Passage of Arms

by Eric Ambler

  According to the Captain’s estimates, the insurgents had roughly three thousand men in the hills and many unarmed sympathisers in the city, ready to help them when the time came. The General had only two thousand men at present. Yet, did he but know it, he could have a powerful ally with over fifteen hundred men to throw in on his side. That ally was the local Communist Party. If the General were prepared to arm the Party men, he would have a disciplined auxiliary force at his side and superior fire power.

  The General had stared at him angrily. “Are you mad?”

  “Far from it, sir. What I am proposing is the creation of a loyal militia to meet an emergency.”

  The General had laughed harshly. “You know the Area Commander. He is one of Doctor Hatta’ s men. Are you fool enough to imagine that he would give me permission to arm the Labuanga Communists? He would have me arrested for suggesting it.”

  “You are responsible for the defences here, sir, not the Area Commander. You are entitled to take emergency measures without consulting him. Besides, until it is equipped, the militia should remain a secret force.”

  “Only the Area Commander can authorise the issue of arms and ammunition. What is your militia to be equipped with? Stones?”

  Captain Gani had had an answer for that, too.

  Two months later, the General had promoted him to Major and made him his personal aide.

  IV

  The Harmonie Hotel was in the Inner Zone and consisted of a number of porticoed colonial bungalows built inside a rectangular, wire-fenced compound. The reception clerk, a handsome young Indonesian in European dress, was courteous but firm. The only accommodation he could offer them was a bungalow with three beds in it. All other bungalows in the hotel were occupied by permanent residents. This was by Government order.

  Greg and Dorothy stared at one another in dismay, but rMrs. Lukey nodded as if she had anticipated the difficulty. “There is a sitting-room,” she said. “I can sleep in there.”

  The clerk took them along to the bungalow. The sitting-room was an unscreened veranda with a tiled floor. The bedroom beyond contained three cubicles completely enclosed by perforated zinc screens and looking rather like old-fashioned meat safes. As the clerk turned on the ceiling fan, a thing like a soft-shelled crab with black fur on it flopped on to the floor at their feet and began scuttling towards the wardrobe.

  Dorothy let out a yelp of fear. Giggling, the boy who had brought their bags in picked the creature up by one of its hairy legs and tossed it out through the sitting-room.

  “My God!” said Greg. “What was that?”

  “They are quite harmless,” Mrs. Lukey said. “It is better to leave them. They eat the insects.”

  But the thing had unnerved Dorothy. While Mrs. Lukey was away telephoning the contact man, she insisted on Greg searching every inch of the bungalow. He found some lizards and a mildewed slipper, but no more of the black creatures. He did make the discovery that the bungalow contained no bathroom.

  When Mrs. Lukey returned, she showed them the row of bath-houses, separated for hygienic reasons from the living quarters. One of those gloomy cement caverns had the number of their bungalow on it. Inside, there was a toilet, a large urn full of water, and a metal scoop.

  “It is a Siamese bath,” Mrs. Lukey explained; “you throw the cold water over you. It is very refreshing.”

  The rendezvous was for seven o’clock at a house outside the Inner Zone.

  It was then a little after four. They had had no lunch. They bathed awkwardly and, when they had changed, walked over to the hotel restaurant. There was a noisy group of Dutchmen drinking in the veranda bar, and they did not stay there long. With some difficulty they found a waiter and persuaded him to produce some food. It was a warmed-up rice dish and not very appetising, but they were hungry enough to persevere with it. While they were eating, darkness fell, and the square on the far side of the gardens, which had been deserted before, suddenly came to life. Market stalls were set up among the trees, people congregated and food sellers appeared. A boy, squatting on his haunches by the roadside, began to play a bamboo xylophone.

  It was a gentle, plaintive sound and curiously moving. Dorothy looked at Greg and he smiled at her understand-ingly. They were in a strange, far-off land, with no tourists within hundreds of miles of them. For a moment, the discomforts of the day were forgotten. It was a brief moment.

