students were kidnapped on Irian Jaya a couple of years back. The problem this time of course is we don’t even know which country Bowen’s in.’
‘Isn’t there something else we can do?’
‘If you’re thinking, prime minister, that we should send an undercover team to Kutu to make contact with the OKP, that may not be possible,’ Vereker announced. A thin line of sweat glistened on his upper lip.
Assistant Commissioner Stanley felt a buzz of anticipation. He sensed a door opening.
‘To be blunt, we’re short of resources in the far east,’ the SIS man explained, ‘what with budget cuts since the end of the Cold War. Our agents in the region are all committed to catching drug smugglers and can’t be extracted quickly.’
‘God almighty! Another victory to the media!’ the PM howled, ‘
They
’ll be into Kutu like rats up a drainpipe.’
‘Wouldn’t be too sure, prime minister,’ Vereker mumbled. ‘The Indonesians have managed to keep journalists out of there for most of the past year. They can smell a reporter a mile away.’
Assistant Commissioner Stanley cleared his throat. ‘
We
might be able to help,’ he offered quietly. He felt the burn of Vereker’s stare. ‘It’s just occurred to me that one of my officers in the Anti-Terrorist Branch who’s already involved in this case happens to speak Malay which I believe is very similar to Indonesian. And he’s had experience in hostage situations. I’d be happy to make him available.’
Vereker looked as if he’d been shot. ‘Hardly think that’s wise,’ he protested. ‘It’d be extremely embarrassing diplomatically if he cocks up.’ He looked to the foreign secretary for support. Hugh White seemed on the point of backing him up, but Copeland cut him off.
‘Go on, commissioner.’
‘DS Randall could try to get into Kutu and see if he can stand up the OKP involvement in the kidnap, which would leave the SIS to dig up what they can in Jakarta and Singapore where they already have desk men in place.’
‘It’s a very difficult environment out there,’ Vereker whined. ‘Not the sort of place for a London bobby.’
Stanley let the sarcasm wash off his back.
‘I totally agree. But the man I’m talking about is no London bobby. He’s ex-army, served in the far east. Won a medal after negotiating the release of a military hostage , and is one of the best undercover operators we have.’
‘Sounds worth exploring,’ the PM decided, raising his eyebrows at Vereker. ‘Why don’t you two come up with a plan in the next couple of hours, then we’ll take a decision.’ He got to his feet, wincing. For some reason stress always made his leg hurt more.
‘Give my office a call when you’ve worked something out, will you?’
‘I most certainly will, sir,’ nodded Stanley.
Keith Copeland walked along the tunnel linking the Cabinet Office with 10 Downing Street. Ten thirty. Just over three hours since the nightmare erupted and he’d begun to panic. Time was of the essence he’d told them, but thankfully they’d not understood what he meant. It wasn’t just Stephen Bowen’s life and the arms contract at risk, but his entire future. The longer this case remained unresolved, the greater the danger of a revelation that would destroy him.
There’d been three hours of speculation this morning by a media short of facts. Time now for him to go on camera and give an impression of being in charge. Couldn’t delay it any longer. Yet
in charge
was something he certainly didn’t feel.
His boyish-faced press secretary was waiting as he climbed the stairs into Number 10.
‘All right, Gordon,’ Copeland declared, forestalling the question. ‘I know it’s feeding time. How many animals out there?’
‘A full cage, PM. Shall I tell them five minutes?
If
that gives us long enough to discuss what you’re going to say …’
‘Nothing to discuss. You see I’m not going to
say
anything, Gordon. Words, but no content.’
The press
‘Isn’t there something else we can do?’
‘If you’re thinking, prime minister, that we should send an undercover team to Kutu to make contact with the OKP, that may not be possible,’ Vereker announced. A thin line of sweat glistened on his upper lip.
Assistant Commissioner Stanley felt a buzz of anticipation. He sensed a door opening.
‘To be blunt, we’re short of resources in the far east,’ the SIS man explained, ‘what with budget cuts since the end of the Cold War. Our agents in the region are all committed to catching drug smugglers and can’t be extracted quickly.’
‘God almighty! Another victory to the media!’ the PM howled, ‘
They
’ll be into Kutu like rats up a drainpipe.’
‘Wouldn’t be too sure, prime minister,’ Vereker mumbled. ‘The Indonesians have managed to keep journalists out of there for most of the past year. They can smell a reporter a mile away.’
Assistant Commissioner Stanley cleared his throat. ‘
We
might be able to help,’ he offered quietly. He felt the burn of Vereker’s stare. ‘It’s just occurred to me that one of my officers in the Anti-Terrorist Branch who’s already involved in this case happens to speak Malay which I believe is very similar to Indonesian. And he’s had experience in hostage situations. I’d be happy to make him available.’
Vereker looked as if he’d been shot. ‘Hardly think that’s wise,’ he protested. ‘It’d be extremely embarrassing diplomatically if he cocks up.’ He looked to the foreign secretary for support. Hugh White seemed on the point of backing him up, but Copeland cut him off.
‘Go on, commissioner.’
‘DS Randall could try to get into Kutu and see if he can stand up the OKP involvement in the kidnap, which would leave the SIS to dig up what they can in Jakarta and Singapore where they already have desk men in place.’
‘It’s a very difficult environment out there,’ Vereker whined. ‘Not the sort of place for a London bobby.’
Stanley let the sarcasm wash off his back.
‘I totally agree. But the man I’m talking about is no London bobby. He’s ex-army, served in the far east. Won a medal after negotiating the release of a military hostage , and is one of the best undercover operators we have.’
‘Sounds worth exploring,’ the PM decided, raising his eyebrows at Vereker. ‘Why don’t you two come up with a plan in the next couple of hours, then we’ll take a decision.’ He got to his feet, wincing. For some reason stress always made his leg hurt more.
‘Give my office a call when you’ve worked something out, will you?’
‘I most certainly will, sir,’ nodded Stanley.
Keith Copeland walked along the tunnel linking the Cabinet Office with 10 Downing Street. Ten thirty. Just over three hours since the nightmare erupted and he’d begun to panic. Time was of the essence he’d told them, but thankfully they’d not understood what he meant. It wasn’t just Stephen Bowen’s life and the arms contract at risk, but his entire future. The longer this case remained unresolved, the greater the danger of a revelation that would destroy him.
There’d been three hours of speculation this morning by a media short of facts. Time now for him to go on camera and give an impression of being in charge. Couldn’t delay it any longer. Yet
in charge
was something he certainly didn’t feel.
His boyish-faced press secretary was waiting as he climbed the stairs into Number 10.
‘All right, Gordon,’ Copeland declared, forestalling the question. ‘I know it’s feeding time. How many animals out there?’
‘A full cage, PM. Shall I tell them five minutes?
If
that gives us long enough to discuss what you’re going to say …’
‘Nothing to discuss. You see I’m not going to
say
anything, Gordon. Words, but no content.’
The press
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