No Man's Land

1

Kemala Sungkar pulled her long black cotton skirt from under her knees and adjusted the multicoloured embroidered prayer mat beneath her.

She knelt upright and stared at the shadows thrown against the wall by the bars that secured the only window in her room.

By order of Samudra, her younger brother by seven years, she was being held in a small wooden bungalow at the back of his island compound, furnished with only a thin mattress and a single wooden chair.

How she detested him and everything he stood for. She had tried hard to focus on her prayers, but her constant anger made it impossible. One question consumed her: How had it come to this?

She was forty-six years old, and throughout her entire personal and professional life, the cornerstone of her daily existence had been her duty to family and her beloved religion, Islam. Now she was imprisoned by her own brother in the name of the God she loved.

She closed her eyes and focused on calming her racing mind. The problem was, when she became quiet — when she tried to pray — she had to face the undeniable and disturbing truth that she herself was in part to blame for this diabolical situation. Her own behavior, her lack of action, had made it possible.

It was easy to see with the clarity of hindsight that growing up in a family with power and influence had made her ignorant and complacent. She’d been blind to the corruption and graft that were such an integral part of life in Indonesia, and to the suffering of the large mass of those less fortunate. But the clan’s true rot had started with Arung, her older brother, after her father’s death.

Like many women in her position, she’d never questioned the source of the family wealth that made her privileged lifestyle possible. For the last six years she’d been too busy flying between Jakarta and Palo Alto, completing an MBA at Stanford University, to think about who was paying for it, and how.

A sweet, pungent aroma drifted toward her from under the thick wooden front door. On the other side, one of Samudra’s mujaheddin sat smoking a clove cigarette, no doubt cradling a standard-issue automatic rifle in his lap.

Earlier that morning her dear friend Djoran had taken a huge risk when delivering breakfast to her bungalow. Under the bamboo cover of her tray, next to her orange juice and fresh fruit, lay a large metal key, a small handgun, a silencer, a roll of black packing tape and a folded note.

The note lay open on the wooden floor beside her. She picked it up and re-read it for the third time.

The key now hung around her neck, hidden under her loose-fitting garments, and she clutched it as her thoughts turned to the four people held prisoner by her brother.

Wayan was an ambitious boy, with the potential to bloom into a fine man and leader of his people.

She’d never met Carter. Though Carter had left the order, Thomas often spoke of him with warm affection, saying that if he reconnected with his spirit and true path in life, he was capable of greatness.

Erina remained an enigma to her. She felt the younger woman had never trusted her, always questioning her motives for befriending Thomas. Kemala often felt Erina was judging her and became very guarded, almost secretive, in her presence. She admired the younger woman’s spirit and skill nevertheless, and hoped one day to be her friend. She saw much of Thomas in her.

Thomas was without doubt the finest man she’d ever encountered, the one she’d been waiting for all her life. She still remembered the moment when she recognized the stillness and compassion in his soft brown eyes.

She had loved him ever since that first fateful meeting in Jakarta, sharing tea after they met at a talk about Sufism in the modern world. For the first time in her life, and from that day on, she felt connected in mind and spirit with another human being without any reservation.

Her family hated the order, so a true relationship between them was impossible. Thomas, recognizing the threat he posed to her safety, had never initiated any inappropriate contact. Still, she’d often thought longingly of how she might be with him.

Thomas lived a principled life — it was what had attracted her to him. He inspired her to look again at her own life, her own beliefs, and remove the blinkers from her sheltered eyes. Because of him, it became increasingly impossible for her to ignore the reality of her family’s activities.

When Samudra became clan leader and his agenda became evident, she could no longer remain loyal to her family. Nine months ago, after much angst, she had taken Thomas into her confidence and told him everything she knew about her brother and the clan.

To her great relief, he recognized the enormity of the threat and together with Djoran constructed a plan to discover Samudra’s true intentions and stop him.

Five days ago Samudra’s chief lieutenant, the vile westerner Alex Botha, who they called by the Muslim name Abdul-Aleem, had kidnapped her from the family’s compound in Jakarta and brought her here. She had been kept locked up in the bungalow ever since.

In that time, she had not laid eyes on Samudra and remained ignorant of what he intended doing with her.

For all she knew, he might wrap her in a sheet, lay her in a shallow grave and have her stoned to death, an archaic form of execution favored by some Islamic fanatics. According to their strict interpretation of Islamic law, by stoning a sinner to death, the executioner cleansed the sinner’s soul, thus allowing their spirit to enter heaven despite their moral transgressions.

The irony of murdering another person to cleanse them of their sins was not lost on her and brought the weakest of smiles to her lips. Her brother, in his self-righteous arrogance, would believe he was doing her an immense personal favor by killing her in this manner. To him, she was a delusional whore who deserved no mercy.

She was grateful for one thing: Her mother and father were no longer alive to witness the shameful turn the family’s business had taken, and its tragic fallout. Yet while they would have been appalled at where Arung and Samudra had taken the clan, they would never have forgiven her for moving against her younger brother.

Regardless of what her parents might have thought, she knew now what she needed to do, even if it threatened to destroy the Sungkar clan.

She stood and walked toward the thin dirty mattress on the floor, knelt down and lifted the top corner, exposing the handgun and silencer.

