”

“Can you take us to them?” Carter asked.

“Hey,” Erina said. “Shouldn’t we first be worrying about the dogs?”

The barking was getting louder and more frenetic.

Djoran reached into his pack and extracted a plastic bag full of bloody raw meat.

“Are you going to feed them?” she asked.

“Not exactly. The meat is full of poison.”

He flung pieces into the bush on either side of the track.

“I hate to hurt animals,” he said. “Even vicious beasts like these Rottweilers. But it must be done.”

He bowed toward the bush, where he’d thrown the meat. “May God bless their spirits.”

Djoran turned to face them. “Follow me, my friends. We must hurry.”

9

The three of them ran in single file at close to full pace along another dirt track that cut through the thick jungle. Djoran led the way, followed by Carter, with Erina bringing up the rear. The barking of the dogs had ceased.

Djoran guided them through dense rainforest and two fast-running streams, which provided some relief from the energy-sapping heat and humidity. They’d been too short of breath to talk at any great length. Still, Erina was unusually withdrawn, Carter thought. She probably still harbored suspicions about Djoran. She wasn’t one to trust people until they proved themselves. Then she was fiercely loyal.

From Carter’s point of view, Djoran’s timely appearance seemed a miracle, a gift from the gods.

After they’d been running for close to twenty minutes without stopping, they crested a small hill and Djoran raised his hand, indicating they should pause.

All three came to a halt. The sweat poured off Carter. He wiped it out of his eyes with the bottom of his T-shirt and looked down at the valley below, where a small village lay — half-a-dozen wooden huts with rough holes cut in them for windows. The sun lit up their rusted corrugated-iron roofs. Lazy wisps of smoke rose from the chimneys, the only sign that the village was inhabited.

“Please wait here,” Djoran said. “I must make arrangements.”

Carter nodded, feeling grateful for the opportunity to bring his heart rate and breathing under control. He inhaled deeply and watched Djoran run down the hill, a bundle of boundless energy in a state of perpetual motion.

Erina dropped her daypack on the ground and stood with her hands on her hips, her face glistening with perspiration. She bent forward, breathing deep and hard.

Down in the valley Djoran knocked at the door of one of the huts and went inside.

Erina’s breathing returned to normal faster than Carter’s. She stood up straight and said, “I’m still not convinced we can trust this guy. This could be a trap.”

“Djoran’s okay,” Carter said, still bent over and breathing hard.

He harbored no doubts about Djoran whatsoever. He’d only needed to look into Djoran’s eyes to see the goodness shining in him. It was something that couldn’t be faked.

“He’s a Muslim training to be a mujaheddin,” Erina said.

“We can trust him.”

“How do you know?”

“Same way I know the difference between a shark and a dolphin.”

“Nice metaphor, Carter, but when you see a fin in the water coming toward you in shark-infested waters, it’s prudent to entertain the possibility it might be a shark.”

Carter looked at her without saying a word.

“And,” she said, “how do you know he didn’t doublecross Jacko just like Peacock did?”

“I never trusted Peacock.”

“Let me remind you, we’re on a tropical island in the middle of nowhere. It’s governed by sharia law and hosts a terrorist training camp, which Djoran is part of. God knows who’s hiding in those huts. I mean, where the hell is everyone?”

“Hopefully we’ll find out very soon.”

After a silent minute they both watched Djoran walk out of the hut below, followed by two women wearing the white headscarfs known in Indonesia as jilbab and dark, loose-fitting dresses, covering them from neck to toe.

Djoran waved, beckoning them to join him.

Carter watched Erina reach into her daypack, take out her Glock, lift her shirt and stick the weapon in the back of her trouser belt.

Her eyes locked onto Carter’s as if daring him to challenge her. He shrugged and started walking down the hill toward the women, who looked like they were mother and daughter.

He stopped a few feet from them and bowed. “As-salamu alaikum.” May peace be upon you.

The older woman, carrying three large plastic bottles of water, returned the greeting and bowed her head. The younger one, who held a large cardboard box, gave him a shy smile.

Djoran held a cane basket in his left hand. “We have food, fresh water and clean clothes.”

Carter smiled at the two women and said, “Terima kasih.” Thank you.

They bowed and he watched them move away.

When they’d disappeared into one of the huts, he turned to Djoran and said, “We don’t want to put you or these people in any danger.”

Djoran grinned. “Thank you, Mr. Carter, that is very thoughtful of you. But we believe to live well we must live dangerously and trust God. Otherwise what is the point of this strange life he has given us? We all have the same enemy. That makes us friends. Friends help each other.”

“I thought Sufis didn’t have enemies,” Carter said.

“In theory that is very correct,” Djoran said, “but sometimes God moves our hearts in most mysterious ways.”

Erina stepped between them. “That’s all very interesting,” she said, “but I suggest we get out of here and save the talk for later.”

“Too true, Miss Erina,” Djoran said. “Come, I have a very good hiding place.”

10

They had to crawl by torchlight through numerous dark tunnels to reach Djoran’s hiding place, a dank, musty bunker the size of a double garage. The ceiling was just high enough to allow Carter to stand at the entrance without stooping.

Shadows from two hissing hurricane lamps danced like hypnotic snakes over the stone walls. Straw mats covered the earth floor. A low wooden table sat against one wall, surrounded by large dark cushions. A grey blanket hung over the opening to what was presumably another tunnel.

Carter felt himself relax. It was a good place to regroup before setting out for their assault on the compound.

Erina still seemed wary, he thought. She stood to one side near the wall. Her hand rested on her hip, near the Glock stuck in the back of her shorts. Maybe like him she was wondering who had lit the lamps and who was behind the blanket. He could sense another presence in the bunker.

“Is this what I think it is?” Erina asked. “A Japanese bunker from the Second World War?”

Carter was pleased to see that she was willing to engage with Djoran, though he knew she was most likely masking her true thoughts.

“I see you know your history,” Djoran said.

“My father told me about these bunkers, but I’ve never seen one myself.”

Djoran smiled. “During the Second World War, the Japanese built many bunkers throughout Indonesia and the Pacific Islands. The Allies never really engaged the Japanese in Indonesia, but elsewhere they had to dig them out one by one after much bloodshed. The Japanese soldiers preferred to die fighting rather than surrender.”

Carter wasn’t listening.

He was staring at the grim-faced Indonesian dressed in black who’d just stepped out from behind the blanket, carrying a short-barreled assault rifle in his right hand.

Carter recognized the weapon — an AK-90, developed by a Russian internal-affairs organization and designed to take out assailants wearing bulletproof vests in urban environments. At such short range it’d blow a huge hole in anyone who got in the way. Fortunately it was pointing at the floor.

Erina had also seen it.

Before Carter had a chance to say anything, she whipped out her Glock from behind her back and aimed it at the Indonesian’s head.

The stranger in turn raised his AK-90 to his shoulder and pointed it at her chest.

Djoran spun around on his heels. “Muklas, what in God’s name are you doing? These people are our friends.”

Muklas kept his weapon trained on Erina but directed his reply to Djoran, speaking in English. “You think everyone is your friend. How do you know you can trust these two?”

Djoran waved his arms and shook his head. “No. You are wrong about them. They are here to help Kemala. Their friends are in grave danger.”

“So what? By coming here, they put us and our operation in more danger.”

Muklas held his weapon steady at the optimum angle and positioned himself so that he covered both Carter and Erina. He’d clearly undergone some solid training. But Carter doubted he’d shoot unless directly threatened.

“God brought them here for a purpose,” Djoran continued. “We must do his will.”

Muklas shook his head. “Bullshit. Samudra needs to be taken out before he leaves the island. I’m calling in Detachment 88.”

Carter glanced at Djoran. His sunny disposition had clouded over and his fists were clenched.

“If Samudra learns they are coming,” Djoran said, “he’ll execute the prisoners on the spot. We cannot knowingly throw away the lives of the two innocent people being held captive.”

Muklas shrugged. “They’ll be killed anyway. We both know that.”

Erina never took her aim or eyes off Muklas. She asked, “What does he mean by that, Djoran?”

Muklas jabbed his rifle in her direction. “Shut up, woman.”

Carter felt Erina tense up. He switched his attention to Djoran, who bowed.

“Forgive me for not telling you earlier,” Djoran said. “But I found out this morning that Samudra plans to execute Thomas and Wayan tomorrow evening at dusk.”

“Why would he wait till then?” Carter asked.

