THE GREATEST BETRAYAL: A romantic thriller with a shocking twist, page 4
He turned and trudged along the road that passed the hangars, hands in pockets. He felt he’d been on a rollercoaster ride the past two months. There had been the sudden explosion of attention and hero-worship from the media and the public. And the ugly, unexpected appearance of the story about his love affair in Makassar and the disappearance of the woman he’d loved.
For a time, the memories and the hurt had flooded back, disorientating him from the present. Eventually, those feelings had faded again. The media interest had finally died down. Good riddance to the fifteen minutes he’d never wanted in the first place.
His attempts to find and face off against Carl Vickerson had come to nothing. Apparently, the journalist wasn’t even in the country. No one seemed to know if he had a fixed address anywhere in Australia. His business was conducted via email and publishing portals. He was known to be on the move, from one city and one country after another, chasing and filing freelance stories, demand for his articles far greater now since the Captain Mac article.
What had crystallised in Mac’s mind was his love for Liz Carter. No matter what else might be going on, he felt incredible whenever he was in her company. For the first time in a long time, he wanted to ask a woman to share the rest of her life with him.
So why is the rollercoaster starting again?
The question filled his mind.
The text message had been on his phone when he’d woken that morning.
Mac. Would like to talk. Are you able to visit? Sari
Even though it had been three years, he still had the same smartphone number. An address in Jakarta followed. Sari was still out there.
Why had she waited until now to make contact?
Why now?
Would like to talk.
It told him nothing. It posed a hundred questions without answering any of those left unanswered years before.
He hadn’t told Liz or Martin about the text. He needed to think this through himself. He didn’t need the past coming back to haunt him. Not now.
He knew Liz and Martin would have those same thoughts.
Can I turn my back on a message like this?
Mac then reminded himself Sari had turned her back on him. Had she seen the news article Vickerson had published a couple of months before? Was that what had prompted this contact?
He and Liz were about to head off for a week’s holiday, just the two of them. Liz wanted to show him the area around Cairns where she’d often stayed with her grandparents when she’d been young. Her grandparents were gone now, and their farm had been sold, but Liz wanted to stay in a motel she knew on the beach, and to explore.
Mac held up the phone, reread the text message again. He resolved then and there that there was no going back. He deleted the message.
* * *
It wasn’t hard, Mac thought, to believe you could be in another country when you were in Cairns. It was the mountains ringing the city; the harbour, the ocean, the tropical climate, and the lush green landscape.
It was on their second night there, sitting on the balcony of their apartment in the evening, that they heard the plaintive wail of the curlew.
‘It sends a shiver down my spine every time I hear it,’ Liz said.
‘It’s as though someone out there needs help,’ Mac said, and the moment he said it he regretted his words, as the thought made him think of Sari.
‘Or it’s just another form of communication,’ Liz said, ‘that means something completely different to the birds.’
The following day they drove into the hinterland, did a tour of local art galleries displaying the works of indigenous artists, and stayed overnight in a quaint stone cottage in a glorious forest setting. That night the past couldn’t have been further from Mac’s thoughts, it was the here and now and these past two months with Liz that consumed him.
He kissed her deeply and it was as though his heart, his mind, his soul was joined with hers. They kissed for a long time, curled in each other’s arms, and when he led her through to the bedroom he removed every item of her clothing, her blouse, her bra, her panties, slowly and teasingly. They whispered to each other about the little moments they’d been sharing on this holiday. Then he shed his own clothing and his body pressed against hers, the soft touch of her skin like a balm to his spirit. With each move, each light caress, the heat between them ignited further and far eclipsed the steamy heat of the night.
When they returned to Sydney, Mac knew he wanted to ask Liz to marry him. At the same time, he didn’t want to rush the beautiful, natural pace of this relationship. And he wanted the proposal to be something special. He began to drop subtle hints and there was no doubt in his mind Liz was feeling the same way.
It was another two months later when he received the next text message from Sari.
Mac?
Nothing more.
The same address.
He deleted the message.
TWELVE
Another sleek, silver bird touched down and taxied along the runway. Watching these mighty, man-made creatures of flight always calmed Mac. The world in the air was like a retreat to him, not just a job.
Those endless skies around the planes were like a portal of infinite possibilities.
He wandered the edges of the tarmac, keeping close to the buildings, waving occasionally to other personnel.
These past six months with Liz had been something special.
Six months.
I’m an incredibly lucky man.
In his pocket was a small box with the engagement ring he’d bought to present to Liz. And in his right hand was the phone on which he’d received another text from Sari Sanjaya.
Just when he felt certain he’d lain the ghost of the previous messages to rest.
It’s been at least two months since the last one, hasn’t it?
Why was she sending these messages and why now?
The tone of this third message differed from the previous two.
Mac. I have no right to ask but I need your help. Would you come after all this time? If not, I understand. Sari
This time he’d responded, sending a text and asking Sari to phone him. There was no call and no response to the text. Agitated, Mac phoned her number, only to find it had been deactivated.
What kind of trouble was Sari in?