  Mrs. Lukey had said that it would take half an hour to walk to the rendezvous, and that they would probably be back at the hotel by eight o’clock. When they had had their coffee, they returned to the bungalow.

  As soon as they switched the lights on, a large insect flew in and blundered about the sitting-room, hitting the walls and light-fittings with the force of a ricocheting pebble. Greg killed it eventually by knocking it down with a towel and treading on it. It was like a huge grasshopper made of brown plastic. Its hard shell crunched sickeningly beneath his foot. Two more came in immediately after.

  Mrs. Lukey said that they were harmless and that it was best to ignore them; but Dorothy had seen the one Greg had killed and was afraid of the things getting into her hair. The prospect of remaining there by herself, while Greg and Mrs. Lukey went off to their business appointment, was becoming more unattractive every minute. She announced her intention of shutting herself inside one of the screened bed cubicles while they were gone.

  Greg looked at Mrs. Lukey. “Is there any reason why all of us can’t go? If we took a cab, Dorothy could sit and wait outside while we did our business.”

  “Of course, if she will not be bored.”

  “I’d sooner be bored than fighting these things,” Dorothy said.

  They had some difficulty in getting a taxi, but the reception clerk sent boys out and eventually one was captured. Shortly after seven they set off.

  The taxi was a diminutive Fiat, and Greg and Dorothy, crouching in the back, found it difficult to see where they were going. After they left the Inner Zone there were fewer lights in the streets, and soon they lost all sense of direction. They had glimpses of the port, of the flashing beacon, at the end of a mole, mirrored in the water, and of a cluster of oil storage tanks. Then, they turned on to a road with a bad surface and broken fences on either side, bumped along it for two or three hundred yards, and stopped.

  The house was about twenty yards from the road, and surrounded by an untidy litter of banana trees. It was built on teak piles and there were steps leading up to the veranda. Light showed through the plaited window blinds.

  Greg pressed Dorothy’s hand. “You’ll be all right here?”

  “Of course.”

  As Greg clambered out to join Mrs. Lukey, she said something to the taxi-driver. He switched off his lights. As they walked towards the house, Greg asked her if she had used this rendezvous before.

  “Once,” she said.

  The car’s arrival had been heard, and, as they approached, a door opened on the veranda and a man came out. ;He had a flashlight in his hand. He shone it in their faces for a moment before motioning them up the steps.

  He was very small and thin with slightly bowed shoulders. He wore a black petji, a sarong and bi-focal glasses. He inclined his head courteously to Mrs. Lukey, and then looked at Greg.

  “Mr. Nilsen?”

  “Yes.”

  He held out his hand and said in good English: “I am Mr. Hamid. That is not my real name and this is not my house, of course, but you will understand that I have to be careful.”

  “Sure.”

  “Please come in.”

  The walls were of corrugated iron. Nightfall had not brought any noticeable drop in temperature, and the single room interior was like an oven. In one corner there was a bed with a mosquito net looped back over it; but most of the space appeared to be used as an office. There was a desk, a steel filing-cabinet, and a table piled high with small cartons apparently in the process of being labelled. Against one wall were stacked some larger cartons with the words “Fragile—Made in Japan
” stencilled on their sides.

  There were two men in the room; one Indonesian, one European. The Indonesian was a slender, graceful man and tall for his race. The skin of his face was stretched tightly over a prominent bone structure, and the veins on his forehead stood out too plainly. There was a look of hunger and tension about his face that seemed to contradict the ease and grace of his body. His hair was long and unkempt. The European was thick-set and muscular with cropped grey hair, lined grey cheeks and a thin half-smile which exposed a set of stainless steel false teeth. Both men were dressed in sweat-stained khaki shirts and slacks, and wore pistol belts. The Indonesian was sitting by the desk. The European lounged on the bed.

  As Greg and Mrs. Lukey came in, the Indonesian got to his feet.

  “This is Major Sutan,” said Hamid.

  The Major did not offer to shake hands. “The woman can wait outside,” he said.

  Mrs. Lukey looked at Hamid, who nodded and ushered her out again. The Major moved across and shut the door after them before turning to face Greg again.

