Arafura: Brewster Legal Thriller, #2

By Bruce Honeywill

A politician's daughter is executed. A city is under terrorist threat. A counter-terrorist boss gone rogue. Thousands of lives are at stake - but what can a lawyer do?

Brewster is a lawyer trying to leave behind a past in espionage and counter-terrorism but when the daughter of a high-profile Australian politician is murdered in Indonesia he is pulled back into the dark side and uncovers an ex-military criminal 'godfather' with a terrorist plan to attack Brewster's home city of Darwin.

Brewster travels into West Timor to bring out the godfather or 'cut the head off the snake'. As the godfather's compound is breached, plans turn sour and Brewster and his colleagues are captured. Australian counter-terrorism forces cannot move to save Brewster's crew but they are extracted in an unexpected manner.

After returning home, the full plan of the godfather's Jihad is uncovered and Darwin's CBD is in imminent danger from a giant explosion with a projected death toll of more than 5,000. Brewster and Australian Defence Forces must move fast to save the city but with a counter-terrorism boss gone rogue, can they act in time?

Arafura is the second of the Brewster Legal Thriller series.

Bruce Honeywill delivers his most gripping story yet with this thrilling and super-charged action thriller.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nardoo Media Pty Ltd
• Release date: Jul 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780648417712

Book preview

1

Dorothy Murchison died as a nine-millimetre projectile pierced her heart. She slumped to the ground, disbelief in her eyes. The drama played out in the courtyard of a residential complex in Kupang, in West Timor.

Three days earlier Dorothy Murchison stepped off a plane in the Indonesian city. She was a tall, suntanned Australian who radiated sexual fecundity of health and youth. She walked in a euphoric cloud of her own middle-class confidence and unassailability. She was eager to meet her boyfriend who waited on the other side of the passport lines. And he did wait there. Bob Sadeen, nervous with expectation.

Passengers from the 737 Denpasar flight walked into the customs hall. They were predominantly Indonesian businessmen, Javan bureaucrats, a few families. Very few West Timorese can afford to fly in this poverty-stricken country. A loose spattering of Europeans struggled in Euro English to make themselves understood as they battled for visas. These were global adventurers exploring the world’s poorest corners to see fellow humans in a daily Third World struggle for life. But they brought pockets full of Euros to a battered economy that had tens of thousands of children suffering from malnutrition.

Dot Murchison moved through the crowd. She negotiated the customs gate with a comfortable mix of Australian English and Bahasa. The customs woman stamped her passport and stuck an elaborate visa onto a page.

"Terima kasih banyak," Murchison thanked the customs official with a smile. She moved to the baggage collection. Made no declarations in quarantine. She walked into the arrivals foyer of the airport. Wall posters spoke half-heartedly of the attractions of Kupang and West Timor. Murchison moved with an elegant, athletic grace attracting open looks from Indonesian businessmen.

Robert Sadeen ran a food aid program for an NGO in the refugee camps of West Timor. He waited in the crowd as arrivals trickled from customs processing. People pushed airport carts loaded with luggage. His pulse raced when he saw Dorothy Murchison coming. Beautiful Sadeen thought, and she is here to see me.

Murchison ran a free hand through her thick hair. She spotted Robert standing a head above the waiting crowd. Their eyes met, the separation had been long, they embraced, lovers merging with each other.

An Indonesian man dressed in a western-style suit moved to the side of an armed customs officer. He showed a small card of identification and pointed out the Australian couple. The customs officer waved to colleagues.

Murchison and Sadeen turned to face uniformed customs police. Murchison fastened the top buttons of her blouse. She and Sadeen still held hands. In halting English, the first customs official asked them to go with him to interview rooms. In fluent Bahasa, Sadeen asked what the problem was.

Routine, was the reply, just routine.

They separated. Sadeen called to Murchison across the grey corridors, Say we’ve been apart and we are getting married.

Murchison entered the interview room. She was confident the problem would be sorted in a few minutes. Her uniformed escort motioned her to sit.

Dorothy Murchison waited. And waited. The guard fidgeted.