Samudra’s fanaticism was like an incurable disease, festering and spreading. Ultimately, it would prove fatal for him and many others. She needed to put an end to the madness. Faith without action meant nothing. Her time had come.

She picked up the gun.

The metal felt cold in her hands. She observed the details of the small wooden handle, then checked the magazine and counted six bullets ready for duty.

Her heart started to race and her chest flushed with adrenal heat.

She placed the weapon back on the bed with the awe and care accorded a sacred icon. It both scared and excited her.

From this moment forward she knew nothing would ever be the same for her again.

2

On the other side of Batak Island Samudra sat upright on his hammock at the rear of his five-bedroom property in the lush hills looking over the ocean. He threw his legs over the side and attempted to push the dark thoughts of his sister out of his mind.

His son, Osama, was playing with Ali, his pet monkey, a six-month-old long-tailed macaque, at the far end of the garden.

Praise be to God for the next generation.

The comfortable home was a short helicopter ride from the compound and had been built by his late brother Arung. It provided a constant reminder of Arung’s untimely death at the hands of the order.

The sound of a fast-approaching helicopter shifted his attention to a far more pressing matter.

At the compound the night before, two of his men had demonstrated worrying signs of doubt about carrying out the planned jihad in Sydney, putting their families and existence on earth above eternal salvation.

Doubt was a spiritual malaise that would not be tolerated or allowed to spread through his men under any circumstances. His years of training with veteran mujaheddin in Pakistan and Afghanistan had taught him the necessity of eradicating such contagion.

His thoughts were interrupted by the aroma of warm chilli spices and fried chicken drifting across the humid air.

“Samudra! Osama!” his wife called from the kitchen. “Lunch is ready!”

He stepped off the hammock and glanced over his shoulder toward the house.

The sound of the approaching helicopter would displease his wife greatly. For Premita, family lunch on Sunday was a sacred event. Particularly as he’d only returned last night from business and this would be his last meal with them before his departure for Sydney the next day.

If the helicopter brought the news he expected, he’d need to return to the compound without delay. It pained him to disappoint his very good wife. As befitting her role, she never questioned his duties as clan leader, even when he operated well outside the bounds of man’s laws. But inside the family confines she saw herself as the undisputed ruler — making her the one person on earth whose wrath he feared.

A cry came from the far end of the garden.

“Gotcha!”

He turned toward his son, who was clutching his monkey by the tail.

The monkey shrieked and Osama squealed with excitement. “I have you now!”

“Samudra! Osama!” Premita called again in a much sharper tone.

Samudra pointed his finger at Osama. “You heard your mother. Leave Ali alone and wash your hands for lunch.”

“No!”

“You dare question your father?”

The monkey jumped up and down on the spot and started clapping.

Osama burst out laughing.

Samudra couldn’t help but grin. He controlled the destiny of his clan and was the sole architect of the most audacious and holy plan for God and Islam since the attack on the Twin Towers. Like his hero, the great Osama bin Laden, he saw his life’s purpose as striving to unleash death and destruction upon the enemies of Allah. When it came to his family, though — his son, his daughter and his wife — he was powerless.

Still, weakness was the wrong message to pass on to his son.

He glared at him. “You want to experience the joys of God’s heaven and live in paradise forever or burn in the fires of eternal hell?”

“Paradise, please.”

“Then do as you’re told.”

Another call came from the back of the house, full of anger and impatience, causing them both to look around.

“Hurry up! Lunch is getting cold!”

Osama turned and ran toward the house.

Samudra looked up at the approaching helicopter and wondered how far the situation on the compound had deteriorated.

He reached under his white robe and ran his finger over the smooth handle of his sheathed kris, which he carried with him at all times. Then he patted the Beretta Bobcat, a small semiautomatic pistol, tucked inside a leather holster strapped under his armpit.

He thought of his beloved grandfather, Fajar, who had fought on the battlefields of Afghanistan, witnessing the defeat of the Russians. The great victory had galvanized Fajar and his Indonesian comrades, who saw themselves as fighters in a global struggle for Islam. By defeating the might of the imperialist Soviet superpower, they had proved themselves capable of achieving anything in the service of God.

On returning to Indonesia as highly disciplined and highly trained devotees of jihad, they continued the great work by carrying the flag of Islam and vowing to create a unified Muslim state worldwide.

Samudra had sworn on Fajar’s deathbed that he’d pursue his grandfather’s holy fight, striking fear into the heart of his enemies, no matter how long and difficult the struggle might be.

As much as he loved his wife and family, he needed to remember who he was and where his true duty lay.

3

Samudra strapped himself into the passenger seat of his Robinson R22 Beta helicopter, placed the audio headset over his ears and scrutinized his second-in-command, Abdul-Aleem, who was absorbed in checking the controls.

At thirty-seven years of age, Abdul-Aleem was at the height of his physical powers, possessing the strength of a mighty elephant and the agility of a wild monkey. His extensive military and martial-arts background and inside knowledge of the order were most impressive.

He’d organized the placing of a GPS homing device inside Erina’s computer at the film shoot near Boggabilla, enabling them to track her and Carter’s movements every step of the way. They, along with Thomas and the young boy, would be executed at dusk.

Samudra recognized Abdul-Aleem’s ingenuity and usefulness.

For now.

Abdul-Aleem flicked a few switches and the helicopter roared to life. He moved the control stick back and they lifted off in the direction of the compound.

