Coconut palms swayed casually accommodating the morning breezes, the timeless trees standing in twisted majesty over broken footpaths where intricately adorned poles with palm leaf ornaments, offerings of rice and fruit for the gods, lined the broken macadam flow. Fiona Barnes stretched her neck out the minivan window, desperate for air – her concerned Balinese driver urging the woman to alight before she fouled his vehicle. With great difficulty, she dragged the sliding door open and, confronted by a scavenging dog staring up at her, smiled in stupid confusion. Mistaking the traffic-scarred animal with one from some childhood memory, a sickly smile dripped from her face and she tried to engage the animal in conversation. Instead, she threw up, the effects of the hallucinogenic mushroom confounding her brain and gripping her stomach in bowel-twisting cramp. When she fell headfirst into the street, vendors hurried to her aide – one local recognizing the Australian from the evening before. Some minutes passed and, with assistance, she struggled groggily to her feet and staggered towards the losmen (‘home-stay’ hotel) complex where the journalist was ushered into a room that barely resembled the most basic of backpacker accommodations.
The morning passed. Awakened to the sounds of village children playing outside, Fiona lay on the bed gathering her thoughts, annoyed that she had not exercised more caution when ordering the mushroom omelet at breakfast. Charily, she raised herself on one arm, lit a cigarette and remained deep in thought contemplating her options.
Fiona Barnes was a ‘stringer’ journalist and, as such, operated as an independent reporter without the financial support of any specific media group. When news broke in relation to the militant Laskar Jihad forces arriving in Ambon, Fiona gambled that international attention would be drawn to the event. She flew to Bali, the hub for all east Indonesian air travel, hoping to circumvent the government’s visa travel ban on foreign media wishing to visit the province.
When Fiona discovered that travel passes could only be issued outside the country, and that Indonesian embassies were unlikely to process such permits for the Western media, she decided on another approach. After checking with a local tour company and identifying the Sanur Aerowisata Beach as the hotel where the Garuda crews always stayed, she moved into a losmen a kilometre down the beach. Then she commenced her search for a captain who would be receptive to her request – determined to employ whatever aggressively sexual tactics necessary to achieve the required result. ‘Sleeping for the story’ is how she often explained her mediocre successes to close friends, her reputation for dropping knickers for even the most meager results was often the subject of many a bar conversation amongst her peers back in Sydney.
Having spent days hovering around ther poolside to engage a number of cabin crew in conversation, Fiona understood that flights destined for Ambon originated from Jakarta and remained in Bali until the early morning hours, before continuing onto the eastern province. A copy of the airline’s schedule flights into Ambon lay on the bedside table. Aware that the next crew would be arriving within the hour she showered and dressed, selecting the undersized tank top and denim shorts purchased specifically for the mission, then made her way along the broken beachfront path to the Aerowisata Beach Hotel.
* * * *
Wailing tires announced the ageing Boeing’s arrival at Ngurah Rai Airport, gateway to the Island of Gods, the aircraft’s unorthodox impact with the runway, spil ing stowed baggage from overhead compartments, further startling the Garuda passengers. Agus Sumarsono raised protective hands, recovered his demeanor and again glanced at the brushed steel bezel Piaget on his wrist. Then he glared at the partition separating first class from the cockpit, as if willing his eyes to drill through the paneling and punish the pilot for his ineptitude…and their late arrival.
Although the delay had infuriated him, Sumarsono’s face remained a mask of Javanese propriety. Disembarking, he smiled thinly at the petite and apologetic Garuda attendant manning the forward exit – the incident reaffirming the entrepreneur’s commitment to acquire his own private jet once financial stability had been restored to his family’s corporate structure.
The high profile executive was ushered down the aircraft’s steps to a limousine, windows heavily tinted for privacy, security protocols having been abandoned to accommodate the influential visitor. He nestled into the Mercedes’ comfort, isolated from the desperation of those strung along the streets outside his immediate realm, his mood reflective as the vehicle made its way from the airport.
Agus Sumarsono was on a mission to shore up the company structure before the newly created government agency IBRA could sell the group’s assets at heavily discounted values – as they had with other debt-ridden enterprises. The image of the Indonesian Bank Restructuring Agency offering the Bimaton Bank to his competitors tempered his resolve to do whatever was necessary to protect his family’s interests.
