In front of him was an outsize spider’s web, with the huge, hairy, black creature in the centre in the process of bundling up a fly. Ducking under the web so as not to break it, leg paining him so making movement cumbersome, he slowly turned round and, facing the way the enemy troops were coming towards him, stepped on a large stone and deliberately walked backwards into the water. He rubbed his footprints off the stone and splashed some water on it. He saw that there was one footprint he could not properly erase. He bent down, splayed his fingers and made it look like a tiger’s paw mark. He took another couple of paces backwards, making his way towards another aloe plant. Then, putting the piece of bamboo into his mouth as a breathing tube, silently lay down under the water, holding his nose.
He was only just in time.
His companions hiding in a glade saw the British soldiers. An Asian, with heavily tattooed arms, pointed to the ground. The guerrillas did not know that he was an Iban tracker from Sarawak and that Ibans were attached to British troops who were not skilled in tracking. ‘Our comrade has been seen,’ the senior guerrilla said. ‘Get ready to save him.’ He saw the tattooed man bend down as though investigating, stand up and point to the large spider’s web.
The troops took no notice as they moved on past it. They probably didn’t even notice it!
The guerrillas up on the slope breathed a communal sigh of relief when they saw which way the British troops had gone. After judging five minutes, Ah Fat slowly, slowly lifted his head out of the water, looked around and seeing nobody, stood up, taking deep breaths of air with joy. His comrades hurried back down to the track to help him out of the water.
They hid in a secluded spot while Ah Fat changed out of his wet clothes into dry ones and rested his ankle. Half an hour later, revived, ‘On our way now,’ he said, getting up. They moved on as fast as his damaged ankle allowed.
***
The Iban tracker’s mind nagged at him. What was it I might have missed? He thought back and played the scene over in his mind and minutely visualised the pug mark once more. Got it! Two points: there was no tiger smell and, he inwardly cursed, the tiger’s pug mark was as though the animal was moving backwards. Tigers don’t move backwards … Ibans are mercurial people. He inwardly shrank at admitting his error and losing face. He decided not to say anything about it and, anyway, his English was not really up to explaining it. Good luck to the clever man who made that mark: he deserved to get away with it!
… yes, it had been a difficult journey but back to the present.
Ah Fat looked straight at his questioner, feigning sadness and dismay – tradecraft! – licked his lips and shook his head. Time to disseminate: he decided not to mention anything about escaping from the British soldiers. ‘Oh, Comrade Secretary General, let me give you the bad news straightaway: something went so very wrong. All our group, except me, were ambushed. The gwai lo comrade was killed as were all the other comrades, including Comrade Lau Beng, the Regional Committee Commissar. It was only by the grace of Lenin that I was saved by having surprisingly contacted another comradely group when I and my own escort went to shoot a deer for food. I took them to one side so that the group with the new comrade could continue without their knowledge. It was then that the disaster occurred. I stayed back only long enough to find out details of any casualties then moved on with my own escort. So thankful to be alive and back with you, can hardly be said forcibly enough. I humbly apologise.’
‘I am disappointed …’
Ah Fat interrupted. ‘Comrade Secretary General I have already apologised …’
He was rudely cut off. ‘I am not blaming you to the extent that it will be detrimental to your character, so don’t worry. It was just that I wanted some first-hand knowledge about the morale of the Security Forces, especially of the Gurkhas …’ His voice tailed off and he stared into the distance. ‘I’ll have to call a Politburo meeting first thing tomorrow,’ he muttered to himself.
The Politburo met as ordained and Ah Fat was made to give chapter and verse about his search for leaks – nothing found – and the now-dead gwai lo. After a gloomy shaking of heads and tut-tutting, Lee An Tung said, ‘Comrades, of course I, too, am disappointed. We had all hoped to get his leaving the army for us to embarrass the imperialists, lower their morale so greatly help us in our struggle. That makes my next suggestion even more important.’ He looked round at his audience who gazed at him with rapt attention.
‘Comrade Secretary General, let me be frank. May I ask your permission for this to be a closed session without any written records being made and no recriminations to what anybody says after I have made my points?’
‘Comrade, I have always trusted you. Yes, I agree but even so let’s put it to the vote.’
Comrade Lee An Tung was known for his accurate analyses so the motion was passed with no one objecting. The Head of the Central Propaganda Department leant back, turned slowly and looked at Ah Fat. ‘Comrades, however loyal this comrade is, and we all know there is none more loyal, he knows his way about in places where his presence is not queried, unlike the rest of us. I therefore feel we must use him to the very limit of his undoubted abilities. With our permission let us do something unprecedented as our situation is so serious.’
He paused dramatically and, palms turned inwards, raised his hands as if invoking some sort of blessing. ‘Let us get him to arrange a strike from inside the imperialist ranks even if unsuccessful as well as also sending him on an out-of-country reconnaissance to exert pressure from outside.’
The effect was one of stunned silence, people looking from one to another, none wanting to be the first to make any comment.
