The Judas Spy Page 3

  "No trouble at all."

  "How did she contact you?"

  Nick laid it on the line. He told them what Tala had said in Hawaii and, without identifying AXE, hinted that he was an «agent» of the United States in addition to being an "American art importer." When he stopped talking Adam exchanged looks with Ong Tjang. Nick thought they swapped nods, but reading these two was like trying to guess the hole card of a good five-card stud man.

  Adam said, "It is partly true. One of my children has been — er, detained until I meet certain demands. But I would have preferred to keep it in the family. We expect to — reach a solution without any outside help."

  "They'll bleed you white," Nick said bluntly.

  "We have — considerable resources. And one is never so mad as to kill the golden goose. We want no interference."

  "Not interference, Mr. Machmur. Help. Substantial, powerful help if the situation requires it."

  "We know your — agents are powerful. I have — met a number of them in the last few years. A Mr. Hans Nordenboss is on his way here by air now. I believe he is an associate of yours. As soon as he arrives I hope you both will enjoy my hospitality for a good meal and then go away."

  "You are called a very smart man, Mr. Machmur Would a smart general reject reinforcements?"

  "If they involve additional danger. Mr. Bard — I have over two thousand good men of my own. And I can get as many more quickly if I want them."

  "Do they know where the mystery junk is with the prisoners?"

  Machmur frowned. "No. But we will in time."

  "You've got enough planes of your own to look?"

  Ong Tjang coughed politely. "Mr. Bard, it is more complicated than perhaps you know. Our nation is as long as your own continent, but composed of over three thousand islands with an almost infinite number of harbors and hiding places. Thousands of ships come and go. All types. This is the real pirate land. Do you remember any stories? They operate even today. And very efficiently, now, with old sailing ships and new powerful ones that can outrun all but the fastest naval vessels."

  Nick nodded. "I've heard that smuggling is still a leading industry. The Philippines protest about it every little while. But now consider Nordenboss. He is an authority on this area. He meets many important people and he listens. And when we get the right lead — we can call on real help. Modern devices that even your thousands of men and many ships can't equal."

  "We know," Adam Machmur answered. "However, no matter how much of an — authority Mr. Nordenboss may be this is a different and complex society. I have met Hans Nordenboss. I respect his ability. But I repeat — please leave us alone."

  "Will you tell me if there have been new demands?"

  The two older men exchanged swift glances again. Nick decided never to play bridge against them. "No. It is not your concern," Machmur said.

  "Of course we don't have any authority to conduct an investigation in your country unless you or your authorities want us to," Nick admitted, speaking softly and very politely, as if he had accepted their wishes. "We would like to help, but if we cannot — we cannot. On the other hand, if we should by chance come across something of help to your police — I'm sure you would cooperate with us — I mean with them."

  Adam Machmur handed Nick a box of short, blunt Dutch cigars. Nick took one, as did Ong Tjang. They puffed for a moment in silence. The cigar was excellent. At last Ong Tjang observed, his face expressionless, "You will find our authorities can be puzzling — from a Western point of view."

  "I have heard some comments on their methods," Nick admitted.

  "In this area the army is much more important than the police."

  "I see."

  "They are very poorly paid."

  "So they collect a little here and there."

  "As uncontrolled armies always have," Ong Tjang agreed suavely. "It is one of the things your Washington and Jefferson and Paine were so aware of and protected your country against."

  Nick let his eyes travel swiftly to the Chinaman's face to see if he was being kidded. Might as well try and read the temperature on a printed calendar. "It must be hard to do business."

  "But not impossible," Machmur explained. "Doing business here is like politics, it becomes the art of doing the possible. Only fools want to stop commerce — as long as they get their share."

  "So you can handle the authorities. How are you going to cope with the blackmailers and kidnappers when they get rougher?"

  "We will discover a way when the time comes. Meanwhile we are careful. Most Indonesian youths from families of importance are now guarded or in school abroad."

  "What will you do with Tala?"

