PERSONAL JUSTICE by Ramlee Awang Murshid

8

KUALA LUMPUR, MALAYSIA

24 September 2000 - 10.15 a.m.

RUBEN, a citizen of the United States of America, directed his camera's lens around the Petaling Street to record the morning's activities. The crowd, the rows of old shophouses and the increasingly growing traffic seemed to interest him as he strived to capture the moments with his digital camera. Then smoothly, he aimed his camera at an ATM machine in the area. His target now was a couple of male, believed to be Arabs, who were withdrawing some money form the machine. Several times, his finger pressed the shutter on his camera.

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RUBEN had been in the capital for nearly four months. He had, on his arrival, declared himself as a tourist when questioned by the immigration officer at KLIA. According to the procedures, his arrival was legitimate and he was allowed entry. He had been in and out of the American Embassy ever since. 

While he was in the capital, however, Ruben never did any sightseeing except to tail the two men believed to be Arabs. He even knew where the two men were staying. Wherever they go, whatever they do and whoever they communicated with were never missed by Ruben. Spying and investigating the two men's movements was his mission in Malaysia as an agent of America's CIA.

Ever since he had followed them, Ruben noticed at least three times a week they would withdraw money from ATM machines of the same bank, only at different locations. The two had been in the country long. They did not seem to have any jobs besides wandering aimlessly. They would return to their hotel when they felt tired. That was their everyday routine. 

Their activities, whatever they were, did not raise any suspicion from Ruben. Their appearances were always affluent, although they were jobless. Ruben did not wonder about that. He knew that the two men were funded by a Middle East organization.

Ruben was stunned when, suddenly, the two men turned their eyes on him, whispering to each other. Instantly, Ruben turned his camera away, pretending not to notice them.

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ABU HASDAL watched the white man suspiciously. His companion, Abdul Ghari felt the same. Their suspicion grew when they noticed the same white man, who looked like a tourist, to be wherever they were.

"La syakka innahu syaitoonun Amriki (I'm certain that man is an American devil)," Abu Hasdal whispered.

Abdul Ghari nodded. Lines appeared on his stern face as he looked at what his friend had just pointed out.

"Assyaitoonun ma zaala yutaabi'una (The devil seemed to be following us)," Abu Hasdal said again.

"Naqtul huwa (we kill him)," Abdul Ghari grew impatient. 

"Laa (No)." Abu Hasdal restrained his impatience.

"Ana hazinun wahuwa sayudammiru baromijuna (I worry if the devil would jeopardies our plans)," said Abdul Ghari.

Abu Hasdal thought for a while.

"Hayyaa bina... natruk haadzal makan (Come... leave this place)," Abu Hasdal suggested.

Abdul Ghari agreed.

Both of them left the ATM machine. They crossed the road over to Kota Raya Complex. Once in a while they turned back to make sure that they were not followed. The man they called 'devil' was no longer there. Abu Hasdal and Abdul Ghari sighed with relief.

"Tabba syaitoonu Amriki (Damn the American devil)," whispered Abu Hasdal.

"Tabba syaitoonu Amriki (Damn the American devil)," Abdul Ghari echoed.