In this atmosphere of financial and political destabilization, the few surviving conglomerates, including Bimaton, were cash strapped and desperate for any major capital injection. The family empire teetered dangerously close to the edge of financial collapse, which was the reason for Agus Sumarsono’s mission to Bali. He had scheduled a meet with Johnny Salem, one of Indonesia’s more successful money merchants, whose reputation had grown out of the demise of Jakarta’s failed tycoons. Salem had a track record of successfully negotiating the reacquisition of seized assets, ensuring that original ownership remained intact — albeit indirectly — and Sumarsono was there to seek his help, the meeting to remain covert at Sumarsono’s request.
Colonel Hidajat stood deep in thought observing the two Kopassus officers being driven away to the airport. A Hercules aircraft would transport his old friend Colonel Tony Supadi and a group of hand-selected Senior NCOs to Ambon and Jayapura, two emerging hotspots in the archipelago’s restive eastern provinces, now threatened by separatist and anti-Jakarta movements. The Special Forces contingent had been recalled from East Timor where, in the aftermath of the referendum, militias that had previously fallen under their command, had continued their wave of terror. The Colonel was not concerned at the extent of the carnage in the former province as, along with his military peers, he shared the bitterness of East Timor’s unexpected exit from the Republic.
The Colonel was Commanding Officer of the covert, tactical control teams within the 9th Military Regional Command (KODAM IX/Udayana) which exercised control from Bali, across a thousand kilometres of scattered islands, to the east. Prior to the previous month’s international political intervention, East Timor had fallen under the Udayana Command which had enjoyed overall charge of the troops in Timor. His responsibilities included the financing, training and equipping of the militias that had attracted world wide condemnation for their genocidal behavior both prior, and subsequent to, the referendum.
Militia leaders such as Eurico Guterres, Cancio de Cavarho and Joao Tavares had all been beneficiaries of the Udayana Command’s attention.
Colonel Hidajat had ordered the Kopassus contingent to Ambon, where they would organize the redirection of military hardware from East Timor. Over the past six months the Colonel had overseen the build-up of a three-thousand-strong Laskar Jihad presence in the Moluccan Islands – the extremist militant group, trained by the Indonesian army in a camp at Munjul, a village near Bogor in Java, and transported to the Moluccas to wage their Jihad against Christians in the eastern provinces.
Hidajat brooded over Australia’s growing involvement in East Timor, stung with the announcement that the once close ally had lobbied to lead United Nation’s forces into the emerging nation – an act that would be certain to have a most malodorous effect on the countries’ future political and security relationships. And now, with growing support for the West Papuan independence leader, Theys Hiyo Eluay, Australia’s recent meddling had aroused Jakarta’s concerns of a future confrontation over West Papua. The Papuans had called for a second “Great Meeting” to voice their independence aspirations and the Colonel was determined to undermine the Second Papuan Congress scheduled for that month. In consequence, Hidajat had dispatched teams to work hand in hand with elements of KODAM VIII, the Trikora regional military command, to establish a Laskar Jihad presence in that far-flung province.
Bitter with the lingering taste of Australia’s interference in Indonesian affairs, Colonel Hidajat approved of the level of anti-Australian sentiment that existed amongst his fellow officers, and fanned this prejudice with every given opportunity – convinced that in time, Indonesia would have its day – the prayer constantly on his lips that he would be there to savor the sweetness of revenge when the moment arrived.
Garuda captain, Anwar Suprapto strutted through the Sanur Aerowisata Beach Hotel lobby, nodded perfunctorily at the bored reception clerk, gave the registration form a cursory examination and signed his name with a flourish. He then turned and, inappropriately, publicly admonished his crew for their earlier tardiness.
‘I won’t tolerate any more delays. There will not be a repeat of what happened today. You have embarrassed us all. Be on time tomorrow.’ And, with jutted chin, an affectation acquired immediately following his recent promotion, he warned, ‘with the current cutbacks, you might do well to remember that retrenchment is a real possibility for those who don’t meet the standards of our airline.’
Responding with all too familiar assurances, the disheart-ened crew dispersed to their allocated rooms, leaving the captain to his own preoccupations – the Javanese pilot unaware that he was being closely observed.
Fiona Barnes focused on the pilot across the lobby contemplating how best to approach the captain, subconsciously chewing at the inside of her lower lip, wincing when a thin strip of flesh tore away. She sighed resignedly, pulled her shoulders back and strode purposefully in Anwar Suprapto’s direction, hoping that the Garuda pilot would not be too difficult to seduce into providing her with a ticket to the restive Moluccan province.
Agus Sumarsono shifted uneasily in the rattan chair, considering Johnny Salem’s last remark. The Malaysian investor had proposed that, as Bitamon’s saviour, he would insist on placing a number of his people on the failing conglomerate’s board.
