He leaned into her and kissed her again. She pulled herself to him, but for him the chemistry had fizzled. He faked the kiss for a moment longer, then pulled away. “I have an idea, my dear.”

“Really? And what might that be?”

“The sun is setting. Why don’t we take a stroll in the surf? And maybe, just maybe, I will tell you all the secrets you wish to know.”

“That’s a great idea,” she said.

He stood, took her outstretched hand, and pulled her up.

The water was warm and refreshing to their feet. He put his arm around her shoulders and led her into the gentle, lapping waves until they were about knee-deep.

Then he put his arm around her waist, holding her tight, and pulled her with him down into the water.

She popped up for a moment, giggling. “You are such an animal.” She giggled with glee and tried to thrust her face toward his.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I am.” He cupped her mouth and nose with his hand, and pushed her head under the water.

Her body began to squirm and struggle. He heard her desperate screams, muffled but clearly reaching the surface.

She kicked and screamed and scratched. Her head popped out of the water. “Hassan!”

He pushed her back down again. She fought for her life. But her physical resistance lessened by the second.

The fight left her limp body.

With his hands around her throat, Hassan held her down. Just to be safe. Out loud, he counted. “One thousand one. One thousand two.”

Three minutes had now passed. All her resistance was long since gone. He pulled her to the surface, cradling her in his arms, and sloshed over toward the speedboat.

He lifted her up and dropped her into the boat. He would take her out about twenty miles and dump her into the Java Sea, then return to Jakarta Bay.

Custodians and housekeepers were easily replaceable. He would fill the position immediately and tell the general that she had quit.

Hassan jogged back to the beach, gathering up all evidence that anyone had been there-the picnic basket, the blanket, the wine bottles, even the cigarette butts. He tossed everything into the boat.

She would have a proper burial at sea, he decided, and these items would go with her.

He hopped into the boat, then pulled up the anchor. A minute later, the twin inboards ignited. With the sun now halfway down on the westward horizon, the boat sliced at full speed south across the Java Sea back toward Jakarta.

Delhi Muslim Kali Restaurant

Karachi, Pakistan

6:15 p.m.

The white, wrought-iron table located on the back veranda of the restaurant overlooked the gentle, lapping waters of the Arabian Sea.

At the edge of the sea, the sun was now a large, orange ball, setting on a deep, bluish-green watery horizon. From it, an orange glow swept inward across the water extending from the horizon to the shores of Clifton Beach, where a few women clad with Muslim headgear waded in the surf. Three camels, seemingly unattended, meandered in the sand on the landward side of the seawall not far from the women.

Next to the table where General Perkasa sat alone, a sign proclaimed in English, “Reserved for Private Party.” Perkasa checked his watch. Ten minutes ahead of schedule.

The sounds of traffic could be heard, faintly, along the roads in front of the restaurant. But out here, except for the sounds of the evening sea breeze rustling a few canvas umbrellas on the canopy and the giant green-and-white Pakistani flag flapping atop a huge flagpole down on the beach, all was quiet.

He extracted a Cuban cigar, struck his lighter, sucked in, and for the moment decided to enjoy the ambiance. The back door of the restaurant opened. A waiter walked out.

Blended voices of patrons inside poured onto the veranda, then subsided as the door closed behind the waiter. “Something to drink, sir?” the waiter asked in English.

“Water and hot tea, please,” the general replied in English.

“Right away, sir.”

The waiter stepped back into the restaurant.

The wind whipped into the large Pakistani flag again, unfurling the crescent moon and star, the symbols of Islam, glowing in white against the green background, and lit in the setting sun’s rays. The sight angered him, reminding him that the world’s largest Islamic country, his native Indonesia, had nothing on its flag to symbolize the Great Faith. Even the flag of neighboring Malaysia displayed the Islamic half-moon.

The Indonesian flag would change soon, if he had anything to do with it.

Perkasa nursed the cigar as the waiter returned with water and hot tea. “Your guest just called. He will be here momentarily, sir.”

The door closed, and Perkasa checked his watch again. Five minutes late. Suparman Perkasa did not appreciate waiting.

Once again, the door opened. A man stepped onto the veranda. He was of medium build, was dressed in a blue business suit with a red tie, and looked to be in his late forties. The door closed.

“It is beautiful out here this time of day, isn’t it?”

“Yes, indeed,” the general replied, again drawing on his cigar while eyeing the man.

The man nodded his head and pulled out an envelope. From it, he extracted a note card. “Zero-eight, one-seven, four-five, zero-eight, onefour, four-seven, zero-nine, one-one.”

Perkasa set his cigar on a crystal ashtray and extracted from his inside jacket pocket the envelope that Captain Taplus had handed him in Jakarta. “Read those numbers once again. Slowly, please.”

The man did.

“The numbers match. And I believe that I have some numbers that you will need to hear?”

“Please, General.”

“Ah, you believe that I am a general, do you?”

“I suspect that you are a general, and I will know not only that, but I will even be able to verify your name…if you give me the correct combination.”

Perkasa raised his eyebrow and looked down at the paper, which was becoming slightly difficult to read because of the evening shadows. “Eight-nine, eight-seven, zero-one, four-five, one-seven, zero-one.”

Perkasa folded the paper and reinserted it in his jacket pocket.

“It seems that destiny has brought us here, General Perkasa.”

“So it would seem,” Perkasa said. “Destiny, or millions of American dollars.”

“Isn’t it fitting that their own dollars will eventually bring them down?” The man smiled. “May I join you?” He pointed to another wrought-iron chair across from the table.

“Of course,” Perkasa said.

“I am Nisar Sharif. I, too, am a general. I am chief of staff of the Pakistani Air Force.”

“I have heard of you, General.” Perkasa extended his hand across the table to shake the Pakistani’s hand.

“Tell me, General.” Sharif released Perkasa’s hand. “What can Pakistan do for our brothers in Indonesia?”

Perkasa sat back, puffed the cigar, and contemplated his words. “You have something that your Indonesian brothers need.”

Sharif laughed. “Everybody has something that someone else needs.”

“We are prepared to pay you one hundred million dollars, General, if you will help us.”

Sharif folded his hands on his laps. If the offer had any impact on him at all, his face did not show it. “As a high-ranking officer of the Islamic Republic, I still must be assured that whatever you need will not undermine the interests of my country. This you will understand.”

Sharif was playing it very closely to the vest.

Impressive.

“General Sharif, you have my word as an Islamic brother, sworn upon the grave of my mother, that what we need will never be used against Pakistan, but will, in fact, give Pakistan a geostrategic foothold in one of the most important regions in the world.

“In addition to the money, I offer Pakistan an air base and a naval base on one of our islands in Indonesia, to be leased for fifty years at a price of one dollar per year.