But there were no grins either on any Soviet faces, embarrassed as they were, or on the battered face of Mr Vikas Bugga. The doctor had put his face under local anaesthetic, cleaned it before stitching him up and straightened his nose, his patient having stated he didn’t want to keep it bent as a badge of humiliation. ‘Take it really easy for a couple of days,’ the doctor advised him. ‘Certainly stay here the night,’ and he told Dmitry Tsarkov to fix a bed up. Before the doctor left he told Vikas Bugga where his clinic was. ‘Come round in a couple of days for a new dressing and, when the time comes, I’ll take your stitches out.’
Bugga, whose now-straightened nose and bruised, stitched cheek, were hurting him, merely nodded. It was less painful than trying to speak. He wasn’t hungry or thirsty for some hours and then eating was almost impossible, despite the pain killers he had been given. The Soviets gave him thin soup to suck through a straw: being ashamed of their Rezident’s behaviour they tried to make up for it as best they could, certainly by paying all the medical bills.
As the Indian lay in bed that night he went over and over in his mind’s eye how strange it was that he had heard himself speak when he knew he had not even opened his mouth. The Communist in disguise, now what was his name? had told him about Padamsing, how well he was doing. How had he known? That was a mystery. And the coolies being paid twice the amount. Party funds didn’t allow so much. If Padam was such a success maybe they didn’t deserve a rise: maybe they could be dispensed with altogether. Yes, that was the answer. Early next morning he would tell Dmitry Tsarkov, or write it down on a piece of paper if talking was still difficult, to contact his paymaster and tell him to stop payment that very day. That decided, the only unsolved matter was his speaking when he knew he hadn’t. What sort of party trick was that? Whatever else, he was happy that his choice of upsetting the British Gurkhas, Padamsing Rai, was doing sterling work over in Malaya. That at least was one, even if the only one, positive outcome of being told there was some sort of emergency. His face started aching and he managed to swallow some more pain killers, helped down with the water in a glass by his bed. He drifted off into a befogged sleep.
***
Ah Fat had been shocked by the behaviour of the Russians. Having had no experience of them he had not realised how differently they behaved from the British he had seen and grown up with in Malaya. Sure, he had seen some of the tuans drunk but never being so incapable that they lost all sense of dignity and of face: ‘face’, that display of public potency which makes for personal prestige. And the more he thought about that extraordinary letter that had been so furtively pressed into his hand … What witheringly bad tradecraft. Could it have been that the inborn superiority of the white man believing that a coloured native would automatically obey him? Such a thought made Ah Fat shudder. I know everyone can’t be as good with Asians as Jason but even so …
He thought of Jason’s idea of his giving the letter to the Captain and hoping that any executive action would result in the communist purser being sacked. Of course, without knowing what was in the letter he could deny all knowledge – that was completely natural – but even the thought of being capable of such an action was, surely, damning in itself? What he’d do was to make a copy of it, give that to Jason to do with it what he thought best as well as giving the original to the Captain. He spoke to Jason about it once matters had calmed down enough for the OC Troops to relax.
Jason frowned as he thought it over. ‘I don’t like the idea of you personally giving the letter to the Captain, altogether too risky if there were any follow-up. I think you must make a copy of the letter to give to any of your contacts you think ought to see it. Why not make two and give your Party one? Show them just how hard it is to talk to the Russians. You can blame Vikas Bugga for interrupting but, please, no mention of me. Yes, put the letter in its envelope into an outer envelope, no covering letter, with the Captain’s name on the outside. We’ll have to get a third and non-involved person to deliver it or, better still, say, leave it on the bar in the lounge when the barman is not looking. If you think that is difficult, I’ll give it to one of my Gurkha officers to put it on the bar of the second-class lounge. No one could ever suspect any of them being involved.’
Ah Fat thought it over and nodded agreement. ‘Doing it on the last morning just before disembarkation will be the best time,’ Jason added.
***
Tuesday 2 December 1952, somewhere in the Cameron Highlands, north Malaya: Members of the Politburo were discussing matters at a routine Plenum. News, generally, of Security Forces activity was casting a pall of gloom. ‘It is some time since Comrade Ah Fat left us,’ said one of them. ‘I do hope his journey will be
successful.’
‘Of course, we all do,’ added the Secretary General. ‘He is one of our most trusted operators. I have known him all these years. His wartime work was in every way a success. He is the most trustworthy’ and, confused by what he had not quite meant to say, ‘he is no more trustworthy than any of you are. He is only a cadet member of the Politburo, quite why not a full member I don’t know, but there it is.’
An uneasy silence ensued. Everyone knew, in the heart of his heart, that life in the Politburo was always on a tight rope, however hard one tried for it not to be.
Chien Tiang, chief confidant of Chin Peng and propaganda expert, looked up from reading a piece of paper in his hands. ‘I think what we originally decided was that his work took him to various places, and, in this instance, distant and unexpected ones, for such long periods he was apt to miss Plenum sessions so be unable to cast his vote. As a non-voting member his advice could well be sought but we could never count on his being present when we were voting’
Heads nodded and it was agreed that if anyone could find the spider in the web and get it to work for the Party, Comrade Ah Fat was the man. Their attention was switched with the arrival of a courier and his escort with various documents. The meeting broke off till these were read and put into their various files in the office. After that normal boredom set in as there being nothing positive to do, unless one calls ‘waiting for something’ positive.
