he moved, the shooting pain signalled that it had not been long enough.
He was aware of the presence of another in the room. His swollen eyes would not permit clear vision as he squinted in the general direction of the shadow. The silent observer’s breathing was the only indication of his presence. The man moved slowly from the dark corner of the interrogation room and, lifting the prisoner’s head slightly, observed the broken features, then permitted the beaten skull to fall listlessly back onto the table.
“Your life is in my hands, Major. Do you wish to live or end the suffering now? ”
The beaten officer again attempted to lift his head to identify the threatening voice. He cried out in agony as he succeeded in pushing himself up and away from the table. The figure in front of him was blurred. He realized that he had to respond — or die!
“Mati atau hidup, terserah!” he cried out weakly, almost insolently.
As the shadowy figure moved closer the prisoner prepared for the blow which did not come. The intruder observed the beaten body before him and admitted in his own mind that the officer’s resilience to punishment had to be admired.
This was the man he wanted! This was the soldier he had to have and control to carry out his demands without question. Without remorse! He had searched the prisons for months, examining the scum imprisoned awaiting their executions for the role they played in the failed coup d’etat . For most there would be no time-consuming trial, just interrogation and execution.
He needed a man who had this one’s talent. One who had lost everything and yet was prepared to accept an arrangement which would wipe the slate clean, so to speak. He leaned over close to the battered face and spoke quietly to the semi-conscious criminal.
“I will send you for re-indoctrination Major, conditional on your swearing on the Holy Koran that you will serve me faithfully and comply to my every command. Do you understand?”
The Major could barely comprehend the words of his benefactor. He turned his head slowly immediately wishing he hadn’t as the pain shot quickly along the side of his bloodied neck and shoulders, signalling him to move his head no further. He looked out through the corner of his half closed left eye, the other now completely useless from the earlier beating. The figure there was difficult to distinguish from the other silhouettes in the interrogation room. The man was in uniform. Too difficult to determine which, in the dim light.
His spirit near broken, the Major accepted it was time to listen to what this stranger had to say. He had finally come to terms with his predicament and understood that he was close to death. He had lost. No doubt all or most of his men would by now have met their ajal , or predestined time of death. Although a Communist unit, all of his troops were Moslem by faith. This, unfortunately, would not have saved them from their executioners.
He tried to respond but his voice was hoarse. The visitor moved forward to give him water from the filthy dish. The major gratefully grabbed and gulped before it could be taken away.
“Sudahlah,” he whispered hoarsely, finally surrendering all remaining resistance.
The shadowy figure moved back quickly to the broken man’s side and, with a slow movement so as not to indicate a blow, he placed his gloved hand at the base of the Major’s neck and, leaning to within earshot, he whispered his message to the exhausted body in front of him.
“You will be rehabilitated and then escorted to a special training camp. You will be taught that strict obedience will be required at all times. I will personally keep your arrest and charges file to ensure your loyalty. I have the power to have you returned to this or a similar centre at any time. Should you fail me at any task you are given then you may expect a continuance of what you have suffered here in prison. You are fortunate as I don’t believe there are many officers who sympathized with or supported the Communists who have managed to survive the firing squads.”
“Terima kasih, Bapak,” was all the broken-spirited soldier could muster.
“Your name is to be changed. We will find something suitable to fit the records. You are to completely disassociate yourself with your past, family and friends. Is this quite clear to you, Mas?”
The Major staggered to his feet, grunting with pain. He wanted to stand erect to indicate his acceptance and obedience but he could not.
“Saya sumpah, Bapak,” he managed, swearing a holy oath.
Colonel Seda smiled as he considered the irony of a Communist army Major now swearing allegiance to a Christian with a Moslem oath. He approached the Major and stood very close examining the subordinate. The badly beaten officer could see, for the first time, the unsmiling features of the taut skinned face, as his benefactor turned and silently departed. A cold shiver caused the soldier to tremble as he collapsed back into the chair. He knew, in that instant, he had only traded one hell for another, as he recognized the look he had identified on the Colonel’s face. He had seen that expression
many times before. It was the mask of death. ‘Aduh ,’ he moaned inwardly. ‘Aduh, I will still surely die!’
Seda leaned back in his chair, gripping the report now almost illegible from continuous handling. His face was a mask but inside he was consumed with rage with each review of the document.
It was an interrogation report. The dark smears were dried blood. Unlike the Major that Seda had recruited from prison, this soldier had died, beaten to death for his part in the atrocities listed. He had been a member of a small group of Communists who had seized the opportunity within days of hearing reports that the central government had fallen. They had been trained in Java. They were of Javanese stock. They had opened their cache of Chinese weapons and swept through the Timorese villages executing their ill-prepared plans to seize control and impose themselves as caretakers until one of comrade Aidit’s teams could arrive with support.
Hundreds died that day. Many men, many children and, caught in the crossfire, Seda’s mother, left for dead by the animals who had burned the village.
He returned the document to his wallet. He could not permit what had happened to interfere with his plans. If anything, his resolve would now be stronger. It was essential, he recognized, that he be patient, regardless of how long it may take. He would use the Major as his instrument. The knuckles on his hands were white as the inner rage was contained.
He would have his revenge, one day.
The Javanese would pay...
Chapter 5
Jakarta — 1966
Somewhere in the back of his head Stephen Coleman could hear the noises. They sounded like people moaning but amplified as if sent to torment him. He believed he was dreaming but on carefully rolling over, knew he wasn’t. The waves of nausea struck, making him instantly aware that he was in danger of throwing up. The wailing continued and he slowly came to the realization that it would not go away, even if he phoned downstairs to the reception and asked them politely to turn whatever it was, off.
The nausea prevailed.
He rolled back hoping to compensate for the bilious effect of whatever he’d done the evening before. This obnoxious feeling in his head, stomach and somewhere in the lower reaches of his body, was all too familiar. The bile made an attempt to rise but he fought it back. He had been poisoned, he thought wildly but knew, in reality, that he had overindulged the night before, and was now paying the penalty for his indiscretions. Ill as he now felt, recollections of the previous night’s activities flashed through his thoughts.
He could remember being met at the Kemayoran Airport. It was a relatively cool reception which developed into a one night indoctrination attempt by the man who would soon be referred to as his predecessor. Alan someone or another. Alex,