‘We would not be interested in giving up Board control,’ Sumarsono insisted.
‘The Datuk’s group would most likely be content to have two operational positions, including that of the CFO,’ Salem suggested, aware from his discussions with the Malaysians, that they considered this to be a condition-precedent to their entry as a major shareholder in Bimaton.
Sumarsono frowned – Greg Young currently held the position of Chief Financial Officer– there would be considerable resistance from his bankers as well. ‘I’m not confident that I can convince my group to offer that position to the Malays.’
Salem’s eyes did not betray. He knew that the near broken man before him had little choice. ‘If they are not receptive then the Datuk’s investors may very well baulk at the deal.’
Sumarsono shoulders visibly fell as he accepted the reality of the Bimaton group’s predicament. Time was running out, and officials from IBRA were already banging on his doors. He stood and extended a hand. ‘I will take the offer to the Board.’
* * * *
Knees on pillow, Fiona Barnes knelt before the standing pilot and gently caressed his inner thighs. Then, she slowly guided her lips over the tip of his shaft, coordinating her movements as both hand and mouth moved tantalizing in unison. When she applied pressure to his perineum, Anwar Suprapto moaned, pleading with Fiona to continue, but she ignored his cry. Removing him from the warmth of her mouth she guided the pilot backwards onto the bed, lowered her body onto his and began rocking her hips until he called out, shuddering in climax, spilling himself into her womb.
An hour later the Australian journalist repeated the less than satisfying engagement at Suprapto’s request, having received his undertaking that she would accompany him on the early morning flight.
At 0630 when the Boeing 737 lifted into the skies above Bali on route to Ambon, Fiona Barnes sat smugly in the jump seat behind her temporary lover, who would, until confronted by the challenge, remain oblivious to the enduring gift that their tryst had bestowed upon him.
Hambali held his breath as the Fokker powered along the two-thousand-metre-long runway, sighing in relief when his precious and cramped cargo of one hundred and sixteen hardened Afghani Taliban Mujahideen fighters climbed into the early morning sky.
The Afghanis were a gift from Osama, sent to train Jemaah Islamiyah and Laskar Jihad forces in the Sulawesi and Moluccan theaters. Incredibly, Hambali had successfully finessed the Malaysian authorities by declaring the group as transit passengers, arranging for their arrival and departure through less frequently used airports.
He remained observing the aircraft until it disappeared from sight, then used his cell phone to connect to the air traffic control centers that would track the charter flight, confident that this non-scheduled flight would not be recorded at any of these locations.
Rima Passelima winced in pain as she straightened, wishing she had listened to Nuci’s advice and waited for Johanis’ return.
‘Non, jangan angkat lagi,’ Nuci pleaded, warning of the consequences to her mistress’ back, ‘nanti punggunnya sakit!’
With six months in-country experience now under her belt Rima could comfortably hold a conversation in Bahasa Indonesia. She ignored the advice then stubbornly put her hip against the desk and gave it another push. Then, she stepped back gauging the distance between the wall and where she would sit. Satisfied, she then wheeled into place the restored antique Dutch bobbin-turned-teak chair she had found in the local market.
‘Sudah dulu, – that should do it,’ she announced, then stood back to admire her new office setting.
Having found the temporary offices in the Bimaton Group compound intolerably restrictive, Rima had moved the NGO presence into her own premises, away from the constant scrutiny of the company’s suspicious, local management.
Nuci had come to her through word of mouth and occupied the servants’ quarters to the rear of the bungalow. Rima had learned that Nuci’s husband, Laurens, remained with their granddaughter Anna and other offspring in a resettlement camp, the meagre wages paid to the Ambonese woman sent to supplement the family income.
When Nuci had brought her recalcitrant son-in-law Johanis Matuanakotta to the office and pleaded his case for employment, Rima had initially declined – the moody young man’s demeanor signaling trouble – her decision revisited when Nuci tearfully related the events leading to her daughter’s death and the reason for her son-in-law’s residual anger at the unfairness of life’s blow. Reluctantly, she engaged Johanis as a general roustabout. But his unexpected depth of intelligence surprised Rima and led her to reconsider his position of employment. She moved Johanis into the NGO office where he quickly acquired the basic fundamentals of administration. However, when it became apparent that his skills were more mechanical in nature, Rima placed his name on her list of those for whom she would seek scholarships under one of the schemes being promoted by quasi-government agencies in support of her NGO. Their ages were similar and, in Johanis, Rima identified a kindred spirit, enjoying his company in a brotherly way. Their relationship evolved, Johanis now being more of a companion than an employee.