"Saya hanya bias berbicara bahasa Ingriss sedikit?" Murchison asked. The customs officer looked embarrassed and did not answer. Murchison knew his claim not to understand English was only partly correct. The officer's English seemed fine when they were first approached.

Murchison’s guard snapped to attention as a middle-aged man in a suit walked into the room.

Stand, the man said to Murchison and waved her over against the wall. He sat on the one chair and with the tip of an index finger turned Murchison’s passport to face him. He looked at the identification page and looked up at Murchison.

There must be some mistake, Murchison said, "do you speak English? Bias berbicara bahasa Inggris?"

There has been no mistake, the man replied, and I think we will speak in English rather than your tourist brochure Bahasa.

Who are you?

It doesn’t matter who I am. The important thing is that I know who you are. He looked at the passport, Miss Dorothy Veronica Murchison. Or is it Mrs?

Ms Where is my fiancé?

Fiancé now is it? That’s not what he says.

Murchison felt rattled. She took a deep breath. Keep control. Control this little prick. Why have you arrested me?

You haven’t been arrested, Miss Murchison. You are helping us with our enquiries. The man’s accent had an American twang.

What enquiries?

Our enquiries into your abominable behaviour earlier today, in the airport terminal.

What do you mean?

Your offensive sexual display. There are laws against this sort of behaviour in Indonesia.

Robert is my fiancé. We haven’t seen each other for months. Surely we can show affection. Where is Robert?

Mr Sadeen has seen the error of his ways. He sees you now as the female devil temptress that you obviously are Miss Murchison. He has returned to his work at the refugee camps. His important work. He no longer wishes to see, or have anything to do with you.

Anger rushed red into Murchison’s face.

Bullshit, she shouted, Robert would never do that. Where is he? What have you done with him?

The man stood, eyes turned to stone. In a fluid movement, he hit Murchison a stinging blow to the cheek with the back of his hand. Her head jerked sideways, and tears of pain blurred her vision.

Do not address me in that tone, Miss Murchison. You have broken the Shi’a Law of my country and my faith. Your behaviour, your offensive western behaviour is just what we do not need in my country. You come in here half dressed and using your devil’s wiles to seduce men, to take them away from important work. You are a faithless whore Miss Murchison.

Murchison remained silent as she brought her tears under control.

Your behaviour was offensive to the people of Indonesia and me. The man stood, eyes black, small, deadly, looking straight into Murchison’s blue eyes. Look at you. He took a handful of blouse and pulled, buttons popped, breast exposed. Murchison struggled to drag the shreds of her top across her chest. Struggling to maintain modesty. She began to tremble. Real fear exploded in the base of her stomach with an edge of panic.

The Toyota Hilux had an aluminium cage fastened to its tray. There was a canvas cover tailored to the cage for privacy. The Customs Officers forced Dorothy Murchison into the cage. With a clang the door was shut and locked. She could not see where she was being taken. The start-stop traffic told her she was in downtown Kupang. She could smell the city. The truck stopped and reversed with a shrill beeping of the reverse indicator.

Two young men in army camouflage uniforms opened the gate to the cage. They grabbed and pulled her out. Murchison fell on her knees. One soldier pulled a black cloth hood over her head. The material stank. Her hands and knees were on fire, and she let out a whimper. One of the soldiers shouted. She felt a kick in the stomach. Nausea rose. She suppressed a scream. A soldier grabbed her hair through the cloth and pulled her to her feet.

The men shouted abuse at Murchison and pushed, pulled and shoved her along a narrow hallway. She was thrust through a doorway. She stumbled, fell on her knees again. One of the soldiers dragged the hood from her head. She was in a small courtyard. High brick walls rose on four sides, a heavy timber door, the grey Asian sky. A solitary tree, its trunk as thick as a man’s thigh, reached for the sky. A steel ring was bolted through the tree at shoulder height. A soldier handcuffed Murchison’s left wrist to the ring. She stood with her right hand clutching at her blouse. Who are you? She sobbed. They told her nothing and left the courtyard.

