From an unmarked Kopassus Learjet 45XR, Sura observed the stunning night-time brilliance of Jakarta give way to a jagged black line as they crossed the coast on a westerly heading. Her four-hour flight bisected the very heart of the strong Indonesian archipelago. To the north lay the massive bulk of Borneo, and the jagged four-pronged island of Sulawesi. To the south, the necklace of islands beginning with Java, passing through Bali and Timor, and ending with Trangan. Her flight path crossed three conjoined seas: the Java, Flores, and finally the wide Banda, where on its far eastern shore, the lurking presence of Papua would have been completely invisible if it hadn’t been for a few coastal hamlets and the rich gas field of Bintuni Bay. Indeed, the last hour of the flight across the Papuan land mass was over a black nothingness as inhospitable as any ocean. It was disconcerting that a flight back to the Stone Age took just four hours. And as the Learjet descended, the modest glow of Papua’s capital, Jayapura, seemed to mock distant Javanese aspirations of control – a reminder to Sura that their occupation would always be tenuous and hard-fought.

The driver of the shiny black van opened the door for her, his chiselled face expressionless.

‘You were not followed, Mba Suyanto.’ She’d always liked that about Kopassus men. Well trained.

He weaved his way skilfully through mid-evening traffic to the Swiss-Belhotel and its discreet undercover parking. Then he escorted her to a top-floor suite. Rapping three times on the door, he was gone before it opened.

‘Sura, how wonderful to see you again.’

The well-dressed man standing before her was fifty, fit and compact, and his roving brown eyes missed nothing. Well, she had chosen her most revealing kebaya.

‘Kapten Alatas.’ She received his kiss and inhaled his woody cologne. ‘It’s been too long.’

He led her into the suite – luxurious by Jayapurian standards – and indicated she sit on the soft leather couch. The air conditioning was blissful, and she allowed herself a contented sigh.

‘Mojito?’

His enquiring eyebrow was loaded with charm. Had it really been fifteen years since he’d taken her virginity at one of her father’s parties? She remembered him leading her through the gardens at Kebayoran Baru with a magnum of Bollinger. She’d got tipsy, and then he’d seduced her atop a marble pedestal in the Florentine grotto, within earshot of the courtyard balcony. While it had never happened again, the secret tryst had forged a bond between them. He’d given her some juicy leads over the years, and she had provided him with mostly harmless information on her father’s machinations at Tentara Nasional Indonesia or TNI – the headquarters of the Indonesian National Armed Forces.

Alatas stood at the bar and stirred the drinks vigorously with a swizzle stick.

‘When are you going back to the Indostar news desk? I miss seeing you every night.’