‘Kopi, Nona?’ Rima nodded, accepting the Arabic blend Nuci now knew to serve. Rima sipped the boiling hot coffee under Nuci’s watchful eyes, and smiled inwardly at the woman’s concern, aware that the locals would only drink the brew when it was luke-warm. Cup in hand, Rima strolled to the front windows and peered outside, her view restricted to whatever was evident through the iron-bar gate standing between two-metre-high plastered brick walls, topped with strands of barb wire.
As she sipped the coffee her thoughts centered on the difficulties she had encountered in laying the foundations for her cover, and the time-consuming demands of operating an actual NGO. Her mind wandered as she watched a group of street urchins, orphaned by the recent sectarian violence —their appearance on the streets being a new phenomenon in Ambon.
Settling into the alien environment had been difficult from the outset, her activities severely curtailed by the ongoing civil unrest. Although her arrival had coincided with a decrease in violence resulting from a curfew imposed by the security forces, rumors circulated suggesting that the conflict was a Java-inspired attempt to inundate the Christian population with Muslim transmigrants, causing confrontations to flare in the mini-archipelago’s outlying districts. Mutually destructive fighting escalated in the northern areas, following the visit by Vice President Megawati Soekarnoputri. Then, when it appeared that Ambon’s warring factions might be receptive to peace negotiations, boats carrying three thousand members of the militant Laskar Jihad arrived, and the city was again plunged into darkness.
Fighting then erupted across the three Moluccan provinces, Rima now clearly understanding that the violence was fanned by political, economic, ethnic and religious agendas. She witnessed, firsthand, the expansion in the number of sophisticated weapons used by both Christian and Muslim groups, mortified that the government ignored the growing intensity of the level of violence. Mosques, churches, schools and in many instances entire towns had been leveled, the death toll now counted by the thousands.
Even outlying island villages were not spared. During the past five months Christian and Muslim gangs, each supported by their own militias attacked isolated communities, these killing sprees accounting for the swelling numbers of displaced fleeing to already overcrowded relocation centers. Rima accepted the danger – her life having been threatened on more than one occasion when violence had erupted on the streets – her Eurasian features attracting unwanted attention from the fearsome Laskar Jihad elements that continued to roam the city and countryside – another sound reason for her to keep Johanis by her side.
* * * *
Johanis Matuanakotta glared fiercely at the urchins loitering around the office entrance, and threatened to flog them with the fictitious cane he kept inside. He waited until the untidy children drifted away, before wheeling the company Honda into the front yard where he chained the motorcycle to the building.
Seven months had passed since his torturous interrogation and miraculous escape from death; his all-consuming hate for the Javanese and, more recently, Ambonese Muslims in no way diminished by his good fortune in meeting Rima Passelima. Lisa’s murder and his incarceration at the hands of the Jakarta-inspired militants had left an indelible mark – revenge now the highest of priorities amongst the desiderata that monopolized his mind.
‘Your passport will be returned once you have boarded in Bali,’ the immigration official informed Fiona Barnes as she was escorted to a holding room to wait for the flight which would return her to Bali, pending deportation to Australia. She had been arrested photographing a contingent of Laskar Jihad troops disembarking from the ship that had carried them from the eastern Javanese capital of Surabaya. Her truculent response to the soldiers’ seizure of her equipment had landed her in jail. Sore at having her notes and pictures destroyed, she brooded silently in custodial care, reviewing the events that had inspired her to journey to Ambon.
When the Indonesian government had arrested the head of Laskar Jihad, Jafar Uman Thailib, and charged him with murder, Fiona correctly assessed that the move would not augur well for Ambon’s Christians. She had managed to survive in the Moluccas for three days before being challenged by the authorities, the crackdown resulting in her arrest directly associated with the attack on a Laskar Jihad post which had killed twenty-two Muslims.
The immigration official reappeared. ‘They want you to board now. Come on, let’s go.’
Fiona crossed her arms and strode belligerently past the post where members of the Laskar Jihad maintained a “welcome desk” for their foreign supporters, amongst these, hardened Afghani Mujahideen soldiers who had been flown into the area aboard charter flights originating from Malaysian airfields.
Withering tropical heat beat down on the Christian militants draped listlessly across motorbikes as they observed Jack McBride inspect the carnage. The American’s grim features remained hidden behind a handkerchief as he walked past the grotesque row of fly-covered bodies, most of them bloodied beyond recognition. Further up the street, machine-gun posts monitored every movement in front of them, while troops armed with assault rifles checked pedestrians’ papers.