Though the man had shown marked improvement in his character since converting to Islam, Samudra still believed that Abdul-Aleem was, at his core, a decadent westerner, and never quite trusted him.

Samudra was not naive. He recognized that the man’s conversion in prison was most likely born out of his desperation to get out of jail rather than a true love of God and a desire to do his will on earth.

To insure against any weakness of faith or lack of loyalty on Abdul-Aleem’s part, Samudra had promised him $250,000 once the jihad was successfully executed. Of course he never intended to honor the debt. In fact, by accepting the bribe, Abdul-Aleem had greatly hastened his own end.

Samudra switched his headset on and asked, “What happened with Usif and Mohammed?”

Abdul-Aleem stared straight ahead. “The stupid fools want to withdraw from the mission and be allowed to return home.”

“Not acceptable.”

“Agreed.”

Samudra closed his eyes, rotated his head from side to side to relieve the stiffness in his neck and thought through his options.

“What of the others?” he asked.

“No one else has uttered a word. But we must assume there is potential dissent in the ranks.”

“I presume the two men’s families are on the island?”

“Yes. Both have wives and small children.”

“Excellent. And what are the men doing now?”

“They’re playing football on the beach.”

“Radio ahead and have them all assemble on the top training field in formation. And make sure the families of the misguided are present as well.”

Abdul-Aleem turned to him. “What do you need them for?”

“Just do as I command.”

Samudra switched the headset off and looked out the window away from Abdul-Aleem.

He answered to no one but God.

The helicopter climbed over the peak of the volcanic mountain that separated the two sides of the island and began its descent toward the U-shaped mujaheddin compound below.

Samudra peered through the tinted window at his creation in the name of Allah. The compound was surrounded by sea at the front, a steep mountain escarpment at the rear and sheer rocky cliffs on either side. The self-contained camp provided his men with everything they needed to prepare them for the great tasks ahead. He’d built a shooting range, two training fields, a gym, a communications center and a weapons and explosives storage unit.

His eye was drawn, as always, to the sparkling white-tiled dome of the mosque, the compound’s centerpiece, of which he was most proud. It offered a constant reminder to him and his men of their duty to God and their need to obey, honor and serve him.

He closed his eyes and recited one of his favorite passages of scripture to himself in his head.

Let those believers who sell the life of this world for the hereafter fight in the cause of Allah, and whosoever fights in the cause of Allah, and is killed or is victorious, we shall bestow on him a great reward.

One unerring truth governed his every breath. He was a mujaheddin, a holy warrior for God. Nothing else in existence mattered more than his sacred duty to Allah.

And every one of his men would soon be reminded of this fact.

4

Twenty-four mujaheddin dressed in black caps and olive fatigues stood at attention in three rows of eight on the flat ridge of the compound’s training field, a hundred and thirty feet above sea level.

Samudra positioned himself in front of them next to Abdul-Aleem and surveyed his assembled men. Seeing them in perfect parade ground formation filled him with immense pride. Their demeanor and discipline were testimony to the hard work and training they’d endured and the respect they afforded him as their leader and obedient servant of Allah.

Usif and Mohammed, the two men whose fate hung in the balance, were in the front row and to the left. Their wives and children huddled together at the back of the ridge under the shade of a red calliandra tree.

Only Abdul-Aleem and himself carried arms. As instructed, Abdul-Aleem had an Uzi submachine gun slung over his right shoulder.

Samudra had rehearsed in his mind exactly what was required to ensure the group remained committed to their great objective, jihad. Not only must the men love God — most importantly they needed to fear God.

Samudra pulled himself up to his full five foot and five inches. He maintained the smile on his face. It demonstrated to the men that his faith in the rightness of what God ordained was strong.

“Rejoice with me,” he said, speaking slowly and clearly. “I am proud to announce that the order, a most despicable enemy of our clan, of Allah and of Islam, has been all but destroyed. We have captured four of its people, and this evening you shall all witness their death — a testament to the power of the one true God we all serve and the vengeance he wreaks on his enemies.”

He paused, allowing the men to drink in his carefully chosen words. He ran his sharp gaze over them, seeking out any visible signs of weakness or dissent.

“Even though we are few in number, we shall very soon strike a mighty blow for Allah. So long as every single one of you maintains your faith and is prepared to sacrifice all for God in performing his will on earth, we shall perform great deeds in his name.”

He raised his right hand high above his head in a salute to Allah. “Jihad is the greatest thing you can do with your life. It represents the supreme service you can offer almighty God.”

Again, he gave the words time to sink in, then punched his right fist into the air. “Rejoice! We are mujaheddin, holy warriors of Allah. Never, ever forget this great fact.”

A surge of passion rushed through him, lifting his heart rate.

“For your life to have meaning,” he said, “you must live nobly and obey God’s law, one hundred percent. For God’s warriors, sharia is more important than life itself. A human life without strict adherence to God’s law means nothing.”

He clenched his fist in front of his face and raised the pitch of his voice. “You must be prepared to forfeit your life for God and not cease your struggle until his law rules first this country and then the entire world. This is our sacred duty.”

As he spoke these words, many of his men nodded and their eyes shone. Their devotion warmed his heart.

He spread his arms out wide, the soft ocean breeze billowing his robe like a sail. He loved sharing his profound message, firing up the men’s spirits with the power of God.

