Fuel for the Flame

by Alec Waugh

  She reached the hospital soon after ten. Angus was propped high among his pillows. His face brightened at the sight of her.

  ‘What a surprise. This is good of you.’

  ‘I’ve brought you some books.’

  She had searched the bookshop for the latest cricket books. ‘If you’ve read any of these I can have them changed.’ She held them out to him, one by one. ‘Not that,’ he said, ‘not that. Yes, that I have read; not the other two.’

  ‘I’ll change the Compton one.’

  She sat down beside him.

  ‘Was it very bad?’ she said.

  ‘It was not too good.’

  His arms lay outside the sheet. She leant over, put a hand over his and pressed it. He looked so weak and tired, who had been so strong and masterful. She felt an overpowering need to lavish care on him.

  ‘I’m sorry about your father.’

  He shrugged. ‘He hadn’t enjoyed life for a long time now. He never felt well; and after this … it must have been such a shock to him.’

  ‘I suppose you haven’t begun to make any plans yet for yourself?’

  He shook his head. ‘They won’t tell me how bad I am; how long it’ll take me to get well; what effect it will have on me. They always put me off when I ask them questions. They say it depends on me. “Don’t worry about anything,” they say. “We’ll do our best to help you.” That’s so futile. I’m not a child. I want to know the truth.’

  ‘Shall I find out for you?’

  ‘I’d be very grateful. But you will tell me the truth?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘You are the one person in the world that I can trust to keep a promise of that kind.’

  ‘You can always trust me.’

  He smiled. She felt very close to him. A nurse came in. ‘Mrs. Spurway has asked if she can see you.’

  Blanche stood up. ‘I’ll be on my way.’

  Angus shook his head. ‘No, please don’t go.’ He turned to the nurse. ‘Could you make my apologies to Mrs. Spurway. Could you say I can only see one visitor at a time, that Mrs. Pawling has come in specially from Kassaya and I don’t get many chances of seeing her; and could you make the same excuses if anybody else comes before Mrs. Pawling leaves. No, please, don’t hurry Blanche. Tell me all the gossip about the camp.’

  She repeated all that she could remember; she told him about the Sinclairs, about how difficult Rex had been after the rehearsal. ‘I don’t give that very long. I’d say that she was waiting for the first chance to skip.’

  The minutes became quarters, the quarters became an hour. Every minute she became more and more conscious of the bond that bound them. They made no references to that bond’s nature. It was a conversation that anybody could have heard, but it was the subconscious memory of all those hours in that dark, high flat that made possible now this easy intimacy. I’ll get him back, she thought.

  A nurse brought in his lunch. ‘I really must go now,’ Blanche said.

  He looked genuinely disappointed.

  ‘Are you going back this afternoon?’

  She nodded.

  ‘When will you be up next?’

  Her heart glowed. He had not wanted Shelagh to stay up; or if he had wanted her, he had failed to persuade her to stay up. Whatever there had been between them must be over now. Probably there hadn’t been so much. She thought quickly. The play opened on the Monday. She would have to be in Kassaya for that. She should be there on the Tuesday too, to see how the various inevitable changes would work out. But there was no reason why she shouldn’t come up on the Wednesday and stay a night or two; as long as she got back for the final performance and the party afterwards.

  ‘I may be coming up next week,’ she said.

  ‘Couldn’t you make it definite?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  In the days when she had grudged every second that she had spent away from him, she had never attempted to spend a night in Kuala Prang. She had not dared. She was afraid that questions would be asked, but now when her conscience was completely clear, when she knew that every second of her time could be investigated, she had no hesitation; she knew no embarrassment in saying to Harry on her return, ‘You wouldn’t mind, would you, if I spent a couple of days in town next week? You’ll be so occupied with the play, and the Kingsfords offered to put me up. There are one or two things I want to do.’