McBride had raced to the scene when word of the Christian attack had reached his clinic. The missionary was expecting such a response since the fighting had erupted over Easter, destroying eight hundred homes, shops and many of the local churches. No one had been arrested; the Christian community, incensed at the injustice and the TNI’s failure to punish those responsible, then taking the initiative, retaliated, dispensing the same kind of justice the militant extremists had inflicted so mercilessly on them. The ensuing confrontation resulted in fifty thousand civilians from both sides of the sectarian divide fleeing their homes, the conflict then attracting the attention of the Laskar Jihad leadership back in Java, now determined to seek retribution for recent arrests.
McBride was aware that prominent members of local communities had written directly to Kofi Annan, urging the U.N. Secretary-General to pressure Jakarta into considering a U.N. peace-keeping force to resolve the present crisis. President Wahid had rejected the plea. However, faced with international condemnation over his reluctance to act, he declared a state of civil emergency across the troubled, eastern provinces. Amazingly, the Justice Minister, Jusril Mahendra, then openly defended the Laskar Jihad by supporting the militants’ right to travel freely to the volatile areas. Jack McBride was becoming increasingly concerned: Wahid’s emergency decree had given the police and military wide powers; as a result, the flow of information anout the crisis to the international arena had slowed down to a trickle.
Nathan Glaskin, the elderly administrator, had finally retired and was yet to be replaced, this vacancy providing Jack with greater freedom of movement than he had enjoyed in the past. He maintained regular contact with other posts his mission supported, and received regular updates on events as they continued to unfold in the adjacent Moluccan Island group – the most recent development being the destruction of the University of Pattimura.
Rumors were of course rife, but Jack had no doubts that the military would fulfill their commitment to send the proposed Yon Gab Joint Battalion into the region, a force, drawn from elite forces of three armed services, in the hope that these troops would not take sides in the conflict.
When he learned that the U.S. Navy and Marines and the Indonesian Navy would engage in the Combined Afloat Readiness and Training (CARAT) Exercises he mistakenly identified this announcement as a move by his government to position assets in the archipelago in support of the democratic movement and to save President Wahid’s administration from collapse – surprised when the Voice of America reported that some four thousand U.S. sailors and marines would participate in a number of aid projects in East Timor as part of the overall exercise.
Jack completed his inspection of the row of corpses. Sliding into the depths of depression at the inhumanity he had witnessed, he cycled slowly back to the safety of his clinic, where he locked himself in his quarters and demolished the greater part of a cask of altar wine – appropriated from Nathan Glaskin’s room prior to the aged missionary’s departure.
Fathur Rohman Al-Ghozi gave an impatient grunt when he checked the Seiko on his wrist, then glanced over at his accomplice. It was 12.25 p.m. and the ambassador’s car was running late. He shifted his weight on the motorcycle then scanned the pedestrian traffic crawling through Jakarta’s affluent suburb Menteng, where many government officials and diplomats were located. Al-Ghozi was the Jemaah Islamiyah’s most skilled bomb maker. The target he and his associates had selected for this day was the Philippines Ambassador to Indonesia.
Cautiously, he leaned forward for a clearer view of the red Suzuki van they had parked outside the residence, his heart pumping hard when a patrol car slowed, then accelerated away when the ambassador’s approaching vehicle’s lights flashed, signaling for the police to clear the driveway. Al-Ghozi hand tensed as it reached for the remote inside his jacket. As soon as the diplomat’s Mercedes had completed the turn into the driveway, Al-Ghozi pushed the button and, gunning his motorcycle, fled the scene before his presence could be noted.
* * * *
Amazingly, Ambassador Leonides Caday survived the attack which would leave him crippled for life. The twenty-kilo TNT bomb killed three, seriously injured another eighteen bystand-ers, and destroyed buildings, homes and some thirty vehicles within the attack zone.
This JI operation was a precursor to a string of devastating Christmas bombings across the archipelago targeting churches, whilst in the Philippines, Al-Ghozi’s attack on a Manila passenger train would leave twenty-two dead, and more than one hundred injured. Although it was Al-Ghozi who would build the massive, twenty-one tonnes of explosives cache in the southern Philippines city of General Santos for actions aimed at Singapore and other parts of S.E. Asia, it would be Amrozi who, having earned his reputation for providing the explosives used in the Hambali-funded attack on Ambassador Caday, who would play a leading role in Indonesia’s dark future.
