Will the ring help catch Mr. Lee’s killer? I asked.
The dukun shrugged ancient, bony shoulders. He could not answer; he was a magician, not a detective.
We thanked and paid the dukun. Malik’s mood had improved substantially. We have a purpose, he said, a solution.
I was not so upbeat. I wondered how to express my feelings without insulting Malik’s dukun and therefore Malik too. I turned through my pocket dictionary, seeking the Indonesian words for “figurative” and “literal.”
I know everyone, Malik reminded me before I could open my mouth; I’ll ask around, I’ll find out who the men in that splendid Menteng home are.
I repocketed my dictionary. So much for reason.
It didn’t take much time or money for a network of taxi drivers and merchants and people with no apparent occupation to identify the owner of that swank Menteng address. His name, quite appropriately, was Hardcastle.
Hardcastle was either American, Canadian, or Australian. Nobody was certain. His mercenary soldier apparel was no facade. Hardcastle had been in Zimbabwe when it was Rhodesia, Zaire when it was the Belgian Congo. He was no stranger to Central America and the Indochina nations.
Hardcastle had evidently retired from the kill-for-hire profession. With a nice nest egg. Besides the villa, he owned a yupscale jewelry shop on Jalan Thamrin.
Malik’s sources weren’t as sure about No Neck. He was believed to be an unemployed actor who did odd jobs for Hardcastle, but they were rarely seen together.
No Neck had played a villain in a dozen martial arts films, but could not or would not pull his punches. He was hurting the good guys, costing the production companies too much money. No longer would any Jakarta filmmaker risk casting him. He also had ties to an assortment of lowlife types — thugs and burglars and whatnot.
Quite a pair, I said. What do you recommend we do?
Easy, Malik said, smiling cheerily. You go see him.
Me? And say what?
You will think of the right thing to say when the time comes. I have the utmost confidence you shall.
Sure. Yeah. Easy.
Unshaven, wearing clothing for the second day, stained by banyan sap, I took a cab to a thirty story office tower on Jalan Thamrin. The lower level was a frigidly air-conditioned arcade of glittery boutiques and expensive restaurants. I could have been in the affluent maw of Chicago or Hong Kong or Berlin.
Hardcastle’s shop was on the mezzanine. Gold leaf on the glass door simply announced Hardcastle, Ltd.
He was too modest. The rings, necklaces, and earrings on display sported rubies, sapphires, star sapphires, and — yes, jade. You didn’t need a schooled eye to know that this stuff wasn’t paste. If that wasn’t enough to convince me that we weren’t talking about costume jewelry, no price tags were visible and the young Indonesian clerk in the spiffy suit was as haughty as his Rodeo Drive and Fifth Avenue counterparts.
Well, perhaps my appearance and aroma put him off, but I think the young man would flare his nostrils at the Prince of Wales. I asked, please, to see Mr. Hardcastle.
Impossible, he said. Mr. Hardcastle is indisposed.
Un-indispose him, I politely requested. Inform him that I would like to speak to him regarding a gold and diamond and Burmese jade ring.
The clerk reluctantly complied. Mr. Hardcastle emerged from the back room. It was him, the bearded one. In a silk suit today, though, not the soldier of fortune outfit.
How may I serve you, sir?
Hardcastle spoke evenly, in the neutral accent of a man with no nationality. He was playing it as cool as the interior of the building, but there was a glint of recognition in his eyes.
I also played it cool, casually perusing his wares, hoping he did not hear my knees knock. No krises for sale, I commented matter-of-factly.
I deal in fine jewelry, he said, not antiques and curios.
A shame, I replied. Too bad. I’m in the market for a rare and unique example. Something in a wavy blade and gold inlay.
Hardcastle glared at his clerk, who was at the end of the counter, dusting, fussing with the goods, all ears. He retired to the rear in a hurry.
You told my boy you wanted to discuss a jade ring. What’s this about a kris? Take a second gander. See any old daggers in my shop?
I do want to discuss a jade ring, I said vaguely. I described it.
Okay. Let’s have a look.
Uh-uh. I don’t have it on me.
You buying or selling or wasting my time? he said in a tone and with a gaze that removed any doubt that he could kill for a pay-check.
None of the above. I’m trading. Can you locate a kris of comparable worth?
Could be.
Are you interested in the jade ring?
Could be. I’ll give you my address. Come to my home this evening with the ring and I should have a kris—
No, thanks, I interrupted, equal parts peeved and curious about why he persisted with the charade. He recognized me, I knew he did.
Where? he said. You name it.
I made an impulse decision. Five P.M., I blurted. The National Monument. Monas.
Hardcastle grinned and said, Monas at five it is. Don’t be late.
I walked out, more frightened than before. If that were possible.
It had been too easy, Hardcastle had been too agreeable. I met Malik and related the encounter.
You did well, he said; you picked the busiest place in town at one of the busiest times.
I know, I said. Maybe Hardcastle won’t kill me in front of a thousand witnesses. I hope.
You did right, Malik said. You did fine.
Thanks, I guess. Do I really meet Hardcastle?
Yes. You must give him the ring. You could not have taken it to his shop. You might not have departed alive. You will give him the ring, and you will accept a kris in exchange. He will be suspicious if he acquires something for nothing.
Then?
Then we will be free of the evil.
And what about you while this is happening? I asked Malik.
He smiled. Me? he said. I will be exceedingly grateful.
The National Monument, Monumen Nasional, a white marble obelisk called Monas for short, was patterned after our Washington Monument. Another Sukarno inspiration, completed in 1961, Monas betters our needle on two counts. It has a pedestal base, and on top is a bronze flame coated with seventy-seven pounds of gold leaf.
Sukarno intended Monas as a testament to the strength of the Republic. Some Indonesians call it paku jagat, “axis of the world.” Others, less reverent, refer to it as Sukarno’s last erection.
It is located in the center of Medan Merdeka Independence Field, a square kilometer of neatly landscaped park. At five o’clock Jakarta was awakening from its afternoon siesta. People on foot and on vehicles clustered to the park.
A thousand witnesses, hell. I’d have two thousand, three thousand. Bring on Hardcastle!
I was a few minutes early. He was waiting on the south lawn midway between Monas and the adjacent street, waving to me. In gray slacks and white shirt, he looked like a tropical Western diplomat, a mid-level embassy staffer. Congeniality was written all over his face.
I was scared spitless.
But I went to him.
I stopped just out of arm’s reach. A gaggle of laughing children ran between us.
Move in closer, Hardcastle said. I won’t bite. I don’t want to shout.
Do you have a kris? I asked, firm and businesslike.
He stepped backward. Do you have a ring?
I looked around. No Neck wasn’t in sight. I stepped forward and said — words I didn’t know were there tumbled out of my mouth— You killed the Chinese man in a becak.
He cheated me, Hardcastle said pleasantly.
How?
Please allow me to examine your ring.
I tossed it to him. He held it to the sky and squinted. Same one, same garbage, he said with a twisted snarl I hadn’t seen on a diplomat’s face lately.