Rogue Element

Jakarta, 1100 Zulu, Friday, 1 May

Sketchy news had just reached Suluang by phone of several F-16s involved in some kind of crash or mid-air collision in Sulawesi, but the report was unconfirmed. Hasanuddin AFB was in a flap. All planes were up, but they hadn’t as yet located the missing aircraft or recovered the pilots. But it wasn’t unusual to lose fighters through training accidents and other mishaps — that much he did know. Suluang wondered whether he was being hopeful or delusional. Something was wrong, definitely wrong. The 747 was located, the world was watching, and yet he was blind, attempting to plan in a vacuum.

And then there was Sergeant Marturak. Static, a distant crackling on the appointed frequency — that’s all they’d received from him when they’d tried to make contact. Marturak had not called in at the appointed time. Another missed communication meant the problems were continuing. More reasons to be anxious. Marturak had been due to report and confirm that the crash site was secured at last, meaning the two survivors had joined their fellow passengers. But that communication had not been received. What in Allah’s name was going on? There was no contingency plan because the operation had been hurriedly cobbled together and executed. Perhaps Marturak’s radios had somehow been disabled. If he heard nothing within the next hour, he would dispatch another team of Kopassus troops to the area.

The problem with that, of course, was that the net was widening. Already too many people knew too much. Sooner or later there would be a leak and that was a real danger. Masri had deserted the cause after the last get-together, lost his nerve. How many others would lose their resolve with the uncertainties building? The government’s internal security would be digging around, hunting for irregularities. Lanti Rajasa would take care of that, should it become an issue. But he wouldn’t be able to keep the dogs at bay for long. And he wouldn’t be able to help at all if their plan was revealed. Rajasa would be one of the first to be isolated, excluded from the loop. Not true, he told himself. He would be — Suluang.

General Masri still hadn’t been found. His disappearance was Suluang’s main concern. Bigger, even, than not hearing from the Kopassus, or that satellite photo. Masri could be dead, lying face down in a paddy field somewhere. Suluang hoped he was, because if he wasn’t, then he could also be somewhere talking to the wrong people. Again, he hadn’t heard anything. The hit had been ordered on Masri and the hitman had himself been killed. Masri, though, had disappeared. Vanished. And so had his driver, one of Lanti’s people. The plan, the beautiful plan, was unravelling fast. There are too many variables. Get out now! There were countries he could disappear to and live like a sultan on the money he had salted away over the years.

And yet, a competing voice told him he was panicking unnecessarily. That there was nothing to worry about. Elizabeth always had that effect on him, the ability to block out reality; a safe harbour. She’d called him forty minutes ago at the barracks to tell him that she had rented a room at a five-star hotel, and filled the bath with bubbles. She did that occasionally. Suluang had things on his mind that demanded attention, but the thought of Elizabeth naked but for lavender suds was utterly distracting. Reluctantly, after telling her he was too busy, he’d capitulated. Perhaps, he had reasoned, the diversion would do him good. One last time?

Suluang was glad that he’d given in. He lay back on the crisp linen sheets in the cool, darkened room. The woman’s body was exquisite. She was young, with breasts that strained against the thin fabric of her dress. Her waist was narrow and her legs long and straight. He really should talk to his uncle about including more such delicious items on the menu. What a find she was. He’d been sleeping with her, when the opportunity presented itself, for some time now. He doubted that he’d ever slept with such a beautiful woman before. And she had a dirty mind. The woman looked like an angel, but fucked like a whore.

Elizabeth smiled at the man lying on the bed. It wasn’t her real name, of course. She wore names, identities, like masks. When she was done with this assignment, she’d write the name on a piece of paper and throw it in the bin. The ritual helped clear her mind so she could adopt a new mask the next time it was needed.

No matter what the assignment, Elizabeth loved sex. Indeed, the more the better. She didn’t care who the man was as long as he was healthy, preferably not fat, and had a decent-sized organ. And not necessarily in that order, she thought. In the lexicon of modern neuroses, Elizabeth was a sex addict. She knew what her body demanded, and she satisfied that demand at every opportunity. She’d never suffered the indignity of having to fake an orgasm, no matter who she happened to be in bed with. She couldn’t understand women having problems reaching that glorious plateau. It was so easy for her. She often wondered if men had the same attitude to fucking that she did. It would be an interesting thesis — she’d certainly enjoy researching it.

