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‘I’m sure there’s an innocent explanation.’ Like she met someone new then ditched the boyfriend, who then went to Bangkok to shag away his sorrow…‘Do you mind if I borrow these — bring them back later?’ Tadzic asked.

‘Sure, no problem.’ Ying stood. She hesitated for a moment. There was more she felt she should say. ‘Jenny, this is not like Ang. She doesn’t do this sort of thing…’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Tadzic as Rachael Ying began to walk slowly from her office. ‘I’m sure it’s all pretty innocent. I’ll catch up with you later and let you know what I’ve found out.’

Missing persons wasn’t exactly Jenny Tadzic’s forte, but getting an official inquiry underway smartly was the least she could do. Tadzic sifted through her files for a map of Thailand and pinned it to her wall. According to the postcards, the last place Angie visited was a town called Sop Huai Hai. Two young girls in colourful clothes smiled toothily at the camera. Tadzic arranged the other cards according to the dates Angie had thoughtfully written on each: Mae La, Noi Khun Yhun, Mae Hong Son and, lastly, Sop Huai Hai. Checking against the map, the pattern was obvious. It was a trail heading to Myanmar, and Sop Huai Hai was the last stop before the border. Tadzic knew that Angie had been gathering information on a drug lord on the Nam Sa River, thirty kilometres or so inside the border. A certain General Trip — a seriously bad motherfucker. ‘Angie, you’re a silly girl,’ Tadzic said quietly, the cold reality of messing with people like the general well known to her. She accessed the AFP’s information file on General Trip and skimmed it. A recent American DEA agent, she saw, had also gone missing two months ago in the same vicinity. Maybe it wasn’t all pretty innocent after all.

Well, thought Tadzic, that was the morning shot to shit. She’d have to make a report to Foreign Affairs, ASIS, and contact the United States DEA to see if their agent had turned up. Tadzic knew the likelihood of ever seeing her friend again, dead or alive, was remote if she’d trekked up to the Shan state and begun sniffing around. The jungle would swallow her and her boyfriend with nothing more than a handful of water-stained postcards to mark the point of disappearance. An image popped into the federal agent’s mind of an eddy swirling momentarily on the surface of shark-infested waters where, just moments before, a swimmer had been splashing. Tadzic shivered.

Jakarta, Indonesia

Dedy Abimanu lost his wife and his children in a motor scooter accident, and his job in the public service soon after. It was the time in his life when he had felt abandoned by God, unloved and unwanted. He’d lived on the streets for a time, begging, stealing, doing what was necessary to survive, and at the same time looking for answers. And then he’d met Duat, a man close to God and with the certainty that life, indeed the world, would change and that he, Duat, would help facilitate that change as God’s instrument.

And so Dedy Abimanu fell in with Babu Islam. He accompanied Duat on a bus high into the hills of central Java where the nights were cold on his skin and the air clean. He felt invigorated by Duat’s belief in God’s love for His servants, and their cause. The government was corrupt, they said, in the eyes of God; a slave of the World Bank and, through it, the hated Americans. It had to go.

These men were devout Muslims who obeyed the Qur’an and hated the unbelievers. Dedy stayed in the mountains, living with his newfound brothers. He trained with them, learning how to handle the weapons that would help to change the world: swords, guns, explosives.

This was not the God he had known as a boy or a teenager. It wasn’t the God of his wife, nor the God of anyone he had known before. This was an angry God, vengeful, dark and hateful, a God intolerant of differences and ignorant of compassion for all but the truly devout. It was the God he needed, giving him purpose, and permission to take revenge.

He met Kadar Al-Jahani after a month in the hills, introduced to the leader with half a dozen others who had joined recently, in a special ceremony of initiation. Dedy was impressed by the man’s service to God as a warrior, as a soldier of Islam. And by his obvious skill with explosives.

At night, around a low fire, Kadar recounted the mighty deeds and battles of Khalid bin Al-Waleed, the great general of Mohammed, may His name be praised. Yes, the Sword of Allah, great weapon of the faithful. Kadar also spoke of the fearless sacrifices made by soldiers back in his homeland, fighting against overwhelming odds. They were martyrs. Kadar didn’t need to exaggerate either their commitment to God, or their bravery, for the suicide bombers who had wreaked havoc in Israel and brought it to its knees — and the bargaining table — were both utterly brave and committed, and their deeds were already the stuff of legend. Kadar Al-Jahani explained that they were warriors fighting in the defence of Islam and, as such, would sit by the side of God in heaven. Like all the men around him, Dedy Abimanu was entranced by the stories, and he envied these warriors the opportunities afforded them in paradise.

Kadar Al-Jahani recognised the potential in Dedy early. He had known many suicide bombers and they were mostly clones of each other: people on the edge of the despair that came hand in hand with hopelessness, who believed a noble death in the service of Islam would bring them the rewards that they had missed on earth. And mostly they all had the same mother and father — poverty and powerlessness. Dedy didn’t quite fit the profile, but he had something just as reliable: hate.

Dedy became his top student, and Kadar Al-Jahani used him always as an example for others to follow. This acceptance and warmth were as manna for Dedy’s soul. So when Kadar and Duat said they needed a volunteer to send a message to the world that Indonesia was ready to fight the infidels, Dedy stepped forward. He knew he would not come back from this mission. Instead, he would journey to heaven and sit beside God with the other warriors who had proved their love for Him. Perhaps he would even meet the Sword of Allah himself, Khalid bin Al-Waleed. Death would become Dedy’s life’s mission.

On the appointed day, Kadar Al-Jahani prepared Dedy, warrior stepping forth into battle, in an apartment block in a crowded residential area of Jakarta. His battledress was a clean shave, neatly combed hair, Nikes, a black T-shirt and a photographer’s jacket, the type with many pockets for lenses, filters and rolls of film. He wore a Nikon around his neck, and the photographer’s bag contained several camera bodies, lenses and filters, the tools of his trade. The wallet in his back pocket had formerly belonged to a British citizen, and the accompanying passport verified the driver’s licence it contained. His name was now Alex Ablas, resident of Fulham Broadway, London, and he was a Reuters news photographer on assignment. The fact that Dedy spoke English well was vital. He’d picked it up working at the government tourist agency for many years before his office was closed, ironically due to the global downturn in tourism brought about by terrorist activity.

Dedy knew the plan backwards and he was committed to it heart and soul. He amazed himself that he was not in the least nervous as he walked towards the heavy gates, arriving mid morning when the queues were long and patience short. He thought only of the mission and of his service to God.

The three uniformed Indonesian police at the outer gate were vigilant, scrutinising the documents of every person wishing to gain entrance. They examined the British passport of Alex Ablas and asked him what his business was. Mr Ablas told them that he was a Reuters photographer — confirmed by the press ID in the window in his wallet — and that he needed to check on various newly imposed visa requirements for entry to the United States. He walked through the metal detector several times and was eventually passed after he removed his shoes, the eyelets tripping the device’s sensors. They put his camera case, the camera around his neck and the contents of all his pockets through the x-ray scanner. The police, being extra cautious, had him open the case so they could give its contents a closer inspection. They pulled the cameras out, examined them quickly, checked beneath the dense foam packing and, satisfied, waved him through to the next checkpoint, manned by the US Army. Mr Ablas walked along the covered path, aware of the tension. The gates were heavier than he thought. In front of and behind them were concrete anti-tank bollards designed to stop truck bombs.