Murchison had no idea of the time. The sky darkened and the complete darkness of night closed in. The handcuff rubbed raw Murchison’s wrist. She was uncomfortable, hungry, thirsty. She could stand, or she could kneel with her left arm skewed uncomfortably above her. She could not sleep. Clouds covered any stars brave enough to appear through Kupang’s pollution.

The grey sky lightened. In the half-dark, Myna birds began to call in the branches of the tree. Broken cloud scattered across the square above her. Broken patches of blue. A new day. Murchison called out for water. There was no answer. The day became hot and humid. By early afternoon her throat burned and her tongue thickened.

A soldier opened the door to the courtyard. The man in the suit walked through the doorway. He was the same man who questioned her at the airport. The man spoke politely.

Miss Murchison, you seem to have lost a little of your effrontery. Did you sleep well?"

Can I have a drink… water… please?

"You have two options. The first I would call a hard choice. We could leave you here. There may be a storm this evening, and you might catch a little rain to help your thirst.

The second option is far more pleasant. You can have a jug of iced water to drink in a few minutes. A cup of coffee or tea and a meal will follow. The choice is yours.

Murchison said nothing. Waited.

Option one, continued the man, you continue as you have been. Making a ridicule of my country and Islam. Option two, you sign this confessional document. It outlines your behaviour. You admit to it, you express regret and offer an apology. Not really a hard choice is it Miss Murchison?

If I sign, Murchison’s voice was thick with thirst, what then?

There must be some atonement for your behaviour. Two, possibly three months in one of our prisons. Don’t believe all that your media says about our prisons. They can be quite comfortable. Then you will be sent home.

Can I see it?

The man handed the document to her. Three typed pages in Indonesian. A dotted line over her full name at the bottom of the third page. Murchison scanned the pages. The bureaucratic language of the Bahasa was beyond her. She could make out her name a few times but had no idea of what she was being asked to sign.

A translation?

That won’t be necessary. It is no more than the truth describing your behaviour, your responsibility and your repentance.

But prison? Surely…? She realised the man in the suit was in a position of power. Thirst and fatigue overpowered her.

No I can’t, no. Murchison expected violence, a blow, more hurt. It didn’t come. The man said nothing and walked out. The soldier closed the timber doors.

The man’s prediction of rain proved correct. An afternoon storm poured into the courtyard. Murchison stood, face raised to the sky, mouth open to catch the big wet drops. With her free hand, she twisted her hair around, guiding water into her mouth. Her throat moistened, the fire went out. The water brought life back to Murchison. The rain rinsed the heat from her skin, the stink from her clothes where she had urinated. The rain stopped, cold now, and she shivered.

Murchison’s left wrist bled freely. Every movement was agony. Fatigue blurred perception and thoughts. Days and nights were each a lifetime. She held to sanity with thoughts of childhood. Handful by careful handful she and her sister built a sandcastle on the beach. She placed decorations on the ramparts.

Time lost linearity. Murchison was no longer sure if two days had passed or three. Her wrist and hand were swollen. Pus from tropical infection oozed with blood. The torment drove her to what was the only possible decision. Time moved even more slowly as she waited for her daily visitors.

As before, when he, at last, entered, the man in the suit waved the white paper. Murchison collected herself with an effort and breathed, I’ll sign.

The man stopped and looked at her. I beg your pardon, Miss Murchison?

I’ll sign, her voice hoarse with pain and dehydration, I’ll sign the paper, the confession.

Of course you will. It was always obvious it was only a matter of time. Such a pity Miss Murchison that you made it so hard on yourself.

The man opened the third page of the confession and handed Murchison a pen. The soldier held a plastic clipboard to support the document. Dorothy Murchison scratched a signature following the dotted line. The man had her initial the two unsigned pages.

The man held the document, viewed her signature. Then he read the document as if for the first time.

So Miss Murchison. Not only are you guilty of offensive behaviour, according to this confession, your confession, you are guilty of conspiring to commit espionage, sedition, of attempting to undermine the Indonesian government. You, Miss Murchison, are a spy of the Australian government and you are in Indonesia to incite rebellion within radical groups - terrorist groups. Do you know the penalty for this?

The woman slumped in a vortex of confusion and hurt.

Death Miss Murchison, you must be removed as an enemy of Indonesia.

