THE GREATEST BETRAYAL: A romantic thriller with a shocking twist, page 7
Mac stepped back, looked away, nausea swelling from the pit of his stomach. He sucked in a lungful of air and steadied himself.
Stay calm. Alert.
He gripped the old stool tighter and inched his way down the hall and into the main living room and the adjacent entry portal to the house. A third man – they would never tell him their names – the more talkative of the guards, the closest thing to a friend Mac had ever had in this place, was splayed on the floor, gun still in hand, pain frozen into his face, soaked in blood.
The assailants, whoever they were, had fled, leaving behind a twisted wreck of furniture and glass, riddled with bullet holes, and their handiwork; three murdered men and pools and smears of blood.
Why am I still alive?
Didn’t they know I was in here?
Were they interrupted?
Thoughts tumbled frantically through his mind.
Should he get in touch with Adler at the embassy?
If the Indonesians suspected him of being part of the insurgency based on the contact from Sari, then what would they make of this? Three of their highly specialised secret police gunned down, and Mac still alive and unharmed?
Their suspicions would be worse, their case against him stronger.
He retraced his steps to his bedroom and dressed quickly, casual shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Just another tourist, except he was anything but a tourist.
I need to get out before the alarm is raised.
He wondered if any of the nearby residents had heard anything.
He knew there were stores and money in the house. He went to the guards’ room first and searched through their valuables. Wallets with petty cash. He collected ninety rupiahs, but he needed more.
His eyes fell on a solitary key on a chain. It was placed at the front of a shelf in one of the wardrobes. He knew instinctively this would be the key to their “operations” room at the far end of the hallway.
The key worked, and he entered a space much larger than the other rooms, stacked with equipment and rows of compact metal storage units. He rummaged through the units, cutting his finger on the sharp edge of one of them. Despite the early hour, it was warm, and he felt the heat on his back and across his brow. He thought he heard the wail of a siren in the distance.
Shouldn’t risk staying too long.
I have to go now.
He pulled open one last unit and luck was on his side. If you could call any of this luck. Money. He jammed plastic bags of the notes in his pockets and into his waistband. Four thousand rupiahs or thereabouts, he surmised.
He raced out the back entrance then crept around the side of the house, the shadows still long enough to provide some cover but with the morning light intensifying by the minute.
He walked the streets, keeping an eye out for POLRI vehicles. Before long he came to an old part of the waterfront. Men were already at work on their fishing boats and in the rundown buildings that must have stood by this stretch of shoreline for over seventy years.
He would look suspicious wandering around here.
There were undeveloped patches of ground dotted around the place, leading back up a hill towards a derelict-looking cluster of buildings. He found a spot under a large tree, away from any passers-by or prying eyes, at least he hoped it was, and he sat and forced himself to breathe calmly, and to think.
Where can I go? How the hell can I get out of this godforsaken country?
TWENTY-THREE
‘Something different this weekend,’ Raf said. He stepped up alongside Liz at the photo shoot for a new Big Bear in-store point of sale campaign. ‘You, me, Bruno, Caterina, and we’re inviting Martin, out on the Hawkesbury River, Saturday and Sunday.’
‘You’re hiring a boat?’
‘We own a boat.’
‘You haven’t mentioned that before.’
‘You don’t get to hear about it until you get an invitation to join us.’
‘I’m honoured.’
Raf laughed. ‘We’d be honoured to have you join us.’
‘Then I can hardly refuse.’
Raf’s eyes twinkled. ‘Thirty-three-foot houseboat. We keep it moored at a marina out there.’
‘Next you’ll be telling me you have a plane, a helicopter, a satellite.’
‘No satellite. Not yet, anyway.’
Liz wasn’t sure if he was joking. You could never tell with Raf. Mischievous, exuberant, strategic, but what was pure fun and what was serious business, you had to get to know this guy a lot better, dig a lot deeper, to know any of that for certain.
