What had she overlooked? What else could be done? Nothing more here; it was time to refocus. Time to orient herself for this night’s battle.
Trailing Raider One, Raider Two planed out and around the tip of Cape Benoa, turning south for the five-kilometer run down the coast to the Makara Limited headquarters at Nusa Dua. The big RIB was commodious but crowded this night, carrying in the first group of shore bound officers. Amanda sat beside Admiral MacIntyre on one of the foldout bench seats in the cockpit, not particularly minding the warm touch at hip and shoulder. Across from them, she could see the shimmer of Christine’s dress and the paleness of Tran’s jacket in the glow of the console lights.
Amanda lifted her voice over the rumble of the diesels. “I’m glad you decided to accept Christine’s invitation, Inspector. Your presence tonight should induce some useful effects.”
Tran chuckled lowly. “As the saying goes, Captain, I wouldn’t miss this party for the world.”
MacIntyre shifted at her side. “All right, Amanda, this is scarcely your average liberty party we’re taking ashore with us. You and your hench-woman over there have had your heads together all afternoon, assembling some kind of plot. Isn’t it about time you let the boss in on the action?”
“It’s about mind games, Admiral,” said Amanda. “Harconan was playing one when he issued his invitation. He wants to get a close look at us, to learn how much we suspect, what our intentions are, and how we intend to play this out. All while we are effectively disarmed and out of balance at this supposedly innocent reception.”
MacIntyre thumped his fist on his knee. “Ha! Now I get the dog-and pony show. You’re turning the game around on him.”
Amanda’s responding smile was grim. “I’m told that’s one of my specialties. Harconan made a bold move with this reception. You counter boldness with boldness.”
Makara Limited Harbor Court
2105 Hours, Zone Time: August 15, 2008
“I must admit,” Harconan commented, “I’ve been looking forward to this evening. I’ve heard a great deal about your navy’s Captain Garrett. I’m very interested in meeting her.”
Randolph Goodyard frowned thoughtfully. “I daresay we all have heard a great deal about Captain Garrett.”
Harconan caught the accenting of Goodyard’s words. “Is there some difficulty, Ambassador? If I may ask, that is?”
And Harconan knew he could. This was why he had invited America’s ambassador from his posting in Jakarta to this function. Above and beyond the credentials he provided, Goodyard was a malleable source of information.
The two men spoke over the soft brassy flow of the jazz quintet and the murmur of voices. Taking advantage of the mellow tropic night, the fleet reception was being held outdoors in the artfully landscaped court yard between the concave front face of the Makara Limited headquarters building and the beach. Almost as many guests came by boat as by car, the waterborne arrivals unloading at the modernistic J-shaped private pier centered on the court.
Hypersonic insect repellers kept insectoid night marauders at bay. Tray bearing waiters moved with silent efficiency, and golden indirect lighting underlit the surrounding palm grove, half revealing the couples and clusters of people who conversed and occasionally laughed in the night.
“There’s not a problem, really, Mr. Harconan,” Goodyard continued as the two men paced slowly along the tiled walk atop the beach. “It’s only that Captain Garrett and our Naval Special Forces as a whole have developed a certain… reputation.”
“Reputation? How so, Ambassador? Oh, and please, call me Makara.”
Goodyard glanced around for any of his staffers. The ambassador didn’t fancy being overheard airing State Department dirty laundry off his own turf.
Lowering his voice: “It’s only that some of us within the diplomatic community consider Captain Garrett and the current Naval Special Forces commander, Admiral Elliot MacIntyre, to be somewhat… destabilizing, if you understand my meaning. Mind you, they’re both very capable officers, but Garrett is prone to precipitous and unilateral actions beyond the genuine level of her authority, and MacIntyre gives her carte blanche to get away with it. Some of us feel too many corners have been cut on more than one occasion.”
The ambassador paused to finish the last of his excellent champagne cocktail, and he failed to note the minute flick of Harconan’s head that summoned a waiter with a tray of replacements.
“The Foreign Ministry in Jakarta is acting as if they have a rebellion under every bush,” Goodyard continued, a replenished glass in hand. “Nothing your government can’t deal with, I’m sure. But given the current delicacy of the situation in this region, we don’t need any cowboys — or cowgirls — in the area just now.”
Harconan smiled behind the studied sobriety of his expression. “I understand that the task force’s visit to Singapore and Indonesia is primarily intended as a goodwill mission. Might there be anything more to it than that?” The taipan laughed lightly. “If you can say, of course. I’ve heard there’s been a degree of concern over the satellite that was lost over in the Arafura.”
Goodyard grimaced. “Oh, that damn thing. No, that turned out to be something of a tempest in a teapot. It was all we heard about from Washington for a while, but the subject seems to be petering out. I think the secretary of state became a little embarrassed over the fuss the special interests made over the matter. I’ve been instructed to do a little fence mending with your people over that.”
Harconan nodded and sipped from his tulip glass of mineral water. Interesting. But then, intelligence sources such as Goodyard were always a two-edged dagger. On the one edge, the ambassador was telling him exactly what he wanted to hear. On the other, the ambassador might be telling him exactly what the ambassador wanted him to hear. One could never truly judge how good a liar a man could be until the point was proven. The more capable of sophistry the individual was, the more credible they would appear.
Goodyard seemed to be the innocent, but still…
Harconan glanced to seaward. “So we can expect no grand Garrett adventures in the near future? A pity, I was rather hoping to see the lady in action.”
“Knock on wood.” Goodyard grinned. “Not unless something breaks out while she’s in the neighborhood. Then you might see the house blown up to put out the fire. I’m sorry to disappoint you, ah, Makara, but I don’t need a visit from Rambo on my watch. Things look brittle enough as is.”
Harconan nodded and smiled at the diplomatic understatement. The concept of Bhinneka tunggal ika, “Many are one,” was the proclaimed ideal of the Indonesian government. The reality was that, for decades, Jakarta had engaged in a frantic juggling match with Indonesia’s myriad of political and religious factions, balancing one against the other in the hope that, eventually, a true Indonesian identity would take hold within its population. To date, only an erratic and jingoistic nationalism had emerged within certain groups, such as the military.
Sooner or later, the juggler would miss a ball, or have it knocked aside. Once that occurred, it would be time for something new. Harconan’s smile deepened at the thought.
“It appears you have some new guests arriving.”
The ambassador’s comment drew Harconan back to the here and now. Looking northward along the coast, he noted a double set of running lights inbound toward the Makara Limited pier.