“He is leading a group of mujaheddin, of which I am a part, to Sydney on 29 December and he wants to use the execution tomorrow as a means to inspire confidence and courage in us. He says dusk is the magic hour when God is present. He will send the video out to thousands of followers around the world.”

Erina kept her Glock trained on Muklas. “You mean he plans to film their execution?”

Djoran’s head dropped. “He’s planning a demonstration of God’s vengeance to be shared via a secure members-only website.”

The irony wasn’t lost on Carter. Even a fundamentalist group intent on recreating the social order of the Middle Ages could harness the awesome power of modern technology, using it to spread their message of hatred and violence.

Carter took a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair. He turned toward Djoran. “How long will it take us to get to the compound?”

“If you leave at midnight, you can be there in two hours.”

“Why can’t we leave sooner?”

“It is too dangerous in daylight. Between midnight and dawn is when they have the fewest patrols. Besides, you need time to eat and rest. You will be very busy tomorrow.”

“Fair enough,” Carter said, deciding it was time to end the impasse between Muklas and Erina.

He stepped in front of Erina and looked down the cold black barrel of Muklas’s assault rifle, letting his arms hang loosely by his side. He wanted to show Muklas that he did not fear him and at the same time give him every reason to back off.

Muklas held his rifle steady.

“You need to give us until six in the morning to rescue our friends,” Carter said. “That’s all I need.”

The dark eye of the barrel stared back at him.

Muklas raised the rifle a little. “My only concern is for my Indonesian brothers and sisters. They live on this island in poverty and shame under crazy sharia laws. Samudra is a fanatical leader who poisons everything here with hatred. I don’t care about your two friends. They are nothing to me. My people are everything.”

“Muklas, please,” Djoran said. “If not for them, do it for Kemala.”

Carter raised his hand and looked Muklas directly in the eye. “I understand what you’re saying. It’s tragic what Samudra has done to your island. But, like you, I can’t walk away from my people. All I ask is that you give me until 6 a.m. If I fail to rescue them in that time, you can call in whoever you like.”

A strange combination of passion and fear emanated from Muklas’s eyes.

“And if I get half a chance,” Carter continued, “I’ll kill that motherfucker Samudra myself. I don’t intend to let him leave this island alive.”

Muklas’s mouth twitched with the hint of a smile. He took two steps back toward the rear wall of the bunker, so that he was out of Carter’s reach, and lowered the rifle.

Carter turned to Erina. She dropped her Glock and returned it to the back of her belt.

Djoran stepped forward, patted Muklas on the shoulder and turned to Carter. “Very good. I am glad we are all friends. I will now show you the best way to get inside the compound.”

11

Carter, Erina and Muklas followed Djoran to the rear of the dark bunker. They stopped in front of the grey blanket, which Carter assumed covered an exit tunnel leading toward the ocean.

Djoran pulled it back, revealing two red and white malibu surfboards propped against the left wall.

“You a surfer?” Carter asked.

“Oh no, not me,” Djoran said. “But I understand you are very experienced.”

Carter entered the damp, musty tunnel. “You could say that. Erina’s also pretty handy.”

He knelt beside the ten-foot boards and ran his hands over the waxed decks.

Erina turned to Djoran. “Are you suggesting we paddle these boards around the island to the compound?”

“Not all the way around,” he said. “You would be picked up by their surveillance cameras five hundred feet before you approached it. Come with me and I shall show you what I have prepared.”

They followed him back to the wooden table and sat around it. Muklas, who positioned himself to Carter’s right, still appeared to be wary of Erina.

Djoran reached inside a cloth bag and took out two rolled-up maps, two underwater breathing devices the size of large Cuban cigars and a set of three silver keys. He spread one of the maps on the table, placing the other on the floor beside him.

“Jacko suggested we go overland to the compound,” Erina said. “You have a better option?”

“As much as I respect Mr. Jacko’s opinion, this island was my home for over twenty years. And, if I may say, in all modesty, I know every inch of it — and the clan’s surveillance — better than anyone.”

Erina looked at Carter, seeking his opinion.

“As they say in the surf,” he said, “you can’t beat local knowledge.”

“I can assure you,” Djoran said, “it is most inadvisable to travel overland to the compound at night. And now that you are expected, security will be much too tight to move during daylight hours. I have a better way.”

“Show us what you’ve got,” Erina said.

“We are here,” Djoran told them, placing his forefinger on the map. “First you will paddle the surfboards east along the coast, past this village and then around the far headland, one and a half miles away. You will then cross this reef before reaching the cove.”

Djoran indicated a point on the other side of the headland at the far end of the island. “Here you will find an underwater cave that leads directly inside the clan’s compound.”

“What about the boats patrolling the coastline?” Carter asked, wondering just how much Djoran had thought his plan through. God and the devil were in the detail.

“They rotate, on average, at twenty-five-minute intervals, giving you enough time to reach the headland.”

Carter nodded. It was good, solid information.

“You see, I try to think of everything, Mr. Carter. But as you would no doubt appreciate, we can never predict what is in store for us around the next corner. That is up to God and sometimes he chooses to test us in ways that do not appear to suit our immediate plans.”

Muklas stood up, shook his head at Djoran and said, “You make it sound too easy.”

Carter and Erina turned to face him. “What do you mean exactly?” Carter asked.

“I know these waters too. My father fished that reef for many years. If you try and cross it tonight, huge waves like mountains coming from the north-east will smash you onto the coral reef.”

“Mr. Carter and Miss Erina are very experienced in the surf,” Djoran said. “They will find a way through if God is with them.”

“Okay,” Erina said, “let’s say we’re able to make it past the patrol boats, through the surf, then break into the compound and free Thomas and Wayan. How do we get them off the island, particularly if they’re injured and in bad shape?”

“A very good question,” Djoran said, pointing at the map, his finger close to the eastern perimeter of the clan’s compound. “There is another secret bunker here, very similar to this one, but not as big. It has an entrance above the ocean at the bottom of a steep cliff. I prepared it many months ago as an escape hatch should I, or anyone else, need to leave the island quickly. In the cave you will find an inflatable rubber dinghy with a small outboard, a GPS navigation device and some food, water and medical supplies.”

Carter nodded to himself as much as anyone else. Djoran’s plan just might work.

“You do think things through,” he said.

Djoran smiled. “The best way to do God’s will is to plan thoroughly.” He picked up the second map from the floor, unrolled it and indicated a point at the back of the Sungkar clan’s compound. “And God, through the Japanese, has provided us with more good fortune.”

He pointed at a different spot on the map. “There is a hidden tunnel here leading to the bunker from inside the back perimeter, not so far from the cell where Thomas and Wayan are being held.”

“Just to be clear,” Carter said, “you reckon negotiating the surf at the reef and entering the compound through the underwater cave is the best option?”

“It is, in my opinion,” Djoran said, “the only chance you have.”

Carter looked at Erina, who nodded, then back at Djoran.

“Okay then,” he said. “We leave at midnight.”

12

After Djoran had run through his plan in detail, the four of them shared a meal of steamed rice, chicken and vegetables without saying very much, each lost in their own thoughts.

Djoran’s plan was, in Carter’s opinion, an inspired one. He’d done his homework and come up with something simple and yet totally unexpected that might allow them to get into the compound without being detected.

The plan came with more than its fair share of risks and challenges, but their way forward was clear. They’d make the necessary adjustments when things started to bend out of shape, as they inevitably would.

Erina ate slowly and was the last to finish. He could tell in this quiet space that thoughts of Jacko’s death and the question of Thomas and Wayan’s fate were weighing down on her. Carter resisted the urge to say something, realizing it was best to give her the space to process what was going on in her own way. She’d pull herself together when she needed to.

He pushed back his chair, wanting to help clear the plates, but Djoran insisted he remain seated while he attended to them himself. Djoran put the kettle on the gas burner and offered them each a cup of instant coffee. All three said yes without any great enthusiasm.

He placed an open pot of brown sugar, two metal teaspoons and a can of condensed milk on the table, then returned to the gas burner and poured the coffee. After handing them each a steaming cup, he sat down again.

Carter took a sip of the bitter coffee. This was as good a time as any to let Djoran know about Jacko. Everything would then be on the table.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news we haven’t shared with you yet.”

Djoran looked at him with evident sympathy. “This does not come as a surprise, Mr. Carter. I feel a deep sadness in both of your spirits. What has happened?”

“Yesterday afternoon Jacko was killed by a suicide bomber at a cafe in Kuta. I suspect Erina and I were also targets.”

Djoran remained silent for a moment and then said, “This is a most terrible thing to hear. I liked Mr. Jacko very much. He brought laughter into the world and was a very good man. A very caring man.”