“Those who commit to jihad shall enter paradise, where mighty rivers flow beneath verdant bowers. Myriad physical delights in all forms, the sweetest of earthly fruits, shall be perpetually and abundantly available to you. This shall be your great gift for serving God in the supreme manner. Do you understand this great fact? Do you understand the opportunity you have been given?”

The men, including Abdul-Aleem, replied in unison: “Yes, sir.”

He wiped the smile from his face in an instant and frowned.

“But the reward for the unbelievers who defy God … is the searing fire of hell, where there is nothing but pain, suffering and degradation for all eternity. Do you understand this?”

“Yes, sir!” they shouted.

He marched along the line toward Usif and Mohammed. Eight months ago he’d recruited them from a poor fishing village on one of the Mentawai Islands off Sumatra.

When he reached them, he stopped and stared deep into their eyes, attempting to read their hearts and minds. What he saw displeased him greatly. Neither could hold his gaze.

“Do you love God?” he asked softly.

“Yes, sir,” they answered.

“Tell me then, why are you no longer of a mind to serve almighty Allah? Why is it you are unwilling to commit one hundred percent to jihad and perform your sacred duty?”

Neither said a word.

“Are you not prepared to sacrifice all for God and experience the unimaginable pleasures of paradise?” he asked. “Or do you prefer to live like animals and die like dogs before burning in hell for eternity?”

All that greeted him was grim silence.

“Answer me!” he yelled.

Usif, the skinnier of the two, dropped to his knees, put his hands in the prayer position and looked up at Samudra with pleading eyes.

“Forgive me. I am not yet ready. I do not wish to die.”

A wave of disgust rose in Samudra’s stomach. The selfish coward began crying and whimpering like a baby. The man’s weakness threatened the whole operation.

“Please, I beg you. Allow me to leave this island with my family, return home and live a normal life as a fisherman, a good husband and father. I am a good Muslim.”

5

Samudra frowned at the pathetic man crying at his feet.

He hated to lose any of his mujaheddin, even a weak fool like Usif. At heart he was a compassionate man. He’d give him one last opportunity for redemption.

After all, Allah was truly merciful.

Samudra slapped him hard across the face with the back of his hand.

“Do you understand what you are saying?”

Usif began sobbing.

To think he had once treated this man like a son.

“Truly I say unto you, once you take an oath before your brothers and God, there is no turning back. This is your last chance for earthly salvation. Do you want to go to heaven or hell?”

“Please, for the love of God. I don’t want to die.”

Samudra stretched his arms toward the earth, easing the tension in his shoulders, and looked away. He’d done all he could.

The time had come to do what God had called him to do.

He reached inside his robes and extracted the shiny semiautomatic handgun from its holster.

It glistened in the bright sunshine.

Usif started shaking, his eyes wide with terror and disbelief, only now appearing to grasp the dreadful wrath God visited on those who dared displease him.

Samudra switched the safety off and pointed the barrel at Usif’s forehead.

Behind him a woman shrieked and a child let out a piercing wail.

Usif looked up at him through beseeching eyes, perhaps thinking his pitiful look might save him.

Samudra straightened his back and gently squeezed the trigger.

The gun jumped in his hand.

A flash of light spat out of the barrel, followed by a loud explosion.

Usif collapsed forward onto the ground. A clean hole at the back of his skull began to ooze thick dark blood.

Samudra turned his attention to Mohammed.

The man stood rigid with fear. A wet patch formed at the crotch of his trousers and spread down his right leg.

The man was a disgrace and no mujaheddin.

A useless human being.

Samudra raised the gun and pointed it at his forehead.

Mohammed’s eyes clamped shut.

Without uttering a word, Samudra squeezed the trigger.

The shot rang out and Mohammed dropped to the ground.

The women and children were now wailing and screaming with fear. A most disgusting sound, signifying a total lack of faith in God.

Samudra’s attention shifted to the assembled men. They’d maintained their posture and kept their formation perfectly intact.

He’d trained them well.

6

Samudra returned the weapon to its holster, ignoring the shrieking and wailing of the dead men’s wives and children behind him.

He looked down at the fallen bodies, pleased to see that both were dead and already in hell. Their only purpose in life, as it turned out, had been to serve as an example to their brothers of the swift and dreadful price paid by those who forsook God’s will.

He marched back to Abdul-Aleem and put out his hand. “Give me your weapon.”

Abdul-Aleem hesitated and took half a step back.

Samudra glared at him. He would not tolerate disobedience from anyone.

Abdul-Aleem slowly unshouldered his Uzi and handed it to him.

He grabbed it with both hands.

The time had come to send a final, powerful message to the rest of his men.

This younger generation were too soft. It was time to toughen them up.

Samudra had taken inspiration from the Indonesian leader of Darul Islam, S.M. Kartosuwirjo, whom his grandfather had admired and fought alongside. He had divided the world into the “Abode of Islam” and the “Abode of War” and believed that Muslims must live by Islamic law alone. Laws made by man were an affront to God.

Kartosuwirjo had written: “Eliminate all infidels and atheists until they are annihilated … or die as martyrs in a holy war. We are obliged to fight a third world war and bring about world revolution because God’s justice in the form of God’s kingdom does not exist on earth.”