  He agreed at once. Why hadn’t she tried to arrange nights in town before; ah, but if she had tried then, a guilty conscience would have made her awkward, would have evoked suspicion. She had heard it said that customs officials at a port had a trained sense which told them as soon as they saw travellers walk across the tarmac which one had something to conceal. A clear and guilty conscience. What a difference.

  I’ll get him back, she thought.

  3

  A week later Angus lay back among his pillows, relaxed, at peace. Blanche was due in an hour’s time. Every day he was feeling stronger. They had told him that he would need another operation, perhaps a series of operations; that he was now building up his strength so that he could bear the strain of them. Blanche had assured him that soon his recovery would be complete. He had even begun to find it tantalizing to have Blanche sitting a few yards away from him, chaperoned by the bandages and plaster in which his body was wrapped.

  A nurse came. She looked breathless although she was not out of breath. The Crown Prince had rung up. He had wanted to know if it would be convenient for him to call in twenty minutes’ time.

  Angus flushed; he had been sick and in pain when he had given Shelagh that commission. He had needed then the support that a visit from his future sovereign would have given him. He had felt like a wounded warrior on the battlefield; but now that he was partially recovered, he was embarrassed by his own presumption. What a fool the Crown Prince would think him, making so much fuss about a supposition. The throne had its own guardians. Forrester and the rest. He felt proud, at the same time sheepish, when Prince Rhya came into the ward. He used practically the same words that he had used to the Colonel all those weeks ago after the notables’ meeting.

  ‘You’ll think I’m making mountains out of molehills,’ he began, ‘but this is how it happened. I don’t know what Colonel Forrester has told you, but this is how I’ve seen it. I think, sir, that you should be told.’

  He told his story undramatically. Prince Rhya listened in silence. Angus watching him had no inkling as to the impression that he was making. Rhya’s face was against the light. He would have been surprised could he have seen to the core of Rhya’s thought: This man is lying here in pain because of me. He risked his life because of me.

  A schoolboy in England in the war, he had taken seriously words and sentiments that Britons through familiarity had ceased to notice—phrases like ‘Your King and Country’, and the King’s ‘My People’. What a responsibility for a king, he had thought then; a responsibility that one day he would assume himself. During the years of peace, he had lost awareness of those phrases, but now seeing this young man, maimed and in pain, he was acutely conscious of them. Angus might have been killed because of him.

  He heard Angus out, then set a few practical questions. ‘Have you told Colonel Forrester all that you told me?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Was he at all surprised?’

  ‘Is Colonel Forrester ever surprised at anything?’

  They laughed at that.

  ‘Did Colonel Forrester in the first place suggest that you should try to get hold of your father’s papers?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I still can’t see quite why you did. It was not any of your business. I don’t mean that you were interfering; please don’t think that. But most people don’t have such a strongly developed civic sense. They say to themselves, “That’s none of my concern. Policemen are employed to look after that, and I contribute to their support by paying taxes. My conscience is clear.” That’s how most of my father’s subjects argue. Why did
you act so differently?’

  Angus flushed. He had been afraid of this question. Yet it was the answer to this question that had made him, when he was in pain and weak, ask Shelagh to intercede for him. He had to give a straightforward answer.

  ‘I was at the Palace, sir, on the day your father asked you to return. He said that you would need friends when you returned. He hoped that I would be your friend. I felt very honoured. I felt I had been placed under a solemn trust. I remembered that trust when I began to suspect that my father might be plotting against the throne.’

  ‘That was the main reason why you opened your father’s desk?’

  ‘It was the only reason.’

  Rhya looked at the tired body on the bed. When he had heard of the attack on Annetta’s life he had been indignant, but assaults such as that were a part of the risk run by royalty. This was a different matter. A young man had run a gratuitous risk, solely on his account.

