Don Brown - The Malacca Conspiracy

“Dr. Budi, despite his humanitarian intentions for which he is to be commended, had voluntarily gone into a war zone in his efforts to come to the aid of the injured. Unfortunately, the tent in question was controlled by the enemies of the Indonesian government, and the rebels did not mark the tent as a hospital by placing a red crescent on or near it. Their failure to do so made it a legitimate target for government soldiers who were acting in self-defense. Therefore, the responsibility for Dr. Budi’s unfortunate death lies solely with those rebels in Aceh, who once again failed to recognize the humanitarian standards of the Geneva Accords by neglecting to mark a medical facility as such in a time of war. The government expresses its sincerest sympathies to you, and assures you that those rebels causing Dr. Budi’s death will be held responsible.”

Savages.

Anyone could have been in that tent.

Women. Children.

Anton already knew the answer.

Their father’s blood was on the line. Guntur would avenge it by killing the president of the government that had killed their father.

Still, Guntur was his brother. He had to ask.

“Guntur, you know that I would do anything for you. I would die for you. But this? I agree with you in principle, but you are my only flesh and blood.”

A beatific smile crossed Guntur’s face. “My dear young brother. We have been close all these years, not only as brothers in the Great Faith, but as brothers in the flesh.” Guntur stood, walked across the office, and put his hand on Anton’s shoulder. “And do you remember what they did to our father?”

“Yes, of course, Guntur. How could I forget?”

“I know you have not forgotten, Anton, but I swore on his blood and over his grave that I would never let his martyrdom be forgotten. He was a man of peace. He had gone on his holiday, Anton. On his holiday!” Guntur slammed his clenched fist into the desk.

“He only meant to render acts of mercy, mind you…to dying freedom fighters whose purity in the faith was never questioned. He never even spoke against this bastardized Islamo-western government of ours!” Guntur waved his hands in the air. “And what did it get him? It got him a bullet in the head, my brother”-he jabbed his index finger above the bridge of his nose-“and from our own army, under the administration that came before this pathetic administration…Muslim in name. Western in practice.

“I swore on his grave that his memory and the cause for which he gave his life would never die.”

His voice softened, giving way to soft, mellow tones again. “We will be apart for a while, brother. This is true.” The beatific smile returned, and the hand, which a moment ago had banged Anton’s desk, rested lovingly again on his neck, even gently giving it a slight caress. “But I shall be with our father. And soon we shall be together, in paradise.”

“But…”

“But, brother.” Guntur’s eyes were sharp, but his voice was increasingly serene. “I am going to do this, with you or without you, Anton. I wish to do this with you. In this way, our histories will be intertwined from start to finish. In life and in death, together, we will forever change history.”

Anton leaned back in his chair and studied his brother’s face. Guntur would indeed do this with him or without him. He had always admired his brother for his ambition, for his courage, for his bravery.

And now, Anton was also prepared to give his all, to give his life for a cause that the brothers had believed in since their birth.

Guntur’s persuasive powers were immense. They always had been. No wonder he had risen to the top of the medical profession, or that he became the president’s personal physician, even if the president had prostituted the great religion that they believed in. Still, this was all happening so fast, so suddenly. If only there were more time…

“Please, brother,” Guntur said. “You are a thoracic surgeon. Thus, you are uniquely qualified for this very task. But I need your answer…or I must go on.”

The silence was deafening. And for at least a minute, Anton fixed his eyes out the window of his first-floor office, where two sun-drenched palm trees were swaying in the gentle breeze. A white seagull flew in from the sky, perching on one palm tree, then fluttering over to the other.

“Meet me tonight, my brother, at midnight,” Anton said. “Operating room number 3 is rarely in use. I will do it myself.”

“I love you, my brother.” Guntur gave him a warm embrace and kissed him on the head. “We shall be together again in paradise. I promise.”

Pelangi Island

The Java Sea

5:00 p.m.

The sun was headed down toward the sea. The soft swooshing of light swells lapping onto the warm, white sand, not far from where he had anchored the speedboat, and the rustling of palm tree branches far over their heads, interrupted by their occasional laughter-these were the only noises in this tropical paradise.

Captain Hassan Taplus leaned back on the blanket and sipped more red wine. He had forgotten the overwhelming beauty of this place. And why should he have remembered?

Pelangi Island was far out of reach for most of his countrymen. To get here, one needed money-something that most of his impoverished fellow citizens would never have-or some sort of high connection, as he had.

Perhaps he should stop drinking. His mind needed clarity for what he needed to do. He had thought that a few glasses would make this all easier. But in this state of mind, somewhere on the road between lucidity and the gateway to inebriation, he felt a concern that perhaps the alcohol was having just the opposite effect. Perhaps he should abort this mission.

The alcohol. The ambiance of it all…

He buried his left hand in the sand, stared at the sea, and then turned and gazed at her.

Madina was sipping her second glass of wine, and she seemed overwhelmed by the romance of it all. She smiled and beamed like a schoolgirl. And what an inviting smile it was.

Had he miscalculated the situation? Another sip of wine suggested that perhaps he had. Yet another sip left him hoping that he had, that he would be able to keep her around a while for his personal pleasure.

How luscious, how delectably irresistible she was, as she lay there on the blanket beside him, sipping wine in her lime-green sundress. Her smile was stunning, especially when the breeze blew those locks of long, curly brown hair onto her face, accentuating the slight dimples in her cheeks when she smiled.

Surely he had miscalculated.

Here, she seemed so naïve, so innocent, so totally enamored with everything other than politics. She could not be a double agent.

As her dancing brown eyes seemed to cast an enchanting spell on him, he looked for every reason to reconsider.

He leaned toward her, and instinctively, as if this were the most natural thing in the world, her lips moved toward him. Their kiss was long and passionate, and the touch of her hands and arms was gentle as she caressed his back. The magnetism was dynamic.

Perhaps she would make a good officer’s mistress.

Then he remembered. The security breach!

Think, Hassan. All this could compromise the future national security of Indonesia.

Alcohol had gotten him into this mess to begin with.

He pulled away.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, disappointment set in her voice.

“Nothing,” he said. He took another sip.

She sat up and hugged her knees with her arms. “This place is so beautiful. It is amazing that we have the beach to ourselves, that no one is here.”

“A resort is on the other side of the island,” he said. “But it is rare that anyone is ever here.”

Her hand found his back, and she began to caress it. “You are amazing,” she said. “You leave out no details. A soldier who handles a boat, crossing over forty miles of water, as if you are an experienced sailor.”