The Code-Cracker and the Tai-Chi Dancer

By Alan Bollard

It is 1960s Singapore and a time of turbulence: political argument in Malaya, invasion threats from Indonesia, and the Cold War is spreading through Southeast Asia. Sarah is a clever young officer sent to monitor the radio waves and provide military intelligence for the British. Pearl is the young Chinese woman teaching tai chi classes. Caught between them is Harry, the planter’s son turned investigative journalist. But Pearl is not all she seems, Sarah is unearthing a cesspool of dealings, and Harry hardly knows which way to turn to avoid his family ghosts. From the bustling young metropolis of Singapore to the humid muddy jungle of Borneo, a web of political intrigue, conflicting emotions, and taut mystery await.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris NZ
• Release date: Jun 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781514466858

Alan Bollard

Alan Bollard wrote this novel while he was living in Singapore, where his job has been running an international organisation by day, and novel-writing on planes, at airports and at night. He has written many works of non-fiction, produced an economics software game called Oikonomos, and helped to rebuild the MONIAC, the world’s first economic computer running. In his earlier life he has been New Zealand Reserve Bank Governor and Secretary of the New Zealand Treasury.

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 by Alan Bollard.

ISBN:           Softcover             978-1-5144-6686-5

                     eBook                  978-1-5144-6685-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 06/11/2018

Xlibris

0-800-443-678

www.Xlibris.co.nz

768905

CONTENTS

Prologue: Game On

Chapter 1: Gambit

Chapter 2: Advance

Chapter 3: Long-Game

Chapter 4: Encryption

Chapter 5: Queen’s-Move

Chapter 6: Sacrifice

Chapter 7: Counter-Gambit

Chapter 8: Knight’s-Move

Chapter 9: Deception

Chapter 10: Encirclement

Chapter 11: Outflanking

Chapter 12: Entrapment

Chapter 13: Confrontation

Chapter 14: Checkmate

Epilogue: Endgame

Annex: Memories

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to family, friends and colleagues from around the region who provided historical detail, political facts, and advice on language and customs.

The back-drop political events are mainly factual.

All front-line characters are completely fictional.

PROLOGUE

Game On

January, 1963

The moon shone across the water. It was quiet on the river, the tethered sampans bobbing gently on the incoming tide. Here and there shadows moved as cargoes were stowed on the small craft. The noise of boots on stones rang out on the quay-side. In the dark two figures stopped, looked up, and quickly dropped beneath a tarpaulin cover. Through a rip in the canvas they watched silently.

On the wharf marched three men in uniform, light glinting on the barrels of sten guns as they patrolled.

Quiet tonight, Sarge.

Quiet most nights here, Mitchell.

Then why do we have to be out on these night patrols?

Just showing the flag, matey.

The flag? But they’ve got their own one now, haven’t they?

We’re showing them Communists that we’re still here. That we haven’t gone yet.

But they’re beaten, aren’t they? Surrendered, haven’t they? I read it.

Drop it Mitchell, that stuff’s for the politicians. There’s some types that never surrender. And put away them Woodbines, no smoking on patrol. Bit of discipline please.

Come on Sarge. Here’s one for you. Mohammad won’t tell no one, will you mate? The two struck a match.

On the sampan, two pairs of eyes watched the flame light up the European faces.

The soldier flicked his match into the dark waters of the Singapore River, where it fizzled momentarily. Watching across the water, Mohammad’s sharper eyes registered a movement, a sampan bobbing in the tide when all the others were stable. He wondered about telling the sergeant. But the other two had moved on, and were talking about the drinks they would have after their patrol. Or were they talking about women now? Mohammad looked back across the waters again, then shrugged, and turned to catch up.

CHAPTER 1

Gambit

February, 1963

The banyan tree spread its leafy canopy over the path, its aerial roots pegging it to the ground. Offering some relief from the sunlight, the Botanic Gardens were an oasis, a calm retreat amid the bustle and heat in this throbbing Asian city. Yet even in the early morning the humidity was intense. Sweat dripped in his eyes, and Harry stopped to wipe them with his damp sleeve.

Hey Mister! Harry looked up, alarmed.

Mister, what you think you doing, ah?

Sorry, I was dreaming.

You not dreaming in my class!

Sorry.

