Don Brown - The Malacca Conspiracy

St. Stephen’s Catholic Church

Jakarta, Indonesia

10:45 a.m.

Kristina stepped into the confessional room and started to make the sign of the cross. Then she stopped.

It had been so long since she had made the sign that she realized she had forgotten how to do it. Was she supposed to cross from right to left? Or was it left to right?

She tried right to left. That seemed right. If she was wrong, surely God would understand.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“Do I hear a voice that is familiar?” The sound of the warm, accepting voice from behind the blinds was as comforting as it had been before.

“Perhaps, Father. I was here a few days ago.”

“Yes. I seem to remember your voice. We priests get very good at that, you know. Are you coming to confess the sin of leaving prematurely before?”

She wiped the sweat from her forehead. “I cannot promise you that I will not leave prematurely again today.”

“Hmm. You can run from God’s priests. We are but men, full of flaws like other men. But none of us can run from God. The Scripture proclaims that the eyes of the Lord are everywhere. He is omniscient, omnipresent, and all-seeing.”

“Yes, Father. In my head, I know this to be true. Yet I continue to run, and often in the wrong direction.”

“We have all run in the wrong direction, my child. But Jesus, the Good Shepherd of our souls, grieves in his heart if even the least of us goes astray. So tell me, why have you come today?”

Could she trust anyone? Even a priest? The priest was God’s representative. Surely she could trust God. “I am afraid something bad is about to happen, Father. Something very bad. I found some information, I think, and if the wrong people know I discovered it, I will die.”

“I see.” The calm voice was reassuring. “Remember the words of the Scripture. ‘Fear not, for I am with thee. My rod and my staff, they comfort thee…Be anxious for nothing, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, bring your requests to God…And the peace of God, that passes all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus our Lord.’”

The words of the Scripture were strangely comforting to her, even in the midst of the horrible black storm in which she found herself at the moment.

“You know that your words are safe here, my daughter,” the reassuring voice continued. “What would you like to share with me?”

Her breath quickened. Sweat drenched her body. She looked up. The picture of Jesus hung on the wall, just as before. “I saw their plan, Father. I saw their plan and I believe it.”

The priest did not respond. Perhaps he was calling another priest to hear this. Perhaps she should go. Now.

“What is so bad that is going to happen?” The voice brought her back into her chair.

She gazed at the picture. Were his eyes following her? “Someone is going to die, Father.” A huge exhale. She touched the Bible on the table under the lamp below the picture. She closed her eyes.

“Who is going to die?”

“Someone important. Someone very important.”

“Can you tell me who?”

“I’m so afraid, Father. I’m afraid they will kill me too.”

“Fear not, my child. You are safe in the church.”

“I feel safe nowhere.”

“You are safe here.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Okay. If you cannot tell me who, can you tell me when?”

She gasped. Water. She needed water. Her eyes met the picture again. “Soon, Father. A very important person will die soon.”

“You sound like you are having trouble breathing.”

“I must go, Father. I’ve said too much already.” She stood and reached for the door.

“No. Please…”

She opened the door and sprinted down the hall, out into the sunshine. Under a palm tree, she bent over and heaved. She wanted to vomit, but she could not. Water. She needed water.

The Pentagon

11:30 p.m.

Cappuccinos might be popular in New York, at the New York Mercantile Exchange, at Starbucks, and at other pricey coffee joints around America, but black coffee was the order of the day in the inner sanctum of the Pentagon, where officers of the United States military came together to plot and war-game and mastermind America’s defense.

Or in this case, black coffee was the order of the night. Though he had been assigned a Bachelor Officers Quarters room at nearby Fort Myer, Lieutenant Robert Molster had erected a cot in “the Building,” as the Pentagon was called, to do his best to keep a watchful eye on whoever or whatever was out there. This night watch was mandated by the twelve-hour time difference between Washington and Singapore. The middle of the night in Washington was the middle of the next day in the Malacca Strait region.

Molster checked his watch.

23:30 hours.

11:30 P.M. in Washington meant it was 11:30 A.M. in Singapore and Kuala Lampur, 10:30 A.M. in Jakarta. He was used to staying up all night. That had been his job in New York. But in New York, he slept during the day.

Here, he had been conducting daytime briefings in the Pentagon to get the top brass up to speed on the intricacies of the oil markets and paying attention to the markets all night. He’d had time only for brief naps.

He felt like an alley cat. Half-awake. Half-asleep.

His body wasn’t sure whether to sleep or to wake up. He sat on the side of his cot and eyed the small picture of Janie. The image of her jet-black hair, her rosy cheeks, and her electrifying grin…she could bring a smile to his face even through the glass of a plain five-by-seven picture frame.

Since the limit moves and attacks in the Malaccan Strait, there had been nothing.

A couple of swigs of the now-lukewarm black coffee were left. No point in letting it go to waste. Bottoms up. All gone. Bitter.

It was a bit unusual to have real-time financial data reflecting commodities movement streaming into the Pentagon. Except for the fact that he was wearing a US Navy uniform, Molster could almost imagine himself back in New York.

Almost.

But when financial data or any other data becomes valuable to the United States military, such data becomes military intelligence.

So here he was. Brought here by fate. The perfect hybrid officer, in the eyes of the military, combining his unique military intelligence training with his unique commodities expertise.

“I’m going to try and catch some shut-eye, fellows,” he said to the two other intelligence duty officers, an army captain and an air force first lieutenant. “Wake me up if there’s so much as a minor blip on those charts.”

“Not a problem, Lieutenant,” the captain said.

Bob unbuttoned his whites, kicked off his shoes, and slipped under a sheet. The pillow felt relaxing to the back of his head.

He closed his eyes. The light hum of computer equipment and the soft, occasional murmur of voices served as an inconsequential backdrop to the images from his past that floated in his mind.

Disjointed images.

Beautiful, softly glowing, colorful pictures.

The red brick rotunda at the University of Virginia…Small craft crisscrossing the Hudson River on a moonlit night. His first glimpse of Janie, so confident, yet with a haunting beauty, as she sat behind the recruiter’s table at UVA.

Oil futures.

Limit moves.

Charts.

More limit moves.

The comforting veil of sleep descended over him.

Beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep.

“Lieutenant! Lieutenant!”

Molster opened his eyes to the glare of the overhead fluorescent lights. The computer’s alarm was on fire, or so it seemed.

The army captain and air force lieutenant were huddled over their computer screens. “Looks like we’ve got a huge limit move in progress, Lieutenant,” the army captain said. “Tons of sharp volume.”