by Eric Ambler
“Are you alone?”
“No.”
“Who is here with you?”
“A woman.”
He moved past me swiftly to the bedroom door and went in.
Rosalie stood in the centre of the room. She was turning back the sleeves of my dressing gown. As she swung round to face him, her hands dropped to her sides, but she made no other movement.
“Your name?” he said.
“Rosalie Linden, tuan.”
He turned the light in the bedroom on, then looked from one to the other of us.
“You can see we’re both quite harmless, Major,” I said.
“Possibly. But your presence is inconvenient. Are you armed?”
“There’s a revolver in that case under the bed.”
He looked at Rosalie. “Pull the case out. Do not open it.”
As she obeyed, he called in the N.C.O. and told him to take the revolver. Then he looked at me, his lips tightening.
“Armed men enter your apartment in the middle of the night and steal your property. Yet, you say nothing, you make no protest. Why, Mr. Fraser?”
“The men are wearing uniforms and this is Selampang, not London.”
“You do not even ask questions?”
“That would be a bit pointless, wouldn’t it?”
“Because you think that you already know the answers?”
I knew that it was dangerous to go on pretending to be stupid. I shrugged. “Less than forty-eight hours ago you were in Tangga, Major. You didn’t come here by sea or air and those men outside are not Government troops. I presume then that they are General Sanusi’s, that you are in sympathy with his aims, and that the long-awaited day has arrived. No doubt you’ve taken over the radio station below and will shortly begin broadcasting the good news to the rest of the country. Meanwhile, other troops are occupying the central telegraph office, the telephone exchange, the power station and the railroad station. The main body of your forces is taking up positions surrounding the police barracks, the ammunition dump, the forts defending the outer harbour and the garrison…” I hesitated. I had remembered something.
“Yes, Mr. Fraser?” His face was very still.
“Most of the garrison moved out today on manoeuvres.”
“The moment, of course, has been carefully chosen.”
“Of course. However, I’m a foreigner, and it’s no concern of mine. Now that you’ve satisfied yourself that there is nobody up here who could possibly do anything to interfere, I take it that you will allow us to go back to sleep again.”
He considered me coldly. “I like you, Mr. Fraser,” he said at length; “and I am sorry to see you here. At the moment, however, I am wondering if I have a sufficient excuse for allowing you to remain alive.”
“You need an excuse? We’re no danger to you, for God’s sake!”
“As I have said, your presence is inconvenient.”
“Then let us go somewhere else.”
“I regret that that is impossible.”
I said nothing and looked across at Rosalie. She was still standing by the open suitcase. I went over to her, put my arm round her shoulders and made her sit down on the edge of the bed.
Suparto seemed to hesitate; then he beckoned impatiently to the N.C.O. and nodded in our direction.
“These two persons,” he said, “will remain in this room. Post a sentry on the terrace. They may go one at a time to the bathhouse, but they will go by the window. This door will remain locked. If either attempts to leave without permission, they are both to be killed.”
The N.C.O. saluted and eyed us sullenly.
Suparto looked at me. “You understood what I said?”
“Yes, I understood. May I ask a question?”
“Well?”
“Was I right? Is this part of a coup d’etat? ”
“The National Freedom Party of Sunda has taken over all the functions of government and assumed control of the country.”
“That is what I meant.”
“The so-called Democratic Government of the colonialist traitor, Nasjah, has proved unworthy of the people’s confidence.” He was speaking Malay now, and as if he were addressing a public meeting. Behind him, the N.C.O. nodded approvingly. “The guilty will be punished. The Unbelievers will be destroyed. Colonial influences will be eliminated. The Faithful will rally to the standard of Islam. As soon as the emergency is over, elections will be held. But order must be maintained. Hostile elements will be wiped out ruthlessly.”
“Do we count as hostile elements?”
“It might be thought so.” He lapsed into English again. “At present the decision is my responsibility. Later, it may be different. My superior officers, who will arrive here shortly, are sensitive men and the presence of Unbelievers at such a time may not be tolerated. In your own interests, I would advise you to be as silent and unobtrusive as possible.”
“I see. Thank you, Major.”
“I can promise you nothing.”
With a nod he turned and went out of the room. The N.C.O. shut the door and the key turned in the lock. A moment later a soldier appeared on the terrace outside the window, peered in and then sat down with his back against the attap screen and his machine pistol cradled in his lap.
I looked down at Rosalie and she smiled uncertainly.
“Why does he like you?”
“I don’t know that he really does. He has no special reason that I know of. That is the officer who was up at Tangga, the one with the jeep.”