  He did not know Angus at all well. But he knew the kind of person that he was, an athlete who enjoyed the good things of life; good-looking young women in particular; his own type of young man in fact. And Angus had risked that high capacity for enjoyment; had placed in the balance against that zest for living his loyalty to the crown. For the first time Rhya was fully conscious of the debt he owed his people. They were prepared to risk their lives for him. He owed on his side an equivalent debt.

  ‘I shan’t forget this,’ he said. ‘This may very well prove far more important than even Colonel Forrester can guess. I’ll come round again and see you. In the meantime, get well as quickly as you can.’

  That afternoon he sent for Colonel Forrester.

  ‘I have seen Angus Macartney this afternoon. He told me why he broke into his father’s desk. I should like you to tell me your opinion of all this.’

  Colonel Forrester repeated in large measure, with a few embellishments, what he had said to Studholme. ‘There is always an opposition party in every country, sir. When there is a dictatorship, or when there is a one-party government, the opposition is driven underground. There is such a party here. It is led by certain elements of the army and by one or two industrialists. They want to seize power and nationalize the oil fields. They have to have an excuse for their coup d’état. They will make the Communists that excuse. It is a familiar pattern. I do not believe that there is anything to fear from the Communist party. There is a small party here, but I am even doubtful if it is in direct communication with Moscow or Peking. I believe its orders come at second-hand from Calcutta.

  ‘I think the attempt against the Crown Princess, though made by a kind of Communist, was instigated by this military opposition. It was a first step: a ballon d’essai.’

  ‘And when do you expect the second?’

  Forrester shrugged.

  ‘I have no idea, sir. But I do not believe that anything will be seriously attempted during the King’s lifetime.’

  ‘Why do you think they made that attack upon the Crown Princess?’

  ‘I do not believe that they meant to kill or even injure her. It was a try-out.’

  ‘Don’t you think they may attempt a second try-out?’

  ‘They may.’

  ‘And what steps are being taken to prevent it?’

  Again Forrester shrugged. ‘There is nothing that we can do, except wait and watch.’

  Rhya felt his temper rise. Each country had its particular traits that exasperated the nationals of other countries and Rhya, dearly though he loved England and the English, was invariably infuriated by Whitehall’s Micawberish attitude of, ‘Don’t be in a hurry. Something will turn up. When a crisis arises, the appropriate action will be taken.’ In the meantime, Angus Macartney was lying in a hospital; but it was pointless for him to lose his temper, yet.

  ‘Are there any men whom you definitely suspect?’

  ‘There are one or two, but I seem to have more information about the Communists. They are easier to trace; they have foreign contacts.’

  ‘Have you any evidence against them?’

  ‘A certain amount, sir.’

  ‘Then why do you not take action against them?’

  ‘Because I can learn more from them while they are at liberty. I can censor their letters, watch their movements, see who their friends are. They do not know that they are being watched. It is better that they should not know.’

  ‘How can you say they do not know? Angus’s father was apparently in the movement. Angus has been wounded. His father is dead. They are not stupid; they must have put two and two together. And what about old Macartney’s death? Are you certain he didn’t commit suicide?’

  ‘I am almost certain that he did.’

  ‘Was there a post-mortem?’

  ‘There was not.’

  ‘Why not? If there had been, you would have been quite certain, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘But if there had, I might have put those fellow conspirators on their guard.’

  ‘Let sleeping dogs lie. But suppose they weren’t sleeping and in the meantime young men lie in hospitals.’

  There was a pause. I’ve been asked enough questions the policeman thought. It’s time I talked a little.

  ‘When we went on police courses,’ he began, ‘they used to talk, in terms of underground organizations, of the “cut-out”. the line between the respectable, aboveboard side of an organization and the underground disreputable side that plants bombs, organizes blackmail, makes people disappear. A letter arrives, for instance, in a foreign embassy. It is one of those letters that are contained in a series of envelopes. It is destined eventually for somebody very obscure whom the writer of the letter in London, Paris or Madrid does not know. It is addressed officially to a third military attaché: he transfers it to a civilian who is in his pay; the civilian hands it over to the “cut-out”. The civilian does not know the name of the person to whom the “cut-out” will hand the letter. The man who receives the letter will not know who is the civilian from whom the “cut-out” has received it. Only the “cut-out” knows who is on the other side of the fence. Until a policeman knows who the “cut-out” is or the equivalent for the “cut-out”.mdash;I have taken a very elementary set-up— he cannot destroy a subversive society. He can only lop off a few limbs of the centipede. My present trouble is that I haven’t yet found the “cut-out”.’