“Can you think how Samudra could’ve known we’d be meeting there?” Carter asked.

Djoran took a sip of his coffee. “I have no idea. He has been gone from the island for a few days and is due to return to the compound later tonight.”

He stood up. “With your permission, I would like to say a Sufi prayer for Mr. Jacko’s spirit.”

“I’m sure Jacko would like that,” Carter said.

“Please, join me in a circle.”

Carter stood up and reached out his hand to Erina, having no idea how she’d respond to a Muslim prayer.

She gave him an ironic half-smile, clasped her palm in his and stood up slowly. The four of them formed a circle and bowed their heads.

“O Thou,” Djoran said, “the cause and effect of the whole universe, the source from whence we have come and the goal toward which all are bound, receive the soul of Mr. Jacko who has come to Thee.”

Djoran then spoke briefly about Jacko, highlighting his virtues. Carter and Erina also said a few words, each recounting a favorite memory of their fallen comrade and saying how much they would miss him. Muklas surprised Carter by saying he was very sorry to hear of their loss.

When they’d all spoken, Djoran continued his prayer. “Please help us see Mr. Jacko’s death as a transition, a stepping stone across a threshold to a place where we have a chance to reawaken. We pray Thee offer him Thy blessing. May his life upon earth become as a dream to his waking soul, and let his thirsting eyes behold the glorious vision of Thy sunshine. Allah akbar.”

The four of them stood in silence. Carter felt some of his sadness lift. The ceremony reminded him that life and physical death were not necessarily the end of the journey.

All four sat back down around the table. Erina stared into her cup, as if searching for answers there.

Djoran noted this and asked her gently, “Miss Erina, are you okay?”

“It’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”

She tried to speak lightly, but there was no mistaking the deep sadness in her voice.

Djoran gave her a warm smile that lit up his whole face. “Please, share with us. It is most beneficial to release all dark thoughts and feelings into the universe. That way, God can cleanse your spirit.”

Erina sipped her coffee without looking at him and remained silent, obviously trying to push down whatever had been stirred up.

There was a pause, and then Djoran continued. “We Sufis believe that in the afterlife we discover our time on earth was but a dream we have seen and a tale we have heard. Are you familiar with this concept, Miss Erina? I know your father is.”

“I believe in my father’s spiritual principles and I try to live by them …”

“And?” Djoran asked, filling in the silence.

Erina looked at him but couldn’t seem to get any words out.

“Djoran,” Carter said. “Why don’t you tell us more about what the Sufis believe?”

He wanted to hear for himself as much as for Erina. He understood how grief lurked in one’s soul like a shadow and needed to be brought into the light.

Djoran drank from his tin coffee cup like it was a sacred chalice and said, “I do not wish to push my beliefs on anyone.”

“It’s okay,” Erina said. “Please go ahead.”

“Thank you,” Djoran said. “We Sufis believe one should not allow the death of others to cloud our spirit. Death is part of life and should be celebrated. I am sure you are familiar with this idea, Miss Erina.”

“I understand the words,” she said, touching her heart. “But I no longer feel them in here.”

Djoran nodded. “The question we Sufis ask ourselves is: What do we take into the city of death except the sum of what our life has been? Death reveals what is important and what is not. By embracing death and its lessons during life, we can live with greater purpose. That is why we Sufis say, Die before you die.”

He smiled. “For me these spiritual concepts are the source of great solace and guide me through the dark times toward the light. How do you see death, Miss Erina?”

She took a moment to collect her thoughts. “Death is of course a part of life,” she said, hesitant at first. “But those people who kill in the name of God have no idea how much pain and suffering they inflict on those left behind. I begin to wonder what the point of it all is.”

“And you have every reason to feel that way. What those misguided fanatics do is evil. They are the enemies of humanity and must be stopped. But it is the Sufis’ belief we must strive to recognize we are all God’s creatures and must never forget this great fact, or we become like those we despise. We must, I believe, seek justice and protect those who can’t protect themselves. But seeking and justifying revenge can only corrupt our spirit.”

Carter saw Erina give a tiny nod. Djoran’s humility had somehow got past her defenses and touched her.

“I used to have faith,” she said. “But what I’ve lost is my trust that God is on our side and will guide us where we need to go. After what happened to Jacko, and with Thomas and Wayan in such grave danger, I ask myself how I can surrender to a god who allows such terrible things to happen to good people. In moments like these I feel this life we strive to lead is all in vain and trying to serve God is a bad joke.”

Djoran let her words hang in the air and then said, “One cannot understand divine logic. No human being can know God’s will. That is beyond who we are. But we do need to follow the dictates of our hearts, align our intentions to our values and do what we believe is right.”

“In theory I agree,” Erina said. “But at the moment I find it impossible to trust anything beyond my own strength, skill and willpower. I question whether the universe is guided by a friendly hand or one of hate and vengeance.”

Carter knew there was nothing he could say. Erina had echoed many of the thoughts and feelings he’d had when he’d left the order, the numbing soul sickness that came from being exposed to so much darkness and death.

Djoran put his hands in the prayer position. “We cannot know what God has in store for any one of us, either in this life or beyond. When our faith deserts us, we must continue to ask for his guidance and act as if we believe in him. That is how we trust.”

Erina was nodding again.

“If we do this,” Djoran said, “I believe great things will come to pass. While Thomas and Wayan are still alive, there is hope, and we must do what we can. If any of us die in our efforts, we must accept this as God’s will. What is, is. Acceptance is true faith and will give us the strength and wisdom we need. There is more to life than what we can see and hear.”

“I want to believe that,” Erina said.

Djoran laid his hands on the table in front of him. “Let me tell you something. My wife, Anisha, was killed in the Sari Club on the night of the first Bali bombing. She was celebrating the end of a marketing conference with two Australian business associates.”

A moment of profound silence followed, as if everyone was holding their breath.

“She was four months pregnant with our first child.”

A barely audible “Oh my God” escaped from Erina’s lips.

Djoran gently took her hand and placed it over his heart.

To Carter’s surprise, she let him do so.

“Nothing takes away the pain of their loss,” Djoran said. “But they live with me. I can feel my wife and unborn son in here, reminding me of God’s omnipresence and compassion for all creatures. Their spirits tell me to keep going and that God loves us all.”

Carter was surprised to see Erina’s eyes fill with tears. She never cried. They started to flow and she let them come.

13

A few minutes after midnight Carter and Erina entered the warm thigh-high water from a small beach at the bottom of a rock cliff not far from Djoran’s bunker.

Carter hitched up his black board shorts, while Erina had stripped down to her black bra and bikini briefs. After their talk with Djoran and a few hours’ sleep, it was like a shadow had lifted from both of them and they were now acting as a unified team. The passionate moment they’d shared on the beach at Kuta had not been spoken of. This was neither the time nor the place to dwell on anything but the job at hand.

They stood next to each other in the dark, thirty feet from shore, each steadying one of Djoran’s surfboards against the incoming swell, rolling past them before breaking gently onto the sand behind them. It’d be a totally different story once they paddled around the distant headland, where they’d be forced to navigate their way through huge breaking surf.

First, though, they needed to paddle nearly two miles without being spotted, something they couldn’t take for granted.

Carter checked his watch. The patrol boat had passed by three minutes earlier, about four hundred feet from shore. They’d start paddling in one minute.

Despite the challenges that lay ahead, it felt good to get started. A full moon and a glowing blanket of stars lit up the vast expanse of ocean, ruffled by a light onshore breeze. He noticed a build-up of thick clouds on the horizon, suggesting a change in weather conditions wasn’t too far away. They would deal with that when the time came.

After finalizing their plans, Djoran had headed back to the compound to resume his undercover role as one of Samudra’s mujaheddin. He needed to remain close to Samudra to discover the precise nature of his plans for jihad in Sydney. It was their best shot at finding out what he was up to and stopping it.

Muklas, who had warmed to them after hearing of Jacko’s death and understanding they were all fighting a common enemy, had set off an hour earlier to “borrow” a fishing boat. He had promised not to act until 8 a.m. If they returned by then, he’d leave the island with them. Should they fail to show up, he had Carter’s blessing to head for Java and personally inform one of Detachment 88’s senior commanders of Samudra’s activities and organize an attack on the compound.

What Muklas had said about the size of the waves around the headland had Carter slightly concerned. They might be facing conditions that even professional big-wave surfers wouldn’t attempt without a jet ski tow-in during broad daylight, let alone at night on a ten-foot malibu. There was no point worrying now, though. He’d know more when they assessed the conditions firsthand.