‘Before any of us can comment on this revolutionary idea give us details. What, in point of fact, are you suggesting?’ Chin Peng asked, in a surprised tone of voice, rather wishing it were he who had thought of the idea if it turned out a good one.
‘I would want him to go and see our comrades in Singapore and …’ once more he broke off. ‘That renegade Nepali from Darjeeling who I hear has enlisted with some like-minded comrades, is probably still in Singapore. He, or rather they, could well be the medium we need to turn the balance against the British in our favour. So, he is the one we need to find and learn his plans.’
What a wonderful idea, everybody thought. It made good sense to strike from the inside. Smiles wreathed all faces and congratulations were given. Then the Secretary General put the question to Ah Fat. ‘Comrade, that would not be too much for a man of your ability, would it? Our future will be in your hands.’
The others looked expectantly at him. Po-faced but rejoicing inside – yes, it will! Tradecraft, tradecraft he muttered inwardly – and with an expression of deep concentration, he slowly answered. ‘Comrades, I am ready to do anything for the Party, as you must already know, I and my most trusted escort. But this task is different from many others I have undertaken as it may turn out to be more wide-ranging than you are expecting it to be. Also, there can be no guarantee of success …’
He was interrupted by the Secretary General who, placatingly, said, ‘Comrade, of course you can’t guarantee that, nor do we demand anything that in any way will be dangerous to your hidden party membership. If you find your only way of making an escape, you will sacrifice your most trusted escort, Wong Ming, your Bear.’ He was referring to the one-time military commander of the Negri Sembilan Regional Committee, and, although none of the Politburo knew it, now a friend of Captain Rance. He was a short, almost square man, and powerfully built – he looked like a bear so his nickname was Hung Lo, Bear.
Ah Fat’s expression did not change but mentally he said to himself that that would never happen. Before he could make any further comment Comrade Lee An Tung said, ‘even if you can’t contact the renegade Gurkha, let me explain my other idea the out-of-country recce. I propose that you undertake a task to ensure success which is vital to our eventual victory. I believe that the situation is potentially so serious that what I have just told you to do is child’s play compared with this second proposal.’
Ah Fat tensed, his hands unconsciously coming together and chafing each other, thinking hard. I must not show any doubt on my face, only conviction.
The Secretary General turned to Comrade Lee An Tung and asked him for details, ‘which I will put to the vote after we have heard them for approval or otherwise.’
‘Reports I have received are that there is a secret headquarters that has links with all major communist parties in Southeast Asia, most probably in Calcutta.’ All eyes were fixed on him as he continued ‘I have learnt that the contact is where in one of two Chinatowns. One is in Tangra, known as Tangra Chinatown, in the east of the city. The other, Tiretta Bazaar, usually known as Old Chinatown, is in central Calcutta. Both communities are leatherworkers. They are Hakkas. Among them is the link to this secret HQ, an MGB set-up, somewhere in Calcutta.’
A frisson of excitement was palpable in everybody and showed on their faces, eager and shining. What research had been done to know all that! They all knew that MGB meant the Soviet Ministry of State Security but they did not know the Russian translation.
An aeroplane was heard off to a flank. The noise of the throbbing engine upset them and no one spoke till it was heard no longer.
The plan and its background continued to be unfolded. ‘We know of course that such HQs are always located outside the area of operations. In our case it is not in KL but here. Likewise, I know that operations against the Americans were conducted from somewhere in Africa. And as I have just said, Calcutta is my best guess where the Soviet MGB has this intensely secret office. Comrade Ah Fat will go there for confirmation and for our news to spread to Kathmandu for “alternative treatment” as the doctor might put it, just in case the renegade Gurkha cannot help. There is no need for him to go any farther than Calcutta. He will be doing a job in a way no one else can, possibly even needing a change of persona. He will travel with a boat of the Indo-China Steam Navigation Co. Ltd., registered in Hong Kong, either on the SS Eastern Queen or the SS Princess of the Orient. They ply from Hong Kong to Calcutta and back, calling at Singapore and Rangoon. The pursers have been groomed to “help” people like him so he is not, I say again not, to travel on a British-India boat even if it means waiting a while because, were he to, he would not have the pursers as a link to Chinatown.’
That was a lot to digest and it would be foolish openly to jump at the chance. A show of reluctance was needed so Ah Fat kept silent for a couple of minutes as though contemplating the scale of his task.
‘Comrade Ah Fat,’ the Secretary General again queried, ‘are you prepared to undertake this difficult, dangerous and daunting task for the Party? Are you up to it?’ The question was sharp and pointed, asked with a hint of menace.
Ah Fat wanted to ask the three senior men, whom he had never seen voluntarily face danger, if they would go on such a mission but naturally that was entirely out of the question. ‘Of course, I’ll most certainly try my best because I won’t know if I am up to it unless and until I do try,’ he answered, making direct eye contact with his questioner. ‘Even if I can contact the renegade soldier or any of his type you still want me to go to Calcutta, don’t you? If so, the administrative details for that will need to be completed in a way that brings no suspicion to my real aim. I have a passport but I will need a visa, money for a ticket and, so that I won’t have to wait too long, a fixed date. And, yes, a sure berth on the boat.’