***
Sunday 7 December 1952, Rangoon: The voyage was a soothing antidote to the events before the returning leave party’s embarkation. Both Jason and Ah Fat gave the purser a wide berth, feeling that if they were seen too much together it might get back to the MCP Politburo to Ah Fat’s disadvantage. They only visited each other’s cabin when none of the staff were about. Tradecraft! Also, who knew if the Hakka Chen Fan Tek in Tangra might, just, have met up with the purser and told him that Captain Rance spoke Chinese? So, although on the surface all was quiet, the two men were on their guard. Thus they came to Rangoon in slightly cooler weather but with same movement restrictions.
***
Sunday 7 December 1952, somewhere in east Nepal: The Chief Clerk, Gurkha Captain Hemlal Rai who had told Colonel Heron about the man-eating leopard, and Sergeant Jaslal Rai, a smaller edition of his elder brother but with thicker hair, were by now back home enjoying their leave. Both were keen shikaris and, as the villagers had seen recent leopard pug marks, they arranged for a goat to be tied up to a tree beside a little-used track where the villagers had said and had built a machan up a large tree, from where they could get a good shot at the marauding animal.
Both brothers, with loaded guns, climbed up to their hiding place well before dusk and sat, silent. There was a full moon. Around half past ten they heard footsteps coming from both ends of the track they were sitting above.
‘Keep quiet,’ muttered the elder. ‘Most unusual. Smugglers? Robbers?’
‘Can’t be normal village people, I’ll be bound,’ whispered the younger. ‘They keep well away when there’s leopard shooting.’
A short distance off both lots of footsteps came to a stop and a noise like a bull frog was made from one end. This was echoed from the other. The footsteps cautiously resumed and two pairs of men met under the machan. One in each group stood back and the other two moved forward, gazed at each other and embraced.
As Jaslal peered down through the bamboo slats of the machan he saw that one was much shorter than the other. Hemlal laid a restraining hand on his brother’s arm and gently squeezed it, a sign to remain utterly silent.
The shorter man spoke and Sergeant Jaslal, who had been an instructor in the Gurkha school, nearly gave their position away by his violent jolt when he heard the voice of one he knew too well and thoroughly despised for his habits.
‘Padamsing?’ The taller man asked softly in English. ‘Is this really you after so many years?’
The renegade Gurkha had gone into east Nepal to try and whip up support among leave men for his campaign that had been so unhappily disrupted and had had a message to meet, name not given, at a certain place. At that question he turned and recognised the monk, Lee Kheng Kwoh, who had seduced him when a lad in Darjeeling.
The familiar voice of ex-Sergeant Padamsing Rai answered, ‘Mijhar! Mijhar Lee Kheng Kwoh, my boyhood hero! Yes, it is I. I have come to meet you as your unnamed instructions told me to. I did not let any local villager know I was coming here: I made a recce by myself, with my own escort.’
They embraced again. ‘Same as I did,’ said Lee Kheng Kwoh. ‘We can talk here. We won’t be disturbed. The villagers stay indoors at night, especially with the man-eating leopard I’ve been told is wandering about.
He then called out softly: ‘you two others go back down the track you came up and, if anyone comes, turn them back.’
In the moonlight the two shikaris saw them turn round and disappear.
Padamsing said, ‘Now we really are on our own, aren’t we?’ He leant over and kissed his companion with a whispered titter that sent shudders down the two brothers’ spines.
‘Comrade Padam, you are just the same as you were all those years ago.’
‘Yes, the same me, older and a bit sadder.’
‘Tell me where you’ve been since we last met in Darjeeling all those years ago, when you were still young. I heard that you were going to subvert British Army Gurkhas. Did you manage to?’
Before he could answer they heard the bleating of the tied goat, disturbed by the guard who had frightened it. ‘A goat? Here? Why?’ muttered the one-time Sergeant in alarm.
The monk gave an un-monk-like curse. ‘Those stupid villagers! A goat and no shikaris! What fools they are. Excuse me a moment.’ He went up the track towards the renewed bleating, saw the tethered animal and told his guard to keep an eye on it and to take it back with them when they left.
Back under the tree the renegade Gurkha said, ‘Mijhar, to answer your question. I was so nearly successful. I really was. I had it all going so smoothly that I felt sure they would be useless for British imperialism.’
‘“So nearly successful”? What exactly do you mean?’
I mean “personally” successful. I had to leave the operation in the hands of others. I was wrongly…’ and here he felt he could not mention the real reason even though the monk had been responsible for his all-male proclivity.
‘That was highly unfortunate. So then, what happened?’
‘I transferred my work to Patna, in India, and was making great headway with the MGB comrade there, but he changed his mind. I felt so let down I just knew it was time to stop working for the Soviet Communists and transfer my loyalties to you. I will try to organise an army in the hills to persuade people that the Nepalese government must be overthrown, and our men being recruited in foreign armies prohibited. Now it’s time
to eat.’
He opened the haversack he had been carrying. ‘I have some chapattis and tea, Mijhar. The tea is as you like it, weak, unsweetened and without milk. I remember learning that in Darjeeling.’
‘Yes, you are known for your good memory.’
On the machan the younger man put his mouth to his brother’s ear. ‘We are armed. We could kill both so easily. Let’s shoot them.’
Hemlal again laid a restricting hand on his brother’s arm. ‘No, too risky and one is a monk. Can’t do it. Our hill men are too sensible to react to scum like that. Thank goodness there are so few of them. Let them go away without learning
about us.’
‘So, Comrade Padam,’ the monk said some few minutes later, it being impolite in Chinese society to talk while eating, ‘these are my orders. I will help you to get arms from the Chinese or, if you think it easier, you can do it yourself on the Indian black market – I’ll fund you – and gather villagers and where possible leave men and open a campaign against the Nepalese government for recruiting Gurkhas for the British Army and, where possible, try and influence Indian-domiciled Nepalis to do the same.’
‘Yes, it means I can continue our Party’s policy.’