You stay awake! Now we must start again! And turning back to the rest of the class she muttered angrily in Hokkien. A ripple of amusement spread across the faces in the group. Harry felt irritated. Easy for them, they were Chinese, they had been learning this since school days. He noticed that even the blonde was smiling too - the only other outsider in the class, yet somehow she seemed to understand the teacher’s muttered Chinese dialect.

Start again: movement number three. Hands out in front as though holding a heavy bowl, balance on one leg, the other stretched behind, back strong. Or was it strong stomach? Not for the first time, Harry wondered about this tai-chi. It had looked so easy and so graceful when he saw the class each morning as he walked through the gardens. And yet it was proving very hard to do: hard to remember, hard to balance. It was meant to clear the mind, but his own mind was full, jammed with the tai-chi movements that he was trying to remember, also full of embarrassment for the mistakes he was making. He tried to empty out all these thoughts and concentrate on the teacher as she led the moves. From behind he could watch her lithe body in her crimson satin pyjamas, balanced, graceful, strong yet elegant, as she led the next movement. Her straight dark hair was held by a black ribbon. From here he could not see her angry face, only her narrow hips, her strong legs …. he stumbled again.

Harry thought he heard a snigger from the blonde woman alongside him, but when he glared at her she seemed to have her eyes closed, in intense concentration. He must have been dreaming, for he was out of step yet again. Was this movement number four or five for heaven’s sake?

It was a relief when at last the instructor reached the end of the session, and turned off her tinny tape recorder. The whining music stopped. The class relaxed, stretching, resting, as the instructor gave them some final instructions. With a sly glance at Harry she said something more, and once again the others tittered.

What did she say about me? asked Harry, as they packed their bags.

My name is Sarah, how do you do? said the blonde woman, offering a sweaty hand.

Oh sorry, I am Harry ... He paused. Sorry I didn’t mean to be rude. You can understand her can’t you? What did she say about me?

Sarah looked at him: a smooth rather handsome young man, perhaps a little self-absorbed? Not entirely British in appearance – she had assumed he was a local but his English was perfect. She smiled. Hard to translate, she said. Sorry. My Hokkien is not so good. She glanced at him again: dark features, well-formed, smooth skin. And yet he seemed to have the vulnerability of an outsider.

But you laughed when she said it.

OK, if you really want to know, I think she said something like: ‘he is all yin and no yang’.

I am not sure what that means, but it doesn’t sound like a very nice thing to say.

Sarah hesitated. Rather rude actually. And then seeing Harry redden, she added: but don’t worry, she’s the teacher, she can say what she likes. You shouldn’t take umbrage.

I am thinking of giving up the class.

But you only just started! Bye Harry, nice to meet. Self-absorbed and insecure, thought Sarah, turning away and picking up her bag.

Harry started up the path. Hey Mister! There was a shout behind him. Turning he saw the instructor, looking severe in her crimson satin pyjamas. Mister, you can learn tai-chi, but must try harder. Next time you watch my ch’i more and my bum less. Okay?

Harry reddened.

The hubbub spilled out across the pavement and on to the street, where it merged with the cries of the street vendors, the revving of the motorcycles, the exhausts of the cars, the shouts of the passers-by. The bar was in an old shop-house, open to the muddy sidewalk, the ceiling fans stirring up a soupy flow of air, mixing the petrol smells of the street with the cooking smells of the sidewalk. In the gloom, Harry could see Andy and Guan, and that silly chap Rob sitting around a rickety cane table. And if he hadn’t spotted them, he certainly could hear them - Andy’s flat drawl, and Rob’s loud voice. Harry pushed his way past the other customers and pulled up a plastic stool.

It’s the tea man!

How are you doing, mate?

Hello gentlemen. Hello Guan.

Unasked, the Chinese bar tender delivered more bottles of Tiger beer. There were not many drinking choices here, and this table did not look like it would be ordering gin and tonics. The moisture condensed on the cold glass and pooled on the table.

Has anything happened today?

Andy was a journalist working for Reuters. He might have been good-looking once, but now he was ageing, and the general impression was lines and creases, sun-burned and balding on top but hairy around the ears. He had been in Singapore forever, and before that he had been everywhere else too. If it happened today, he could be relied on to know it. Even more impressively he also often knew what was going to happen tomorrow. Harry wondered how he achieved this, because as far as he could see, Andy seemed to spend most of his time sitting around in cheap bars, drinking.