  "We must discuss it. Perhaps she should go to school in Canada…"

  Nick thought he was going to say «also», which would give him an opening to ask about Akim. Instead Adam said swiftly, "Mr. Nordenboss will be here in about two hours. You must be ready for a bath and some food and I'm sure we can outfit you nicely at the store." He stood up. "And I'll give you a little tour of our lands."

  His hosts conducted Nick to a parking lot where a Land Rover was being lazily wiped by a young man in a tucked-up outdoor-style sarong. He wore a hibiscus behind one ear, but he drove carefully and well.

  They went through a substantial village about a mile from the docks, thronged with people and children, its architecture clearly reflecting a Dutch influence. The inhabitants were colorfully dressed, busy and cheerful, and the area was very clean and neat. "Your town looks prosperous," Nick commented politely.

  "Compared to the cities or some of the poor agricultural regions or over-populated ones, we are doing quite well," Adam answered. "Or it may be a matter of how much one needs. We grow so much rice we export it, and we have plenty of livestock. Contrary to what you may have heard, our people are industrious whenever they have something worth doing. If we could get political stability for awhile and put more effort into our birth control programs, I believe we could solve our problems. Indonesia is one of the richest undeveloped areas in the world."

  Ong chimed in, "We have been our own worst enemy. But we are learning. Once we cooperate our troubles will be over."

  It sounded like whistling in the dark, Nick thought. Kidnappers in the bushes, the army at the door, revolution under foot and half the natives trying to kill the other half because they wouldn't adopt a particular set of superstitions — their troubles weren't nearly over.

  They reached another village with a large commercial building at its center, fronting a spacious, grassy square shaded with giant waringin trees. Through the park-like area flowed a small, brownish creek, its banks aflame with bright flowers: poinsettias, hibiscus, azaleas, flame vines and mimosa. The road ran straight through the little settlement, and on either side paths laced intricate patterns to bamboo and thatch houses.

  The sign over the store said simply MACHMUR. It was surprisingly well stocked, and Nick was quickly outfitted with new cotton trousers and shirts, rubber-soled shoes and a rakish straw hat. Adam urged him to select more, but Nick refused, explaining that his luggage was in Djakarta. Adam waved aside Nick's suggestion of payment and they went out onto the broad veranda just as two army trucks ground to a halt.

  The officer who came up the steps was as hard and straight and brown as a blackthorn cane. You could guess more about his character by the way the few natives lounging in the shade drew back. They didn't seem afraid, just cautious — the way one might retreat from a disease carrier or a dog known to snap. He greeted Adam and Ong in Indonesian-Malay.

  Adam said in English, "This is Mr. Al Bard, Colonel Sudirmat — an American buyer." Nick supposed «buyer» gave you a bigger status than "importer." Colonel Sudirmat's handshake was soft, in contrast to his otherwise hard appearance.

  The army man said, "Welcome. I had no word you arrived…"

  "He came by private helicopter," Adam said quickly. "Nordenboss is on his way."

  Brittle dark eyes studied Nick thoughtfully. The Co
lonel had to look up, and Nick surmised that he hated it. "You are an associate of Mr. Nordenboss?"

  "In a way. He is going to help me travel around and look at merchandise. You might say we are old friends."

  "Your passport…" Sudirmat held out his hand. Nick saw Adam frown worriedly.

  "In my luggage," Nick said with a smile. "Must I bring it over to headquarters? I wasn't told…"

  "Not necessary," Sudirmat said. "I'll have a glance at it before I go."

  "I'm sorry I didn't know the regulations," Nick said.

  "Not regulations. My wish."

  They got back into the Land Rover and went along the road, followed by the growling trucks. Adam said softly, "We overplayed our hand. You don't have any passport."

  "I will the instant Hans Nordenboss arrives. A perfectly valid passport with visa and entry stamps and whatever is needed. Can we stall Sudirmat till then?"

  Adam sighed. "He wants money. I might as well pay him now as later. That will keep us busy for an hour. Bing — stop the car." Adam climbed out and called to the truck which halted behind them, "Leo — let's go back to my office and complete our business and then we can join the others at the house."

  "Why not?" Sudirmat answered. "Get in."