He returned to Martin de Courcey’s office. He’d left Martin and Liz there over half an hour before, when he’d gone out to walk. And to think.
Liz had raced over to the airport when Mac had phoned her about the message. Martin, of course, was the only other person he could turn to, and confide in, with a personal issue like this.
Liz and Martin were sitting in the visitor chairs along the side wall, talking softly, when he walked in.
‘A lot to take in?’ Martin said to him.
‘Putting it mildly.’
‘What are you thinking?’ Martin asked.
Liz was quiet, but her eyes were awash with the same question.
Mac leaned, half-sitting, on the edge of Martin’s desk. ‘Even after all this time, I need some answers on exactly what happened over there. I didn’t think I did, I believed it was ancient history, which of course it is, but there’s a… desperation with this latest text. Something is wrong, and I guess I… need…’ He searched his mind for the right word.
‘Closure,’ Liz said.
‘How would you feel, Liz, if…’ His words trailed away. He looked into her eyes, and seeing the understanding there, he sucked in a deep breath and found the words. ‘If I went over there, found out what she’s been doing, and helped her if I’m able to. But I won’t stay long.’
‘I’ll go with you.’
‘No, this is something I need to do on my own. Let me put it to rest in my own way.’
‘You need to be careful. Don’t get sucked into anything dangerous.’
‘Martin?’ Mac said.
‘I understand you need some answers for your own peace of mind,’ Martin said, ‘especially after receiving more than one of these texts. But you need to forget all about Sari and stay put, Mac. Your life is here now.’
Mac pulled out his phone and held up the screen with the message. ‘Martin, how can I find any peace with this in my head? And if she’s in trouble, how can I turn my back on her?’
‘And what exactly do you think you can do to help her?’
‘Maybe nothing. But I can’t really ever know without confronting her and hearing her story.’
Martin rose to his feet and placed his hand on Mac’s shoulder. ‘If I can’t change your mind, if you must do this, then I can only repeat what Liz said. Be careful. Very careful. Fly in, see Sari, and fly out. Forty-eight hours, tops. You got it?’
‘Forty-eight hours,’ Mac said.
He flew out that evening. Liz and Martin were there to see him off.
Liz put her arms around him and squeezed tight. She didn’t want to let go. ‘I don’t hold up well when we’re apart for too long.’
‘Fly in, fly out,’ Martin said again.
Mac’s response was to kiss Liz, then his lips brushed her cheek and he whispered in her ear. ‘I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.’
He pulled away, waving, stepping into the boarding tunnel.
Liz forced a smile. Deep inside, she was at war, fighting off a crushing wave of apprehension.
Be safe. Hurry back.
Forty-eight hours.
THIRTEEN
Déjà vu.
The sensation swept through him momentarily as he gazed out the window of the airliner.
Jakarta. The rhythm of its music, the smell of its markets, the cacophony of voices and dialects that swelled from its teeming streets. It reminded him of Makassar. So many memories, just from this bird’s-eye view as the plane descended. So much hurt.
What do I think I’m going to prove by coming back?
It was a different Indonesia. The rebel activity had been pegged back. Whilst trouble spots and poor conditions still festered beneath the surface in several locations, the country was also prospering in trade and tourism. Two faces, that was hardly uncommon in this part of the world, or for that matter, thought Mac, in so many places on earth.
The sounds, the scents, the people – those were the same.
It was over four years since that first visit, when he’d met Sari.
They’d been together for twelve months, with him staying in Makassar every chance he got. It was during that final stay, on his four weeks annual leave from TPA, that he’d met Carl Vickerson.
The sight of the water below reminded him of Paotere Harbour and that night three years ago.
The night that changed everything.
* * *
When Benny had returned to the boat that evening he’d brought with him another Australian, a newspaper reporter named Carl Vickerson who was in the country on a special assignment.
‘My paper and the government here think I’m writing about their trading arrangements,’ Vickerson had said as he sat down to the evening meal with Mac, Martin, Benny, and Sari, ‘which I am. However, I’m also preparing a series of articles on the whole damn mess being allowed to smoulder here. Benny and his contacts have been a great help to me.’ He and Benny clinked their glasses together. ‘Go, bro!’
Benny laughed out loud. ‘Bro!’ he said. It always amused Mac how much Benny enjoyed Western slang.
After having waited for an opportune moment, Mac saw that this unexpected guest and his exchange with Benny had given him the opening he’d been hoping for.
‘Have you considered you could be placing both Benny and Sari in danger?’ he said to the reporter.
Vickerson leaned back in his chair, giving careful thought to Mac’s question.
Mac watched him closely. Vickerson, maybe in his late twenties, was young for a foreign correspondent, Mac thought. He was a lean, wiry type, sandy-haired, cocky, confident, articulate.
‘There’s no progress, no social justice achieved without some element of danger,’ Vickerson said calmly. ‘The local people, and the local businesses – like Benny’s for example – are severely impacted by the religious tensions, by the terrorist uprisings, by the poverty, and the inequality. What does the government do apart from kowtowing to foreign powers? And don’t get me started on the corruption. I know it affects my conscience, Mr International Airline Pilot’ – he shot Mac a friendly but challenging grin – ‘what about yours?’