These words gave Samudra’s life its purpose. He would continue the great fight of his grandfather, as would his children and his children’s children, until they achieved ultimate victory.

God’s law would rule the earth, even if it took a thousand years.

Samudra studied the men standing at attention before him. They needed to be reminded that their lives and those of their families paled in significance compared to the will of God and the holy war of jihad.

Six of his men, plus himself and Abdul-Aleem, were heading to Sydney the next day for the first of his lethal attacks.

Doubt and insubordination could not be tolerated. There was no turning back for any of them.

He flicked the Uzi’s safety switch to off and marched toward the families of the two dead men, twenty yards from where his men stood.

Samudra stopped in front of the two women and their children. A boy and a girl of around three and four years of age wrapped their arms around their crying mother and buried their faces against her stomach.

The other two young girls, who were between six and eight, hid behind the other woman, clutching her waist.

They all came from weak stock.

The girls’ mother turned and looked at him through tear-filled eyes. “Please,” she said, “in the name of God, I beseech you. Have mercy on us.”

Samudra smiled. “Your sins are forgiven.”

He saw hope flicker across her eyes.

He raised the Uzi and squeezed the trigger.

A stream of bullets sprayed out of the barrel.

He never let the smile of almighty God leave his face until the job was done.

7

The distant, primal scream of two terrified women caused Carter’s eyes to snap open. Despite the extreme heat and humidity, a cold shiver ran through him.

Along with Thomas, Erina and Wayan, he lay shackled inside an airless concrete cell. Old-fashioned iron manacles around his neck, waist, wrists and ankles pinned him to a coarse wooden bench, his arms stretched above his head. His joints were stiff and his leg and shoulder muscles ached.

He looked at the solitary window, high up and covered by a grille. The angle of the light filtering through the rusty bars told him it was early afternoon.

Thomas and Wayan were both out to it. They’d been drifting in and out of consciousness all day, and even when they were awake, their injuries made it painful for them to speak.

They had been given nothing to eat or drink since being dragged in the night before. Carter was dehydrated and weak. After dumping them there, the clan had left them for dead.

To his right Erina spoke in a hoarse voice. “What the hell was that?”

His mouth was bone-dry. He twisted his head toward her, swallowed a couple of times, then worked his tongue to get some saliva flowing.

Before he could speak, two five-second bursts of intense gunfire from an automatic weapon cut through the air, drowning out the gut-churning cries of the wailing women.

“They’re killing their own people,” Erina said. “Why?”

“God knows,” he said. “But we need to get Thomas and Wayan out of here and get back to Sydney before the new year.”

She worked her lips together and swallowed. “The plan was to meet Muklas by 8 a.m. or he’d go to enlist Detachment 88’s help.”

“I wouldn’t count on them getting here anytime soon.”

“Any ideas?”

“Nothing is jumping out at me.”

Carter looked toward Thomas and Wayan. It worried him that even the gunfire had failed to stir them. If they didn’t get food and water soon, they’d struggle to survive the night. Wayan in particular looked in a bad way. But there was no point saying anything. He and Erina both knew the score and were powerless to help.

Light footsteps approached and he glanced at her. She hiked her shoulders.

He turned his attention toward the cell door. A key clicked into the lock and it opened slowly.

A woman in full traditional Muslim attire stood in the doorway, a white jilbab wrapped around her head and face, revealing only her eyes.

Her gaze settled on Thomas. The love and concern he saw in her eyes convinced Carter it could only be one person.

“Kemala?” Erina asked. “What are you doing here?”

Carter heard both surprise and distrust in her voice.

“I’m here to get you out,” Kemala said. Judging by her tone, she was far from confident.

Erina rattled her wrist. “Do you have keys for the locks?”

Kemala shook her head as if she was disappointed with herself.

Outside, they heard two sets of heavy footsteps approaching the cell at a rapid pace.

“Get out of here quick,” Carter said.

Kemala remained at the doorway. “I cannot leave.”

Her words were emphatic.

“Okay then,” he said in a calm, even voice. “Come inside and close the door.”

She stepped into the cell and pushed the door shut.

“Now stand on the right-hand side of the entrance.”

She moved at once and stood with her back flush against the wall, so the door would open in front of her, creating a shield.

Her right hand slipped into the folds of her dark dress and, to Carter’s surprise, extracted a compact Beretta 92 handgun with a silencer attached.

It only used .25 caliber cartridges, but at close range it’d get the job done.

8

The gun shook in Kemala’s hand, making Carter question whether she had what it took to pull the trigger and shoot a man in cold blood.

They’d find out soon enough.

Her dark eyes sought his.

He lifted his head a fraction and gave her a small, confident nod.

Outside, the footsteps stopped.

He turned to Erina.

Neither uttered a word. They were ready to seize any opportunity that presented itself, no matter how heavily the odds were stacked against them.

A key slid into the lock and turned, one way and then back again.

Carter mentally kicked himself for failing to tell Kemala to lock it.

The door flew forward.

Two clansmen wearing fatigues and black caps marched in, dragging a body between them.

They dropped it on the floor like a sack of flour. One of them used the toe of his boot to roll the body on its back.

Carter turned his head as far as he could.

Muklas’s dead eyes stared at him. There was a bullet wound in the middle of his forehead.

