on their bikes and kept a wary vigil over the protestors. Pistols outstretched before them, they fanned the weapons steadily from side to side in an effort to keep the mob at bay. It looked to Muhtar as if he’d gotten through to his brother. Ashar’s visible fidgeting had stopped and he seemed locked in to his police mentality, forearms rigid as he continued to keep his gun trained on the demonstrators. Muhtar was relieved. Though they were clearly outnumbered, he felt certain they would keep the upper hand so long as they gave the sense of being in control.
There was, however, the matter of the human chain that continued to block their way to the airport. No one had moved, and the man on the right end of the chain was still holding the rock Muhtar had told him to drop. The man at the other end of the line had only partially complied with the order; his rock had gone through the windshield of the now-retreating delivery truck.
“Put the rock down and everyone move off the road!” Muhtar told the group again, this time with more authority.
The demonstrators held their ground.
“We want answers!” one of the women shouted, raising her shrill voice to make certain the mob could hear it over the drone of the motorcycles. She pointed past the officers at the car, adding, “Tell that coward to show his face and give him to us!”
As she’d hoped, the woman’s harangue rallied the mob. Once again they began to chant and jeer. Another rock and several ears of corn bounded off the car, and Muhtar grimaced when a small, flat stone struck him squarely on the shoulder.
“Zailik’s a coward!” someone in the crowd howled. Some began to clap their hands in rhythm, as if at a sporting event. “Zailik’s a coward! Zailik’s a coward!”
Drawn by the commotion, more residents of the tent city began to emerge from their dingy quarters and head toward the road. Some had already grabbed tools and makeshift clubs, and several others paused along the way to pick up more rocks.
“Not good,” Muhtar murmured under his breath, refusing to visibly acknowledge the stinging welt on his shoulder.
Concerned the balance would soon shift out of their favor, the two brothers, without taking their eyes off the growing mob, spoke hurriedly to one another, trying to determine the best course of action. There was no way they were going to let Zailik out of the car—it was too dangerous and both brothers doubted there would be anything the governor could say to diffuse the situation. Ashar thought their best chance was to proceed with the motorcade in hopes the demonstrators would scramble out of the way once they realized their bluff was being called. Muhtar, however, was concerned about the possible ramifications if the crowd failed to move and some of them wound up being struck by their motorcycles.
“They put women and children out there for a reason,” Muhtar explained. “We run in to any of them and we’ll have a riot on our hands.”
“If we wait around for this mob to get any larger, all hell is going to break loose anyway,” Ashar countered, allowing his anger and frustration to override his earlier fears. “I say we head out and pick up speed as fast as we can, and whatever happens—”
“Wait!” Muhtar held a hand up to silence his brother. He stole a glance over his shoulder and peered back over the roof of the car. Ashar did the same.
“Finally!” the younger brother called out.
The crowd’s attention had been diverted as well, and the chanting quickly tapered off as they stared down the road. Heading toward them, swooping low as it approached from the city, was the overdue police helicopter.
“Not a moment too soon,” Muhtar intoned.
The sense of an impending riot abated as the chopper drew nearer. Moments later, there were worried murmurs among those in the crowd when they spotted a second, larger helicopter heading toward them from the direction of the airport. Beneath the massive Huey, a pair of Jeeps could also be seen racing along the road, filled with armed commandos. As if to make certain their approach had not gone unnoticed, several men in the lead Jeep fired warning shots with their assault rifles, gouging divots from the road’s shoulder just shy of where the protestors were gathered. The crowd took notice and quickly fell back on itself. Some of the latecomers turned heel and fled back toward the tent city. Even those still out on the roadway were given pause; the chain was broken as they turned to face the armed force that had just sucked the life from their demonstration.
“Densus 88,” Ashar Yeilam exclaimed with an almost reverential sense of wonder. He eyed Shelby Ferstera’s hallowed contingent as if he were some refugee from a comic book greeting the unexpected arrival of superheroes as a sure sign that soon all would be right with the world.
Though to a lesser degree, Muhtar shared his brother’s sentiment. He could barely keep himself from smiling as he kept his gun trained on the now-subdued mob. That was too close, he thought to himself.
SHORTLY AFTER THE FIRST ROCK had struck the windshield, Noordin Zailik’s chauffeur had advised him to lie low in the backseat. The governor had been quick to oblige, to an extent. Zailik had felt that lying across the seat would have only made him feel more helpless and vulnerable, so he’d compromised by half-crouching, half-kneeling between the seats, his attention divided between watching the drama unfold outside and draining his cell phone in an effort to get someone—anyone—to come to his rescue before the situation on the blocked roadway got further out of hand. Intelligence Director Dujara had transferred his initial call to Banda Aceh’s police chief, Irwandi Alkihn, who’d assured Zailik the helicopter assigned to him was on the way and that, furthermore, a Densus 88 unit stationed at the airport was taking action to fill the breach Zailik himself had created by leaving for the airport ahead of schedule.
As the governor had waited for the reinforcements, his anxiety increased with every passing second. After the second barrage of debris struck the car, Zailik had sunk lower between the seats until he was no longer able to peer out the windows. The chauffeur had tried to keep him apprised of what was happening outside the vehicle, but as he listened to the almost surreal play-by-play, Zailik found himself distracted. Over and over, his mind kept playing back the chain of events that had led to his predicament. He’d already come to realize that much of it was his own doing, but he was equally certain there was blame to be laid elsewhere, and as he thought back, he made a mental note of everyone who’d been privy to the alterations in his itinerary. Only a handful of people had known of the route change in time to have been able to forewarn the tent dwellers that he was headed their way. He’d just spoken with two of them, Dujara and Alkihn, but however much he personally disliked both men, Zailik had known them both for years and felt their loyalty was beyond reproach. His suspicions led him elsewhere; to the person who’d prompted his decision to take the back way in the first place.
Zailik wanted to believe there was no way Ti Vohn could have duped him into harm’s way—or that he could have allowed himself to be so easily led, for that matter—but the more he’d thought about it, the more convinced he’d become that his personal secretary, whom he’d known for all of eight months, was indeed the culprit.
The realization struck a strange chord inside the governor. Rather than viewing Ti Vohn’s betrayal in terms of the crisis it had gotten him into, Zailik instead found himself fixating on what a field day his wife would have when she learned the news. She’d warned him about the woman, after all, and though it had been for the wrong reasons, Zailik knew she would never let him live this down.
Driven by his wounded pride and ignoring the fact that he might not live long enough to incur his wife’s scorn, Zailik had become obsessed with trying to reach Ti Vohn on his cell phone. He was convinced that once she heard his voice, her startled response would betray her,
