Frantic shouts assaulted Arsyad’s ear. “Mereka merampok, Tuan! Jahe merah kita… dijarah!” The driver’s voice cracked with terror, the line dying with a sharp crackle. Arsyad’s hand clenched, crushing the cheap phone. Cold dread seeped into his bones. Not just a blockade, but active sabotage. Arya Mahendra had escalated. The game had changed from chess to street brawl.
His jaw tightened. Mahendra wasn't just stopping his trucks. They were sending a message, a brutal display of power. He pictured the men, likely hired thugs, tearing into his precious cargo, the very foundation of his rapidly dwindling inventory.
Red ginger, his most potent ingredient, now scattered on some highway shoulder, stolen. The loss was significant. Production had already halted. This was a direct hit to his supply chain, aimed at suffocating his business completely.
Syifa’s pale face flashed in his mind. Her labored breathing. Her small, hopeful smile when he promised things would get better. He couldn't fail her. Not now. Not ever.
Anger, cold and precise, began to replace the dread. He needed a solution, fast. Legal channels were cemented shut. Official suppliers, intimidated by Mahendra, wouldn't touch him. Every conventional door had slammed in his face.
There was only one path left. A path he had always avoided, deemed too risky, too unpredictable. A path that reeked of desperation and danger. The black market.
He pulled up encrypted maps on his tablet, cross-referencing old rumors, whispers from the fringes of the herbal community. A name surfaced repeatedly: Madam Lie. A ghost in the system, a shadow controlling the illicit flow of traditional medicines, potent herbs, and even rare animal parts. Her territory was the labyrinthine alleys of the city’s industrial outskirts.
Rumors painted her as ruthless. Fingers were supposedly her preferred payment for failed debts. A shudder ran through him, but he pushed it down. What choice did he have? He had to move, now.
---
Dust motes danced in the anemic light filtering through corrugated iron roofs. Arsyad navigated the narrow, sewage-scented alleys, the hum of distant traffic fading into a symphony of barking dogs and children’s cries. The air here was thick with the smell of stale incense, damp earth, and something metallic, something like old blood.
He had shed his usual smart business attire, opting for a nondescript dark shirt and worn jeans. His backpack, light and carefully packed, contained only essentials, including a small, specialized kit for assessing herbal quality.
Eyes followed him. From behind grimy windows, from shadowed doorways. Every step felt scrutinized, every breath held. This was a different world, governed by different rules, where power wasn't measured in share prices but in fear.
Following cryptic instructions received from a nervous contact, Arsyad stopped before an unmarked steel door, heavily scarred with rust. He knocked, a specific rhythm – three short, two long, one short. The sound echoed hollowly.
Silence. Then, a small slot slid open, revealing a single, unblinking eye. “Name?” a gravelly voice demanded.
“Arsyad Soemarta. I’m here to see Madam Lie.”
The eye narrowed. The slot slammed shut. Moments later, heavy bolts groaned, and the door creaked open, revealing a hulking man with a shaved head and tattoos snaking up his thick neck. His arms were like tree trunks. He didn't speak, simply gestured Arsyad inside with a flick of his chin.
Inside, the air grew heavier, thick with the cloying scent of exotic spices and unidentifiable smoke. The hallway was dimly lit by bare bulbs, leading to a larger, central room. Here, the atmosphere was a bizarre mix of an antique shop and a butcher’s block. Shelves laden with dried herbs in glass jars stood beside rusty hooks hanging from the ceiling.
Madam Lie sat at a heavy, dark wood table, surrounded by an aura of quiet authority. She was smaller than Arsyad expected, a woman in her late sixties, perhaps seventies, with sharp, bird-like eyes that missed nothing. Her hair, streaked with silver, was pulled back in a tight bun. Intricate jade rings adorned her gnarled fingers. One hand rested on a polished, ornate cane. The other, surprisingly, toyed with a silver letter opener, its tip needle-sharp.
“Soemarta,” she purred, her voice surprisingly soft, yet laced with an undeniable edge. “A name I know. Your mother’s jamu. Quite popular. And now you come to me. Desperate, I presume?”
Arsyad met her gaze, refusing to flinch. “I need raw materials. Specifically, high-grade red ginger, curcuma, and galingale. Undocumented, if necessary.”
Her thin lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. “Undocumented. A polite word for black market. You know the risks, boy? We don’t deal in contracts here. We deal in trust. And consequences.” She gestured with the letter opener towards a small, dark stain on the wooden floor.
“I understand the terms, Madam,” Arsyad stated, his voice steady. “My business needs to survive. Your network has what I need. I am prepared to pay fair prices.”