Carter swore to himself and clenched his hands into tight fists. He wondered how they’d caught him. Perhaps when Carter and Erina had failed to return to the bunker at the agreed time that morning, Muklas had chosen to come after them rather than calling in Detachment 88.

There was nothing to be done about that now. Kemala needed their help. She was hidden behind the open door.

He glared at the two clansmen in an effort to draw their attention to him. They returned his gaze full of cold hatred.

The taller of the two unslung an Uzi from his shoulder, pointed it at Carter’s head and switched the safety off.

The shorter guy drew a handgun, a SIG, from his shoulder holster and moved to stand over Carter.

“Who unlocked the door?” he asked in perfect English.

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Carter said, keeping his tone conversational.

The guy pressed the cool barrel of the SIG against Carter’s temple. “Tell me who unlocked the door, you fucking arsehole.”

Carter said nothing.

The guy swung the SIG toward Erina’s feet. “Answer me. Or I blow this worthless whore’s foot off and let her bleed to death.”

“Take it easy,” Carter said, wanting to keep the focus on himself.

The guy whipped the gun back and pointed it at Carter’s right eye.

“It obviously wasn’t one of us,” Carter said. “We’ve been pretty much tied up.”

The man gave him a filthy look, no doubt itching to pull the SIG’s trigger and personally send a westerner and a member of the order to hell. The only thing stopping him would be orders to keep them alive, for now.

“We’ll see how smart you are in a couple of hours,” he said.

“Why’s that?” Carter asked.

“That’s when the first stone will smash your miserable skull to pulp. Samudra wants every one of the faithful to witness your execution. Unless I decide to shoot you first, like that worthless motherfucker.”

He pointed his gun toward Muklas’s body, like he was proud of what he’d done.

“Go ahead,” Carter said. “Put us out of our misery.”

To his right Erina cut in. “Just be quick about it. Kill us in cold blood and go to hell.”

The guy with the Uzi jabbed the weapon toward her. “Shut up, whore!”

Carter lifted his head. “Come on and shoot, you gutless wonders.”

They were doing all they could to keep the two armed men’s attention on them and away from the door that hid Kemala, hoping she would find the strength to shoot sooner rather than later.

The shorter man pointed his SIG at Carter and grinned. “You think we’re stupid. A quick death is too good for you western pigs.”

He reversed his grip on the weapon, held it by the barrel, and then, in a whipping motion, smashed the butt into the side of Carter’s head, just above the temple.

A shooting pain exploded in Carter’s brain.

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.

His mind felt like it was immersed in a heavy liquid, fuzzy and out of sync with reality.

A voice inside his head told him to relax, go to sleep and it’d all be over.

But he dug deep, fought off his body’s overriding urge to shut down and forced his eyes open.

Warm blood flowed down the right side of his head and into his eye.

His vision blurred.

The guy with the Uzi aimed it at a point between his eyes, holding the barrel rock-steady.

Carter shook his head, as much as the manacle around his throat would allow, in an effort to clear his muddy thinking.

He heard the door to the cell creak and glimpsed a shadow moving out from behind it.

Kemala.

The guy lowered his Uzi and began to turn toward the door.

Carter tried to speak, to distract the guy, but no words came out, just a meaningless croak.

“You fucking cowards,” Erina screeched in a hoarse shout. “Murdering unarmed women who can’t defend themselves. Look at me and tell me you didn’t just shoot defenseless Muslim women!”

Through his blurred vision Carter saw the clansmen turn toward her. She’d hit a raw nerve.

“What did they do?” she taunted. “Show their faces in public?”

The guy with the SIG said, “Shut your dirty mouth, bitch.”

Carter heard a fist strike Erina’s face and her manacles rattle. She let out a muffled gasp.

Then four silenced shots spurted through the air, one after the other.

Carter felt himself slipping out of consciousness and drifting into a black void.

9

As Carter came to, he heard loud moaning coming from the floor to his left. He had no idea how long he’d been out. His head felt like it was ready to split in two. He forced his eyes open and turned toward the sound, ignoring the pulsating pain.

The clan member who had struck him with the butt of his SIG lay on his stomach squirming. He’d been hit in the right shoulder and left thigh by low-caliber bullets. His weapon had skidded ten feet in front of him.

His mate lay facedown to Carter’s right, the Uzi near his head. He’d been hit in the right buttock and just below the shoulder.

They were down for the count, but not yet out.

Kemala needed to finish the job.

The final, deliberate shot — the one you took to kill a defenseless and wounded opponent — was by far the toughest, even for a trained assassin.

But in a situation like this, it had to be done.

Kemala stood paralyzed in front of the open door, holding the Beretta by her side, staring at the wounded men.

“Shoot them,” Carter said, struggling to get the words out clearly.

She didn’t seem to hear him. It felt like he was speaking underwater. The guy to his right started pushing himself onto his hands and knees.

Kemala didn’t react.

The clansman to his left began sliding in slow motion toward the SIG, leaving a trail of blood.

“For God’s sake, Kemala, shoot!” Erina said. “Then find the keys to these locks.”

The woman just stood frozen to the spot, in shock, unable to take anything in.

Carter worked some saliva into his mouth and was about to speak when a gravelly whisper came from where Thomas lay.

“Kemala. You must finish this.”

She turned toward Thomas slowly.

The clansman was within a few feet of the SIG, reaching out toward it.

“Trust God and be strong,” Thomas said. “For all of us.”

