Rogue Element

Batuta took several deep breaths to calm himself. It required willpower not to return the Australian’s ugliness in kind, and this conversation was in danger of getting completely out of hand. ‘I reiterate that we are looking for your plane with all available aircraft,’ he said softly, his jowls quivering with the supreme effort required to stay in control.

The ambassador stood abruptly, his face flushed red. The Prime Minister’s tone and manner were far too blunt. ‘And I remind you that, as you have observed, we are a sovereign country and our airspace is not — I repeat not — open to the prying eyes of Australian search aircraft.’ Batuta felt himself giving in to his own anger as a rising indignation took hold. The audacity of these people! The arrogance! It was better to leave before he said something he might later regret. ‘Good morning, Mr Prime Minister.’ With that, he flung open the door and stormed out.

Blight was relieved. He sat heavily and replayed the meeting in his mind. He thought himself a good judge of character and his gut told him Batuta was ignorant. He’d pushed the man. Hard. If anything, the ambassador had been disinformed. And if that was the case, then it followed that the whole Indonesian government probably was too. Blight continued the logic and his relief was quickly replaced by anxiety. That disinformation had to be coming from somewhere. Who or what was the source? And the biggest question of all was still unanswered — why?

Central Sulawesi, 0155 Zulu, Friday, 1 May

Joe and Suryei’s presence disturbed a large family of monkeys in the trees overhead. They reacted by screeching, whooping and leaping about the canopy, thrashing leaves, baring their teeth and carrying their young into the highest branches. And then objects like footballs covered in small spikes rained down.

‘Jackfruit!’ said Suryei. She laughed and picked one up. It was rotten, covered in thousands of tiny brown ants. She hunted about until one came to hand that had the right firmness. She checked by flicking it with a fingernail. ‘They make a special sound when they’re ripe,’ she said in response to the puzzled look on Joe’s face. Suryei dug her thumb in under the skin and peeled off the spikes. She bit into the pale orange fruit and juice dribbled down her chin and she gave a grunt of satisfaction.

‘What’s it taste like?’ asked Joe.

‘Heaven!’

Joe picked one up that looked about right and smelled it. He reminded himself that he was hungry enough to eat bark. He peeled it and bit deeply into the flesh, the sweetness enveloping his senses.

After he finished, Joe began filling his rucksack with them.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Suryei.

‘Lunch.’ The rucksack bulged and sagged heavily on its straps.

‘Forget it. They’ll only get mashed up. Besides, these things have probably been all around us — we just haven’t been looking in the right places.’

Joe unzipped the rucksack and let the heavy fruit fall to the ground with successive thuds. ‘Can you find a yoghurt tree too, please?’

Suryei allowed herself to smile openly. He was good company, or would be if the circumstances were different. Joe returned her smile. The whiteness of her teeth contrasted with her dirty brown skin, making them seem almost fluorescent.

‘You need another bath,’ she said.

Joe was caked in grime, and his hair was matted against his head. Jackfruit juice and pulp coloured yellow the dark stubble on his chin. ‘Have you looked in a mirror lately?’

‘Let’s go,’ said Suryei turning away, smiling, her fingertips tingling.

* * *

Sergeant Marturak had made a mistake. They should have overtaken the two survivors by now. Certainly by morning. He was now sure he’d lost them. The blood trail that had been so generous had quickly disappeared. Their wounds must have been superficial. The men had found no footsteps, no faeces, no broken vegetation and certainly no more empty water bottles to indicate their passage. It was too easy to miss people in the dark, even with the NVGs. The jungle had given way to forest and there had been enough light to use them but there were still far too many places to hide. The last thing he wanted was for the fugitives to slip around to their rear.

He stopped his men beside a small stream and took out a map of the area. The plane wreckage was marked on it, as was the loggers’ camp and their course through the bush. The two survivors had headed away from the hills, towards the low country.