Lee An Tung said, ‘Money we can deal with here, certainly enough to keep you going until you get to Singapore where our man is Chen Geng. He will fix currency and visa details for you. I repeat: his office is at 47 Pedder Street. As his work is normal trade it is safe to ask for him by name.’
And with that Ah Fat said he was satisfied. The Politburo voted on it unanimously.
***
Tuesday 30 September 1952, Singapore: Acting Sergeant Padamsing Rai had done very nicely, thank you. After his recruit training, where he had shone, he was posted to 1/12 GR as a clerk. He had asked for and been granted local leave and had visited Bhutan Estate, one of the three with a Nepalese workforce, and had found a Kamal Rai with whom he discovered he shared a great-grandfather, a firm enough bond for ‘board and lodging’ to be offered. Kamal was in his mid-twenties, immensely strong, with deep-set eyes that flashed dangerously when he was annoyed and a face that had a calm look, although there was an air of subtlety about it. He had been educated at King George V’s School in Seremban where the medium of instruction was English, and his teachers had regarded him as a scholar. He had operated against the Japanese during the war. He had found the visit difficult because his visitor kept on asking for ‘comrades’ to help try, quite how was not revealed, to make Gurkha soldiers react badly against their British officers. Such talk was completely foreign to him, against all he held dear. Now remembering the good relations he had forged with Captain Rance, he was in no way receptive to Padamsing’s attempted bullying and unwanted insinuations. This led to threats and bad feelings. Kamal did not make any mention of his dealings with Captain Rance but, to keep matters more friendly, said he’d do what he could and let his distant relative know what he’d achieved on the next visit. By then I’ll have thought up something to keep him quiet and me safe. Padamsing saw Kamal was too strong to bully so ‘nagging’ would have to do instead.
When educational facilities for Gurkhas were established in 1949 Padamsing was sent as an instructor to the Army School of Education (Gurkhas) in Singapore as an acting sergeant, a most unusually quick promotion. He thought he had made some converts for the ‘cause’ although he knew that such work was strictly forbidden. However, his inner proclivity demanded man-to-man release, practically unknown in village life. Both proclivity and persuasion were suspected by Gurkha hillmen students who only gave an impression of having been persuaded by his political oratory – something foreign to them – but who in reality ignored his blandishments and totally rejected his tendency. There was also a British sergeant instructor at the school who had the same ‘appetite’: neither knew that they were under observation by the suspicious British OC.
The renegade Gurkha had been called to the office telephone, identified himself and an unknown voice speaking good but accented English had said, ‘You don’t know me. You must meet me at’ and the voice slowly pronounced the inappropriately named Balmoral Inn in Ulu Pandan ‘next Saturday at around four o’clock.’
‘Why?’ asked bluntly.
In a lowered voice, ‘Party orders’
‘Who’s calling?’ the Gurkha had asked, caught off balance.
‘We haven’t met. Just call me Ah Ho’ and the line went dead.
Padam was thrilled. He got his out pass and arrived early. He sat at the bar and ordered a beer. As he waited, he thought back to the day he had been inducted to be a Communist agent. He recalled how he had asked ‘Lance’ Sharkey a question he could not answer at that Calcutta meeting so did not notice when a Chinese man entered, looked around and joined him. Lost in reverie, he was jolted awake. He was not to know that he was Xi Zhan Yang, the secret courier based in Kuala Lumpur. ‘I am Ah Ho, the man who called you on the phone. No need to ask how I knew you or your number. We are smart. I have been sent to contact you so let’s go and talk in that empty corner not at the bar. Don’t act suspiciously.’ He ordered two beers and away they went to the back of the room.
Padamsing was agog. Action! After a minimum of small talk, the Chinese man said, ‘the Politburo wants to know how many men you have converted, in what battalions they are serving, their addresses in Nepal or the Darjeeling area and who, among the staff, are suspicious of your activities.’
The Gurkha gulped in astonishment. ‘Comrade Ah Ho, I have not gone into so much detail as that.’
‘Tell me why not. You are under strict orders.’
‘It would be too suspicious to go about it that way. I am preparing the basic yeast of indiscipline which will only ferment when men get back to their units. But nothing positive can or will happen until a tipping point is reached and that cannot be for quite a while yet.’
‘Too slow. Much too slow.’ Xi Zhan Yang’s briefing had been given at third-hand and had acquired a degree of urgency that had not been planned. ‘I’ll be back within three weeks’ – the original time given had been six months – ‘and you’ll give me the answer then. Take down my phone number: after three rings ring off. Ring again. After two more rings, ring off. Then ring again.’ He glared menacingly at the Gurkha, finished off his beer, stood up, glared once more and left.
