Chapter One - Richard Lewis

Reed leaned back against the cushions. "A couple of the guys have new bicycles,
but generally, they realize they have basically one chance against the PKI, and they don't
want to blow it. They've been busy," he said, "making the peace."
"We have a new project for you. Sukarno's birthday is June 6 th , and according to
the palace secretary's appointment book, he is having a birthday dinner in Bali, at his
Tampaksiring Palace."
Wendell lit another cigarette. "We want you to be there and have a look around.
Take note who's there. Pay attention to Sukarno's health. Doctors and ambulances on
standby? Doddering with a cane? A private nurse willing to talk?"
"I know the drill," Reed said.
"Maybe you'll spot this mysterious Luhde Srikandi."
"You have a birthday party invitation for me?"
"You're a charming boy," Auntie said. "I'm sure you'll figure out something."
"Naked women should do the trick."
Auntie's brows rose primly.
"A painting by a Balinese artist friend of mind," Reed said. "Tjok Arsana. Lovely
nude nymphs by a spring. A birthday gift for Bung Karno's collection."
When Reed was stationed in Djakarta, one of his contacts was Sister Agnes of the
Blessed Heart Convent, an expert on the politics and social movements of the city's
peasant kampongs. Her order worked closely with other social organizations, such as
Gerwani. Reed had last seen her a few years previously, when he made his farewell
rounds of Djakarta to take leave of his colleagues and contacts and friends before heading
to Bali. He'd gotten horribly drunk at the Minerva Lounge, a slum bar, and the next
morning had been just as horribly hung-over as he said his goodbyes to Sister Agnes at
the convent. He'd made the effort, though, because the middle-aged nun from Maluku
was one of his favorite people, full of holy guile and sacred subterfuge, but with a heart
big as the slums. She was a leaven of goodness in his rather self-indulgent life, to be
honest.
The Blessed Heart convent had once been the sprawling family quarters of a 19 th
century Chinese merchant. Located in Kota, Djakarta's original old town, the compound
with its graceful curved roofs faced the river where trading boats had once docked with
cargo. Reed knocked on the solid wooden doors and a small lattice screen opened. A
nun looked out at him, her face framed by her wimple.
"My name is Reed Davis," he said. "I am here to see Sister Agnes."
The screen closed, and a minute later the door slid silently open. The convent was
partially cloistered, but a good number of the sisters had public avocations, running
informal schools and clinics in the slums.
The sister wordlessly ushered Reed into the Reverend Mother office, a small and
austere room, the only splash of color the red heart of a Sacred Heart of Mary statue.
Well, that and the bright blue rosary beads dangling around the Reverend Mother's neck.
"So you've been promoted," Reed said.
The Reverend Mother Agnes laughed. "This wasn't a promotion, Reed. It was a
call to higher duty." She'd learned her English in Holland, and spoke it with that buttery
Dutch accent. "And last time I saw you, you looked ready to repent of alcohol."
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