  Nick and Ong went on in the Land Rover. Ong spat over the side. "A leech. And he has a hundred mouths."

  They circled a small mountain terraced and blocked with planting fields. Nick caught Ong's eye and indicated the driver. "Can we talk?"

  "Bing is loyal."

  "Can you give me any more information about the bandits or kidnappers? I understand they may have Chinese connections."

  Ong Tjang nodded somberly. "Everybody in Indonesia has Chinese connections, Mr. Bard. I can tell you are a well-read man. Perhaps you already know that we three million Chinese dominate the economics of 106 million Indonesians. The income of the average Indonesian native is five per cent of that of a Chinese Indonesian. You would call us capitalists. The Indonesians attack us by calling us communists. Isn't it a strange picture?"

  "Very. You are saying that you do not and would not cooperate with the bandits if they are connected with the Chicoms."

  "The situation speaks for itself," Ong replied sadly. "We are caught between the waves and the rocks. My own son has been threatened. He no longer goes to Djakarta without four or five guards."

  "Gan Bik?"

  "Yes. Although I have other sons in school in England." Ong wiped his face with a handkerchief. "We don't know anything about China. We have been here for four generations, some of us much longer. The Dutch were persecuting us viciously in 1740. We think of ourselves as Indonesians… yet when blood runs hot a Chinese face in the street can start stones flying."

  Nick sensed that Ong Tjang welcomed a chance to discuss anxieties with an Orang America. Why was it, until so recently, Chinese and Americans always seemed to get along? Nick said gently, "I know another race that has experienced senseless hate. Man is a young animal. He acts from emotion much of the time rather than from reason, especially in a mob. Now is your chance to do something. Help us. Get information or find out how I can reach the bandits and their sailing junk."

  Ong's solemn expression became less inscrutable. He looked sad and worried. "I cannot. You don't understand us as well as you think. We take care of our own problems."

  "You mean ignore them. Pay off. Hope for the best. It doesn't work. You just leave yourself open for more demands. Or the man animals I mentioned are gathered up by a power-hungry despot or criminal or politician and you're in real trouble. The time to fight is now. Take up the challenge. Attack."

  Ong shook his head slightly and would talk no more. They drove up a long, curving drive to a large house in the shape of a U aimed at the road. It fitted into the tropical landscaping as if it grew with the rest of the luxuriant trees and flowers. It had big wooden awnings and wide screened porches and, Nick judged, about thirty rooms.

  Ong exchanged a few words with a pretty young girl in a white sarong and then said to Nick, "She will show you your room, Mr. Bard. She speaks Utile English, but good Malay and Dutch if you know them. Let us meet in about an hour. In the main room — you can't miss it."

  Nick followed the white sarong, admiring its undulations. His room was spacious and had a modern bath in the British style of twenty years ago, complete with a metal rack of towels the size of small blankets. He showered, shaved and brushed his teeth with the equipment ranked neatly in the medicine cabinet, and felt better. He stripped and cleaned Wilhelmina, tightened the harness. To keep a large gun concealed in a sport shirt you needed it perfectly hung.

  He lay down on the big bed, admiring the carved wood frame which held the voluminous mosquito netting. The pillows were hard and as long as filled barracks bags; he remembered they were called "Dutch wives." He composed himself and assumed a completely relaxed position, his hands at his sides with palms down, his every muscle softening and gathering refreshed blood and energy as he mentally commanded each minute area of his powerful body to stretch and revitalize itself. It was a Yoga routine he had learned in India, valuable for quickly refreshing oneself, for gathering strength in periods of physical or mental tension, for holding one's breath longer and stimulating clear thinking. He had found some aspects of Yoga to be nonsense, and others invaluable, which wasn't surprising — he had drawn the same conclusions after studying Zen, Christian Science and hypnotism.

  He projected his thoughts for a moment to his apartment in Washington, to his small hunting lodge in the Catskills and to David Hawk. The images pleased him. He was feeling alert and self-confident when the door of the room opened — very quietly.