The man in the suit took a small Beretta semi-automatic pistol from a waistband holster.

Think of yourself as lucky that I do not turn you over to my men before your death. These men Miss Murchison are the elite. My men. Men of Kopassus. Rape to them is little more than the spoils of war. I am compassionate enough to keep you from that end.

Hasreen Saleh raised the pistol and fired twice, the gunshots merging as one. Blood flowers blossomed in Murchison’s blouse over her left breast. Her eyes were wide with surprise. She looked at the man and sank to her knees, dragging against her handcuffed arm. A sandcastle under the Australian sun, the broad smile of her sister and a languid wave of clear water rolling over the sandcastle were Dorothy Murchison's last thoughts. The world turned dark.

2

Hasreen Saleh sat in the back seat of his Conquest Knight XV luxury armoured car. He knew the bullet-proof vehicle was overkill in his home territory, but he enjoyed the image. Untouchable. The rugged four-wheel-drive vehicle tracked through the streets of Atambua. The driver wore camouflaged battle fatigues and a red beret. He demonstrated his arrogance by driving on the wrong side of the road pushing oncoming traffic out of the way. The vehicle crossed a long bridge over the river. It drove north-west to Hasreen Saleh's estate, five kilometres from Atambua as the crow flies. An eight-kilometre drive via the bridge.

Hasreen approached his walled estate with its fortified gates and two guards. The guards wore the dark green camouflage fatigues of the Indonesian army. They held assault rifles and wore red berets. The gate swung open, and the soldiers stood to attention. They saluted Hasreen as he drove through into the fortress of his home estate.

Soldiers lounged on the stoop of their barracks. Some stripped weapons and re-assembled them. Their hand movements were a blur to an onlooker. Hasreen Saleh’s elite soldiers were the spearhead of his troops. Small squads and cells were throughout West Timor and the Indonesian Archipelago. There was not a man who would not die for Hasreen Saleh. Such were the ethics and loyalty of Kopassus, whether currently serving or former soldiers like Hasreen’s men. With a shout, they sprang to attention as the vehicle approached.

The sealed road ran 200 metres from the barracks to the 20 room mansion. The complex was built in the grand days of the Dutch East India Company. Gardeners worked under trees. They saved chores in shady places for their labours as the sun stretched towards its zenith.

Zurfika waited on the stoop as Hasreen stepped out of the Knight and walked up the steps. Welcome home Bapak, the old woman greeted, her wrinkled face creased with a smile under her hijab.

Are the people here? Hasreen asked.

In the meeting room, Bapak. And Arief is waiting for you, the old woman said.

Hasreen Saleh turned and looked over the estate from the stoop. A green valley ran towards Atambua. This is a strange place to call home for a man who self-identified as an Islam extremist. The house was on the outskirts of West Timor’s second largest city. Ninety percent of the population of Atambua were Catholic. Hasreen’s lips pursed to expectorate at the thought of the Christians by whom he was surrounded.

This fortified estate was a stone's throw from the East Timor border. It's position suited him. Here he ruled in the old way of Indonesia's military. He was not hampered by the Reformasi that rippled through the Archipelago and was now affecting his home province of West Timor.

A smiling and familiar face met Hasreen when he entered the house. Arief Prasetyo was dressed in a collared sports shirt and pressed slacks. He was Saleh’s lieutenant in all things military. The two men shook hands.

Did it go well? Arief asked.

Yes, to all expectations, the older man replied. And your target?

Yes, this morning. Bebbe from the back of the motorbike. The traitor is dead.

Good, answered Saleh.

Arief smiled, They are waiting.

I will join them in four minutes, tell them I am coming.

Hasreen walked up the broad polished timber stairway to the bedroom level. He climbed another set of narrow stairs onto the roof of the mansion. He could imagine the Dutch colonisers taking their alcohol of an evening here. He went to the raised wall and stood there looking down the valley to the east where Timor-Leste lay.

For 24 years he controlled his growing empire from Kopassus HQ in Dili. He built his extra-military business, made fortune upon fortune. Hasreen invested those riches in the organisation that he and his men ran from this mansion