“Fair prices?” she scoffed. “Here, fair is what I say it is. And I hear your usual supply lines have been… severed. Your powerful rival, Mahendra. A tenacious spider, isn't he?”
Arsyad’s eyes narrowed slightly. News traveled fast in this underworld. He hadn't expected her to be so informed. This woman had reach.
“Indeed,” he conceded. “Which is precisely why I am here. Necessity breeds innovation. And I believe our interests can align.”
Madam Lie leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. “You speak boldly for a young man from the ‘legitimate’ world. Let’s see if your courage extends to your judgment. My men have some samples. Tell me, Mr. Soemarta, are they worth my ‘fair price’?”
One of the hulking guards placed three burlap sacks on the table. He opened the first, revealing a pile of reddish rhizomes. Arsyad approached, his senses immediately engaging. He reached in, pulling out a piece of red ginger.
He didn't just look. He felt its weight, its density. He broke a small piece, bringing it to his nose. The aroma was vital, peppery, with a hint of citrus. He then used his small, pocket-sized magnifying glass, examining the cut surface for the consistency of the vascular bundles, the absence of mold spores.
“This batch,” Arsyad announced, after a moment of intense scrutiny, “has been properly dried, moisture content is good. But it’s not from a prime harvest. Likely picked a week too early. The active compounds, gingerols, will be at 85% of peak potency. Worth about 80% of market value.”
Madam Lie watched him, her expression unreadable. The guard standing beside Arsyad stiffened, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
“Nonsense!” the guard spat. “That’s top-grade. You’re trying to lowball Madam Lie!”
“Silence, Budi,” Madam Lie commanded, a sharp, almost imperceptible flick of her wrist silencing the man. She turned her gaze back to Arsyad. “Continue.”
Arsyad moved to the second sack, pulling out a handful of what appeared to be dried curcuma. He performed a similar examination: feel, smell, visual inspection with the magnifier. He even scraped a tiny bit onto his tongue, his face betraying no reaction to the bitter taste.
“This curcuma,” he stated, pulling out a small digital scale from his kit, placing a sample on it. “Density is good. Color, aroma, all indicate proper processing. The curcuminoid content, based on the pigment intensity and a quick spectral analysis simulation in my head, should be around 4.5%. This is premium. Full market value, perhaps a slight premium for its consistency.”
A flicker of something, perhaps surprise, crossed Madam Lie’s face. No one usually questioned her merchandise with such precision. Most buyers just haggled blindly.
Finally, Arsyad approached the third sack, containing galingale. He repeated his meticulous process, his mind racing through calculations, comparing the empirical data from his senses against his vast internal database of herbal properties.
“The galingale,” he concluded, holding a piece up to the light. “Excellent quality. Fully matured, properly dried, minimal breakage. The eugenol and alpha-pinene levels will be high. This is what you claim it to be, Madam. Undervalued, even, at what you're likely asking.”
A slow, predatory smile spread across Madam Lie’s face. She leaned back in her chair, her eyes sparkling with a new, dangerous admiration. “You have a good eye, Arsyad Soemarta. A very good eye. Not many can see through my little tricks. Most just take what they’re given, or lose a finger trying to argue.”
Arsyad didn't react to the thinly veiled threat. He simply waited, his posture alert, his mind already calculating the potential profit margins from such high-quality galingale.
“So,” she said, her voice dropping to a low purr. “You want these herbs. My network can supply you. Stealthily. Continuously. The Mahendra Group will never know where you get your ingredients.”
“I need a steady supply, Madam. Reliable and consistent,” Arsyad affirmed. “My business cannot afford interruptions.”
She chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “Reliability is my specialty. As is secrecy. But nothing comes without a price, boy. And for this kind of… arrangement… my price will not be in simple rupiah.”
Arsyad’s breath hitched. He had anticipated a higher monetary cost, perhaps a percentage of his profits. But her words hinted at something far more personal, far more predatory.
Madam Lie leaned forward, her jade rings glinting in the dim light. Her eyes, sharp and ancient, bored into his. “I will give you a thirty-day grace period for payment. After that, we settle. And if, within those thirty days, your grand little jamu business falls apart, if you cannot generate the revenue to pay me back…”
Her voice dropped to a whisper, cold and final. “I will not ask for your money. Nor your fingers, Mr. Soemarta. I will ask for something far more valuable.”
Arsyad felt a chill spread through him, a premonition of true danger. He had faced financial threats, corporate espionage. This was different. This was soul-deep.
Madam Lie straightened, her smile widening into a grotesque grin. “If bisnismu jatuh dalam tiga puluh hari, aku tidak menginginkan uangmu, melainkan hak paten eksklusif atas resep jamu ibumu.”