Carter let go of his board and pulled his waterproof daypack tight against his body. He’d insisted Erina leave hers behind. She was a good surfer, but no match for Carter. He’d packed a T-shirt for each of them, Erina’s light cotton trousers and their shoes into his own pack, along with the satphone and her computer, containing Djoran’s security codes. The phone and computer were sealed in waterproof sleeves. Apart from that, he’d brought along only the essentials — one Glock, an underwater flashlight, throwing knives and the two breathing devices.

They lay on their boards and started paddling out to open sea across the moonlit ocean.

Eight minutes later they were halfway toward the eastern headland, about six hundred feet from shore, when Carter detected a slight vibration in the water.

He glided to a stop. Erina did the same and pushed herself upright on her board. They both turned toward the faint growl of an outboard motor.

Just under a mile behind them an arc of bright light moved back and forth across the water, heading straight for them. Obviously one of the patrol boats had deviated from their regular pattern. The plan had bent out of shape even quicker than Carter had anticipated.

He glanced at Erina, sitting on her longboard wearing nothing but her underwear, her eyes dancing between him and the oncoming spotlight.

They sat in silence. There was no way they could outrun the boat. The growl of the engine grew louder.

“You want me to be the decoy?” Erina asked.

“Yeah,” he said, though he was reluctant to put her at risk. There was no other choice.

“Great. Just make sure you hit the target with the first shot.”

14

Erina sat upright on her board, waiting for the advancing spotlight to fall on her.

Both knew exactly what they had to do. She needed to distract the advancing clansmen so he had a clear shot to take them out. The plan’s success depended on making the enemy look one way before striking hard from the other direction.

He paddled away from her, further out to sea, concentrating on each stroke, trying to still his mind for the critical moments that lay ahead.

His board came to rest roughly twenty yards from where she sat. The gurgling engine of the patrol boat was about four hundred yards from Erina now, closing on her at a steady pace.

Moving further away wasn’t an option for Carter. It’d make a difficult shot impossible. If he fired from more than fifty feet, he might as well throw the weapon at their pursuers, for all the good it would do.

He sat upright on his board and kicked his legs to spin the nose around to face her.

After removing the Glock from his daypack, he switched it to a single round. He needed to make one shot at a time and didn’t want any stray bullets spraying in Erina’s direction. He sealed his daypack, slung it over his shoulder and knelt on the deck of his board.

The gusting wind roughed up the water. That, coupled with the roll of the incoming swell, caused his board to rise and fall at an irregular rate.

He spread his knees to steady the roll as best he could. He’d be shooting from an unstable platform at a person or persons facing side-on and bobbing up and down.

The fishing boat chugged forward, now two hundred yards from Erina. In less than ten seconds the spotlight’s thirty-foot circle of light would fall on her.

He raised his arms in front of him and looked down the barrel, focusing on Erina’s silhouette.

After rehearsing in his mind what he needed to do, he closed his eyes and breathed in. His shoulder, stomach and chest muscles were tight. He needed to get his emotions under complete control, switch from thinking to being and fully inhabit the moment.

When his eyes snapped open again, moments later, the boat’s bright spotlight was dancing over Erina.

The moon had disappeared behind the gathering clouds and spots of rain spat on his back. Diesel fumes wafted through the night air.

He adjusted the board once more so the nose pointed directly at her.

She raised a hand to her eyes, defiant and vulnerable, playing the role to perfection.

He knew who’d got the toughest assignment on this job and it wasn’t him. Being the bait in a high-stakes game like this required great emotional control and presence of mind.

Thirty yards from her, the patrol boat’s helmsman cut back the throttle of the outboard engine to a rough idle.

The clan members had seen Erina.

The open aluminum vessel slowed, drifting to a halt about four yards from her, giving Carter a clear view of the two men on board.

An Indonesian Laurel and Hardy.

A tall skinny guy wearing a floppy white hat steered, working the dazzling spotlight from the stern. The other, short and fat, sat in the middle. An enormous cigar stuck out from the side of his mouth.

But there was nothing comical about the lethal weapon lying across his lap. An AK-47, a compact and reliable automatic rifle.

If the shooter used soft-nosed bullets, each shot would fragment on impact, causing serious tissue damage and resulting in certain death.

Erina gave away nothing and showed no signs of fear. She just smiled and waved at the Indonesian duo like they were two heroes coming to her rescue on a dark and lonely night.

He weighed up the odds and angles.

The AK-47 presented a problem.

The fat guy only had to squeeze the trigger once and over two dozen lethal rounds would fly through the night air.

Carter needed to take him out of the equation with his first shot and then bring down the skinny guy before he could reach his friend’s weapon.

The boat drifted to within two yards of Erina.

The moment had come.

He adjusted his knees on his surfboard so they were six inches apart and his weight spread evenly. He stretched both arms out in front of him again, locking his elbows this time and keeping the gun barrel parallel to the ocean.

Raindrops glistened in the beam of the spotlight.

Half an inch either way meant the fine line between success and disaster. Life and death.

The fat clansman raised the AK-47 and pointed it between Erina’s breasts.

Carter lined up his head.

He held his arms relaxed and steady, imagining a force field of energy between him and his target.

Exhaling slowly, he squeezed the trigger.

Ever so gently.

The Glock roared to life.

15

The moment he squeezed the trigger, Carter knew his shot had found its mark.

The fat Indonesian grabbed his throat, dropped his rifle and collapsed forward with a thud.

Carter aimed the Glock at the spotlight.

Too late.

The intense bright light swung toward him, locking on his face, blinding him.

He heard movement on the boat. The second Indonesian was most likely scrambling for the fallen automatic weapon.

The harsh spotlight stayed focused on him, making the moving target invisible. There was no time for his eyes to adjust or for him to analyze what needed to be done. To have any chance of taking out the other guy, he had to surrender to unseen forces and shoot blind, almost immediately.

He inhaled to the count of three, closed his eyes and raised the weapon, trying to sense the Indonesian’s position.

The master marksman has a target but never takes aim.

Carter exhaled slowly and experienced a moment of complete stillness between breaths. He squeezed off three shots in quick succession, shooting in a three-foot-wide triangular pattern.

An eerie silence filled the night.

Carter kept his eyes closed.

The sound of a body hitting the metal deck broke the spell.

The spotlight crashed forward into the boat.

Carter opened his eyes, stuck the gun in the side pocket of his daypack and started paddling toward Erina.

She lay prone on her board, backlit by the soft glow of the fallen spotlight.

“You all right?” he called as he drew near.

She sat up, grabbed the bow of the boat and said, “I’m fine.”

His board glided to a halt a few feet from her. “You did good.”

“I make a terrific decoy. But you didn’t do so badly yourself. You hit the last guy shooting blind.”

“That was the easy part.”

Without waiting for a response, he stood on his board, put his weight on his back foot and stepped onto the aluminum boat.

The deck was slippery with fresh blood and guts.

“Just hang tight while I do some housekeeping,” he said.

“You think I can’t handle a bit of blood?”

“It’ll only take me a sec.”

He pulled his surfboard up after him and jammed the nose under the front seat. Its tail jutted forward over the bow with the fin pointing upward.

“Looks like a figurehead on an ancient warship heading into battle,” Erina said.

“A surfboard has many uses.”

He grabbed the fat guy under the armpits, dragged him to the stern, dumped him over the side and watched him float away from the boat, facedown.

“I reckon these two were just local fishermen,” he said.

“Yeah, armed with automatic rifles and happy to kill us.”

“I think they would’ve been pressed into service, not hardcore mujaheddin.”

“They made the wrong choice.”

He lifted the skinny guy off the deck and tossed him into the water after his mate, then moved to where she held onto the gunnels.

She took his outstretched hand and scrambled on board. He used a stray towel lying on the forward deck to wipe the blood and tissue off the middle seat.

“You did make a mess,” she said.

“Better them than us.”

The rain started to get heavier and patter on the deck. He settled her onto the now clean seat, picked up a tarpaulin lying in the bow and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“Don’t go all chivalrous on me,” she said. “I can look after myself.”

“I know.”

He understood what she was saying and why she’d said it. This was no time for softness or sentiment.

The sooner they got moving, the better. He climbed past her, turned the spotlight off and stowed it at the bow.

“What about my board?” she asked.

“We’re leaving it. If we need to surf our way across the reef onto the island, we’ll ride tandem.”

