Jason, his world, for the fraction of a second, dropping a dimension and becoming paper thin. had concentrated on Vikas Bugga’s accent. Pretending a certain unsteadiness, he leant over the Indian and, in Hindi, said, ‘I am a friend of Padamsing’s. He is doing a great job. You chose him well and there’s no need to bother about him and the others. He says that without doubling their pay the coolies will stop shouting, so please do so. As it is, with so little incentive, they are now shouting so they can’t be heard in the Gurkha camp.’
Vikas Bugga knew that there were no extra funds but he could not say so. He merely thanked Jason for his information.
Sobolev didn’t understand what was being said. Intolerable! His temper snapped and in Russian he shouted ‘i̯a ne ponimái̯u, chto govorít ètot chórnomazyi̯ ubli̯údok.’
Vikas, who had some Russian, understood that to mean ‘I don’t understand what that nigger bastard is saying’ which naturally infuriated him but, sensing a golden opportunity, before he could answer, Jason leant over towards him and, using his ventriloquism, made him say, ‘You Russian bastard. You are black inside. I am like Queen Victoria, all pink inside.’
In his fury the Rezident answered in Russian. ‘Ty nazyvái̯esh’ meni̯á chórnym vnutrí?’ Vikas understood that to mean ‘You call me black inside?’ Then another outburst, ‘Ty nichtózhnai̯a málen’kai̯a chórnai̯a svin’i̯á.’ You insignificant little black pig. The Rezident’s notion of consular diplomacy was injudiciously elastic.
The two angry men flickered their eyes at each other like lizards’ tongues.
Vikas Bugga opened his mouth but Jason was quicker to answer. ‘Oh, go to hell, you worthless piece of dog shit.’ Jason’s accent would not have passed muster were the tension in the room not so strained. The effect was electric: the Rezident stuttered, glared, took a pace towards the equally surprised Indian who, although without any alcohol inside him, had been unbalanced at what he thought he had heard himself say. ‘Call me black, you black bastard? You insignificant little pig. How dare you talk to one such as me like that?’
The enraged Russian looked at the Indian with fanatical, bent-on-one-thing-only eyes and threw his glass hard at him, hitting him on the nose, actually bending it, and on one cheek, making him bleed copiously. Sobolev turned back automatically to the vodka bottle on a table beside him, picked it up and drank from it in one long gulp. The bottle fell from his hand as his rage and drunken state got the better of him, causing him to lose his balance. He had reached his tipping point and, gasping, collapsed onto the floor with a thump and passed out.
For Ah Fat time stopped like a broken clock as he witnessed such gross and unimaginable drunken behaviour.
Tsarkov had also been drinking toast for toast but had stayed silent and relatively sober. Now he suddenly realised what had happened and sobered up: a trusted Indian ally – and there were no other Indians like him – who had been so insulted he’d most likely have a grudge against the Soviets for the rest of his life. With the Rezident so disgraced in front of the Indian with a bleeding face and the new English comrade by his insensitive and unnecessary conduct, there could scarcely be any trust in any further collaboration. Before he could call for someone to look after Vikas Bugga’s face the attendant had dashed away and brought back a first-aid box and had started to repair what damage he could. The face was in a mess and needed stitching and the nose needed straightening.
‘Come and lie down. I’ll send for the consulate doctor,’
Eyes downcast, Mr Bugga was led away.
Jason looked round and saw the silent assistant. Feeling he knew how to maintain his role he said, ‘Either give me a consulate vehicle to take me back to my boat or order a taxi. Now.’
The assistant, with a strange look on his face, left the room. It was a curiously long while before he came back and said that the consulate car was waiting for them. ‘It took me a little time to alert the driver, hence the delay. I hope you comrades will forgive such behaviour. It is not how we like to comport ourselves with guests such as you. As loyal party members I ask for your total discretion about this evening.’
Jason solemnly assured him of his reticence as did Ah Fat. An envelope was slid into Ah Fat’s hand. ‘Please give this to the purser when you get back.’
Neither passenger said a word as they were driven back to the docks fearing that the vehicle, being the consulate car, was ‘doctored’ or, at least, the driver briefed to report back anything reportable he’d heard. As they got out they thanked the driver, showed themselves to the duty superintendent and walked to the Eastern Queen. They were in time for the evening meal. Jason’s stomach, still feeling the result of butter, milk and cold tea, was not receptive to too much food. In the lounge they had a couple of cups of coffee before going to Jason’s cabin to talk over the visit.
‘Shandung P’aau, what on earth made you become a circus clown? We could have learnt a lot if you had not called toast for toast and then made that wretched Indian not know whether he was punched, bored or countersunk.’ Ah Fat was very proud of that phrase but seldom had the chance to use it. ‘As it happened, we learnt nothing. Rather a waste after all that build up!’ He was disappointed but tried not to show it.