  He sat back in his chair with a bland expression upon his face. Once again Rhya’s anger mounted; the more steeply this time because he coula see the point for the Colonel’s action. That was the maddening thing about these Whitehall Micawbers. They always had a case; they were astute, efficient, well informed. Their methods were fine for those who had a limitless patience, but he hadn’t. He was used to driving racing motor-cars, and taking high-banked curves.

  ‘That’s fine. Don’t think I don’t see your point,’ he said, ‘but I am not going to sit here doing nothing while the organization matures, while these little preparatory gestures are made and one after another of my friends gets shot. I’m not going to sit here waiting to be attacked, I’m going into the attack myself. You say that you have definite information against certain of these Communists; well, don’t let’s sit twiddling our thumbs till the revolutionaries take action against them. Let’s do something; let’s arrest those Communists, search their premises: might not that be the quickest way of finding that “cut-out” you’ve been talking of?’

  ‘It might be, but it might also be the way of setting off a landmine.’

  ‘Could you explain that, please?’

  ‘If I were to make a raid upon the extreme left-wing group, I should bring into my net a number of people against whom I have definite information. By searching their premises I should almost certainly find some useful material, but at the same time I should only get the small fry. The big fry would get away. One of two things would therefore happen. The big fry would be alarmed and go underground and we should lose sight of them; or they would lose their heads and take action before they were ready
to.’

  ‘Would there be any harm in that? About the second case I mean?’

  ‘I think there would. They wouldn’t be ready to take action, but at the same time we shouldn’t be ready to take counter-action. They might do something desperate. Certain persons might be hurt, persons whom we are not in a position to protect. There might be some unpleasant consequences if we moved too soon.’

  ‘More unpleasant than if we did nothing and let these revolutionaries make their preliminary gambits, with a house set on fire here, a child kidnapped there, perhaps some innocent person shot?’

  ‘I think so, yes, sir.’

  Prince Rhya looked at Forrester thoughtfully. He could see the issue clearly. The old man had put his cards honestly face upwards on the table. He could see why Forrester should want to play the hand his way. But Forrester was old. He was a Briton too, not a Karaki. He was a specialist ensnared by his own technique. He himself was not any of those things. He was a Karaki and a racing motorist.

  ‘Colonel Forrester,’ he said, ‘you are a Briton; your Sir Kenneth regards you as one of his right-hand men. But you are—your official position here is that of technical adviser to the Karaki C.I.D. You are paid by Karak. Your first duty is to Karak. You take your orders from Karak, not from Whitehall.’

  ‘I realize that, sir.’

  ‘You could answer that you take orders from the King, not from me; if you chose, you could force me to refer this whole matter to the King. Are you going to force me to do that?’

  There was a pause. Forrester felt old and tired, in no mood to argue. He was trained to work under orders. He could warn, he could advise, but he was not in a position to initiate a campaign. It was, however, his duty to give a warning.

  ‘The attacker always runs a risk,’ he said. ‘He falls into traps that have been laid for him. He also provides the occasion for a counter-attack that he may not be able to beat off. If we attack now, we shall be goading the opposition to retaliate. We do not know from what angle this counterattack will come. That may have serious complications. At the moment our investigations are making progress. We are not being idle. If we wait a little longer, we should have a complete defence prepared to meet the eventual attack. I am sure we would be wise to wait a little longer. If we act now, there may be reprisals that we shall all regret.’