Rob claimed to be a journalist too, though no one was quite sure what he reported and who he worked for. Rob was younger and still had something of the gilded youth about him, despite a debauched lifestyle. I do dark side stuff, mate, was his usual explanation. The stuff you don’t read about in your papers, he added enigmatically. Andy smiled knowingly: Rob was a gutter journalist of the lowest variety.

Well actually, said Andy replying to Harry, I think things are hotting up again.

Hotting up?

The unrest, the threats.

The Indonesians?

The Konfrontasi is serious, you know. I don’t think the Government quite realises just how serious. Did you read Soekarno’s speech? Political rabble-rousing for Indonesians of course. Trying to stop Sabah and Sarawak from joining the new Federation.

Could that work?

It helped keep Brunei out.

I thought that was about who owns the oil.

Oil and the powers of the Sultan. But this could set off the local Malays again. They’re getting angry.

Angry?

They want to stay part of Malaysia. They don’t trust the Chinese in Singapore. Jeez Harry, a local businessman like you must know that.

Yes, yes, I grew up with all that. I do know. But it’s complicated.

If you ever really want to be a journalist boy, you’ve got to deal with complicated. And make it simple. Andy got up. Need to take a leak, boys. He pushed his way across the room.

Yeah, make it simple is right, said Rob draining his beer. Wong, more! The barman hurried over.

That’s not his name, said Guan quietly.

It seems to work, mate – we’ve got the beer. Rob poured himself another glass.

Harry turned to Guan, a well-groomed and serious young Singaporean who wrote for the Straits Times morning daily. How is the paper business?

They basically want me to write gossip, he said. And scandal. But only involving the right people. And keep the government out of it. No politics thanks.

Do they pay well?

Peanuts, said Guan heatedly. I am twenty-eight. I want to leave home, but I can’t afford it. I want to write real news, and be paid real money.

"The Straits Times cricket correspondent is pretty good," offered Harry.

Andy returned to the table. Outside on the road a military convoy was pushing its way through the traffic, the horns adding to the shouts and running motors in the narrow street. An army truck seemed to be stuck between parked cars and several fruit stalls. Actually I think things are escalating. Apparently a group of Indonesian-trained guerrillas was seen on the borders. The North Kalimantan Army, they call themselves. There has been talk of incursions and bombs.

Who is doing the talking Andy? Guan pulled out a notepad and started jotting.

Oh, sources … sources.

He means the cops, mate, said Rob. He’s got them on the payroll.

Actually better sources than the cops this time, smiled Andy mysteriously.

What do you mean? asked Harry. What do you mean about bombs? There’s been nothing in the papers.

Rob laughed: there wouldn’t be, would there? Doesn’t fit the local editorial policy.

A loud crack ripped across the sky. Then a flash, and another boom, this one closer. Harry jerked awake. A bomb? His sheet lay screwed up on the floor, and sweat bathed his naked body. The fan seemed to have stopped - another power failure? Maybe it was a bomb.

A sharp bright light flashed through the half-opened louvre doors, lighting up the room, then another boom rattled the window frame. Heavy rain hammered against the wooden shutters: a tropical thunderstorm. From down on the street there came the shrieking of late night revellers caught out in the lightning and the downpour.

Harry lay in bed wondering about the conversation that evening. He knew he had been mulling this for a long time, in fact ever since school when his teacher had praised his way with words in English class. His father had always told him he must join the family business, but Harry remembered the time his mother had tucked him into bed and quietly asked him what he wanted to do. If he was ever going to, this must surely be the time to become a journalist. There was a whining in his ear: a mosquito scouting the room for prey. It whined louder as he tried to bat it away. He had returned home late last night, had drunk too much, and had neglected to light the mosquito coil. And now he needed to have a piss. He couldn’t bear the thought of the smelly concrete toilet in the courtyard downstairs, so he reached for the bowl under the bed.

When Harry next awoke, the power must have reconnected, for the ceiling fan had resumed its arthritic grinding; at last he could feel some air circulating over his sweating body. Time to leave the tea business behind: a chance for a new start. He pulled the crumpled sheet from the floor, and despite the heat rolled himself in it. For a while he tossed and turned, but at last he must have slept because when he opened his eyes the first strips of grey light were filtering through the louvres, signs of the new day. Had he been dreaming? There was a faint memory of his father - he was carrying a cricket bat and holding out his hand. The old house, the plantation, and beyond that the jungle.