He then positioned himself next to the idling outboard engine and was about to put it into gear when a distant sound registered above the motor. They both turned in the direction they’d come from. He switched the outboard off.

Along with the freshening wind came the unmistakable whump, whump, whump of a helicopter and the shimmer of a spotlight dancing three hundred feet over the ocean, heading straight for them.

Without saying a word, he restarted the outboard motor, revved the engine and accelerated toward the dark headland looming in the distance.

16

They rounded the headland in the open boat and faced the full brunt of the onshore gale and the angry nor’-east swell Muklas had predicted.

In just over five minutes the weather conditions had deteriorated, the rain having gone from a steady patter to a downpour. Sheets of water pelted down, creating an incessant drumbeat against the metal deck, and the wind whistled over them. Carter sensed, then saw, the huge shadow of an unbroken wave rolling toward them.

He steered straight for it, aiming to hit the oncoming wall of water at a ninety-degree angle. If the bow didn’t hit square on, the boat would broach the wave sideways, fill with water and sink.

The bow thumped against the angry face, propelling them high in the air. He yanked the outboard engine toward him, turning the boat into the wave. The boat crashed through the lip and down the other side, before plunging them into the trough between the waves.

He turned the throttle and they accelerated parallel to the waves. They needed to generate speed before turning and ploughing into the next one head on. If they lost forward momentum, they’d be thrown back and risk being swamped by the following wave.

A quick glance behind told him the helicopter hadn’t yet reached the headland, but it wouldn’t be long.

Up ahead and to their left an invisible wave boomed onto the unseen coral reef like a clap of heavy thunder, punctuating the background roar of smaller but still sizeable waves crashing into the shallow water.

Erina turned toward him, shouting to be heard above the wind and rain. “Muklas was right. The surf’s definitely up.”

A minute later they drew level with a point where the incoming swell smacked onto the coral reef a hundred and fifty feet to their left. They were still in deep, open water, and even though the waves were large and dangerous, they had nothing like the power and venom of those breaking in the shallow water over the reef, creating the mother of all no man’s lands.

According to the map, which Carter could picture in his mind, they were about eight hundred feet from the underwater cave that led to Samudra’s compound. To get to it, they needed to cross the reef.

Now that he’d had the opportunity to assess the conditions firsthand, he knew they’d never make it all the way through to the cave in the boat. The powerful waves would smash them to pieces on the sharp coral and drive what was left of them onto the rocky shore.

They crashed through another wave and accelerated along the trough between peaks. By the time they’d turned into the next wave, a plan had begun to crystallize in his mind.

As if to punctuate this moment of clarity, another unseen wave smashed against the reef and a cascade of sound exploded through the night like a bomb.

The only chance they had of getting across the reef was by catching a wave on the ten-foot board and surfing it tandem. This meant first taking the boat through no man’s land, the only way to get to the take-off zone. Then they’d ditch the boat and surf across the reef to the calm deepwater channel on the other side. From there it’d be an easy paddle to the underwater cave. It sounded good in theory, but the execution would be another matter entirely.

He leaned toward Erina and yelled, “Steer the boat while I get the spotlight up.”

She turned her head. “What’s the plan?”

When he told her, it sounded even more outrageous than it had in his head.

“I’ve always wanted to ride tandem,” she said.

“This’ll be your chance.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“When we abandon the boat, we’ll leave the light on so they’ll think we’ve capsized and drowned. What do you reckon?”

She didn’t answer straightaway, appearing to be mulling over his words.

“That might just work,” she said.

In the lull between sets Carter and Erina swapped places. If anything, she handled a boat better than he did. But the surf was his sacred home and he’d be calling the shots.

He grabbed the spotlight and planted his feet wide on the vibrating deck, bending his knees and swaying in time with the violent motion of the boat, performing an unconscious dance with the elements raging around them.

He listened to the waves, trying to hear their pattern, so he could pick the best one in the set to catch and hold off turning on the spotlight for as long as possible.

They seemed to come in sets of four. The sound of the waves breaking on the reef told him that the first two in each set were shutting down viciously on the coral and should be avoided at all costs.

The third hit the reef at a good angle and broke evenly. The gusting wind blew offshore, which meant it’d hold the face up and give them a decent shot at riding the wave all the way across the reef.

Still, surfing this break on a ten-foot malibu tandem in the dark was a huge ask. Once the helicopter pilot spotted the light, they’d have only a few minutes to negotiate the boat through no man’s land, get to the take-off zone on the other side and catch the right wave. They’d only get one shot.

But despite the grim odds, turning back was out of the question.

Carter flicked the plastic switch on the spotlight.

An arc of bright light lit up the take-off zone, leaving them exposed and vulnerable and illuminating an angry line of swell advancing toward the reef. He would watch this set rolling in, testing his theory.

The first wave, the height of a one-storey building, struck the reef about a hundred and thirty feet ahead of them at a sixty-degree angle.

The instant it hit the shallow water, the gnarly face jacked up, doubled its size and smashed onto the reef, creating an unrideable mass of boiling foam.

Carter glanced over his shoulder. The approaching helicopter still hadn’t rounded the headland.

The second huge wave closed out on the reef, unrideable.

The third charged toward the reef, a two-storey boomer.

As he’d suspected, it struck the reef at a more acute angle than the others, had more water under it, and broke forming a perfect A frame. Bubbling white water peeled across the steep face in both directions.

One side broke to the left, toward their boat. The other passed over the reef toward the safety of the channel.

The fourth wave was smaller and closed out on the reef, leaving no face to ride.

The third wave in the set was the one to go for.

He turned the spotlight off and looked over his shoulder again.

The lights of the helicopter glowed near the headland.

“Erina,” he yelled. “I need you to man the spotlight. When I give the signal, shine it in the same spot I just did.”

“Then what?”

“We find the take-off zone and catch us a wave.”

17

Carter grabbed the vibrating throttle. He needed to navigate the boat through no man’s land and the first two breaking waves of the set to reach the take-off point without being swamped and catch the third. It’d all come down to timing and a fair bit of luck.

He counted in his head as another set rolled in, listening as it broke onto the reef, and yelled, “We take the boat into no man’s land after the next wave.”

Erina shouted to be heard above the wind and rain. “Just give the signal and I’ll shed some light.”

The fourth and last wave of the set smashed against the reef.

Carter dropped his arm. Erina hit the switch and the spotlight came to life, throwing dazzling light across the angry ocean.

He twisted the throttle and followed the light, accelerating into the wild turbulence of no man’s land. As the water became shallower, the breaking waves would pack ten times the punch of those forming in the deeper water where they were now.

Erina stood firm in the center of the boat, her weight spread evenly and her knees bent at a slight angle, shining the spotlight on a wall of water towering toward them.

He lined up the bow at an acute angle to the steep face and accelerated. They’d need every bit of momentum they could muster to climb up and crash through the curling lip.

Erina grabbed a rope attached to the deck with her free hand to give her purchase and held tight, preparing herself for the rough ride to come.

The bow smacked into the arching face, which lifted them at a sharp angle. The outboard screamed and shook. The hull shuddered.

Erina maintained her position, shining the spotlight up the face of the wave and into the sky.

The craft lurched sideways.

Carter rotated the throttle to maximum, whipping the throbbing outboard motor back and forth to correct the boat’s angle and generate more speed.

They smacked into the lip at close to perpendicular.

For a moment they hung in midair before crashing down the other side and ploughing into the trough below.

The deck vibrated. Sheets of white water poured over the sides. The sudden impact threw Erina forward into the gunnels, jolting the spotlight from her grip. It fell facedown on the boat’s deck.

She regathered her balance, dived to her left and grabbed the fallen light. Rolling onto her back, she shone it on the fast-approaching second wave of the set. It was gathering height as it rolled toward the reef.

The excess water washed over the deck, making it harder to generate the forward thrust they needed to crash through the next wave.

Carter grabbed a plastic ice-cream container attached to a rope with his left hand and started bailing. With his right he angled the boat away from the break.

Above the crashing of breaking waves, the dull roar of the helicopter’s engine attracted his attention. He turned and saw its swaying spotlight heading in their direction. It’d only be a matter of seconds before they locked the beam onto them.

He turned back to face the wave and glared at the monster heading straight for them.

“Erina,” he shouted, “kill the spotlight.”

“What?”

“Shut it down, now!”

She hesitated, then turned it off, plunging them into a dark void.

He couldn’t see the oncoming wave, but now that he had an intuitive read on the break, he didn’t need to.

Using both hands, he whipped down hard on the accelerator and pulled the engine toward him.

