Colonel Raharjo joined his BIN colleague in the VIP room, the Badan Intelijen Negara officers guests of the CIA’s interrogation centre at the Bagram air base north of Kabul, in Afghanistan.
‘Well, that about wraps it up,’ their escort officer announced, glancing at his watch in an obvious manner, indicating to the Indonesians that they had run out of time. ‘Is there anything else that I can assist you with before we call it a day?’
The visitors were unanimous. They had their envelopes and wished only to be on their way.
Following the release of the Time magazine article revealing al-Faruq’s admissions, Washington still refused to give up on Megawati, hoping that the Indonesian BIN agency officials would return to Jakarta and substantiate the CIA’s claims relating to Abu Bakar Bashir. The U.S. Embassy in Jakarta had arranged for the BIN officers to be flown to Afghanistan where they were given the opportunity to question the thirty-one year old Kuwaiti.
On location, the Indonesian agents were introduced to a convincing environment of barbed-wire pens erected inside a large hangar, under high-powered lights. Colonel Raharjo was permitted only to communicate with the Kuwaiti via closed-circuit television, the detainee immediately pleading for his assistance to reveal his situation to the media, complaining that he had been regularly stripped naked and beaten by Afghan Special Forces’ interrogators.
It all seemed so real.
Airborne, Raharjo unbuckled the seat belt and asked of his friend, ‘After bringing us all this way, why didn’t they let us meet him in person?’
His fellow officer shrugged. ‘They did permit one of our Foreign Office people in to witness him signing his statement.’
‘Yes,’ Raharjo agreed with reservation, ‘but how could we be sure it really was al-Faruq?’
‘I’m afraid we’ll have to take their word for it.’
‘Knowing something of their interrogation techniques, I still don’t understand why it took three months for him to break.’ He peered down at the barren landscape below wondering how anyone could possible survive there. ‘Did you believe what he said?’
‘Doesn’t really matter now, does it?’ The BIN officer patted his top pocket, also highly skeptical of al-Faruq’s fortuitous admissions the day prior to the first anniversary of the September 11 attacks in New York.
‘No, I guess it doesn’t,’ the Colonel agreed, then lay back and drifted into sleep.
‘Here, Iqbal, I’ll show you again,’ Imron offered, patiently, taking the vest and showing how to use the switch that would activate the suicide bomb. He had brought the pair to Jalan Manjangan where the bombs had been prepared and stored.
They practiced a number of times and when Imron was satisfied that Iqbal had mastered the procedure, he turned his attention to Jimi and instructed him how to use the firing mechanism that would detonate the massive charge, strapped inside the Mitsubishi L300.
The suicide bombers then spent the afternoon in meditation, then bathed in readiness for the Magrib sunset prayers.
When the announcement was broadcast, few paid any attention to the media release. The vicious, militant group that had been supported by Indonesia’s Kopassus Special Forces went to the airwaves and declared that they were disbanding and would withdraw all fighters from the strife-torn Moluccan Islands.
Jafar Umar Thalib, who was on trial for inciting hatred, declared that the Laskar Jihad leadership had made the decision to disband, for “purely ideological reasons.”
Aware of the imminent attack in Bali, fifteen hundred kilometers to the South, elements of the Abu Sayyaf-linked, Laskar Jundullah hastily prepared a bomb, and were in the process of placing this at the Philippines Consulate in Menado when the explosives detonated prematurely.
Injured, the perpetrators fled the scene.
Upon learning of the unauthorized attack, General Sumantri dispatched Colonel Supadi to muddy the investigation, his successful intervention prompting rumors that the attack had been the work of the pro-Suharto, ‘Red & White’ generals, eager for a return to power.
Imron stood facing Iqbal and Jimi. ‘It’s time,’ he said, ‘make your final preparations.’
They obeyed, Iqbal moving around the rented accommodations as his agitation grew, Jimi assuaging his accomplice’s fears with reassurances that, upon death, they would be greeted as heroes of the Islamic revolution.
‘I will be back in thirty minutes,’ Imron told them and proceeded to Jalan Pinang where Imam Samudra had rented separate premises. Imron reported that everything was ready, then returned to Jalan Majanga. He placed the bomb planned for the U.S. Consulate inside a plastic bag and connected the explosives to a cell phone before sealing the deadly package. He then climbed on the Yamaha and rode to the target in Renon District where the consulate was situated.