  “Your passport, please,” he said.

  Greg took the passport from his hip pocket and handed it over.

  The Major examined the photograph in it and handed it back. “This is Captain Voychinski,” he said.

  Greg nodded. “How do you do, Captain?”

  The man on the bed stared at him without speaking.

  “Captain Voychinski is Polish,” said the Major. “He is one of our technical staff advisers. Sit down please, Mr. Nilsen.”

  He himself sat down behind the desk. Greg got the Singapore cheque out and laid it on the desk. Major Sutan glanced at it.

  “We have not done business together before,” he said; “you will not object if I ask you some questions?”

  Greg smiled amiably. “As long as you don’t object if I ask you a few, no.”

  Major Sutan considered him for a moment before he said: “Perhaps you had better ask your questions first.”

  “All right. To begin with, why do I have to come all this way to get a cheque signed? Captain Lukey says you like to know whom you’re dealing with. I don’t get it. Don’t you trust him?”

  Major Sutan shrugged. “We trust ourselves.”

  Captain Voychinski got up off the bed and came over. “That’s right, mister,” he said. His English was only just intelligible. “That fool in Singapore know nothing.”

  “He knows how to drive a bargain.”

  “Does he know agent provocateur when he see?” Captain Voychinski demanded. He spat the French words out as if they were fish-bones.

  “Are you suggesting that’s what I am?”

  “How we know? You sell arms. How do we know you not take our money and tell the Central Government?”

  “I went through all this with Captain Lukey,” Greg said patiently. “It’s not my business to deliver the arms here. I sell them in Singapore. When and how they reach you is your business.”

  Major Sutan leaned forward. “We have lost too many shipments lately, Mr. Nilsen.”

  “Sorry about that, but I don’t know what it’s got to do with me.”

  “I am explaining our caution, Mr. Nilsen.”

  “Well, I’m not proposing to tell the Indonesian Govern ment about the deal, and I don’t know anyone who is. That’s if there is to be any deal to tell about.”

  “If, Mr. Nilsen?”

  “That’s right—if. You like to know whom you’re dealing with. So do I.”

  Captain Voychinski laughed unpleasantly.

  Greg turned and stared at him. “You’re a long way from home, Captain,” he said.

  “Home?”

  “Isn’t Poland your home?”

  “What is meant by that?” Captain Voychinski’s hand had gone to his pistol.

  Major Sutan intervened. “Captain Voychinski is an ardent fighter against Communism,” he said. “He fought in Russia and Italy and Viet-Nam.”

  “Italy?” Greg raised his eyebrows.

  “Captain Voychinski was an officer in a Polish division of the Wehrmacht.”

  “I see.”

  “Any more questions, Mr. Nilsen?”

  Greg shook his head. Captain Voychinski smiled grimly and took his hand from his pistol.

  “Very well.” Major Sutan picked up the cheque and looked down at it. “Where did these arms come from please?”

  “Manila. Why?”

  “You are not a regular dealer, Mr. Nilsen, and the composition of the shipment is unusual. Naturally, we are curious.”

  “I got the stuff from a man who’d taken it as collateral for a loan. He was left with it on his hands and wanted to get rid of it. I understand that it came originally from Red China.”

  “How?”

  “I was told that it was intercepted at sea on its way to Malaya.”

  “At sea?”

  “That’s right. Does it matter? Captain Lukey has inspected the stuff.”

  “Arms from China to Malaya do not go by sea.”

  “Well, these did.”

  “What is the name of the person who told you?”

  “Tan Tack Chee.”

  Major Sutan looked down at the cheque again, and then took a pen from his shirt pocket. “I do not know this Tan, Mr. Nilsen, but I would suggest you do not deal with him again.”

  “Why not?”

  “If you are not lying to me, then he lied to you. I do not think you can be lying.”

  “Thanks.”

  “On that point you would have no reason to lie.” He signed the cheque and pushed it across the desk. “That is all, Mr. Nilsen. Will you be returning to Singapore tomorrow?”

