Griffin led the way through the door. The room was darkened, but there was enough light for Wilkes to recognise some increasingly familiar faces. Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Hardcastle, standing, winked. What’s he doing here? Atticus Monroe gave him a nod, and so did Gia Ferallo. Wilkes returned the gestures. There was someone seated at the large black oval table he didn’t know.
‘I believe you’re familiar with everyone here except for Captain Ali Mahisa from Indonesian counter-terrorism. He’s currently attached to Indonesian special forces — Kopassus.’
That caught Wilkes by surprise. Mahisa stood and shook Wilkes’s hand, and accompanied it with a slight bow. ‘Warrant Officer Wilkes. Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ he said formally.
Wilkes was not so sure he was all that pleased about it.
‘The captain was here on a familiarising tour with the Australian Federal Police, learning our investigation methods. After the weekend’s atrocity, his mission has hardened up considerably. A larger task force is being put together combining the captain’s unit, the AFP, CIA, ASIO and ASIS to target and dismantle terrorist groups in the region. Captain Mahisa has some knowledge of the Babu Islam group, the people currently under our microscope. He’s the nearest thing we’ve got to an expert on these people.’
Mahisa gave a smile, projecting it around the table. Wilkes ran an eye over him. He was part Malay, part Indian, with an open, friendly face. He was also quite short and thin, with a vascular neck that became more so when he talked. He looked fragile, but appearances, Wilkes knew, could be deceptive, especially if the guy was special forces. Wilkes found it strange — a little uncomfortable — having a friendly chitchat with someone from the Indonesian Kopassus. Not so long ago, he’d been shooting holes in the captain’s buddies. What the hell. Wilkes decided that the discomfort was something he’d better get over fast if he had to work with this man. And besides, the problems Australia had had with Indonesia recently were because of a few rotten apples within their military. The Kopassus were still Indonesia’s bad boys but the country was supposed to be an ally, not an enemy. Wilkes took a seat beside the captain.
A face flashed up on the screen. The Indon with the gold tooth. Then, beside it, the photo of the man behind the machine gun.
‘Duat and Kadar Al-Jahani,’ said Griffin, taking a seat. Hardcastle also sat. ‘We’ve talked about these two already. Just to recap: Kadar Al-Jahani, Middle Eastern terrorist of note, explosives expert, a vicious character. Duat, another pea in the same pod. Suspected of bombing churches, leader of Babu Islam, a rabble with a cause — the cause being the transformation of Indonesia into a fundamentalist Islamic state with Sharia law imposed. We’ve known for a little while that these two have joined forces. Why? Aside from gunrunning and drug smuggling, we weren’t sure. Now, well, we’re getting a few clues.
‘Babu Islam were like many similar groups — plotting grand schemes but with no serious member base and not enough funding to pull them off. The best they could manage was the odd homemade device capable of killing and wounding a few unfortunates who happened to be worshipping God at the wrong venue.
‘Kadar Al-Jahani’s arrival has changed everything. He’s given BI credibility and that, combined with adequate funding, makes them particularly dangerous. Now, the forensic reports from last week’s attack in Jakarta are still preliminary, but we’ve got something to go on with. Atticus?’
Jesus, forensics? That was quick, thought Wilkes, but he guessed it was to be expected. The chances of nailing the perpetrators of these kinds of crimes — the who — depended on knowing as much as possible about the what and the how, as quickly as possible. The fact that Griffin put Kadar Al-Jahani and the forensics report from the shattered US Embassy in the same preamble told Wilkes a lot already.
Monroe tapped the manila folder in front of him a couple of times before speaking, either getting his thoughts in order or attracting attention — Wilkes wasn’t sure which. He said, ‘The explosive materials used in the embassy bombing were beyond those normally associated with your backyard terrorist. The device was complex and sophisticated. It wasn’t a fertiliser bomb. That’s to be expected, anyway. Those sort of devices are bulky and wouldn’t get within a hundred metres of the embassy.
‘The bomb used was a two-stage boosted variety. A compound called lead styphnate was the primer material. That detonated around two kilograms of tetrytol. Over the top of that was around seven kilos of HBX — a combination of RDX, TNT, powdered aluminium and D-2 wax.’
Ferallo interrupted. ‘What does all that mean?’ She beat Wilkes to it. He wasn’t up on these Gucci explosives.
‘A small bang turns into a bigger bang and ends with a very big bang,’ said Monroe, realising he’d confused things rather than made them clearer. ‘Okay, look. This device was a work of art, put together by someone who knew their shit. All up, the bomb weighed around fifteen kilos. Not a lot of bulk. That’s how they managed to get it inside the embassy. But it gets better than that.
‘The HBX? That’s the real mother explosive here. It has a lot of RDX in it. We think it had been moulded, shaped to look like camera bodies. The same stuff was used as the camera’s case. It’s stable and can be made to look like metal, the giveaway being a waxy feel.
‘The tetrytol, a kind of pre-explosive explosive used to set off the HBX, lined the case. The detonator, we think, was a camera flash, but we’re still not sure.’
‘How did it get in the embassy?’ asked Mahisa.
The memory of Sergeant Hennert, the marine with two amputated legs, came into Monroe’s mind, complete with the sounds and smells of the makeshift hospital. He took a deep breath to expunge them. ‘A surviving witness believes a man posing as a photographer, with a British passport and press card, carried the device into the visa department. The witness, a sergeant on duty at the time, was vaguely suspicious about it but too late to stop the bomber from doing his thing.’
‘What about detection? Didn’t they have scanners?’ Ferallo asked.
‘Yep. There were some other weird chemicals involved. The bomb experts believe complex masking agents they’re yet to identify were used,’ said Monroe.
‘The point is,’ said Griffin, ‘this has Kadar Al-Jahani written all over it. The RDX, the sophistication of the device…’
Tom Wilkes was no explosives expert, but he’d handled enough of the various types to agree that whoever built the bomb had had extensive military training and experience. ‘Is the identity of the British suicide bomber known?’ Wilkes asked.
‘No,’ said Monroe. ‘Whoever the so-called photographer was, there was nothing but atoms left of that sucker. He’d have been almost on top of the device when it blew. And it goes without saying that we doubt he was British, by the way.’
There were a dozen photos of the embassy before and after the explosion on the table. Wilkes sifted through them. The building was destroyed from within, the two remaining wings either side of the centre of the explosion teetering inwards. Various people, both western and Indonesian, were picking through the rubble, risking their lives in a further collapse to hunt for clues. Just fifteen kilos of explosives…! ‘Shit,’ said Wilkes as he looked at the devastation. ‘How did they get the explosives into the country? Or did they buy them in Indonesia?’
Mahisa jumped in. ‘We don’t know. Obviously, these are military explosives. I would like to guarantee that they didn’t purchase these things from someone in our army, but unfortunately I can’t.’
Mahisa’s candour was disarming. Once, not so long ago, a question like that would have been met with instant denial no matter what the facts, but the world had changed and maybe Indonesia had changed with it.