‘In a way, P’ing Yee, I agree. What I was aiming for was those few minutes between reticence and collapse when there might have been a windfall. Alas Vikas Bugga came in just at that moment and the Rezident, being the oaf that he is and very near his “sell-by date”, was in no mood for any unknown non-white person to learn any secrets. My aim then was to make verbal chaos and the Russians to lose face, regardless of how it affected the Indian. In fact I told him that the coolies were not doing their job properly and here I improvised by saying they needed twice the money, my hope being that party funds can’t meet the extra expense. I also told him that Padamsing was doing a great job and so were the others so there was no worry there.’
‘So, what now?’
‘I feel that by what you on board with the purser and I today have managed to accomplish will result in the Communists not realising they have reached their tipping point for failure so they’ll go on expending energy needlessly.’
‘Could be,’ said Ah Fat, ‘but what shall I say to the Politburo?’
‘That’s a good question. You must not lose any points there but gain a few. I am sure you’ll find words enough to satisfy them. Fool them with that mutinying battalion! You were given assurances that everything in India was being taken care of and that there was no more worry.’
‘And in Sarawak?’
‘That’s nothing to do with you so, again, no worry.’
‘That cheers me up. What a day!’
Before they went to bed Jason asked about the envelope that was given to him as they parted.
Ah Fat took it out of its pocket. He saw the ink on the envelope was smudged and that it had been only half sealed. Written in a hurry! Why? ‘Jason, I am suspicious. I have a feeling that there is bad news inside.’
‘We have our coffee kettle here in the cabin so let me steam the envelope open and read the letter before putting it back and resealing it before giving it to the purser.’ Jason filled the kettle and put it on to boil then deftly held the envelope over the steam and gently prised it open and gave it to his friend to read.
Jason heard his friend gulp. ‘Read this,’ Ah Fat said vehemently, thrusting the letter into his friend’s hands. Jason took it and read it, aghast as his eyes travelled over the hastily written English. The purser was ordered to get both men thrown overboard with no one else knowing about it. ‘Essential for the Party. Don’t ask questions. You will be rewarded.’
‘Unbelievable,’ breathed Jason. ‘What will you do with it?’
Ah Fat shook his head, almost in a trauma. If the ink had not been smudged and the envelope only half stuck down! ‘I can’t think. What do you suggest, Jason?’
‘Nothing now. When we disembark go to the Captain, give him the letter and tell him to do what he thinks fit.’
‘On the face of it that might be the best thing to do. Let’s sleep on it.’ They bid each other good night and Ah Fat went to his own cabin.
***
What neither man would ever know was that the attendant, the silent witness of the proceedings, was the only one in the consulate who was a Department S’s undercover representative, so more powerful than anyone else there. His report reached the office in number 1 Derzhenskii Square, resulting in the soon-to-be-ex-Rezident’s sojourn in the prison in the Lubyanka building, where Leonid Pavlovich Sobolev found himself not long afterwards. Dmitry Tsarkov was more fortunate: he was posted to the MGB HQ where he could be kept under observation, pending another report on his conduct.
So, unbeknownst to those in the consulate and in Department S, or anywhere else in the MGB set-up, Operation Tipping Point was scuppered by the organisers of the whole scheme: not a SABU, a Self Adjusting Balls Up, but a NABU, ‘N’ for non-adjusting.
***
Friday 28 November 1952, somewhere on the East Coast Railway, Malaya: The Director of Operations had been impressed with what A Company, 1/12 GR, had done during and after the railway ambush and decreed that it should be taken off its framework operations and go back and examine that area once more. What had excited him was the possibility of there being more weapons caches in that area. The cache had been cleverly found by a member of the clearing patrol who had hidden behind some thick undergrowth for a call of nature. As he squatted he noticed an unusual change of colour in the vegetation. He had investigated why and found where the cache was. A British battalion had been sent to the same area after A Company had been withdrawn from Kelantan but now was due to return to England. No more hidden weapons had been found. The area was taken over by 1/10 GR and extended so much that it needed more troops to cover it. That resulted in Jason Rance’s company being called back there.
The CO of 1/12 GR called Major McGurk to his office and told him that A Company was being sent north to work under command of 1/10 GR. ‘I’d rather have you with me, I must say, but apparently the Director of Operations doesn’t like to waste knowledge of what has already been gained. He somehow thinks that the high standard shown by A Company in finding where weapons had been cached can be repeated.’
McGurk nodded. ‘I understand, sir. Have there been any troops in that area since A Company were there?’
