Rogue Element

Ordinarily, Reza was not a man of action. He wondered what he should do next. The feeling that his life was at risk had subsided almost as soon as he’d left the anger of the parliament behind. Nevertheless, a soft tap on his door made him start. He had a small office near the parliament where he conducted the daily business of serving his constituency. He was not independently wealthy, and could not afford a permanent secretary. This was one of his casual secretary’s many days off. He’d removed the phone from its cradle and turned off his mobile in an attempt to clear some space to think. But interruptions, if they were determined enough, would always find a way to get through.

He eased himself up and out of the chair to answer the knock and noticed a plain brown A4-size envelope had been pushed under the door. It was the same kind of envelope that had contained the photo. He got to the door quickly and opened it wide. There were a dozen people rushing along the hallway in both directions. Any one of them could have delivered it. His annoyance at being disturbed vanished. He closed the door and picked up the envelope expectantly.

Reza examined it. It was identical to the last one. There was no stamp or postmark, not even a name on the front to confirm the intended recipient. He carefully broke the seal and examined the contents. It was a plain sheet of white A4 paper with a number laser-printed in small characters: a phone number. The number was for a digital cell-phone. He picked up his mobile, turned it on and ignored the message bank beeping. He punched in the number.

A woman’s voice answered. No ‘hello’, no pleasantries. All business. ‘Are you calling from a digital mobile?’

Reza was aware that calls made from digital mobiles could not easily be scanned. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

She said, ‘Someone you need to see.’

‘Did you send me the photo?’ Of course it had to be her, the owner of the voice on the other end of the line, but he also felt he had to ask to be absolutely certain.

‘Yes.’

Reza thought about his next question carefully. ‘Why me?’

‘Picked your name out of a hat,’ said the woman calmly.

She gave him a map reference and told him to meet her there in an hour. As a precaution, she advised him to claim that his mobile had been stolen. The call finished. He sat back in his chair. This was without a doubt the strangest day of his life.

Reza took a street directory from his desk drawer and looked up the map reference. It was a small village. It would take him at least an hour to reach it. He wondered what he’d find there. The frosted window in his office door shattered loudly and half a roof tile clattered to the floor amongst a shower of glass. A scrum of people burst through the doorway jostling each other, shouting angrily. The notion of mortality and his tentative hold on it again overcame Reza and he hurried out unseen through an adjoining office.

Central Sulawesi, 0705 Zulu, Friday, 1 May

Joe and Suryei struggled up the steep incline. The vegetation was too thick to penetrate so they trudged up a cut left by an eon of monsoonal rains. Joe pushed aside a clump of bamboo overhanging their path and his hand erupted in pain. He peered at the bamboo and saw that it was covered in white hairs. On closer inspection, the hairs turned out to be fine needles that undoubtedly carried poison. He swore and held his hand at the wrist, squeezing it. He slid backwards. The ground was unstable, black mud and they both stumbled as they struggled against the sucking at their feet. Their legs and arms were black, and their faces were streaked with mud from their attempts to wipe away the stinging sweat that constantly dribbled into their eyes.

Their lungs were dry and their breathing hoarse with the effort of keeping muscles supplied with oxygen. Suryei rasped with every painful step. One step forward, half a step back as their feet lost purchase. They paused halfway up the ravine to catch their breath and give their legs a rest, chests heaving. The sun winked through the sparse covering overhead, sending the temperature soaring every time the direct light struck them.

Joe’s axe had become heavy with the caked mud. He found a stick to prise it off, but the wood was rotten and the stick buckled and splintered. He used his fingers instead.

Suryei reached inside the rucksack on Joe’s back and removed two bottles of water, now at body temperature. Handing one to Joe, she guzzled the tepid contents and wanted more. Joe did the same, but insisted they preserve the rest of their supply.