Harry had a headache from the alcohol, and there was something half-remembered in the dream that was not quite right. A swelling on his cheek felt very like a mosquito bite - he tried not to scratch it, knowing that a tropical infection would only be worse. He rose wearily from the crumpled bed and studied his face in the mirror over the tin basin. His mother always told him that he had a beautiful complexion, and quite light. You are a very handsome boy, Harry. The girls are going to love you. But no sun, Harry, don’t let your beautiful skin get too dark. He splashed his face with water and smoothed some Brilliantine on his hair.

The Chinese coffee shop downstairs was already open and bustling. Harry ordered rice congee and sweet kopi dowsed with condensed milk. The sugar rush helped. He could always leave Singapore. Leave the tropical rain, the pushing crowds, the dour Chinese, the fiery foods, the stomach bugs, the insect bites. He looked into his murky cup. But he knew he was going to stay. He must break it gently to his mother that he was looking for another job. Foreign correspondent – that sounded good. But would she mind him leaving the family firm? Or perhaps she might even be pleased …

His reverie was broken by the old crone who ran the coffee shop. Picking up his empty bowl, she barked at him: you finish? Want more? Too busy for sitting. Need seat. You go now!

Any more business, ah? asked the elderly Chinese man, his Hokkien tongue harsh and grating. He was dressed in old baggy pants and smock top, small and grey, and he could have been a Chinese peasant on an ancient Chinese ink scroll. His voice was high and reedy. But he carried an air of authority, and when he spoke the others paid attention. He glanced around the lacquer table: half a dozen middle-aged Chinese gentlemen sat rigidly in carved upright chairs. There was a silence.

What about Mrs Leong, sir? ventured one of them at last.

What about her?

In trouble again. Can’t pay fee on her market stall. Since Mr Leong passed.

Leong was a good man. He always paid his dues. Of course we help her.

She says Long-Nose Tang causing problems in market.

The old man raised his head. He is not one of us. What Long Nose is doing in Guan Tan Ming market? He looked to the door. Dong!

A big man, slumped on a tiny stool, apparently dozing, lifted his head and opened his eyes, revealing a scar down one cheek. Sah?

Big Dong, I don’t like what I hear. Take the boys and go visit. Guan Tan Ming is our market. Explain to Long Nose that maybe he make a mistake. A big mistake.

Sah.

Mrs Leong is a bad business woman. But she is our business woman.

Sure sah, Mr Tan sah. Can.

The business was over. The elderly Chinese clapped his hands. Now tea! Around the table the men relaxed. As though they had been listening outside waiting for the call, two young women in traditional gowns slipped quietly into the room carrying red lacquer trays. They placed small ceramic teapots, tiny goblet cups, and little wooden stands on the table. Kneeling unobtrusively they began to prepare the tea, watched carefully by Mr Tan for whom this was not a casual operation. A soft buzz of conversation circulated around the room. Big Dong had lapsed back into a doze.

The room was gloomy, lit only by a few wall brackets, dark because the big warehouse doors were closed and there seemed to be no windows at all. The ceiling fans turned quietly as they churned the tepid air. From outside could be heard the noise of boat engines revving on the river. This was an old shop-house, built as a clan house at the turn of the century, a solid old building. Its location on the river meant it could serve as a godown warehouse when the clan had goods to shift. The doors were always shut because this clan did not like to display all its business in public.

There were many such clan houses in Singapore, built by the early Chinese merchants when they emigrated from the over- populated poverty of Southern China. The industrious ones soon made a little money in this new land, and that was good. Money could fund a solid building with carved dragons on the frames to bring good luck and big locks on the doors to keep out bad luck. Money showed that the Zheng clan had come a long way from Fujian Province. Money could help other family members, who would never forget their debt. Money could buy friends and it could protect against enemies.

During the Japanese War the clan houses collected funds from those who could afford it, and sent them back to the Middle Kingdom. There it helped the fight against the barbarian Japanese invaders who had taken advantage of the humiliations forced on the old corrupt Qing Empire to turn on their elder brother. Most of the clan houses had supported the nationalist Kuomintang. But the Zheng clan was a little different; against the advice and sway of the other clan houses, they had sent their gold to the Chinese Communist Party, put off by the corruption, back-stabbing, and military failures of General Chiang Kai-shek. The other clans had not approved, and they had their own harsh ways of making this show. But the Zhengs ignored them, even when a suspicious fire was started in a dark alley behind the warehouse, even when Mr Tan encountered a gang of youths wielding knives down by the river and Big Dong had come to the rescue and earned his scar.