The motor screamed like a banshee. The bow lurched to the right. Water sloshed around the deck.

He sensed the second wave hovering above, rearing its head back, preparing to strike.

He twisted the throttle round full and aimed straight for it.

The bow blasted into the solid wall of water.

They started climbing at a steep angle.

The snarling lip crashed over them.

Water flooded over the gunnels and washed over the stern, slowing their momentum to a crawl.

He swung the engine back and forth in an effort to generate more speed.

They were barely inching ahead. Any second, the weight of water in the stern would drag them back down the face and into oblivion.

Unless he took drastic action, they were history.

In a desperate bid to shift momentum, he let go of the engine and threw himself forward to the bow, hoping the movement of weight would propel them through the wave, like walking to the nose of a longboard.

The boat teetered at the critical point. He screamed to Erina, “Get to the bow, now!”

She threw herself forward and grabbed hold of the bow, creating the momentum needed to push them through the lip.

The boat crashed down the other side of the wave into the deep trough. It was now two-thirds full of water. One more hit would sink them.

Carter scrambled to the stern and seized the throttle. He pointed the bow back toward the headland, where they had come from and where the helicopter now hovered, then twisted the throttle to idle and tied off the engine.

Erina was already on her feet, lashing the spotlight to the seat so that it pointed skyward.

They didn’t need to speak.

He reached forward, untied the surfboard and held it under his right arm.

She switched on the light.

He put the engine into gear and twisted the accelerator to one-third throttle.

The waterlogged boat started to gather speed.

They positioned themselves on the port side of the boat with one foot on the gunnel.

“Ready for a dip?” he asked.

“After you.”

He jumped into the choppy water. Erina followed a second later. He held the tail of the board while she climbed onto it. He turned his head and watched the boat chug away from them.

The spotlight from the approaching helicopter danced over the water, seeking them out.

18

Carter pulled himself onto the board after Erina with his daypack strapped tight to his back. They both lay facedown, his chest arched over her smooth back and his legs pressed against hers.

In a few fleeting seconds the third wave in the set would hit shallow water, jack up and launch forward, transforming the wind-blown rolling face into a steep and unforgiving precipice the size of a two-storey building.

The helicopter was moving away from them, making a beeline for the sinking boat heading back toward the headland, drawn by its spotlight bobbing up and down.

The decoy would give them enough time to get into position and make the take-off, but there’d be no second chances.

Erina remained perfectly still so as not to throw off the balance of the board, making his job a lot easier.

He needed to find the sweet spot, the one point on the face of the wave where they could take off safely at the right angle. To have any chance of surfing across the reef, he needed to position the board so they’d cut across the smooth face ahead of the crashing wall of white foam generated by the breaking lip.

If they positioned themselves too wide of the sweet spot, they’d miss the wave when it came and almost certainly get cleaned up by the next one. If they sat too far inside of it, the board would nosedive down the face and they’d get caught by the breaking lip. It’d pick them up and smash them onto the coral reef.

He lined up the board at forty-five degrees to where he figured the giant wave would break.

Erina’s back muscles flexed under his chest.

He slid back an inch so the nose tilted upward a little more, reducing the risk of a nosedive, the biggest hazard when riding tandem. The board was now at the optimum angle and their weight distribution felt just right. The undertow started sucking them toward the approaching wave.

Once its arching face swept them up, he’d only be able to make fine adjustments, shifting his weight incrementally and leaning left or right to trim the board.

He moved forward an inch and shouted, “Hang tight! ”

He stroked hard and deep, his inner arms brushing past Erina’s thighs.

The ten-foot board sprung to life, and as the full force of the wave took hold, they charged across the steep face, the bottom of the board whooshing against the water. They accelerated high above the earthly plane, perfectly in tune with the forces of nature. It felt like they’d been catapulted into another dimension, where the laws of gravity ceased to apply.

He leaned into the wave, lifting them further up the face, the height of two stacked semitrailers above the water. The surf gods rode with them, guided them, as they hurtled through time and space.

The deck started vibrating.

He eased his weight off Erina’s back and leaned further into the curl, lining up the board so that they maintained height, speed and position and stayed ahead of the breaking lip, roaring a few feet behind them. Any further back and the breaking section would eat them. Any further forward and they’d be thrown off the wave.

This sense of dancing on the edge of oblivion made surfing big waves a profound and soulful experience. It was addictive, driving surfers to travel the world seeking the next adrenalin-fuelled high. And just when he thought it couldn’t get any more intense, it did.

The lip curled over them, encasing them in a cylindrical tube of water — what surfers called a stand-up barrel — big enough to stand upright and stretch your arms out wide.

Their world became eerily quiet and pitch-black. They’d entered the zone known as the “green room.” The mystical place every surfer longed to be. Like being suspended inside Mother Nature’s womb. A moment of holy stillness surrounded by the surging power of nature, a fragile snapshot of perfection.

He slid his weight a fraction forward to generate more speed, his chest pressing on Erina’s back. He felt her muscles tense as the board flew across the face through the eerie darkness.

Nothing seemed real, except Erina’s taut body beneath him.

One second they were deep inside the tube, the next they flew out onto the open face.

A rush of exhilaration raced through him. It was like they’d travelled to the other side of existence and returned to tell the tale.

For a serious surfer, nothing could ever match this experience, every micro-second tinged with the prospect of a watery death.

Yet such perfection couldn’t last.

Sounds from outside their cocoon crashed in. They’d re-entered the real world, where the laws of time, space and gravity ruled.

Somewhere behind them, the helicopter roared. To their left, waves smashed onto the shallow reef.

More disturbingly, the angle of the board had changed, shattering the perfect symmetry they’d experienced inside the green room.

He shifted his weight further back and leaned harder into the wave.

The board wobbled from side to side.

He yelled, “Hold on!”

Just as he spoke, the board nosedived, plunging forward into the abyss.

The nose twisted and turned. The board rolled and bucked.

He tried to hang on, but the power of the wave wrenched the board out of his hands.

He grabbed Erina by the waist.

The full force of the wave crashed into his back, driving them down into the unholy depths of no man’s land, spinning them around and around through the ink-black swirling water. There was no up or down or anywhere in between.

He had no idea how far down they’d been pushed.

His arms gripped Erina’s stomach and squeezed tight, trying to maintain a secure hold.

Her skin was slippery. His legs entangled with hers.

He needed to get a better grip, somehow wrap his arms under her shoulders and his legs around her torso in a vice. Or he’d lose her.

He adjusted his arms to get a firmer grip.

At that precise moment the tumbling wave gave a violent jerk, picking them up and hurling them toward the ocean floor.

The surging wall of water twisted him to the left.

Her to the right.

He clutched at her waist. His grip started to slip.

One second he had hold of her.

The next …

She was gone.

19

In the chaos of no man’s land Carter was gripped by a feeling he almost never succumbed to.

Fear.

Erina was a good surfer and swimmer, but she wasn’t anywhere near as familiar with this violent, out-of-control world as he was. In such extreme conditions she’d be vulnerable. And there was the distinct possibility that the board had struck her on the head, rendering her unconscious.

The thought of losing her terrified him.

The rampaging wave drove him down, down, down and spun him around and around. His arms flayed about in the darkness, seeking Erina among the chundering mass of raging water moving in every direction. The more he thrashed about, the more the ocean pummeled him, and he achieved nothing.

After a few minutes his lungs began screaming for oxygen. Just when he felt sure they’d burst, a moment of clarity descended upon him.

To survive in heavy surf such as this, you needed to understand, accept and ride out the wild whims and violent moods of the ocean with detachment, humility and patience. If you failed to do so, it would exact cruel vengeance. Thrashing about had only wasted precious air.

He ceased fighting and surrendered totally to the force of the ocean.

An immediate shift occurred. His body relaxed and his movement became effortless, like a cork bobbing in the water.

In its own time the ocean spat him out into still, calm water.

Carter’s head breached the surface and he drew in deep lungfuls of air. The daypack remained secure on his back.

He trod water, circling on the spot.

The wave had transported him across the reef to the deepwater channel, but there was no sign of Erina.

He closed his eyes and tried to feel her.

His racing heart slowed and he tuned his senses to the world around him.

The rain had backed off to a gentle pitter-patter and the rolling swell lifted him up and down without breaking.

He sensed Erina nearby.

His eyes flashed open and he swam to his right.

After five strokes he saw her ahead of him, facedown in the water.

He took another four powerful strokes, took her in his arms and rested her head on his shoulder.

His elation at seeing her was short-lived.

She was unconscious. Barely breathing.

