But I took little on faith, and I knew nothing instinctively.
What I did know was that revenge included risk, and risk had a price.
One night, I stood in my room and looked at myself in the flaked mirror that was nailed to the wall. I was a little drunk—I'd had a couple of liters of Tiger beer. In the mirror was the face of a stranger. It was like standing behind a wall, looking through a two-way mirror. If I moved my mouth, the stranger moved his mouth. If I rubbed a hand over the beard stubble on my chin, the stranger did the same. But the stranger's eyes were not my eyes. His were predator-bright. Mine felt bleary. It was as if the stranger were mocking me: So just snatch the guy, bag him, and kill him!
It seemed so easy to the stranger; everything clear-cut and neatly defined. And it would have been easy: Follow Tullock out on one of his runs, then hide along the river, in the trees. Crouch there watching the great hornbill birds fly over, their wings creaking; watch the giant fruit bats drop down out of the trees and cup the darkness with their five-foot wing spans. Wait for Tullock to jog back . . . then take him.
It was so easy that, each day at dusk, as I watched Tullock trot off, I had to fight the temptation ... a temptation so strong that I found myself procrastinating, getting the man's patterns down for no other reason than to underline the simplicity of that stranger's simple solution.
Yet I didn't want it to end that way. Not for Raymond Tullock. More important, not for me.
I decided to proceed with a variation of my original plan. I had taken risks before—not many, but a few. Now, at least, it seemed that I had much less to lose. . . .
Friday is a Muslim holy day, so I spent it transferring my belongings into two canvas duffel bags that I had purchased at the Central Market which was just off Sutomo Street.
Into my old bags—which included my favorite Loomis travel rod satchel—I placed rags and chunks of wood that I had pilfered from the back of my boarding house. When the bags looked and felt about right, I used duct tape to seal them tight.
Then I dressed myself in a favorite pair of baggy Egyptian cotton slacks; the kind with the big cargo pockets. Into the right pocket, I stuffed a big bandanna and the opaque green glass orb I had taken from Hannah's house.
The little ball had a nice weight to it. It was granite-smooth except for the ingenious flanged stopper.
I spent half an hour practicing, but just couldn't seem to get it right. My hands were too big, my fingers too long and blunt. Once upon a time I had spent a deadly boring week in a boat off the coast of Cambodia. One of my companions had three small baggies filled with sand, and he had tried to teach me to juggle. I never did get it. My hands are fine for focusing a microscope, or for using a scalpel, but they are not clever in a way that I now needed.
Once I almost dropped the glass ball, and I thought: You're insane to try this without Havildar's help.
But I ignored the small, destructive internal voice. Blotted out the images of me squatting in some cell in Simpang Alas Prison. I kept at it. Kept practicing. Tried to picture the way it would be: Me in the room, Raymond Tullock in the room, plus two, maybe three others. I had to point at something—anything to shift their attention—then draw the bandanna out of my pocket smoothly, very, very smoothly. . . .
When I thought I had it pretty good, I played around with my portable shortwave radio, then took up the bandanna again and practiced for another half an hour. I wanted to embed the move into the muscle memory; wanted to be able to do it mechanically, like it was second nature, without having to think.
In the early evening, while the city's bullhorns told the faithful that it was time to bow to Mecca, I decided that I had had enough. I put everything away, changed into different clothes. Then I took my three ox-eyed tarpon into the bathroom to dissect.
Later that night, I ate satay beef and rice, sitting across a restaurant table from Rengat. I told him that I would be leaving Medan the next evening. I told him to come by my boarding house promptly at sunset, so that he could take my luggage to Polonia Airport. I told him that because of a business engagement, I would arrive separately by private cab and might be a little late.
I watched the little man's eyes shift around as he projected great sadness that I had to leave Sumatra so soon. "Has something happened to displease you?" he asked.
I handed Rengat my Garuda Airline ticket so that he could check my luggage. "I'm afraid something very bad has happened," I told him. "I've been robbed."
When Raymond Tullock returned from his run the next evening, two Indonesian policemen and I were standing in the hallway, outside his room, waiting on him. For days, I had been looking forward to this moment; had anticipated, with great pleasure, the shock that seeing me would cause the man . . . had anticipated, with greater pleasure, the terror that would drain his face pale.
So I stood there, arms folded, a uniformed cop on either side of me. I could hear the squeak-squeaking of Tullock's rubber-soled shoes as he came up the linoleum steps, two at a time. Could see his head and shoulders come into view, and I fixed my eyes on his face. As Tullock got to the top of the stairs, he hesitated when he saw us. I watched closely as his eyes registered consternation and minor surprise; but nothing that communicated shock, nothing close to terror.
Not a good reaction. . . .
He paused at the top of the stairs, collecting himself. He was wearing black spandex beneath burgundy running shorts. The rubber skin of his sweat pullover was shiny but dry—a vaguely reptilian touch. Tullock stared at me for a moment . . . then at the two cops . . . then back to me. Favored me with a thin, nervous smile before he said, "Well, well—long time no see. The name's Ford, isn't it? How's our girl Hannah doing, Ford?"
At least he doesn't know.
I said, "My girl Hannah is just fine. Me, too. We're all just fine."
Which seemed to cause him momentary discomfort. But he recovered quickly, showing me he didn't much care. Said, "Always good to see another American in these Third World countries," as he continued down the hall toward us. Then: "Is it true? I hear you've been robbed."
I thought: Rengat, you son of a bitch!
Tullock brushed past me just close enough so that his shoulder collided with mine—a gesture designed to stake out territory—and he produced a key, then swung his door wide. "You're welcome to have a seat while I change, gentlemen. But I'm afraid I can't give you much time. I have a dinner appointment in less than an hour." Turned his head to give me a private, searing look. "So let's make it quick."
In Indonesia, law enforcement has an informal aspect. Visitors or individual citizens can seek out the help of specific cops. Havildar had given me the names of two who spoke English. One was Lieutenant Suradi, the other was Officer Prajurit. Both were small, dark men who wore navy-blue slacks and shirts that were brightened with red trim. Because I had used Havildar's name, they had come with me to the Hotel Tiara willingly enough—not that I could expect any favors from them. Already I could sense that Tullock's self-assurance had made Lieutenant Suradi, for one, dubious.
"This a very serious charge, sahr," he said to me as we entered the room. "You must be certain. You not very certain, sahr, maybe this man ask we arrest you!" Said it loud enough for Tullock to hear, letting him know that he was not taking sides in this squabble between two Americans.
Tullock was stripping off the rubber pullover, handling himself pretty well. Showing just the right mix of tolerance and indignation. "It's a damn serious charge, Ford. If you've never been to Indonesia before, maybe you don't know, but—over here?—they cut a man's hand off for stealing."