Free Java Spider by Geoffrey Archer Page B

was saying, then Bowen’s bruised face came on.
    ‘Bloody hell!’ He sucked his teeth and listened to the minister’s shaky statement.
Kutu
? Have to get the map out.
    Then the girl spoke again.
    ‘
… a question the government is sure to be asked is how the whereabouts of a Foreign Office minister can be unknown for the best part of a week, without the alarm being raised. This is Charlotte Cavendish for the News Channel
.’
    ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself, chuck,’ Randall breathed.
    ‘SIS must be shitting themselves,’ Mostyn mumbled, glad it wasn’t the Yard that was responsible for ministers’ security abroad. ‘Right … Here’s the address. Get on over there, collect the tape and find out what they’re not telling us. And remember. I’ve morning prayers at nine thirty. I’ll want a report before then.’
    Jakarta
    14.45 hrs (07.45 hrs GMT)
    Harry Maxwell stared at the wall clock, his feet on his desk . Lunch today had been Chinese, collected by his secretary from the Happy Times Food Court in the mall opposite the British embassy.
    The representative of the Secret Intelligence Service was wrestling with a complex mental calculation. Had he time to get across town to the Sporting Club for a much-needed hour on the exercise machines before his routine chat with the ambassador at the end of the afternoon? The mick factor was the traffic. With the rains as they were, you could sit for an hour without moving.
    He’d just plumped for giving it a try, when the phone rang, the encrypted line from SIS headquarters at Vauxhall Cross.
    ‘Harry, it’s Philip Vereker.’
    Maxwell swung his feet to the floor. Vereker ran the southeast Asia desk. Ringing at
this
hour meant trouble.
    ‘Good afternoon, Philip,’ he answered respectfully.
    ‘Seven thirty in the morning here, in case you’ve forgotten, and we’ve just been sucker-punched.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘Stephen Bowen’s been kidnapped.’
    ‘
What
!’ Inside his large frame Maxwell cowered.
    ‘On your patch, Harry, by the look of it. The kidnappers beamed a tape of him to a TV station in London half an hour ago. It’s been on the air twice already. They’ve beaten him up and forced him to spout some stuff about cancelling the arms contract.’
    ‘Mother of Mercy! Do we know who they are?’
    ‘No. But Bowen mentioned Kutu. Said the arms would be used to crush the rebels.’
    ‘That’s crap. This contract’s for submarines and patrol boats, not rifles and electric shock batons.’
    ‘The point is, Harry, where the hell is he, and why don’t you bloody know?’
    ‘Bowen
insisted
, Philip,’ Maxwell whined. ‘Refused point blank to say where he was going or what he was doing. As soon as the last official engagement was over, that was it. Didn’t want to know us any more. Said his official duties were finished and he was taking some leave. Told us to bugger off and leave him alone. Nothing we could do about it.’
    ‘Except keep an eye on him.’
    ‘But there’s only me here,’ Maxwell protested. ‘I couldn’t
tail
him.’
    ‘The Indonesians must know where he went.’
    ‘Maybe. I’ll ask.’
    ‘Report progress in half an hour. I’ve been summoned to see the foreign secretary at nine.’
    The line clicked off. Half an hour was ridiculous. Could take him days to get information in a country like this. He pushed the intercom button. A click from the speaker as his secretary answered.
    ‘Brigadier General Effendi,’ he told her. ‘POLRI Intelligence. You’ve got his number. See if you can get him on the line Vera, there’s a dear. Oh, and it’s bloody urgent.’
    ‘Right-ho.’
    Then the internal phone rang, the ambassador’s secretary summoning him. The Sporting Club would have to wait.
    London – The News Channel
    7.55 hrs
    ‘Downing Street!’
    Someone held out a receiver and Ted Sankey grabbed it. Crisp cream shirt, silk tie, very much in charge.
    ‘Yes, Gordon.’ The editor recognised the voice of the PM’s