It suited the Zhengs to keep quiet and go about their own business. Their doors to the river stayed closed, and there was always a lookout on the upstairs balcony. The dragons at the doorway warned off bad spirits, and the phoenix over the archway kept out other impurities. In 1949 General Kai-shek took to his heels and the whole gang sailed off to the island of Formosa laden with all the pillaged riches of the Empire that they could carry. The Zhengs remembered who they had supported and felt justified, but they said nothing. And if the other clans still ostracised them, the isolation did not hurt. There was still much business to be done. Stacked in the back of the warehouse were piles of dried rubber latex sheets waiting to be loaded for China, and there was tin from upcountry. On the return trip there would be some Chinese brides to bring back. And maybe something else hidden at the bottom of the ships holds. It helped if all the world did not know your business.

Mr Tan took his goblet of tea and savoured the aroma. The High Mountain Oolong infusion had a pleasant flowery tang, his favourite, calming the spirit, yet feeding the ch’i. The two sides: the yin and the yang; his father had taught him to feed both, but always to keep them in balance.

He watched the others around the table as they chatted among themselves. None would presume to gossip idly with him unless he encouraged it, and he did not. He sat in a cone of contented silence. The War was long over, he reflected, and most of these men had not seen it. The Communist Party was now in power in Beijing. The Zhengs were not Communists, they were traders in the free market, and the freer the better. The Great Leap Forward was a big step backwards. But the Communists had united China, restored face, and put her back on her feet, and for that they deserved some respect.

It had not always been easy. The British had tolerated the clans provided they looked after their own and kept out of drugs and heavy crime. The 1920s and 30s had been tough years for trade. Then World War II brought Allied troops who had to be clothed and fed, so there was money to be made. However the Japanese invasion changed all that. There were still opportunities to trade, but no guarantee of payment, and the new Japanese masters were brutal. The clans learned to keep their doors shut and their heads down. And if there was an opportunity to kill Japanese it had to be done very quietly.

After the War the British came back. That meant more opportunities for commerce. But some of the courageous young Chinese who had fought as guerrillas against the Japanese could not accept old colonial over-lords. The world had changed and the government must understand it. These hot-heads formed the Communist Party and modelled themselves on the movements in the Soviet Union and China. When the Party was banned, and the British with their Malay policemen came to arrest the Communist Party members, it was time for some of the young Chinese men to melt away into the jungle in the night. Cousin Pang was among them.

When the cousins had come to the clan a few years back, asking for help in Malaya, they could not be turned away. The British were exhausted from the war, and the Dutch were being pushed out of the East Indies. All over Asia the call for independence was being heard in the jungles, the paddies and the slums. Malaya was on its own path to independence, but it was a path past precipices and swamps. The sultans with their vast estates, the Malays with their slow habits, the bossy imams chanting from their minarets, these were the supporters of the new government, and there were enough of them to get their own way. The Chinese would not form the government – they would be hard working shopkeepers and striving businessmen who must pay their taxes.

As the struggle became more vicious the British declared a State of Emergency on the Malay Peninsula. This was not the Zheng’s fight: most of them now lived in Singapore, where it was more stable and better for business: there was always trading to be done, clan marriages to be arranged, and contracts to fill. But when a cousin smuggled a message out of hiding asking for some help, then family obligations must be met: food or medicines for the comrades in the jungle, perhaps clothing to withstand the rain and the insects. And arms? No one talked about that. Mr Tan did not like arms – people could get hurt, relationships could go bad, business could be disrupted. But kin was kin, so sometimes there might be a few cases stored under a tarpaulin in a corner of the warehouse, a dark corner where no one went and which no one mentioned.

Mr Tan looked across the table at the silent figure sitting opposite him. Pang had been fresh-faced and plump when they had worked together on the river in the good old days. But life on the run in the jungle had not been a picnic, and the man who eventually emerged from the trees, as silently as he had entered it a decade earlier, was now gaunt and stooped, with a tired yet angry look about him. It had been a bitter time: Pang was one of the few to return. Mao Tse-tung was right to say a revolution is not a dinner party. His compatriots were mainly in prison in Kuala Lumpur or in unmarked graves in the jungle. The older generation still remembered this, but to the younger people it was now just history. The British had promised self-government, and there were more interesting things to worry about like fashions and money and a new pop group called the Beatles.

