Chapter One - Richard Lewis

Reed spun out his story. She was Gerwani. Brother Bambang concerned. Family
hasn't heard from her. Reed knew she'd gone to Djakarta so he was here, looking for her.
A favor to a friend. "I only met her a few times," he said.
"Tell me about them."
"They weren't secret meetings. She had a friend with her. Mak Jangkrik. Naniek is
attractive. I enjoy her company."
The man glanced at his watched. "You like soto ayam, Mr. Davis? We have
guests at my house. My wife is cooking her soto. It is very good. Put your hands behind
your back, please."
The bicyclist grabbed Reed's arms and yanked them. His friend took a wet rattan
strap and wove it around Reed's wrists. He tied another strip around Reed's elbows.
"I'll see you in the morning," the interrogator said as he stood. "Have a good
sleep, Mr. Davis."
Reed had no sleep at all. The rattan bindings inexorably tightened. The one on his
wrists cut off all sensation to his hands. The one around his elbows pulled back on his
shoulders, threatening to tug his upper arms out of their sockets. The pain came in
layered pulses. A wrist bone finally cracked. The collapse allowed a flow of blood, a rush
of fire that doubled back as a hot-white flame from the break itself.
Reed sank away into the pain. He timed his gasping to its throbbing. He banged
his head against the metal bars to its rhythm. The window began to brighten with
daylight. The door opened, and his minders entered. Using shears, the bicyclist cut the
rattan straps. The worst of the pain instantly eased, but his arms felt lifeless. "Take a
bath," the bicyclist said, handing him soap, a towel, and a clean sarong.
Reed shuffled into the bathroom. He awkwardly undressed, trying not to jar his
broken wrist. He could hardly move his shoulders. Using the dipper to pour water over
him, he showered as best he could. After he dried off and wrapped the sarong around his
waist, bicyclist took him to the other room.
Yesterday's interrogator wasn't present. Standing by the desk was a slender man in
a tailored suit, looking scholarly with round-rimmed glasses, his hair brushed straight
back from his forehead.
Dr. Subandrio, formerly a physician, Sukarno's foreign minister.
"Let me see your hand," he said in soft English. He gently probed. "The ulna is
fractured." Using a roll of first aid bandage, he fashioned a sling for Reed. " You will
need to have that put in a cast. Sit, please."
Reed perched on the stool. Dr. Subandrio ordered the bicyclist to open the opaque
window. The room was on a high floor, and in the distance rose a thick column of black
smoke.
"PKI headquarters is burning," Dr. Subandrio said. "The army's sent mobs. The
revolution turns."
Reed mentally unfolded a map, triangulated the smoke and the sun and this
building. He wasn't far from the Embassy. Perhaps at the Foreign Ministry.
Subandrio opened a folder on the desk and studied Reed's photo of Soeharto. "Do
you know the wayang, Mr. Davis, the shadow puppet show?"
"I've seen performances," Reed said.
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