  Nick had lain down in his shorts, with the Luger and his knife under his new, neatly folded trousers which lay beside him. He soundlessly put one hand on the gun and tilted his head enough to see the door. Gan Bik came in. His hands were empty. He came toward the bed on feet that made no noise at all.

  The young Chinese stopped ten feet away, a slim shape in the gloom of the big, quiet room. "Mr. Bard…"

  "Yes," Nick answered instantly.

  "Mr. Nordenboss will be here in twenty minutes. I thought you would like to know."

  "How do you know?"

  "A friend of mine on the coast to the west has a radio. He saw the plane and gave me the ETA."

  "And you heard about Colonel Sudirmat asking to see my passport and Mr. Machmur or your father asked you to check on Nordenboss and advise me. I can't say much for your fighting spirit around here, but your communications are damn good."

  Nick swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He knew that Gan Bik was studying him, wondering about the scars, noting the finely honed physical condition and gauging the strength of the white man's powerful body. Gan Bik shrugged. "The older men are conservative and perhaps they are right. But there are some of us who think very differently."

  "Because you've studied the story of the old man who moved the mountain?"

  "No. Because we look at the world with our own wide-open eyes. If Sukarno had some good men to help him things would be better. The Dutch didn't want us to get too smart. We've got to catch up on our own."

  Nick grinned. "You've got your own intelligence system, young man. Adam Machmur told you about Sudirmat and the passport. Bing told you about my talk with your dad. And the fellow up the coast announced Nordenboss. How about fighting troops? Do you youngsters have a militia organized or a self-defense corps or an underground?"

  "Should I tell you if we have?"

  "Perhaps not — yet. Don't trust anybody over thirty."

  Gan Bik was confused for an instant. "Why? Oh, that's what the American students say."

  "Some of them." Nick put on his clothes swiftly and lied blandly, "But don't worry about me."

  "Why?"

  "I'm twenty-nine."

  Gan Bik watched without expression as Nick adjusted Wilhelmina and Hugo. There was no way to conceal the weapons, but Nick got the impression you could sq
ueeze Gan Bik a long time before he would betray secrets. "Shall I bring Nordenboss to you?" Gan Bik asked.

  "You are going to meet him?"

  "I can."

  "Ask him to put my luggage in my room and slip me my passport as soon as he can."

  "Will do," the Chinese youth replied and left. Nick gave him time to get down the long corridor and then stepped out into the dark, cool passageway himself. In this wing it had doors on both sides, jalousie-vented doors of natural wood to give the rooms maximum ventilation. Nick chose a door almost across the hall. Neatly placed belongings showed that it was occupied. He closed the door quickly and tried another. The third room he explored was evidently an unused guest chamber. He went in, placed a chair so that he could peek through the door slats and waited.

  First to tap on his door was the lad who had worn a flower behind his ear and driven the Land Rover — Bing. Nick waited until the slim youth started down the hall, then stepped silently up behind him and said, "Looking for me?"

  The boy jumped, turned, looked embarrassed, then put a note in Nick's hand and hurried away, although Nick said, "Hey, wait…"

  The note read, Look out for Sudirmat. Will see you tonight. T.

  Nick went back to his post behind the door, lit a cigarette for a half-dozen puffs and used the match to burn the missive. A girl's handwriting, and "T." That would be Tala. She didn't know he weighed up men like Sudirmat five seconds after meeting them and then, if possible, told them nothing and never let them get behind him.

  It was like watching an interesting play. The pretty girl who had shown him to the room padded softly up, tapped the door of the room, then slipped into it. She carried some linen. It might be needed, or it might be an excuse. She came out in a minute and went away.

  Ong Tjang was next. Nick let him tap-tap and depart. There was nothing he wanted to discuss with the elderly Chinese — yet. Ong would continue his attitude of non-cooperation until events proved it was best to change. The only propaganda wise old Tjang would respect would be example and action.

  Next came Colonel Sudirmat, looking like a sneak thief as he pussyfooted along on the matting, watching his back trail like a man who knows he has left enemies behind and some day they will catch up. He tapped. He rapped. He knocked.