The chief judge read the announcement. ‘…and with the greatest respect to Bapak Suharto who is unable to attend these proceedings due to continuing ill health, the trial shall be postponed indefinitely.’
Former President Suharto had been placed under house arrest three months earlier, in May, and charged with corruption. As his lawyers hurried to advise their client of the welcome out-come in another part of the city along the capital’s main thoroughfare, Jalan Jenderal Sudirman, Greg Young alighted from his BMW and entered the thirty-six storey building housing the Jakarta Stock Exchange and the World Bank. His driver took the vehicle directly to the underground car park situated on the second basement level.
The time was minutes past 3 p.m., with less than an hour left before trading on the markets would cease for the day.
Greg caught the lift to the twenty-seventh floor to consult with his insurance broker as a Kostrad, Strategic Forces Corporal, Ibrahim Hasan and his co-conspirators, Kopassus Special Forces Sergeants, Irwan Ibrahim and Abdul Manaf Wahab left the building. They had just set the timer attached to the RDX explosives they had planted in an abandoned vehicle across from where Young’s driver was seated, enjoying a snack at the driver’s food stall.
The bomb detonated fifteen minutes later achieving maximum effect with traders packing the Exchange floor, the result catastrophic, as secondary explosions followed when parked cars, engulfed by fire, erupted throughout the basement car park driving more than one thousand people from the building. For hours smoke billowed from the structure’s bowels as fire fighters fought the inferno into retreat, recovering the bodies of fifteen whilst ambulances attended to the seriously injured.
Across the city General Sumantri waved dismissively at the Special Forces’ messenger who had relayed the most recent update of the blast, Sumantri then sitting alone considering the multiplicity of his most recent destabilization ploy, smiling quietly with the expectation that the blame would be placed elsewhere.
As spokesman for the Abu Sayyaf, Abu Sapara had left little doubt in the radio listeners’ minds how the leadership would respond to the United States ‘re-colonization of the Philippines by stealth’. Previously, the U.S. had maintained air and naval bases in the country until public sentiment resulted in U.S. stations being closed in 1992. Then, in 1998 Washington had pressured Manila into accepting the proposed ‘Visiting Forces Agreement’, paving the way for American troops to return. Now, for the first time in four years U.S. Navy ships had sailed into the Philippines within the framework of the “Cooperation Afloat Readiness and Training” military exercises.
The separatists were livid.
Although the country’s whorehouse owners were over-joyed with the return of sailors and other military personnel to their establishments, there was considerable resentment elsewhere. Alarmed that the U.S. was using the CARAT exercises to secretly deploy further American troops into the country to seek out and destroy the separatists, Janjalani and Sapara had decided to demonstrate their opposition by taking direct action.
The Abu Sayyaf leader, Janjalani sensed betrayal by his country’s military with the about face permitting U.S. troops on Philippines soil. In January, the Moro Islamic Liberation Front’s Camp Abubakar had been overrun by government forces signaling an increase in support from Washington. Most of the Indonesians who had been training there managed to escape through Mindanao’s porous backdoors, however at Fathur Rohman Al-Ghozi’s urging, a number of Jemaah Islamiyah foot soldiers remained and shifted their allegiance to the Abu Sayyaf.
Fathur Rohman Al-Ghozi, a senior member of the Jemaah Islamiyah and leading explosives expert had established a joint operational arm within the Abu Sayyaf ’s Mindanao structure. With funding from Hambali’s cell in Kuala Lumpur, the Indonesian had managed to accumulate a substantial cache of arms and explosives at the camp, through illegal purchases from elements of the Philippines Armed Forces. Al-Ghozi could no longer travel freely without fear of arrest; his request for assistance in sending detonators to Indonesia coinciding with Janjalani’s shift in operational tactics, and his search for a soft target to attack.
The idea and the target was presented to them with the conclusion of the Indonesian-U.S. Navy CARAT exercises only weeks before when the United Nations suspended its operations in West Timor when an American and other U.N. workers had been brutally murdered. The office of the U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees was reported to have relocated operations to Bali and, in consequence, had been identified as another potential Abu Sayyaf target.
Abu Sapara had Hernandes Oscar Mercado go over his orders.
‘Our people at Ninoy Aquino International will ensure that I’m not hassled. I’ll fly Garuda to Jakarta where Fathur’s people will meet and assist with customs and immigration. I give them the box of detonators and they provide me with the material for my mission.’
Al-Ghozi had explained that chemicals used in bomb preparation were in abundance in Indonesia, only detonators being difficult to acquire.