  “Yes.” Greg picked up the cheque and slipped it inside his passport.

  “Then the transaction could be completed the following day?”

  “It could.”

  Major Sutan got to his feet and held out his hand. “Next time,” he said, “I think that our dealings will be more friendly. It will not be necessary for you to come here again, I think.”

  “Thanks.” Greg shook hands with Major Sutan, nodded to Captain Voychinski and went to the door.

  Mrs. Lukey and Hamid were waiting on the veranda.

  “Is everything in order?” Hamid asked.

  “Yes, the cheque’s signed.” Greg glanced at Mrs. Lukey. “Shall we go? Good night, Mr. Hamid.”

  They had reached the bottom of the veranda steps when he heard Dorothy cry out.

  He started to run towards the road.

  There were’ lights there now and he saw the soldiers almost immediately. Two of them were dragging the driver out of the taxi. Three more were coming towards him across the clearing. From behind, near the house, there was a sudden confused shouting, and then the ear-shattering din of a sub-machine-gun burst.

  At that moment one of the soldiers saw him, yelled to the others, and started to bring his carbine up to his shoulder.

  Mrs. Lukey was screaming at him to stop.

  Greg stopped; and then, as the other two soldiers ran towards him, he took a step backwards and put up his hands.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  GENERAL ISKAQ ate a second honey cake and poured himself a third cup of coffee. It was cool enough to drink, but he left it to get still cooler. He was in no hurry. He knew that he was going to enjoy the day which lay before him. A little delay in approaching it could only serve to increase the ultimate satisfaction. Meanwhile, there were more modest pleasures at hand. He picked up his binoculars.

  From the window of his apartment on the top floor of the Stadhuis he could see the port, the river delta and the sea beyond. The sky was cloudless and, at that early hour, there was little heat haze. The previous day’s rains were pouring down from the hills, and the silt-laden water was swirling out in fantastic patterns across the choppy waters of the bay. When the river was in flood like that, the currents interacted with the tides to produce a mill race effect at the harbour mouth. Plans had been made to eliminate this navigational hazard by extending t
he mole; but the Government had refused to pay for the work. Now, a tanker in ballast trying to get alongside the oil company’s wharf was having to be warped in cautiously a foot at a time. The morning sun was glittering on her wheelhouse windows, and the General could see the white-topped caps of her European officers out on the wings of the bridge. Other white blobs on the wharf marked the presence of the oil company’s Dutch under-manager and the English representative of the tanker’s owners. They, too, would be impatient at the delay.

  The General watched through his binoculars and was content. Admittedly, the situation had richer possibilities. For some minutes, he had toyed with the vision of one, or, better still, both of the warps parting under the strain, and of the tanker drifting helplessly across the basin to crunch into the side of a dredger moored there; but that, he knew, had been idle day-dreaming. One should not expect too much of life. It was enough that the Europeans were inconvenienced and irritated. Enough for the present anyway. One of them, the Englishman, was British Vice-Consul in Labuanga, and there were further tribulations in store for him.

  The tanker was nearing the wharf now, and the brown water eddying round her sides was losing its power over her. The General continued to watch; but his thoughts began to stray. There was an important question to be decided. Whom should he tell first—the American Vice-Consul or his British colleague?

  It was not easy. The Englishman, Mr. Wilson, was the local agent of the North Borneo and Federation Shipping Company, and his post as British Vice-Consul was merely honorary. In fact, it was said that the only reason for appointing a British Vice-Consul in Labuanga had been to enable Mr. Wilson to import his supplies of whisky and tobacco duty free. When told that a female British citizen had been arrested the night before and was in jail on charges of conspiracy against the government, illegal trading in arms, illegal entry, consorting with criminals, and espionage, the inexperienced Mr. Wilson might well become confused and behave incorrectly. That would be most enjoyable. On the other hand, he might consult with the British Consul in Medan, or, worse, ask Mr. Hallett, the American Vice-Consul, for advice. They were very friendly. In that case, Mr. Hallett would have less of a shock when he discovered that there were two American citizens also in jail on the same charges.