“This, gentlemen, is Indonesia. It is the most populated Muslim nation on earth and fourth most-populated country in the world, behind China, India, and the US. Eighty percent of its population is Muslim, meaning that two hundred million Muslims live here.

“From Medan, on the island of Sumatra in the west, to Jayapura, on the island of New Guinea in the east, Indonesia stretches farther from east to west than even the Great Satan, the United States.

“Yet, despite its Muslim population, Indonesia cozies up to the United States and takes US military assistance.

“And no wonder America wants it. Indonesia is the most strategically located maritime nation in the world, controlling the Malaccan Straits, the Java Sea, the Timor Sea, and the Celebes Sea, all making up essentially the gateway from the Pacific and Indian Oceans.”

All eyes were transfixed on the map, as Farouq tapped at the various islands and waterways with a pointer. “Working with our Muslim brothers in the Indonesian military, we shall take this nation for Allah!”

“What plan has Allah given us for how we are to accomplish this takeover of Indonesia?” one of the moneymen asked.

Farouq wagged his finger in the air. “Insightful, my friend. I was just about to go into that. The nation of Indonesia consists of over seventeen thousand islands. Of those, six thousand are inhabited. But the key to controlling all of Indonesia is first to control one island and one only.” He nodded again at his assistant, and another map flashed up on the screen.

“This map gives a better picture of our targets. To the left”-he tapped a pointer against the screen-“we have the island of Sumatra. This island is roughly the size and shape of the American state of California.

“Sumatra would give us control of the most strategic choke point in the world for the flow of oil by freighter from the Indian Ocean to the Pacific.” He pointed to the Strait of Malacca, a funnel between Sumatra and the Malay Peninsula.

“But the key to toppling Sumatra and the other seventeen thousand islands of Indonesia is to assert control of this island.” He pointed to the island just to the right of Sumatra. “Java.”

He took a sip of water.

“Roughly the size and shape of the Caribbean island of Cuba, Java is the key to Indonesia. One hundred twenty million people live here. That’s half the population of the entire nation.” Another sip of water. “And the key to Java?” He tapped again at the map. “Jakarta. The capital city. Our plan is simplistically brilliant. We will launch a coup against the government from within. We will take control of the government, and we will use money raised from our tanker attacks to purchase weapons and transform Indonesia into an Islamic superpower.”

Farouq folded his arms and surveyed his council.

“What about President Santos?” a Kuwati named Sabir asked.

“What about Enrique Santos?” Farouq asked.

“Will we kill him?”

“We have forged a strategic alliance with powerful men in the Indonesian military. These men are our brothers in the faith. And their faith, unlike the bastardized lip service to Islam that was paid by those like the traitorous Benazir Bhutto and the current Indonesian president, is unadulterated.

“They will be rewarded for their courageous leadership in this endeavor, which we have called the Malaccan Agreement. These men will be in place to carry out our strategic objectives, including the problem of the Indonesian president.”

“What will become of Santos?” another council member asked.

Farouq lit another cigarette, then took a satisfying draw. “Santos calls himself Islamic. Yet he sleeps with the American dogs and their president, Mack Williams.” He inhaled again and squinted his eyes. “Tell me, brother. What sayeth the Koran about the fate of infidels?”

The nicotine saturated his bloodstream, giving him an exhilarating kick, more potent and satisfying than the bland cigar he had taken from General Suparman Perkasa during their first meeting over a year ago. No one made cigarettes like the dog Americans.

“The Koran calls for death to all infidels.”

Farouq stuffed the cigarette into an ashtray. “And what are Williams and Santos?”

Even in the dimmed lighting, Sabir’s black eyes sparkled.

“They are infidels.”

Farouq nodded. “Then you have answered your own question, my friend.”

“Will the Americans not send their navy and marines to interfere? Do not they consider these sea lanes strategic to their interests?”

“Let’s say, shall we, that we have planned some distractions for the Americans.”

Alexandra Hospital

Singapore

2:15 p.m.

The woman, her long, red hair pinned in a bun, wore the summer white uniform of a United States naval officer.

She glanced out the tinted window from the back passenger’s seat as the black Jaguar stopped in front of the white, sprawling building.

“The architecture is colonial. Beautifully landscaped, isn’t it?” The silver-haired man in the navy pinstripe sitting in the backseat beside her was engaging in peripheral chitchat.

“Yes, sir, it is,” she said, barely paying attention. The uncertainty was killing her.

“This was the old British army hospital in Singapore,” the man said. “The Brits built it in 1938. More than six hundred flower species are growing in the gardens surrounding the building. Hard to believe this was the scene of one of the bloodiest massacres of World War II.”

That riveted her attention. “What happened?”

“Battle of Singapore. 1942. The Japs came here and butchered British patients and medical staff. There’s a plaque over on the grounds commemorating it. Barbarians. Violated all the rules of civilized warfare.”

That sank in for a second. “Yes, sir. They violated all the rules of civilized warfare, just like whoever hit the Rasa Sentosa and those British tankers.” She inhaled deeply. “So we’ve come full circle.”

“After that,” the man continued, “they changed the name from the British Military Hospital, Singapore, to Alexandra Hospital.”

For a man reputed to be politically astute, good at putting others at ease, this talk was not helping unknot her stomach.

“Don’t worry,” the man went on, as if sensing he’d said the wrong thing. “I think if it was life-threatening, they would’ve taken him to Singapore General.” He took her hand. “Don’t worry, it’s going to be fine.”

Why did his face look so worried? Did he know something she didn’t?

“Thank you, sir.”

“Let’s go, Jim,” the man said.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Ambassador.” The United States Marine Corps sergeant, dressed sharply in his service dress-blue uniform, got out of the passenger’s front seat and opened the door for the United States ambassador to Singapore, the Honorable Gary Griffith. The ambassador stood, and the marine flashed him a sharp salute.

A second marine, the car’s driver, got out and opened the door for the woman. The corporal snapped to attention and snapped a salute. “Ma’am.”

“Thank you, Corporal.” The woman stepped out and returned the salute. Eight armed Singaporean police officers were lined up, four on each side, forming an armed human corridor from the car to the entrance of the hospital.

“This way, sir.” The sergeant motioned for the woman and the ambassador to follow him inside the main entrance. Just inside, a Caucasian man in a white physician’s jacket approached the ambassador with his hand extended.

“Welcome, Mr. Ambassador,” the doctor said.

“Doctor Shelton McNair, I’d like to introduce Lieutenant Commander Diane Colcernian, United States Navy.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Commander.” The doctor extended his hand. His accent was American. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”