He felt the back of her head. His hand caressed a large swelling. The board had collected her skull, knocking her out cold.

He continued to tread water, kicking hard to keep her head clear.

He squeezed her chest and shook her in an effort to expel the water from her lungs and kickstart her breathing.

Her arms hung limp by his side.

His oxygen-starved legs started to cramp. The struggle through no man’s land had taken its toll. He started dropping back into the water.

He forced his toes upward to ease the cramp, then kicked even harder, still pumping her chest.

“Erina, come on.”

He reached around and forced two fingers into her mouth and stuck them down her throat.

A slight spasm rippled through her body.

He pulled his fingers out.

She shook violently. A warm river flowed down his back. He felt her heart beat and the rise and fall of her chest.

He eased her onto her back into the warm ocean, making sure her mouth and nose were clear, and then looked up.

A full moon shone through a break in the cloud cover.

Even though they were in the middle of the ocean off a remote and hostile island, he felt more connected to the universe than he could remember.

20

Again, Thomas picked up Carter’s presence.

He still lay on the bench in his cell. His body throbbed with pain, and he knew Wayan’s condition had, if anything, deteriorated.

His perception had changed, though, and that made all the difference.

Like everything else in life, a person’s response to suffering served a higher purpose. The challenges he faced in that cell were forcing him to look into his own soul and confront the truth.

He needed to walk his idealistic talk and reconnect with his fundamental beliefs. Nothing else truly mattered.

His personal ambition was simple: Treat every test in life as a battle for personal power and face every challenge with humility and courage.

For Carter and Erina this philosophy was an interesting theory that they adhered to as best they could. For Thomas, though, it was the cornerstone of his life.

In the last few years, Carter had drifted away from his spiritual foundations, eventually walking out on the order. Thomas had only needed to spend twenty minutes with him to see that his rejection of the order and its principles hadn’t worked for him. It was obvious, whether Carter realized it or not, that he needed to rediscover and commit to the path of the spirit. And so, Thomas now realized, did he. It was always easier to see what another man needed to do.

The true measure of a man revealed itself in the face of disaster. Thomas needed to get past the pain and focus on what needed to be done. The first step was to find the positives in his position.

Carter was nearby and wouldn’t give up.

Furthermore, Samudra and his men’s behavior had reaffirmed Thomas’s belief in his life’s work.

Someone needed to make a stand against prejudice and hate, and protect those who couldn’t protect themselves.

That was the order’s primary purpose.

If he died that day, at least he’d die having fought for what he believed in.

That was something to be grateful for.

He felt himself recommitting to the principles of the order. Reminding him to: Accept that what is, is. Expect the unexpected. And never give up.

Whatever was meant to happen would happen. He just needed to do what he could in that moment.

For now, that meant waiting patiently for Carter and Erina.

21

Carter wrapped his right arm lightly around Erina’s chest and then, using a one-handed breaststroke, swam with her in tow across the relatively calm channel, away from the turbulence of the surf pounding on the reef and toward the rocky shoreline.

The cove was just over a hundred yards away; their silent swim took less than five minutes. They passed through a ten-foot-wide opening and entered an oval pool of water, surrounded by rock walls on three sides. With the moonlight reflecting off the water, it was a place of uncommon beauty.

Holding Erina’s arm, Carter jumped out of the water, grabbed her under the shoulders and pulled her onto a wide rock platform that ran along one side of the cove.

The full moon provided just enough light to see. He laid her on her back with her arms by her side. Her eyes remained closed. She was in shock, exhausted, and needed time to regain her composure and strength. For now, they were relatively safe, but the helicopter still hovered somewhere over the reef.

He removed his daypack, sat next to her on the smooth rock and took a few moments to get his bearings, watching her breathe in and out.

She was a rare woman, one of those special people who responded to extreme pressure with grace, poise and a dry humor. These qualities more than matched her outer beauty and were the true source of his attraction to her.

Part of him longed to tell her how relieved he was that she was okay, how much he cared for her and wanted to be close to her. But this was not the time to talk about his feelings, nor try to understand them. They’d sort out their relationship, whatever it might be, when the job was done.

He held her hand and squeezed gently.

She returned the pressure and slowly opened her eyes. He helped her to sit up, reached into his daypack, pulled out a bottle of water and placed it in her hand.

She took a long drink and then drew in three deep breaths. He put his hand on her shoulder and felt her body relax.

“How’re you doing?” he asked.

She stretched her neck and touched the back of her head. “Considering I’ve been hit over the head with a surfboard, swallowed gallons of water, almost drowned and vomited over your back, I’m pretty good.”

She began to cough and took another long drink. They sat in a comfortable silence for a while, neither wanting to break the spell of the moment.

They both knew instinctively when it was time to move. He held out his hand and helped her to her feet.

“That was some wave we caught,” she said, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “I’ve never been tubed like that.” She paused. “It was as good as you said it’d be.”

“The green room is a holy place.”

“I want to go there again.”

“We will.”

He led her along the rock ledge, counting off the paces from the entrance to the cove in his head.

Fifty-eight, fifty-nine …

He stopped, laid down the daypack and took out the flashlight. She drew level with him and they stood shoulder to shoulder on the coarse rock, looking down at the smooth surface of the water.

“According to the map in my head,” he said, “the cave should be near here. I’ll dive down, find the entrance and be right back.”

She nodded.

“If the helicopter heads this way, grab both breathing devices and my daypack. Then join me underwater.”

“Okay.”

He dived into the warm water, his eyes wide open, and started stroking for the bottom, holding the glowing flashlight in his right hand.

The bright arc of light lit up a school of small tropical fish whose colors covered the spectrum of the rainbow. In unison they turned to face the light, then darted off to go about their business. A three-foot-long blue grouper swam past at a lazy pace, ignoring him.

He dived another thirty feet but saw no sign of the bottom.

The cave entrance was, he figured, further along. He switched the flashlight off and started floating upward, the slow movement in the dark through the tranquil water relaxing his muscles.

His head breached the surface and he took a long breath.

Erina crouched on the ledge. “We all set to go?”

“Hang on a bit longer. It’s very deep here. I reckon the cave is about a hundred feet that way.” He pointed further down the cove.

Erina picked up his daypack. He started to breaststroke parallel to the rock wall. She walked along the ledge, keeping pace with him. The helicopter continued to buzz over no man’s land.

He stopped swimming after a hundred feet and turned to face her. “This should be about the spot.”

“Go,” she said.

He sucked in a lungful of air and again plunged headfirst into the watery depths.

The first thing he noticed was that the bottom was shallower, suggesting the entrance to the cave was nearby.

The second thing that struck him was that the beam of light lit up nothing but crystal-clear water.

There were no fish at all.

He stroked deeper. The flashlight illuminated the deserted sandy ocean floor.

Something wasn’t right.

He shone the flashlight toward the cove wall and what he saw jolted his heart rate.

Come on, he thought to himself. Give me a break.

22

The bright beam lit up a shark cruising slowly through the water toward him.

It was close to thirteen foot long and probably weighed around a thousand pounds. He noted the dark stripes along its body.

A tiger shark.

They were apex predators, at the top of the food chain, and had a reputation for eating anything. Often found near reef breaks, they were one of the most dangerous sharks to be found in the Indian Ocean.

Its razor-toothed jaw hung slightly ajar, suggesting an enigmatic yet malevolent grin.

Carter switched off the flashlight. Adrenalin raced through his bloodstream, jacking up his heart rate.

For Carter, like most people, facing a shark wearing only a pair of board shorts was a worst nightmare. Death by drowning, burning, gunshot, knife, poison or snakebite seemed pleasant in comparison.

Sharks possessed a sixth sense, enabling them to detect the electromagnetic field emitted by any living creature in their immediate vicinity, able to sense as little as half a billionth of a volt.

The one good thing about spotting a shark was that it meant you were still alive. Usually they struck before you registered their presence.

He fought back the compulsion to shoot straight for the surface and jump onto dry land. Any sudden movement could attract the shark’s attention and precipitate an attack.

He reminded himself that sharks weren’t as a rule dangerous to humans. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, a shark would swim away and leave you alone. He knew all this.

Still, understanding the cold facts was one thing. Refraining from freaking out when you saw a prehistoric monster up close and personal in its natural habitat was another matter entirely.

He forced himself to bring his heart rate under control. The shark might get him, but his fear would not.

He allowed himself to drift slowly upward, his naked limbs feeling exposed and vulnerable in the darkness. His arm extended in front of him, seeking the comfort of solid earth.