Mac ignored the thinly veiled jibe. ‘Of course it affects my conscience, but so does placing people I care for in danger… and contact with these kinds of people… well, are you telling me there’s no danger to them?’
‘Mac, your concern for us is always appreciated,’ Benny said, ‘but don’t worry. We’re careful in our dealings. And our story needs to be told. Carl is on our side.’
‘I know there have always been tensions between the Christians and the Muslims,’ Mac said. ‘And between the traditional and the extremist Muslims–’
‘It’s a powder keg,’ Vickerson said.
‘And the authorities have special police and military units dealing with it.’
‘Not enough.’ Vickerson’s voice rose. ‘Things might seem under control to the naive Western world, but beneath the surface it’s escalating. And not everyone believes the special units are above reproach.’
‘Then maybe it’s time for Sari to join me in Sydney,’ Mac said.
‘You have my blessing for that,’ Benny said. ‘But only of course if you visit all the time!’
Mac relaxed and smiled. ‘Wouldn’t have it any other way, old friend.’
Martin had been thoughtfully quiet during the conversation. Now he took his glass and raised it towards the others. ‘I’m glad to hear all that’s settled,’ he said. ‘As you all know, I’m staying tonight at the hotel near the airport, and returning to Sydney on an early flight. So, let me propose a toast.’ The others raised their glasses. ‘To more peaceful times in this great country. To seeing you all again soon. And on a more personal note, to Sari and Mac.’
* * *
The following evening, after a much quieter onboard meal with Benny and Vickerson, Mac and Sari had walked arm in arm along the harbour promenade. The sea breeze was exhilarating. The reflection of the stars twinkled in the waters.
‘It’s hard for me to make the decision to move,’ Sari said. ‘But you’re right. It’s time.’
‘Not if you aren’t comfortable with it, Sari,’ Mac said. ‘Now your father’s running the business again, perhaps just come for a holiday. See how you find it. Then we can make the decision together. If you really can’t leave Makassar… then we’ll come up with another plan.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like me moving here.’
She smiled and hugged him closer. ‘Very noble. But no need. I want to be with you in Sydney.’
They were headed back towards the line of boats where the two-masted sailing craft was berthed when they heard the short, sharp, deafening cracks of gunfire split the silence. Up ahead they saw khaki-clad soldiers charging out of a military truck, figures illuminated by shards of moonlight and pools of neon glow.
Sari broke from Mac and raced forward. ‘Father!’
Mac caught her by the arm and pulled her back. ‘No, Sari, you could be hit.’
‘They’re firing at our boat.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Look,’ she shouted, ‘they’re surrounding it.’
Another burst of gunfire deafened them and this time there was no doubt the weapons were aimed at the boat.
* * *
Mac closed his eyes and willed the painful memory to pass.
Then a slight jolt as he felt the aircraft’s wheels touching down on the runway and the powerful brakes took hold.
FOURTEEN
From the moment he stepped off the plane Mac wished he was back in Sydney.
He could still sense Liz’s scent, still feel her arms embracing him.
Fly in, fly out.
Forty-eight hours.
He would book a room later. First, he needed to see Sari.
It was twilight when Mac arrived at the address sent in the text. It was a rundown apartment block in the older part of the city. Mac rapped several times on the door of Apartment 6E. The door opened to reveal a man in his mid-forties, in a singlet and sweatpants.
‘Ya.’ The voice was gruff, irritated.
‘I’ve a message from Sari,’ Mac said.
‘You have wrong place.’
Mac held up his phone, its screen facing the man.
‘I was sent this address.’
‘Not here.’
‘But there must–’
‘Tidak!’ The door slammed shut.
Mac stood in the dim half-light of the hallway, confused.
He heard footsteps approaching, and his name called.
‘Captain McKenzie?’
Mac turned towards the voice. A short, squat, Indonesian man in a tired brown flannel suit. ‘Yes?’
‘It is Captain McKenzie?’ the man asked.
‘Yes.’
Mac barely registered the sudden bolt of pain as he was struck from behind. A glancing blow to the side of the head. He was briefly conscious of falling, of darkness closing in.
* * *
He woke to a blur of images. Particles of fractured light, intense and blinding.
Slowly, the light and the images fused, and he saw he was in a nondescript, sparsely furnished room. Plain grey walls. No pictures. No decoration of any kind.
He was lying awkwardly on a bed composed of a sunken mattress and a shaky, iron frame. There was a window covered by ordinary, faded venetian blinds. And bars. He sat upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed. There was a dull ache in the back of his skull and he was groggy, lethargic.
He stood, went to the door, and tried the handle. It wasn’t locked. He opened it and stared straight into the eyes of an officer in a greyish-brown uniform.
‘Please remain in room, Captain McKenzie.’ The officer’s English was awkward.
Mac did so without replying. He was both astonished and fearful. He certainly had no intention of grappling with an armed officer or soldier or whatever he was.
