The Organization

The charred and broken piece of wreckage that was no larger than the lid of a coffin gently undulated in the warm winter currents of the Indian Ocean. The semiconscious singed and bruised man atop the ragged piece of fiberglass was five feet, seven inches tall, had black hair, brown skin, and brown eyes that, under normal circumstances, were flat and expressionless. He wasn't athletic by any stretch of the imagination, shunning sports and exercise because his parents believed such pursuits were silly and wouldn't put money in his pocket. Whereas reading books and concentrating on schoolwork would get him a good job and a way to support a wife and family. As a result, he gained a small tire around his stomach at an early age that remained to this day. The 33-year-old Balinese private investigator and former police detective had been afloat on the open sea without food or water for nearly three days. With the alternating heat of the day and the cold of night sucking the energy from his body, he had barely enough strength to grip the jagged piece of his boat that was preventing him from becoming part of the ocean's food chain. Casting a gaze at the sun slipping into the sea, which extinguished the last remnants of daylight, the man struggled to keep his eyes open. Eventually, the combination of dehydration, fatigue, and lack of food took its toll, and he closed his eyes and began the journey into an unconsciousness from which he'd never recover. Seconds later, fate intervened. The five feet, four inches tall nearly bald man was 75 years old. His skin was dark brown, wrinkled, and leathery - the result of both age and decades of exposure to the elements. His gnarly and callused hands, despite his age, had a grip that was not unlike a vice. A fourth-generation fisherman, he sat in the same ten-foot handmade wooden boat that his father and grandfather used. Casting his line into the water, he was pulling his favorite jig across the seagrass 12 feet below him, jerking the rod several times in quick succession, imitating the motion of a prawn before letting the jig come to rest. If a squid was near, they'd attack it. The old man fished the waters off Uluwatu, Bali, since the age of 12 and knew that the best time to catch the elusive cephalopods was a couple of hours before and after sunset. The six squids in his livewell were a testament to both his knowledge and skill. He was about to retrieve and recast his jig when something struck his craft with a dull thud. Believing it to be flotsam, which was common near shore, he set down his rod and took a flashlight from a plastic box, inspecting the side of his boat where he'd heard the impact. That's when he saw the unconscious man atop a jagged piece of fiberglass. Pulling him onto his boat, the old man slowly dripped water into his mouth until he saw his eyes open. Eventually, the rescued man became more alert and consumed the two bottles of water the old man had with him. The fisherman didn't have a phone. Therefore, after pulling in his line, he engaged his small outboard motor and steered his craft towards the nearest dock, which belonged to a hotel. He'd fished these waters all his life. Although the pier wasn't visible at night, and he owned no navigational aid, one glance at the stars was all he needed to set his course. An hour later, the survivor was in a hospital. As Gunter Wayan opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a gorgeous brunette. Behind her was a circle of intensely bright lights. "Am I in heaven?" Wayan asked, his speech weak and slightly distorted. "You're so beautiful; you must be an angel." The nurse smiled and stepped aside. "Nothing wrong with his eyesight," the doctor standing behind the attractive woman quipped, pushing the examination light to the side as he and another person stepped forward. "You had a close one," police captain Riko Dhani said, coming from the back of the room and taking a position to the right of the doctor. He was five feet, five inches tall, had green-grey eyes, and salt and pepper hair that was closely cropped to a stubble. He was husky but not muscular. Years of smoking yellowed his teeth, although he'd recently quit. As a habit, he never fastened his shirt's top button, even when wearing a tie, because his neck was too large for the size shirt he purchased. "Where am I?" "In a hospital," Dhani answered. "How'd I get here?" Dhani explained. "Does Eka know?" Wayan asked in a hoarse voice, his speech approaching normal. "I called her. She's on her way," Dhani answered, referring to Wayan's assistant, Eka Endah. "Before you pepper my patient with more questions, I need to examine him. Give us a few minutes," the doctor interjected, pulling the privacy drape around Wayan's bed to show there was no discussion on the matter. Dhani went into the hall and sat in one of the green plastic chairs against the wall, waiting for the doctor to finish so that he could return and question Wayan. While he was waiting, Eka Endah arrived. The five-foot, six-inch hazel-eyed statuesque woman had tawny brown skin, very shapely legs, ample breasts, and brunette hair cascading over her shoulders. She wore a short black dress and black high heels as she approached the police captain. Dhani did a doubletake. The woman in front of him was the butterfly who emerged from the cocoon. In Wayan's office, he'd only seen her in loose conservative clothing. "How is he?" Eka asked. "Conscious. The doctor is examining him." "I was at a girlfriend's party," she explained upon seeing how Dhani looked at her. "Wayan's my friend. But you know you could get a job in a heartbeat at a high-end resort. I'm guessing you'll make substantially more than what you're making as Wayan's assistant. I could set the meetings." "I like my job. Wayan's a good man who helps others who can't help themselves. Being a part of that gives me a great deal of satisfaction." "Satisfaction, but not money. From what I hear, most of his clients don't have a pot to piss in." "Wayan manages." "He needs to join one of the Jakarta agencies which set up shop in Bali." "He's a brilliant detective. He'll survive on his own." "He is a brilliant detective. I should know; I was his partner. Today, people don't want a gumshoe like Wayan; they want a sophisticated approach to their investigative needs. I put in a word for him at several of these agencies. They told me they've called." "He's turned down their job offers." "Talk some sense into him, Eka. His woefully neglected vehicle requires major surgery if it's to survive, his credit is in the tank from the bills that have piled up, and his landlord, who's a friend of mine, is losing patience with his promises to pay the rent. However, I suspect an irregular paycheck doesn't bother you." "I get by." "Is there any truth to the rumor you were the sole beneficiary of your father's trust, which owned the land on which they built the airport? I heard the trust is sizeable." "You seem unusually well informed regarding Wayan and me." "I was a detective, even though I'm now the paper pusher overseeing detectives." "Well, Captain Dhani, someone has solved Wayan's financial problems." "You?" "No. He won't accept my money. We have a new client who has a rather large pot to piss in." Dhani frowned. The doctor came out of the room and told the captain that he could return. Eka followed, startled when she saw her boss with bandages on his face and arms and sporting a black eye. "You've got a visitor, Sam," Dhani said, using the nickname he'd given Wayan after discovering they both loved the movie Casablanca. "How do you feel?" Eka asked. "Well enough to go home." "I expect you'll get pushback from the doctor, especially since you were unconscious and floating in the ocean less than eight hours ago," Eka said. "What happened?" Dhani asked. "Wrong place. Wrong time."