It had been a tough time, but the family had come through. And now in 1963 there was a new generation learning the ropes: those nephews who were laughing and gossiping down the table. There was new business, new goods to trade. Someday the younger ones would take over, then the Chairman could become Grandfather Tan, and spend his days playing weiqi, drinking tea and doing gentle tai-chi.

There was a rapping at the door, and the room went silent. Big Dong roused himself from his stupor and opened the door a crack, then wider. His face relaxed slightly to what might have been a smile, and in stepped a young Chinese woman. She walked with grace and carriage, fully aware that the men’s eyes were following her, yet ignoring them. Young nephew Chou jumped up and offered her his seat, but she ignored him too, and stalked to the head of the table.

Niece, ah, you have come, said Mr Tan

Uncle, I am here. Greetings. Chin Chu’s face had been severe and expressionless, but now it softened into a gentle smile.

Mr Tan reflected. She was very good-looking – even at his age he could still appreciate a good-looking woman. High cheek bones in a proud face. This young woman was tough, Mrs Tan had been right about that. Maybe she would be good for Chou - provide the young fellow with some backbone. Mrs Tan kept saying that her nephew needed a wife. But despite all her confidants and all those gossiping aunties, even Mrs Heng, she had not been able to find out much about Chin Chu’s family. Actually they knew almost nothing, except that she came from China. Well, everyone came from China. And Chin Chu’s accent made that much obvious. The astrologers would need more information than that. When Auntie Lee had asked her directly about her family, Chin Chu had just looked at her and walked away. Rude girl, lah, Auntie Lee said.

Good for her, Mr Tan reflected. Nosey aunties. Personally he did not care for astrologers. But in this business it certainly helped to know who your in-laws were going to be, and how helpful they might prove. He watched Chin Chu. She could speak in the colloquial Singaporean Hokkien dialect. And he had heard her spitting at Big Dong in a rough Cantonese tongue straight out of the gutter. Yet Mr Tan had a feeling that she also spoke a more pure Mandarin. He and Pang would talk quietly together in Mandarin when they did not want others to understand, but sometimes he had a feeling that Chin Chu might be listening.

Maybe he should ask Mee Kit? Mee Kit could find out anything. But maybe not. Mee Kit was Triad, and the Triad always had their price. Mr Tan liked making money. It came with good fortune, and his clan needed good fortune and money. But he always remembered his old father’s advice: the house of fortune has a back door as well as a front. The Triad liked money too much, and for them making money meant girls and opium. That was not good. Maybe he would stay away from them.

The young attendant poured another dish of tea. This would be the third brewing, the best one. He drank it down eagerly. Mr Tan decided he did not like making money quite that much.

Tea ma’am? The white-jacketed waiter quietly nudged her sleeve.

What kind do you have?

The waiter looked confused: English tea of course, madam.

Do you have green tea?

Now the waiter looked thoroughly embarrassed: English tea madam, with milk and sugar. This is the British High Commission madam, he added unnecessarily but rather apologetically.

Quite right too. We’re not in the bazaar here, young lady. We drink the same as the Queen drinks. None of that chinky stuff. The speaker was a thick-set beefy man with a ruddy red face that had seen too much tropical sun and a red-veined nose that had seen too much beer. He wore the khaki short-sleeved shirt and baggy shorts of the Colonial Police Force.

This must be Reginald, Sarah thought. The old colonialist. She had already been warned about him. Was that really a swagger stick he had laid on the table?

Thank you, Reggie. Let’s keep H.M. out of it, shall we? Perfectly turned out in his cream tropical suit, pink and well-fed, the High Commissioner shuffled the papers in front of him, smiled around the table, and cleared his throat. To business. I have asked you chaps here for a bit of a chin wag on the security situation. The F.O.s getting worried.

Again, Sir Hugh? They do worry somewhat, don’t they? When you are that far away I suppose that’s all you really can do?

Judging from his military uniform and the battle ribbons on his chest, Sarah supposed that this must be Frank. With his crumpled face, though still handsome in his own way, this man would be the famous commander who had helped out-fox the Communist Party in their lairs during the Emergency, moving the villagers into safe settlements where they could not supply the guerrillas. There were many stories about him. Sarah had also heard that he had a wife who had had enough of