Don Brown - The Malacca Conspiracy

“Like a baby,” Diane said. “You?”

“Like a baby, baby,” Zack said. “I fell asleep during takeoff from the carrier.” He grinned teasingly.

She gave him a half-mischievous, half-adoring gaze. “That takeoff didn’t bother me that much, you know.”

He feigned a coughing spell, which provoked her to lightly punch him on his shoulder board.

“Your boss always running behind like this?”

“Who knows?” Diane looked at her watch. “He had a conference call with Washington this morning.”

The door to the ambassador’s office opened and a slim, fiftyish woman in a dark blue dress walked out. With her gray hair wrapped in a tight bun, she looked the part of the lifelong State Department bureaucrat she was. When she spoke, it was obvious that she was American.

“I’m Ms. Kowalski, Ambassador Stacks’ secretary. The ambassador will see you now.”

Zack rose and followed Diane into the ambassador’s office.

Inside, a gray-haired man in a white dress shirt and red tie sat behind a large mahogany desk, looking down and scribbling something on a legal pad. On his desk sat a nameplate engraved in gold and set in marble that proclaimed, Martin Stacks, Ambassador.

Behind the desk, on wooden poles and planted in gold round stands, were the Indonesian and American flags.

On the wall behind the desk were diplomas-undergrad University of Texas, Harvard PhD-and a military commission, showing that the ambassador was once a lieutenant in the naval reserve. Good. Perhaps they would speak the same language.

Ambassador Stacks laid his pen down and looked up with a smile.

“Well, it looks like I’ve got two naval attachés instead of one.” He came around his desk and first extended his hand to Diane. “Welcome aboard, Diane.”

“Good to be here, sir.”

“And, Zack, I’ve heard a lot about you.” He extended his hand. “I know we’ve got a real mess in Singapore. Please be seated.” Ambassador Stacks motioned the naval officers toward two maroon leather chairs, each positioned at forty-five-degree angles from his chair. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee,” Zack said. “Black.”

“Cream and sugar, please, sir,” Diane added.

The ambassador nodded at Ms. Kowalski, who nodded back and quickly walked out of the office.

“So,” Stacks began, “how was our visit to the Rock?”

“Productive, Mr. Ambassador,” Diane said. “We’ve established a definite link, we think, to at least some Indonesian involvement in the attacks.”

“Really?” Ambassador Stacks raised his eyebrow as Ms. Kowalski returned to the office, holding a silver tray with a silver coffee pitcher, three steaming mugs, a white bowl of cubed sugar, and a small pitcher of milk. “Thanks, Alma.” Stacks nodded at his secretary, then took a plain white mug and sipped from it. “Care to elaborate, Commander Colcernian?”

Diane stirred a cube of sugar in her coffee. “Sir, we believe at least one of the four terrorists killed in the attempted attack on the tanker SeaRiver Baytown was a member of the Indonesian navy.”

The ambassador set his coffee on the table. “What evidence do we have?”

Diane nodded at Zack. That was his cue. He reached into his briefcase and retrieved the military identification card found on board USS Abraham Lincoln. “This is an Indonesian navy identification card we found with the belongings of one of the dead American sailors on board Abraham Lincoln, sir. The photo matches one of the bodies of the terrorists taken aboard USS Reuben James.”

Ambassador Stacks studied the identification card. “Hmm. Susilo Mulyasari. Indonesian navy. Chief Warrant Officer.” He laid the identification card on his desk. “And this was found on board the Lincoln?”

“Yes, sir,” Zack said. “There were four terrorists on board the speedboat that was taken out by the Reuben James. Two were American sailors off the Lincoln. The other two had southeast Asian features, and the JAG officer on the Lincoln found this Indonesian sailor’s ID in the seabag of one of the dead American sailors on board the Lincoln. This Mulyasari dude must have given the American sailor his identification card at some point before they started all this. Who knows why? We haven’t been able to identify the fourth terrorist. He could be Malaysian. Could be Indonesian. We’re not sure.”

The ambassador held up the identification card against the light and squinted at it. “Say this matches some autopsy photos or something?”

“They’re pretty gruesome, Mr. Ambassador,” Zack said. “But I have them here, if you really want to see them, sir.”

“Well, I’ve already had breakfast,” Stacks said. “And that’s what I get paid the big bucks for.” He gave Zack a hand-’em-over gesture.

“Aye, sir.” Zack laid a folder on the ambassador’s desk.

The ambassador winced, holding the photo of Mulyasari’s body against his identification card. “It’s a match, all right.”

“Sorry, sir.” Zack said. “Not a pretty sight.”

“All right, I’ve seen enough.” Stacks handed the photo back to Zack. “I’ll have the deputy chief of mission contact the Indonesian military for information on this guy. By this time tomorrow, we’ll know about Warrant Officer”-he picked up the identification card-“Mulyasari’s mama, his grandmama, what kind of beer he liked to drink, and whether he was into hootchy-kootchy shows.”

“Great idea, Mr. Ambassador,” Zack said.

“Agreed,” Diane said.

“And speaking of tomorrow…” Stacks was looking at Diane. “You have plans for tomorrow afternoon, Commander Colcernian?”

Diane glanced at Zack, then back at the ambassador. “I serve at your disposal, sir.”

“I want you to come with me for a meeting with President Santos.”

“That would be a privilege, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Be prepared to depart the embassy at 1330 for a 1400 briefing with President Santos. He needs to know that one of his navy members is trying to bomb oil tankers, and I want you to brief him on what you know.”

“Yes, sir,” Diane said.

“Zack, I’d like you to follow up on this Mulyasari. I’m sure our staff can get a copy of his military file from the Indonesians, but I’d like you to track down whatever information you can above and beyond that. My gut is that this guy wasn’t operating alone.” The ambassador ran his hand swiftly through his hair. “Maybe he’s an Aceh sympathizer. I don’t know. But whoever he really is, wherever he’s from, the more we know, the better.”

“Yes, sir,” Zack said.

“You will have the full cooperation of this embassy. Whatever you need. Ambassador Griffith, I’m sure, will give you the full cooperation of his embassy as well.”

“Thank you, sir,” Zack said.

“Oh, and Diane?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s my understanding that President Santos is scheduled for a physical tomorrow in his offices just before our meeting. So he could be just a little ornery. If so, don’t take it personally.”

“Understood, sir,” Diane said.

“Okay, let’s break. Diane, I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon at thirteen-thirty.”

Residence of Dr. Anton Budi

Jakarta, Indonesia

10:00 a.m.

Anton opened the refrigerator and reached for the pitcher of water. He poured himself a glass and walked into the living room, where the morning sunlight was now pouring in through the back windows that faced to the east. Guntur was resting on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket from his chest down, and still with an IV drip full of antibiotics pouring into his body.

He felt his brother’s forehead. “You feel like you are running a low-grade fever, Guntur.”

“I feel fine,” Guntur said. “A low-grade fever may be expected after surgery.” He took the water and sipped it. “Thank you.”