Raf said goodbye – he’d just been checking in to see how everything was going at the North Sydney photographic studio – he had a meeting to go to.
The shoot dragged on for another two hours.
When Liz made her way through the parking station underneath the building she had that sudden, inexplicable sensation; a pricking of the hairs at the nape of her neck. She was being observed.
Really? This paranoia again?
Her eyes searched the parking area, but it was quiet, she was the only person there.
As she pulled out onto the street, scanning the road ahead and behind, she was sure she caught a glimpse of a silver Corolla parked a block further back beyond the photo studio.
Coincidence? she thought.
Must have been, as the Corolla didn’t pull out and follow. It didn’t move at all, and it was too far back for Liz to see if there was anyone inside.
Was this unease just a remnant of the despair she’d felt over Mac abandoning her? Manifesting as insecurity. Jumping at shadows.
She’d never been like that before.
That’s not who I am, she decided.
She picked up her speed as she drove onto the interchange that led to the eastern suburbs. Occasionally, though, she couldn’t help but glance in the rear-view, scanning the cars on the freeway behind her.
Watching, in particular, for one certain kind of car.
TWENTY-FOUR
Ringed by lush, forested slopes, the Hawkesbury River, which entered the ocean around fifty kilometres north of Sydney, was a wide, winding waterway, dotted with bays and inlets.
Liz was standing by the rail of the houseboat, head tilted back, enjoying the sensation of the breeze on her face. She’d let her blonde hair grow longer and it streamed out behind her.
Martin joined her.
‘I read the Aboriginal name for the Hawkesbury is Deerubbin,’ Martin said, ‘which means deep water.’
‘Plenty of that,’ Liz said.
‘These brothers know how to work and play,’ he said.
Liz grinned. ‘They certainly know how to live it up.’ She angled her head toward the galley. ‘And if I keep eating those sumptuous meals of Caterina’s, I’m going to put on some serious weight.’
Martin placed his hands on his own belly. ‘Tell me about it.’
They stood in silence for a few minutes, looking out over the waterway as it rolled past. The river was a glorious blue, reflecting the almost cloudless sky, the sun glittering across the river’s surface like sparkling aqua fireworks.
‘You’d almost think that Raf, the consummate dealmaker, had done a deal with Mother Nature for today,’ Martin said.
Liz cocked her head towards Raf who was standing by the rail at the bow end. He was speaking animatedly on his phone. ‘The deals are never far from these brothers’ minds,’ she said.
‘And one brother,’ Martin said, following Liz’s line of sight to Raf, ‘has, I think, a hot-blooded personal interest in his PR lady.’
Liz flashed him a bemused expression. ‘I don’t know about that.’
‘I do,’ said Martin. ‘Big personality, loads of fun, but be careful. He has a reputation.’
‘For the ladies?’
‘For the ladies.’
‘He’s a client, and he’s become a good friend, but that’s all that’s going on there. I haven’t seen any sign of the so-called playboy, as Caterina likes to call him.’
‘Maybe you won’t, but I’d say he’s sweet on you. Can’t say I blame him.’ He cast her a friendly wink. ‘But if I may speak out of turn, and I usually do’ – they both grinned at that – ‘it’s only been four months since… Mac left… you need some space, you certainly need some fun, but perhaps be wary of jumping into anything on the rebound.’
Liz dipped her head and smiled. ‘There’s a time limit for rebounds?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Which is?’
‘Twelve months… eighteen months… the jury’s still deliberating on that.’
‘Either way, it won’t matter.’
‘No?’
‘I’m not interested in Raf in that way,’ she said.
‘I’m not sure if you’ve heard,’ Martin said, ‘but not having been able to contact Mac, the airline’s had to stand him down.’
Liz didn’t say anything. She kept her gaze firmly on the river.
They dropped anchor at midday and sat cross-legged on the deck. Caterina, who had, of course, spent much of the past two hours in the galley, served barbeque chicken with a fresh garden salad and herbs, topped with a tangy, tropical-style dressing that was her own creation.