‘And your local ID papers will show that you are traveling to Dili, if asked, as an employee of the National Cooperative Business Association.’ The forged papers had been copied from documents found in a stolen wallet lifted from a traveler working with the coffee farmers’ cooperative in East Timor.
‘Then I’ll continue on to Bali where I’m to assemble the material and identify the hotel where the U.N. personnel are staying.’
The briefing continued until Abu Sapara was satisfied that Mercado would get it right, the Filipino bomber then departing by air for Bali the same day.
Andrew Graham passed the article he had clipped from the Indonesian Observer to Greg Young. ‘Have you read this?’
Greg leaned over the coffee table and examined the report as staff in the Mercantile Club’s “Shutters Bar” hovered as he read the article from the English language daily relating to the arrest of a Filipino, one Hernandes Oscar Mercado, caught upon arrival at the Ngurah Rai International Airport in Bali.
‘That’s a shitload of explosives to be carrying on an aircraft,’ Andrew pointed to the story. The police had discovered twenty kilograms of explosives in Mercado’s luggage.
‘Typical,’ Greg scoffed, ‘the police claim they thought it was narcotics. He might have got away with it if he’d given them a few bucks.’
‘Says he admitted that he was going to bomb one of the five-star hotels in Nusa Dua,’ Andrew annoyingly ran his finger down the page.
‘Must be one of those nuts from the Philippines’ south,’ Greg mused. ‘What are they called…Maro, Motto…?’
‘Moro Liberation Front,’ Andrew offered, ‘or to be precise, the Moro Islamic Liberation Front.’
‘What the hell are they doing in Bali?’
‘Soft target,’ Andrew guessed, ‘that and the presence of U.S. troops might have been the attraction.’
‘There aren’t any American troops based in Bali,’ Greg challenged.
‘In a matter of speaking, they may as well be,’ the American argued, ‘what with the joint military exercises and half the goddam Seventh Fleet hanging around just over the horizon rotating troops on R & R into Kuta, we may as well plant the Stars and Stripes in the ground down there.’
‘Yeah, why not,’ Greg sassed, ‘you’ve stuck your bloody flag just about everywhere else.’
Andrew Graham laughed, leaned across the table and lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘Wasn’t it the Brits that claimed the sun would never set on their empire?’
‘Careful, or the next time we send our fleet across to the Falklands we might just sweep by the old colony on the return voyage and reclaim it.’
Andrew Graham raised his drink in camaraderie. ‘Here’s to creeping colonialism.’
Greg Young responded with a toast of his own. ‘Here’s to the gutsy President Abdurrahman Wahid who has had the balls to take the Suhartos on, regardless of the consequences.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Andrew acknowledged before adding, ‘but they’re not going to go down without some resistance.’
‘You mean Tommy Suharto?’ Greg asked.
‘Now there’s a real piece of work,’ Andrew became more serious, ‘and the fact that yesterday, Wahid had to sack his own national police chief, General Rusdiharjo for failing to carry out the arrest demonstrates just how much power the former First Family still holds.’
‘That won’t endear him with the pro-Suharto elements that remain in the military.’
‘No, it won’t. Rusdiharjo’s dismissal is quite a slap in the face for the TNI. They’re not accustomed to being treated in this manner.’
‘I had a call on the way over that Wahid’s ordered Suharto’s bodyguards to disarm.’
‘Yes, I heard that too,’ Andrew confirmed. ‘Wahid’s raising the stakes in light of Suharto’s lawyers’ apparent success in having the case against Pak Harto dismissed on medical grounds.’
‘Do you think he’ll go the distance?’
‘Gus Dur?’ Andrew used the name by which the President was more affectionately known. ‘Would be great if the military backed his reforms but I don’t think that’s going to happen.’ He paused. ‘An Indonesia President not under the heavy hand of the TNI? No, I don’t think so…at least, not in our lifetime.’
‘He’s not making many friends amongst the military.’
‘True,’ Andrew agreed, ‘and we’re all paying for that.’ Suddenly he appeared glum. ‘You know, the bastards could have hit almost any other building in Jakarta and the business community would’ve taken it in their stride.’ His face became even more serious. ‘But to hit the bloody Stock Exchange…?’
‘Don’t expect investor confidence could fall much further. Have to tell you, Andy, I was really shaken.’
‘Wasn’t your driver injured?’
‘Some superficial wounds; it was the smoke inhalation that got him. He’s okay now. I sent him back to the kampung for a month.’ Greg then appeared distracted. ‘My car was a write-off, of course.’