Still she hesitated.

“Look what they did to Muklas. Do it for him.”

She glanced at Muklas’s body. Her focus hardened and she turned back toward the man reaching for the SIG.

He had just gripped the weapon’s stock.

She raised the shaking Beretta with two hands in front of her and pulled the trigger.

His body stopped moving.

She swung the weapon in a ninety-degree arc toward the other man, who was on his hands and knees, about to grab the Uzi. She pointed the Beretta at the back of his head and squeezed the trigger.

Another round spat out.

The man’s body jerked as the bullet struck him between the shoulders. He collapsed and lay still.

Thomas spoke in a barely audible whisper. “Good. Now the keys. Free Carter and Erina first.”

The Beretta dropped to the floor with a thud. Kemala stared at the bodies as if she couldn’t believe what she’d done.

“It’s all right,” Thomas whispered. “You did what you needed to do. Ask God for forgiveness later. Now you need his courage.”

She bowed her head and mumbled what looked like a prayer. Then she took a few shaky steps forward and started fumbling through the pockets of the guy who’d been wielding the SIG.

Carter heard the jangle of metal. Kemala stood and then came to his side. Her hands were still trembling as she unlocked the manacles around his throat, arms, waist and legs. He sat up slowly.

She ripped a section of cloth from the bottom of her dress and wrapped it around the wounds on his head before moving off toward Erina.

His whole body was numb, and his head continued to throb.

To his right Kemala hunched over Erina, who said, “Thank you. I know that wasn’t easy.”

He placed his feet on the ground and tried to stand. Pins and needles shot through his legs, forcing him to sit back down.

He worked his feet and ankles back and forth, flexing and relaxing the muscles to get the blood flowing. He glanced back toward Erina.

She tried to stand too, but couldn’t.

“Let me help you,” Kemala said.

She put an arm around Erina’s shoulders and supported her as they both shuffled toward Thomas.

Kemala unlocked his manacles, squeezed his hand and then moved toward the unconscious Wayan.

Carter managed to stay on his feet on the second attempt and walked over to join Kemala. He leaned over Wayan and stroked his forehead.

There was nothing else he could do.

When Kemala had freed him, Carter lifted the boy up and gently placed him over his left shoulder, careful to exert minimum pressure on his chest and stomach, suspecting he had suffered internal injuries.

After balancing Wayan’s weight evenly, he moved to the center of the room, knelt down and picked up the Uzi lying next to the fallen clan member. The stock was slippery with blood.

“Come on,” he said. “We need to move.”

Thomas was now on his feet. Kemala and Erina stood on either side of him, supporting him under his armpits, taking most of his weight. Erina held the SIG in her left hand.

Erina leaned in to her father and said, “We’re so sorry.”

Her father’s voice was still faint. “There’s nothing for either of you to be sorry about.”

With Erina and Kemala beside him, he started moving toward the door.

Carter followed, glancing at Muklas. He hated leaving his body behind, but they had no choice.

10

The gathering gloom of dusk approached. The entrance to the tunnel that led to the bunker was set three-quarters of the way down a steep and rocky cliff, a hundred yards to the east of the compound.

The Japanese had chosen the entrance to the tunnel strategically. A rock ledge hid it from anyone looking down from above, and from the ocean below it would be invisible.

Carter sat just inside the entrance, where he could still see and hear what was going on outside. The air was calm, and gentle waves lapped against the rocks fifty feet below.

Behind him Kemala and Erina tended to Thomas and Wayan. Djoran had stocked the bunker with food, water, basic medical supplies and a small gas burner, along with an inflatable dinghy, two oars and a small outboard motor.

For over an hour Carter had watched out for any clan activity.

Foot patrols had passed above him, but none had ventured down the cliff. Twice, the helicopter had buzzed overhead, causing him to move deeper inside the tunnel. And roughly every twenty minutes a fishing boat powered by an outboard motor cruised past. The next one was due in approximately ten minutes.

From above, in the creeping darkness, two Indonesian voices drifted down through the still dusk air.

Another patrol.

His right hand reached for the Uzi. He switched the safety off and cradled it in his lap.

Thirty seconds later the voices trailed off and he laid the weapon at his side.

This was the third patrol he’d heard, yet none had come exploring in the direction of the tunnel, which meant the mujaheddin must have remained ignorant of the bunker’s existence.

As full darkness approached, the chances of anyone venturing down such rugged, steep terrain grew more remote, but it was still a possibility. In the morning they’d be far more exposed and vulnerable, and the clan’s search would become more desperate and detailed.

Carter was loath to move Thomas and Wayan until their condition stabilized, but staying where they were any longer than necessary was out of the question. They needed to get off the island that night. He had the rubber dinghy prepped and ready to go. They needed to get moving shortly after complete darkness fell.

He sensed someone coming toward him from behind and Erina’s voice echoed in the tunnel. “Dinner is served.”

“I didn’t know you cooked.”

She sat down next to him and handed him a plastic mug of steaming tea and two energy bars. “I’m glad I can still surprise you.”

He placed the tea beside him, unwrapped a fruit and nut bar and took a large bite. He’d forgotten how hungry he was.

“How are they doing?” he asked.

“Thomas is in great pain,” she said, “but he’s eating and drinking. You know how strong and stubborn he can be — he’ll recover.”

“And Wayan?”