‘So, this is the secret weekend lifestyle of the Vetranis,’ Liz said.
‘You would think,’ said Caterina, ‘with the amount of time these two’ – she gestured at Raf and Bruno – ‘spend on the job, and with the success of the business, we’d be doing this every weekend.’ She threw her hands in the air in her usual manner. ‘Fact of the matter, this is rare. Very rare.’
‘But when we do it, we do it in style, and in great company,’ Bruno said.
Raf raised his glass of wine. ‘I second that.’
They all raised their glasses.
A short while after, Raf pushed himself to his feet and peeled off his T-shirt. ‘Great food, great wine, great people. And the best river in the world for taking a dip.’
Liz couldn’t help but admire his lean, lightly muscled physique.
He went to the side of the boat, to the space between the railing, looked back, grinned, then jumped.
‘Always the show-off,’ Bruno said.
Moments later Raf clambered up the side ladder and back onto the deck. ‘Fantastic,’ he said. ‘Liz, join me.’
‘Perhaps not.’
‘It’s exhilarating, believe me. Come on, let your hair down. Martin, give her a nudge. You can’t come all the way out here and not jump in those glorious waters at least once.’
‘You can do it for both of us,’ she called out to him.
‘Come and jump, you won’t regret it. You don’t always have to be so… rational.’
Rational? What made him say that? Am I that transparent? Rational Liz.
‘Pressure’s on,’ Martin said, joking.
‘The hell with it,’ Liz said. She stepped to the railing, casting her lightweight beach shawl aside. She felt Raf’s eyes on her body, on her black bikini, then his eyes meeting hers.
He jumped, letting out a Tarzan cry as he did.
What a character.
Then Liz followed him over the side.
TWENTY-FIVE
Mac wandered the foreshore, from one ramshackle cluster of buildings to another; from one fisherman’s wharf to the next. No sign of any police activity anywhere. No one paying him any attention. Shouldn’t the POLRI be scouring the area, searching for him?
He was beginning to feel safe around these waterways.
Crazy.
Perhaps the search was concentrated on the city areas. Hell, he didn’t know what they would be doing or thinking. None of this made any sense. It hadn’t from the beginning. Maybe the raid on the safe house had signalled a bigger threat to the government agencies. Maybe he wasn’t the priority.
Something else is going on.
After a while, he found another spot to sit and he watched the activity on the wharves. This was far from the major hub of the harbour, just small-time operators here, he surmised – fishermen, cargo runs, small boats, and some of the older-style pinisi.
A small plane flew overhead, and Mac looked up.
He was reminded of Benny Sanjaya’s old cargo plane and the day of that flight to the Klaten district near Surakarta, with Martin. Sari had joined them, and she had taken him riding in the rainforest. He’d kissed her. It all seemed like a fantasy now.
Those Java ponies had belonged to breeders who had a stud farm there in the country region. Friends of the Sanjayas. Mac dredged his memory for their names.
Ahmad and Tika. An older couple. Mac had met them only briefly.
And now Mac wondered if there had been more to that stopover.
If Benny had been relaying messages to insurgent groups, had this been the method? Innocent stops along the way on their cargo trips. Delivering messages by direct contact, thereby avoiding phones, texts, emails. Nothing that could be traced.
Was the Java pony breeding couple a part of that network?
Mac needed help getting out of Indonesia. And he needed to find Sari.
Gut feeling told him Ahmad and Tika would know where to find her, especially if she was not part of that world herself.
He needed to find passage to Surakarta.
* * *
Mac’s attention was drawn again to the activity on the wharves.
Would these people help him?
He wandered down to the shore. He knew he looked out of place here, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that. He had the impression appearances didn’t matter to these people. They were poor workers, toiling away in the furthest reaches of the industrial spots. He hoped they had no interest in the authorities, or in whether laws were being abided by, or not.
