‘I want to be there when you take him apart.’ Sura’s low voice trembled with hate. ‘Do you hear me?’

‘Ja, I hear you, liefie.’

In the blocky commando, Boerman recognised a natural born killer, and a cool-headed one at that. Taking Goki down would require precision, with no room for error. But he would make him beg for death.

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Jayapura, Papua, Indonesia

In the unstable wake of the recent tropical storm, the Garuda 737-800 shuddered as it skimmed the lake 60 metres below. Doctor Mia Carter planted her feet on the floor and took a deep breath. She was not a nervous flyer, but Sentani International Airport was located in a natural depression, which meant a gut-churning approach to a steeply sloping runway.

They bounced once, twice, before the tyres bit with a slight side-skid. The comforting roar of reverse thrust confirmed they were safely down. Trundling along the taxiway, steam from the recent downpour rose like smoke, enveloping the windows in a sheen of condensation. Excited to be back, Mia pressed her face to the Plexiglas, hoping to spot Paul’s plane among a gaggle of light aircraft beside the terminal.

It was strange she hadn’t heard from him. While it often took him a week to respond to emails – he seemed to treat the computer like an old fashioned letter box – she had not received any response to her holiday snaps. And she hadn’t spoken to him on the phone since leaving the US almost three months ago. Not that she’d dwelled on it during her long lazy holiday in Cambodia and Thailand, because that was precious time for doing absolutely nothing but recharging her batteries after three intense years without a break in the ER. But then she hadn’t been able to get through to him from her hotel in Jakarta yesterday, either.

Retrieving her bag from the overhead locker, Mia told herself not to worry. The mission’s satellite connection went down every few weeks, and Paul always noted times and dates down in his meticulous old-school longhand which put her scrawl to shame. He would be there.

There was a clunk as the stewardess opened the cabin door, and then the pungent waft of the tropics washing inside suddenly made her decision to return real.

At the Kantor Immigrasi, the squat official checked her passport and visa details with great care, flicking sceptical eyes up to study her face several times. This had been her experience last time. Averse to negative journalism, the Indonesian authorities were suspicious of Western tourists, and controlled their movements by way of travel permits.

‘Jayawijaya?’ he asked, pointing at her stated destination.

‘Yes, the Ford Mission. I have a working visa.’

He picked up the phone and spoke in Indonesian too rapid to follow. Then a tall Indonesian military officer appeared from a doorway behind the desk and asked her to follow him.

‘Apakah ada yang sala?’ she asked. Is anything wrong?