‘I was across the road in the Hilton.’ Andrew fiddled with a coaster as he recalled the explosion. ‘You know the police have already made some arrests?’
Greg Young gave a contemptuous snort. ‘Of course they have…but don’t expect anything to come of it.’
‘Not sure,’ the American countered, ‘word is they’ve picked up a number of Kopassus soldiers and you know what that means!’
‘The Special Forces will claim they’d acted by themselves… renegades of sort.’
‘Sure, but it’s a sure sign that the military is going to give Wahid a run for his money.’
‘Damn,’ Greg complained, ‘this place is becoming worse than Beirut!’ He nodded with the waiter’s inquiring look, and placed his empty glass down. ‘And God knows where it’s all going to end.’
‘It’s settled then,’ Hambali rose, bringing the meeting to a close. ‘May Allah watch over you and bless this enterprise.’ One by one the members of the Jemaah Islamiyah conspiracy filed out of the company offices, each charged with specific targets to be attacked on the rapidly-approaching Christmas Eve.
Hambali had elected to retain responsibility for Jakarta and other Java targets, Imam Samudra (as Abdul Aziz came to be known), the island of Batam, and Enjang Bastaman aka Jabir, the West Java provincial capital of Bandung. The JI Malaysian leader, Yazid Sufaat would lead the attacks on Medan’s Christian minority – the detonators supplied by the arrested Filipino, Hernandes Oscar Mercado whilst en route to Bali, delivering the required effect.
Prior to the wave of Christmas bombings Hambali frequented Pondok Ngruki in Solo to meet with Abu Bakar Bashir and his secretary, Zulkifi Marzuki. He also met secretly with General Sumantri at his home in Jakarta where he explained, in detail, where the attacks would take place. As overall coordinator for the Java attacks Hambali relied heavily on his close friend, Jabir, a fellow Afghanistan-theatre veteran. However, due to an oversight on Jabir’s part, not all would go according to what would otherwise have been a meticulous execution of their bombing strategy.
In the West Java town of Ciamis a Chinese-owned hotel was targeted, the two inexperienced bombers victims of their own intent when their bomb detonated prematurely, killing one and injuring the other, the latter later captured by the police – only to “escape” custody.
In the university city of Bandung, Hambali’s associate Jabir would meet his ajal, the perceived predestined moment of death. He had rigged a number of devices to be detonated remotely, utilizing GSM cellular phones which had interchangeable cards, providing the opportunity to change the phone’s number as required. Inadvertently, Jabir had used his own phone in one of the bombs and, at 4 p.m. in the afternoon of Christmas Eve someone called this number, the resulting explosion killing both Jabir and his companion.
As unsuspecting Christians across the country flocked to their place of worship Hambali’s heinous enterprise entered its final phase, and the country ruptured.
The Christmas Eve bombings of December 2000 dumb-founded the nation. Thirty-eight bombs were set and wired to detonate simultaneously, the devastating attacks impacting on churches and congregations in eleven cities across six provinces in Indonesia.
Investigations into the archipelago-wide attacks would be hampered by vested interest groups. The TNI would remain stigmatized by the innuendo associating military elements with the professional manner in which the action was executed. In Bandung and Medan evidence linking the military to the atrocities would be traced back to senior, serving officers. However these claims were repudiated by the Department of Defence, those discrediting the TNI for their involvement, ultimately condemned.
Six days following the Indonesian church bombings, five explosions wreaked havoc across the Philippines capital of Manila killing twenty-two and leaving more than one hundred seriously injured. The bombings were executed by Hambali’s chief of Philippines’ ops, Fathur Rohman Al-Ghozi, supported by the MILF’s Special Operations Group in retaliation for the Philippine Army’s attacks on over forty MILF training camps, including Camp Abu Bakar.
The loss was devastating to the Jemaah Islamiyah and al-Qaeda as both had operated their own training schools within the camp.
At noon on New Year’s Eve, four of the bombs were detonated simultaneously. One exploded in the forward coach of a Light Rail Transit train when it came to rest at Blumentritt Station. Eleven died and sixty were injured as another device exploded on a passenger bus as it was arriving at the Quezon City passenger terminal. A third bomb exploded in the Plaza Ferguson in front of the U.S. Embassy and the fourth device at the cargo terminal of the Ninoy Aquino International Airport. Several hours later a package was discovered at the Dusit Hotel in Makati City. Security guards removing the parcel acciden-tally triggered the device, the explosion killing a police officer and injuring another.
Militant Islam’s crescent moon continued its ascendancy.