He approached a couple of labourers who were hauling barrels. They stopped what they were doing and regarded him with suspicion.
‘Do you speak English?’ Mac called out to them.
The taller, stringier of the two men said, ‘Inggris?’
‘Yes.’
He looked at the other man and shrugged.
‘Would you know if any of the boats here go near Surakarta?’
‘Ah. Surakarta?’
‘Yes.’
The stringy man looked to his right and bellowed. Then, his eyes meeting Mac’s, he pointed to the group of men he’d shouted at. ‘Berbicara Inggris,’ he said, ‘Surakarta.’
Mac headed towards the other group. They, too, were loading items onto a pinisi schooner.
One of the men was broad-featured, florid-faced. He reminded Mac of Benny Sanjaya. ‘Englishman?’ the man said.
‘Australian. You speak English?’
‘Ya. And you want to go to Surakarta?’ the man said.
‘Near there. Klaten District. Can you–’
‘This is a fishing and cargo wharf. We don’t ferry passengers.’
‘I understand. Do you know–’
Florid cut him short again. ‘You in trouble? POLRI?’
Mac stared back at the man and shrugged. How much should he reveal? He had no idea where he stood with these harbour workers.
Relief surged through Mac as the Indonesian offered his hand. ‘They call me Corky. Help us load. We’ll drop you near Semarang Port. I have a friend who can drive you to Klaten. Money?’
‘Yes, I can pay him to drive me.’
Corky explained they made several stops along the coast, sometimes anchoring overnight, offloading in some places, loading in others. It generally took them two or three days before they passed Semarang Port in Java.
It occurred to Mac later, as the small, battered schooner pulled out from the rotting, wooden wharf, this crew were likely carrying illicit cargo. Whispered conversations and furtive glances out over the waters seemed to confirm it. The last thing these men wanted was anything to do with the National Police. These were not the kind of men, and this was not the kind of life, Mac could ever have imagined for himself. And yet, right now, he couldn’t have been in better company.
He had come to Indonesia to see if he could be of help to Sari. Now it was clear he was the one desperately in need of help.
TWENTY-SIX
Corky and his crew did not want to enter Semarang Port, so they had one of the crew take Mac, in a small rowboat, from the pinisi to the shore. Here, the crewman took Mac to a workman’s cottage where he introduced him to Corky’s friend.
This man, with heavyset features and thick eyebrows, did not look at all happy as the crewman relayed a message from Corky.
‘Non,’ he said several times as the exchange between the two men became increasingly agitated.
Mac wasn’t comfortable with any of this. He was about to say “forget it”, when money was mentioned and the thick-eyebrowed man’s mood lightened.
Now the crewman glanced back at Mac. ‘He is good. Enough rupiahs make him happy to drive you.’ The crewman flashed Mac a wide grin, then just as quickly waved, and left.
Mac’s new friend introduced himself only as Rama. ‘We leave the day after tomorrow,’ he said, offering no other explanation. ‘Pay first.’ He held out his palm.
Mac placed the rupiahs in Rama’s hand and attempted to make conversation. ‘I appreciate the help from you and Corky.’
There was no response. Mac was given a bowl of rice and some tepid water, and then shown to a sparse room, where he slept on a torn mattress on the wooden floor.
Despite his exhaustion, it wasn’t easy to sleep there. It was a long way from the comfort of the hotel room in Kuala Lumpur where he’d stayed over three years ago, the night before the reunion with Sari that had never happened.
Where had she gone?
He wondered, in her life as a fugitive from the Indonesian authorities, whether she’d had nights like this.
Why hadn’t she stuck with Vickerson’s plan?
Mac tried to resist, but once again his mind was whisked back through that vortex of memories.
* * *
The morning after Benny Sanjaya’s murder at Paotere Harbour, Mac had hired a car and driven Sari and Vickerson into the countryside. He had stood on the edge of a clearing in the forest and watched the small private plane Vickerson had arranged take off and climb into the open blue.