“Still unconscious. His breathing is shallow and his heart rate is very weak. Moving him again will be extremely dangerous.”

Carter sat motionless, weighing up their options. They didn’t have any. They needed to get off the island as soon as possible. It’d only be a matter of time before the clansmen found them. It was one of those decisions he loathed having to make, but it had to be done.

“We need to get Thomas and Wayan comfortably settled in the dinghy as soon as it gets fully dark and we’ll head off when there’s a break in the patrols.”

Erina hesitated before answering and stood up. “I’ll tell the others.”

Carter took a sip of hot tea and stared out over the darkening ocean.

11

At 9.20 p.m., Carter stopped rowing the heavily laden rubber dinghy and pulled in the fiberglass oars. They’d been travelling at roughly six knots for over an hour and a half — luckily, the outgoing tide was with them and had made the job easier.

Kemala sat at the bow, facing the stern. Erina was in the aft seat near the outboard engine and Carter was in the middle. Thomas and Wayan lay on their backs on the deck inside the gunnels on either side of the boat. Thomas’s head faced the bow and Kemala. They had positioned the still unconscious Wayan with his head toward the aft section.

Carter glanced over his shoulder. The island and Samudra’s compound were nothing more than a dull glow about five miles behind them. The time had come to assess their position and consider starting the outboard engine.

The boat was laden with weapons and supplies, and they had pushed off from the rocky shore at 7.45 p.m. The plan was to reach the surf camp known as Legends, situated on a small island a hundred miles west of Sumatra, early next morning. Carter had set a course on the GPS device Djoran had provided and expected to be there in six to eight hours.

The camp had a full-time doctor and a light plane that made regular trips to Bali. Carter knew the owner, a former pro-surfer, well. He’d arrange for Carter and Erina to fly to Bali the same day they arrived or the following day. They’d then head to Sydney from Denpasar Airport on either 29 or 30 December, depending on what obstacles they encountered in the meantime.

Hopefully by the time they touched down in Australia, Djoran would’ve discovered Samudra’s plans for the terrorist attack. Putting himself into Samudra’s head and taking into account the fact that the mujaheddin were heading for Sydney the next day, 29 December, it seemed highly probable that New Year’s Eve was the likely date of the clan’s planned attack.

But there was no point speculating about that now. First they had to get Thomas and Wayan to the surf camp.

Though Thomas had spoken only a few words, he remained conscious and seemed to be aware of everything going on around him. In contrast Wayan hadn’t moved or uttered a word. They all knew deep down that it was only a matter of time for him. He needed urgent medical attention. There was little chance he’d survive the journey.

Carter kept reminding himself that they hadn’t had a choice. Staying on the island wasn’t an option. But that fact didn’t make him feel any better about the decision he’d made.

He reached down and touched Wayan’s forehead.

It was cold. There was no need to check his pulse.

Carter’s head dropped. A numbness rose through his stomach and chest before settling in his heart.

He felt Erina’s warm hand touch the back of his shoulder.

He ran his fingers down Wayan’s cold cheek, triggering a deep-seated regret that he’d acted so selfishly over the last year by leaving and putting his own wellbeing above that of the order.

Maybe Erina had been right. If he hadn’t left when he did, maybe all of this could’ve been prevented.

Erina climbed forward and sat to his left. “This is not on you,” she said.

“Sure feels like it.”

“No matter what I’ve said in the past, the truth is you’ve always done what you thought was right at the time. That’s all anyone can do and I respect you for that.”

She put her arm around his shoulder, pulled him close and hugged him in silence for a few moments.

“Thank you,” he said, kissing her on the forehead before releasing himself from her embrace.

“You take a break,” Erina said. “I’ll sort out the engine and get us on our way.”

Carter moved forward and knelt beside Thomas. He looked at Kemala, who was holding Thomas’s hand in her own and wiping away a tear with the other.

After a few moments Thomas turned his head toward Carter and whispered, “I know what has happened. It was inevitable. You did the right thing. We couldn’t stay on the island.”

The boat rose and fell with the swell.

A gentle breeze brushed over them.

Carter stared across the ocean toward the dark horizon. The clouds blocked out the moon and stars as if the gods themselves mourned Wayan’s passing.

“Whatever happens,” Thomas said, “know that I am proud of you.”

Thomas started to cough. Kemala knelt beside him, lifted his head and held a canteen of water to his lips. He took a small sip.

“There’s nothing further I can do in this fight,” Thomas said. “It is up to you and Erina to stop Samudra and his clan. Leave Kemala and I at the surf camp. You need to get to Sydney as soon as possible. You will know what to do as soon as you hear from Djoran. He is very capable.”

He took a few shallow breaths. “Don’t make the same mistake I did and underestimate Samudra … he and Alex are a dangerous combination.”

“Understood.”

The effort of speaking caused Thomas to struggle for breath. “I’ve never stopped loving you, Carter,” he whispered.

Carter wanted to tell Thomas how much he loved him too, but he couldn’t get the words out.

Thomas touched his hand. “Wayan, Muklas, Jacko — make sure their deaths count for something. I know you and Erina can do this. My heart and thoughts will always be with you.”

Carter bowed his head, surrendered to his emotion, and for the first time since his mother’s death, allowed the warm tears to flow down his cheeks.

Behind him he heard the outboard engine start up.