Chapter One - Richard Lewis

Chapter 30
1965
A high ceiling with plaster roses. Empty light bulb fixtures.
Iron bars on the windows. Opaque glass. Sunlight.
No fan. Hot. City heat.
He was lying on a mat. Woven straw. Ignoring his throbbing head, Reed groaned
to his feet. Empty room. Solid wooden door. Locked. A thick glass peephole, covered.
There was a bathroom, no door. A squat toilet, a cistern of water, a plastic dipper.
No mirror. Reed threw up in the toilet. A concussion? He rinsed his head, and returned to
his mat feeling marginally better.
Who'd taken him? PKI intel? Didn't make sense. They had far more serious
problems than worrying about him. Army intel? Didn't make sense either. Too busy
chasing the Commies. The Russians, the ChiComs? Maybe. Those guys would take down
a loose American just on the principle of the thing.
The peephole opened and shut. A key sounded in the door, and the bolt was
thrown back.
Two men entered, both with holstered sidearms. One was the bicyclist who'd
followed him. The other had a glass of water and a bowl of rice and noodles.
"I am an American citizen," Reed said. "I demand to be taken to the embassy." He
was just going through the motions. So did the bicyclist, who lightly slapped the butt of
his gun across Reed's face. They watched him eat, took the bowl and left, locking the
door again.
Reed pressed his ear to the window. He could faintly hear sporadic traffic. The
chanting of the Koran from a mosque loudspeaker. A tinker man's cry. City sounds.
The window darkened as night fell.
The following day was a repeat of the first, minus some of the headache but with
growing frustration. Reed needed to be out there looking for Naniek. The two minders
brought him a meal of rice and water but refused to speak.
On the third day, they marched him out the door to an adjacent room, identical to
the first, but with furniture. A stool before a desk, a chair behind it. The bicyclist shoved
Reed down onto the stool. An older man entered and straddled the upright chair. He wore
trousers and a khaki shirt. His buzz-cut was gray above the ears. A light scar ran across
an eyebrow. He had yellowed eyes and bad teeth and a paunch. He placed a thick manila
folder on the table.
Reed knew instinctively what it was. His file. Reports gathered on him over the
years. Now he knew who these guys were. They were BPI, the Central Intelligence
Board, Subandrio's boys.
The man lit a clove cigarette and flipped through Reed's passport, squinting
through the smoke.
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