Approaching the consulate he throttled back and checked for pedestrian flow. Satisfied that he would not be observed, Imron flicked one of the three switches he had installed the evening before, and the engine died, faking a breakdown. He bent down pretending to investigate the cause of the problem and placed the bomb.
Cautiously, he restarted the Yamaha then departed the scene.
Imron led Iqbal and Jimi downstairs to the white Mitsubishi van.
‘Don’t squeeze that too hard,’ he warned Iqbal who clasped the vest tightly to his chest. ‘Jimi, you sit next to me.’
They climbed in and Imron started the vehicle, the van sluggish under the weight of the one tonne of explosives as they drove towards Kuta and Legian.
At the top of the steps leading from the beach, Rima stopped, held Greg Young’s hand for balance and brushed sand from her feet.
‘Care for a nightcap?’ he asked, indicating the Hard Rock Hotel & Café across the beachfront.
‘Sure, why not?’
They strolled across the esplanade into the grounds past the artificially-created sand-island-swimming pool and now-deserted cabanas, into the Centerstage lobby bar.
‘Looks like they’re gearing up for quite a night,’ Greg commented, the popular venue filling with tourists.
‘What?’ Rima had to lean closer to hear.
‘I said it looks like it’s going to be some night!’ he raised his voice, rocking to the music’s beat as he fell into the mood.
‘Just don’t ask me to dance,’ Rima warned, ‘I’m not…’
‘Say again?’
Rima surrendered and mouthed the words, ‘Forget it,’ as the band was greeted with wild cheering and applause.
Imron flashed the indicators and pulled over to the side of road before reaching the T-intersection with Jalan Legian. He turned to Iqbal. ‘You should put the vest on now.’ He watched closely as Iqbal did as he asked. ‘Jimi, join the detonator cable to the switch.’
When this was done, Imron pulled back out into the traffic and turned into Jalan Legian, where he stopped four hundred metres short of their target and opened the driver’s door. ‘Okay, Jimi, it’s all yours now.’
Jimi slipped behind the wheel and waited for Imron to climb behind Idris who had been following on the Yamaha. As Idris now had custody of Imron’s cell phone, he dialed a number stored under the codename “little house”, triggering the consulate bomb, unaware that the blast would completely miss the U.S. mission, and destroy only a single tree in a vacant lot and the footpath on which the bomb had been placed.
Jimi drove to the Sari Club and stopped on the right hand side of the busy thoroughfare, permitting Iqbal to alight. Jimi’s hands were now perspiring profusely. He hurriedly locked all the doors from inside, the sound of his heart pounding in his ears as he locked the steering wheel into position, effectively blocking the road to those vehicles moving slowly up Legian from behind.
Wearing the vest fitted with eight pipe bombs, Iqbal slipped into Paddy’s Pub and made his way through the crowded bar towards the disc jockey’s podium. He tensed, uttered ‘Allahu Akbar’ and flicked the switch, the diversionary bombing driving survivors out of the bar and into Legian Street where the Mitsubishi van was waiting.
Seconds later Jimi closed his eyes and pressed the Nokia cell phone button, the devastating explosion resulting in an incredible release of energy in the form of gas, heat and light that ruptured the earth as it destroyed everything in its path.
For one very brief moment, even the Gods were stunned. And then, amidst the carnage and human misery the cell phones started to ring.
* * * *
Seismic equipment at the Den Pasar geophysics station confirmed that the earth had undoubtedly quaked, the tremor which registered 0.2 on the Richter lasted five seconds and was felt over a radius of twenty kilometers.
Australia would suffer the greatest number of casualties with eighty-eight losing their lives. Four Dutch, six Germans, Nine Swedes, twenty-six Britons and at least thirty-eight Indonesians—most of whom were Balines —also lost their lives.
Only seven Americans would be listed amongst the dead.
As Rima Passelima and Greg Young joined others who had poured into Legian’s streets and run to the scene of the double explosion Syafullah al-Yemeni, the expert who had rearranged the bomb’s structure for maximum effect, sat patiently at Ngurah Rai International Airport, awaiting his flight.