Choosing a wardrobe had been difficult for this job. Ultimately, she’d settled on a range of cotton sundresses. They were cheap but, with the right colour and length of hemline, could be very sexy. She liked the ones with buttons down the front best of all. She could keep them buttoned to the collar at work. Afterwards, the buttons could be undone to the appropriate depth. And when the sun was just so in the sky, the cotton fabric hid nothing while covering everything.

Elizabeth leaned against the side table, one of her long brown legs parting the sky-blue dress to her thigh. She undid the buttons at her chest, her golden skin glowing. She hadn’t even started and already she could see that the general was ready for her. This man was too easy. The dress fell from her shoulders, crumpling at her feet. The general swallowed dryly.

He was hard when she lifted the sheet to straddle him. Suluang felt the cool fabric of her panties against the heat of his skin. His excitement thrilled her and she sensed her own wetness.

Elizabeth rode him. The general’s thrusts felt good. She moved on him, positioning her body for the most pleasure. And then, like an engine on a cold morning, her orgasm began to catch, the pleasure exploding in a ball of light and heat between her legs. She tried to keep the feeling going forever. But inevitably its power subsided and she was left with the man beneath her, spent, useless.

Suluang looked up at her with a smile on his lips, the usual triumphant smile most men wore afterwards. It said, ‘Yeah, baby, I’m good.’ Elizabeth didn’t mind that. Leaving the man confident in his prowess was part of her power. Elizabeth smiled back and slid off, reaching for her Marlboros on the bedside table. She walked towards the bathroom, through the sun, in a swirl of grey-blue smoke. Suluang marvelled at the highlights that flashed blue-black in her hair. The woman disappeared behind the closed bathroom door. He heard the tap running in the bath. Ah, bubbles, he thought.

Suluang closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the pillow. He thought that he could probably become quite attached to this woman, even though she was perhaps only just half his age. And only a waitress. How could she afford a room in such an expensive hotel? he wondered. Maybe his uncle was also receiving ‘favours’. He shouldn’t allow himself to get so attached.

A small click that came from another world distracted him, made him open his eyes.

He looked into the small black hole of a silencer attached to a Glock. He shifted focus to the pale green eyes behind it. He noted that, with only one ear, the man’s head appeared lopsided. Suluang wondered how he’d lost it. The gun made the sound of a cork coming out of a champagne bottle. At the instant the bullet smashed into his skull, Suluang’s mind registered blinding pain before closing down forever.

Vince had fired into the target’s mouth, up into the brain. He’d resisted the temptation to follow his first shot with one more round. Two shots to the head. Once ingrained, SAS training was hard to overcome. This was not to look like a professional hit. With the man’s brains all over the bed head, he didn’t need to check the carotid artery but did so anyway, out of a sense of professionalism. There was no pulse.

The air smelled tangy and salty, the combined perfume of sweat, sex and propellant. Vince’s nose twitched. He retrieved the small brass shell casing, rolled it between the dead man’s thumb and forefinger, then let it fall to the carpet. Next he removed the gun’s silencer, pocketing it, and placed the gun on the carpet close to the bed after pressing it into the man’s hand to ensure the stock was marked with the proper fingerprints. Forensics would fail to turn up evidence that supported suicide, such as grains of gunpowder burned into the skin of the general’s hand, but Vince knew that sort of inspection would take a couple of days to process. By then, he would be long gone. Vince could hear the water running in the bathroom — Elizabeth. There was no reason to disturb her. Each knew what had to be done. He went to the door of the hotel room and placed the hole in the side of his head against it. There was no sound from the hallway on the other side. Vince was out and gone, just another European tourist in a five-star Jakarta hotel full of them.

Elizabeth exited the bathroom, dressed and ready to leave in a tan Chanel suit. Her hair was up and she wore expensive make-up. The young waitress was gone. In her place was a sophisticated businesswoman, a marketing director or an advertising executive, perhaps, from a big multinational agency. The man she’d left alive not ten minutes ago was now very dead, as she knew he would be. She was impressed — Vince worked quietly. White sheets, red blood, brown skin: very artistic. She observed that her g-string was still dangling from the general’s fingers. She shrugged. What would it hurt to leave it? She wondered if it would cause a stir. At the very least, it would give the police something tantalising to put under their microscopes. The thought made her smile, exciting her. Elizabeth, not her real name, left the suite without a backward glance.