His hand touched rock and he breached the surface. He rested his arms on the rock ledge and gulped the night air.

Erina stood by the water’s edge. One breathing device hung around her neck; the other was in her left hand. The sealed daypack lay at her feet.

She looked at him in a way that made him feel transparent.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Couldn’t you find the cave?”

“I did. But you need to wait here.”

“For what?”

“I need to check something.” He reached out. “Give me a breathing device.”

She handed it to him.

Before she had a chance to say another word, he looped the attached lanyard around his neck and said, “Be back in a sec.”

He stuck the rubber mouthpiece of the breathing device in his mouth, breathed in a lungful of air, slipped below the surface and propelled himself downward, careful not to make any jerky movements.

About sixty feet under, he switched on the flashlight and swung it in a hundred-and-eighty-degree arc.

The shark he’d seen earlier was gone. Only one fish swam by, another blue grouper. Due to the groupers’ size, shape and slow, gentle presence, sharks didn’t instinctively see them as dinner. But all other life forms kept well away.

His flashlight lit up the cave entrance.

It appeared perfect for their purposes, big enough to drive a small car through.

Then it didn’t seem quite so perfect.

Another shark, also close to thirteen foot long, glided out of its mouth.

Carter was sixty feet from the shark and the same distance from the surface. He consciously relaxed his muscles. He needed to act like a fish in its natural habitat and avoid making any movements that’d signal he was afraid.

It took him a long fifteen seconds to drift to the surface, all the while picturing giant teeth tearing into his naked flesh.

Again, his hand touched the solid rock wall and, in one smooth movement, he pulled himself out of the water onto the safety of the ledge.

“So what’s the big problem?” Erina asked. “You look like you’ve seen your grandmother’s ghost. What aren’t you telling me?”

He could hide nothing from her.

“I just saw two tiger sharks swim out of the cave. I reckon it’s a sharks’ nest.”

“Sharks don’t have nests. They mostly swim alone.”

“You try telling them that.”

“I don’t know why you’ve got this thing about sharks. All you want to do is spend your time in the ocean surfing and yet you’re scared of sharks. There’s something screwy in that logic.”

“When this is over, I’ll get some therapy.”

“Most shark attacks are mistakes. Dogs kill more people in one year in the US than sharks have in the last hundred.”

“That’s all very well, but very few people swim with them in caves.”

“And it’s the only way we can get into Samudra’s compound?”

“Correct.”

She stood for a moment, expressionless, taking it in.

Then she looked into his eyes. “Have you come up with a plan?”

“Swim through the cave without being eaten.”

23

Carter and Erina eased themselves feet first into the warm water and swam down the side of the rock wall, following the beam of the flashlight strapped to the side of his head. He held a six-inch blade in his right hand.

When they were about sixty feet underwater, he put his hand out and signaled for Erina to stay where she was. He swam over to the three-foot-long blue grouper he’d seen earlier, cruising about ten feet above the sandy bottom. Its saucer-like eyes stared at him and its large lips curled as if puckering for a kiss. He hated having to do what he was about to do, but he didn’t have a choice.

He pulled the knife back and thrust the blade deep into the grouper’s belly, twisting it up and around, creating a large jagged wound.

The innocent and normally slow-moving fish started to thrash violently in the water. Blood and intestines oozed out, spreading a pink cloud. For the sharks, the grouper’s wild movements would be a dinner bell.

Carter did the same to a second grouper and slid the knife into its sheath, now strapped to his waist. He then motioned for Erina to join him.

They started swimming toward the cave at a steady pace. He breathed slowly through the rubber mouthpiece of the device and out through his nose, keeping his focus locked on the cave mouth, very aware of their relative position in the ocean’s food chain.

He turned his head and saw a blur of movement flash through the water toward the wounded groupers. Most likely the shark he’d seen earlier. It tore into the wounded fish, creating a swirling cloud of red. Dinner had been served.

He squeezed Erina’s hand. She returned the pressure and they continued to stroke toward the cave mouth.

The flashlight lit up the inside of the cave, a beautiful and dangerous world of bright coral.

They weren’t dressed for the occasion.

Erina wore small briefs and a bra, while Carter was only in his board shorts. If they brushed against the coral, the sharp points would rip their skin and the scent of blood in the water could bring the sharks hurrying back.

Fortunately, the width of the cave gave them plenty of room to maneuver.

Carter glided through the opening, three-quarters of a body length ahead of Erina, careful not to make any sudden movements or get too far ahead of her.

They followed the light into the mouth of the brightly colored tunnel.

When they’d swum about a hundred feet, his insides turned ice-cold. He reminded himself that dogs killed more people than sharks and it was almost unheard of to see more than two sharks in an area like this.

He raised his free hand and stopped swimming.

The flashlight lit up another shark a hundred feet away, cruising very slowly along the floor of the cave toward them. Clearly it didn’t subscribe to the theory that sharks swam alone.

Erina moved up next to him.

He pointed down.

She involuntarily jerked backward.

He grabbed her hand and switched the light off.

Feeling his way in the ink-black darkness, he positioned himself above her. He covered her back and wrapped his arms and legs around her, protecting her from the coral as they floated upward toward the ceiling of the tunnel. She offered no resistance, clearly understanding what he had in mind.

He hunched his head and shoulders forward, ensuring only his daypack, which covered half his back, made direct contact with the roof’s coral lining.

Their bodies’ natural buoyancy pressed upward, holding them in place. Carter clung to Erina blindly, like a limpet, his heart pounding against her back.

He could feel Erina’s heartbeat too. It was relatively steady.

Her hands squeezed his forearm, reassuring him.

He returned the gesture and clamped down on his breathing device.

Bloody sharks, he thought to himself and focused all his attention on the flow of his breath.

24

After what seemed an extraordinarily long time, but in reality was less than a dozen heartbeats, there was a surge of water up ahead of them, indicating that the shark, whose massive body displaced a large volume of water, was moving toward them.

The shark had a simple choice to make. Either it’d strike them hard and fast or swim straight for what was left of the dying fish outside the cave, oblivious to all else.

The moving wall of current pushed against them with greater intensity. The shark was accelerating.

Carter tensed his stomach and shoulder muscles. Erina gave his arm a reassuring double squeeze.

He hugged her even harder. The worst-case scenario, he told himself, was that he’d get to die in the arms of the person he cared most about in the world.

Then the current jammed them hard against the roof.

He held his breath in the darkness, bracing for a ferocious strike when …

The current receded.

Followed by a profound and beautiful stillness.

He expelled the air he’d been holding in and started counting.

One thousand and one, one thousand and two, one thousand and three …

He released his grip on Erina and pushed her away from him. They separated slowly, like two isolated probes in deep outer space connected by an invisible bond.

He switched on the flashlight and the bright beam cut through the clear water.

The cave was empty — they seemed to be alone.

His gut and shoulder muscles relaxed. For now, the watery nightmare was over.

He shone the flashlight on Erina, who was already stroking toward the bottom of the cave.

She turned and gave him a thumbs-up sign, as if to say, “I told you so.”

He reciprocated the gesture.

They swam through the dark tunnel. The only sign of life they encountered was a handful of crabs scurrying across the bottom.

After nearly ten minutes, the cave widened and the floor fell away another fifteen feet. The temperature dropped and Carter’s buoyancy decreased, suggesting less salt in the water.

He stopped swimming and pointed the flashlight upward. The light refracted into the open air above them, indicating a large pocket. He swam toward it.

His head burst through the surface. He trod water and shone the flashlight about him. They’d reached the end of the tunnel and had entered the large rock-walled cavern Djoran had told them about.

To his right he heard running water and the hum of an electric motor, both impossibly loud after the underwater silence.

He switched off the flashlight, spat out his breathing device and turned toward the sound.

A weak light lit up six men dressed in army fatigues standing along a rock ledge, each pointing an Uzi at his head. His concern about the sharks suddenly seemed like a distant memory.

Erina’s head breached the surface just in front of him.

She gave him one of her half-smiles. “We need to discuss this issue you have with sharks,” she said.

“It’s not our only problem.”

Erina looked up toward the armed men and said, “You’re right.”

A spotlight snapped on, filling the cavern with bright light.

He squinted.

“Out of the water,” a loud voice barked from above. “Keep your hands where we can see them.”

Carter saw only one option.

He pulled himself out of the pool and raised his hands.

Erina followed his lead.

“Turn around,” the voice said. “Put your hands on your heads.”

Carter and Erina did as they were told.

He sensed someone approaching from behind and braced himself.