North Jakarta Islamic Hospital

2:00 p.m.

Is this your wish, my brother?” Dr. Anton Budi asked. In the privacy of his office, he studied his brother’s black, blazing eyes. He had seen the look before. He had seen it for fifty years. He had seen it before they got into fights as little boys. He had seen it when Guntur ran to his defense when bullies at the Islamic school jumped on Anton for being too studious. He had seen the look when Guntur was studying for the medical boards.

When Guntur Budi’s eyes blazed as they were blazing now, there was no deterring him.

This request was about their father.

Anton knew it. He knew it in his soul, even though Guntur had not yet mentioned it.

He had seen the blaze before, but the furious blaze he was now witnessing he had only seen once before-when they laid Dr. Hendarman Budi to rest.

Yes, this was about their father.

The northwestern province of Aceh, at the tip of Sumatra, had been at war with the Islamo-western government in Jakarta for years. The bloody war had raged long before and after the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami that had killed over one hundred sixty-five thousand Indonesian citizens in Aceh and displaced a half-million others from their homes.

But the great waves of death from the sea had not stopped the freedom fighters, who fought for a pure Islamic state at the northwestern tip of Indonesia.

Dr. Hendarman Budi was a peaceful man of medicine who had raised Guntur and Anton in the Great Faith. He was never violent and had never even shot a gun. But he believed strongly in the cause espoused by his Islamic brethren in Aceh.

He had gone there on a mission of mercy, to help establish and replace desperately needed medical facilities in remote areas of the province that had been wiped out either by the war or the tsunami. Years after the floods, Aceh’s medical care system still had not caught up even to its primitive pre-tsunami standards. Although the official purpose of his travel was to “rebuild medical facilities,” his heart was with the freedom fighters.

It was a risky and dicey proposition.

Had government officials in Jakarta known that he had been behind the battle lines “rendering aid to the enemy” by administering anesthesia and performing emergency surgery, he could have faced execution by the firing squad.

As it turned out, Hendarman Budi had faced execution anyway-without even the semblance of a public trial. According to eyewitnesses who were nearby, it happened when he had been working in a tent set up as a temporary field hospital. His father was not taking part in the fighting, but only giving medical assistance to three of the freedom fighters who had been shot. Word had come later from witnesses that he was attempting to administer an IV bag full of penicillin when the squad of government soldiers broke through the woods and into the cleared area where the hospital tent had been set up.

Like the ruthless barbarians that they were, they fired their weapons indiscriminately into the tent like bloodthirsty animals. A bullet from an AK-47 struck his father in the head, killing him instantly. The family later received a letter from the Indonesian government, signed by the defense minister, trying to justify the murder. Anton still remembered the wording of the letter:

“Dr. Budi, despite his humanitarian intentions for which he is to be commended, had voluntarily gone into a war zone in his efforts to come to the aid of the injured. Unfortunately, the tent in question was controlled by the enemies of the Indonesian government, and the rebels did not mark the tent as a hospital by placing a red crescent on or near it. Their failure to do so made it a legitimate target for government soldiers who were acting in self-defense. Therefore, the responsibility for Dr. Budi’s unfortunate death lies solely with those rebels in Aceh, who once again failed to recognize the humanitarian standards of the Geneva Accords by neglecting to mark a medical facility as such in a time of war. The government expresses its sincerest sympathies to you, and assures you that those rebels causing Dr. Budi’s death will be held responsible.”

Savages.

Anyone could have been in that tent.

Women. Children.

Anton already knew the answer.

Their father’s blood was on the line. Guntur would avenge it by killing the president of the government that had killed their father.

Still, Guntur was his brother. He had to ask.

“Guntur, you know that I would do anything for you. I would die for you. But this? I agree with you in principle, but you are my only flesh and blood.”

A beatific smile crossed Guntur’s face. “My dear young brother. We have been close all these years, not only as brothers in the Great Faith, but as brothers in the flesh.” Guntur stood, walked across the office, and put his hand on Anton’s shoulder. “And do you remember what they did to our father?”

“Yes, of course, Guntur. How could I forget?”

“I know you have not forgotten, Anton, but I swore on his blood and over his grave that I would never let his martyrdom be forgotten. He was a man of peace. He had gone on his holiday, Anton. On his holiday!” Guntur slammed his clenched fist into the desk.

“He only meant to render acts of mercy, mind you…to dying freedom fighters whose purity in the faith was never questioned. He never even spoke against this bastardized Islamo-western government of ours!” Guntur waved his hands in the air. “And what did it get him? It got him a bullet in the head, my brother”-he jabbed his index finger above the bridge of his nose-“and from our own army, under the administration that came before this pathetic administration…Muslim in name. Western in practice.

“I swore on his grave that his memory and the cause for which he gave his life would never die.”

His voice softened, giving way to soft, mellow tones again. “We will be apart for a while, brother. This is true.” The beatific smile returned, and the hand, which a moment ago had banged Anton’s desk, rested lovingly again on his neck, even gently giving it a slight caress. “But I shall be with our father. And soon we shall be together, in paradise.”

“But…”

“But, brother.” Guntur’s eyes were sharp, but his voice was increasingly serene. “I am going to do this, with you or without you, Anton. I wish to do this with you. In this way, our histories will be intertwined from start to finish. In life and in death, together, we will forever change history.”

Anton leaned back in his chair and studied his brother’s face. Guntur would indeed do this with him or without him. He had always admired his brother for his ambition, for his courage, for his bravery.

And now, Anton was also prepared to give his all, to give his life for a cause that the brothers had believed in since their birth.

Guntur’s persuasive powers were immense. They always had been. No wonder he had risen to the top of the medical profession, or that he became the president’s personal physician, even if the president had prostituted the great religion that they believed in. Still, this was all happening so fast, so suddenly. If only there were more time…

“Please, brother,” Guntur said. “You are a thoracic surgeon. Thus, you are uniquely qualified for this very task. But I need your answer…or I must go on.”

The silence was deafening. And for at least a minute, Anton fixed his eyes out the window of his first-floor office, where two sun-drenched palm trees were swaying in the gentle breeze. A white seagull flew in from the sky, perching on one palm tree, then fluttering over to the other.

“Meet me tonight, my brother, at midnight,” Anton said. “Operating room number 3 is rarely in use. I will do it myself.”

“I love you, my brother.” Guntur gave him a warm embrace and kissed him on the head. “We shall be together again in paradise. I promise.”