Chapter One - Richard Lewis

fingernails into this crack, then there might be a way into something big. Something
important. Reed casually probed his contacts, including Dharma and Arini. Dharma
growled that the Communists were gearing up for a takeover, and they had agents
everywhere. Arini passed on to Reed her usual bits and pieces gleaned from the guests at
the hotel, but nothing that hinted at Luhde Srikandi's true identity.
Reed wondered if the BPI, the Central Intelligence Organization, had a hand in
this somehow. And the BPI was Prime Minister Subandrio's personal fiefdom. And he
was Naniek's godfather. And she'd only recently been assigned to work in Bali.
But this was surely only coincidence. Indonesia was rife with rumors and rumors
of rumors, a constant buzzing of them, a swarm born more out of imagination than fact.
Could be that there was no Luhde Srikandi at all.
No, Naniek was who she said she was, a Gerwani activist who had no time for
skulking, except for a few stolen hours each month for Reed.
In September, Mrs. Nyoman, Reed's housekeeper, quit with much hand-wringing
and many apologies, saying that her husband wanted her to open a coffee stall. Reed
knew that she'd finally caved in to PKI warnings not to work for an American, but he
accepted her face-saving lie and gave her three month's bonus.
Late one afternoon, Reed was slicing papaya and banana to chill in the icebox for
dinner's desert, when Rusty showed up with three policemen and four stalwarts from the
local PKI office. Rusty apologetically said that the corporal wished to talk to him, and
the corporal in turn apologetically said that his boss the police captain wished to talk to
him at the station. Reed invited them to stay for a moment for coffee. The corporal
declined, asking him instead to get his passport and come with them.
No coffee and small talk? This was serious. Reed washed his face and put on his
shirt. He was driven to the station in the back of a police pickup, the PKI cadres glaring at
him as if he were an ax-murderer.
At the one-roof station, the corporal knocked on the police chief's door. In his
office, the police captain reclined on a settee, entertaining two visitors. Naniek sat stiff as
a plank in black skirt and white blouse, those canvas shoes flat on the floor and pressed
together. She glanced at Reed as he entered, her gaze flat and unreadable. The other
visitor was an Indonesian gentleman in fine clothes, the silk shirt tailored to a tee. He
talked genially with the captain. The captain finally took notice of Reed and the corporal.
The corporal smartly handed over Reed's passport. After flipping through the passport,
the captain passed it to his guest, who idly examined Reed's photograph and then perused
the other pages, including Reed's current visa, before fixing his limpid brown eyes on
Reed.
"I am Bambang Sastrohartono," he said in English. It wasn't a greeting but a
pronouncement.
Ah. Naniek's brother, from Singapore, the Permina oil executive who by the looks
of things had dipped his hand into the riches of national oil and came up with a Rolex
watch and diamond ring. Bambang glanced at the watch and said, "I have never seen the
famous Elephant Cave. We have time for a tour."
They rode in a touring sedan, Bambang driving, with Naniek beside him. Reed
sat in the back seat, feeling rather superfluous. It was obvious Older Brother didn't
133