“Oh. Perhaps if you explained how discreet you had been, he would let us go.”
“I don’t think so. We know too much.”
“What do we know?”
“That this is their headquarters. He spoke of other officers who will arrive. That’ll be General Sanusi and his staff, I suppose. They knew Jebb was away. Having ear-marked this place for their headquarters, they may even have arranged that he should be. It’s logical enough. There aren’t many buildings in the city as strong as this one, and Sanusi would naturally want to be near the radio station. He’ll be using it quite a bit, I imagine.”
“Do you think that they will kill us?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think they will.” Her tone was quite even and matter-of-fact.
“Why should you think that?”
“They kill very easily. During the war of liberation I saw them. Men like that major. They smile and then they kill. For them it is easier to kill than to have doubts, to be uncertain.”
She stood up and then went over and switched off the light. Outside on the terrace, the sentry turned his head quickly. Rosalie crossed to the window and drew one of the curtains so that the man could see only half the room. He stirred, and I moved across to watch him. He was waiting to see if the other curtain would also be drawn. When it was not, he relaxed.
Rosalie had taken off my dressing gown and dropped it on the chair. The strong moonlight was visible even through the curtains, and I could see her standing there running her hands over her body as if she had never touched it before. Then she realised that I was watching her and laughed softly.
“I saw the men with the parangs,” she said; “and I knew that if they killed you, they would also kill me, because they would not have been able to stop. So, I was ready to die. Now, I am alive again.”
I went over to her. I think I meant to make some futile apology for having brought her there, but instead I kissed her.
From far away across the city there came a sudden rattle of machine-gun fire. The sentry got up and went to look out over the parapet. We stood behind the curtain, listening. There were several more bursts of fire and one or two small explosions that might have been from mortars. After about ten minutes, the firing ceased and there was an uncanny silence. It was broken by a murmur of voices from the square below, and a series of crashes as the windows of the Air Terminal offices were knocked out. I guessed that the ground floor was being fortified against a counter-attack. On
ce, a truck whined and clattered along on the other side of the square, but otherwise the streets seemed to be deserted. A little before five, there was a glow in the sky from a fire which Rosalie thought might be in the neighbourhood of the police barracks, and, soon after, a single explosion just heavy enough to make the windows vibrate. It could have been a small demolition charge of some kind.
When the first bout of firing had ceased, we had feverishly hurried into our clothes, as if we had overslept and were late for an appointment. There was, I suppose, a logical need for haste; Suparto had warned us to expect further visitors; but I think that the true reason was less rational. Until that moment, what we had been facing had been like a nightmare; terrifying, yet also unreal. The sound of firing had sharply disposed of the unreality, and we were left with our fears. Our scramble for our clothes was a scramble for cover of a different sort. We wanted to feel safer. In fact, we only felt hotter. After a time, we sat on one of the beds, and smoked and listened and sweated and suffered the twin ills that afflict everyone who finds himself on a battlefield: the knot of fear in the stomach, and the desperate desire to know what is really going on.
Thanks, no doubt, to the treachery of Suparto and others like him, Sanusi’s army had been able to make its approach march in secrecy, and to mount an attack at a moment when the capital was almost unguarded. Surprise having been achieved, it seemed unlikely that General Sanusi would have much difficulty in the early stages. Nothing we had heard so far suggested that he had encountered anything more than token resistance, and very little of that. Probably, he was already in complete control. The testing time for him would come when the Government forces counter-attacked; if they counter-attacked, that is; if there were not too many Supartos in their ranks.
I remembered the snatch of conversation I had overheard in the garden of the New Harmony Club. “We must have all,” the General had said. “Then it must be delayed until the second day,” had been Suparto’s reply. All what? Reinforcements? Arms? Hostages? And what was it that had to be delayed? A movement of troops? The assassination of the President? The offer of an amnesty? I worried at the questions as if the answer really mattered. It was more agreeable to do that, than to reflect that what was going to happen on the second day was possibly of only theoretical interest to Rosalie and me.
It was nearly six o’clock when the sky lightened and then flushed with the sudden glow of the equatorial dawn. For the past half-hour there had been sounds of activity from the square below. Several cars had driven up and there had been sharp words of command. There had been a murmur of voices from the next room also. It had been difficult to distinguish what was said. We heard some isolated phrases: “… medical service… damage to installations… rice distribution… police situation… guns fire out to sea… transport arrangements… hour of curfew…” And then someone switched Jebb’s radio on.
For several minutes there was only the crackling of static. The set was near the open living-room window and we could hear it plainly. Then, as the station carrier wave started up, the static faded and presently the usual Soeara Sunda recognition signal, five notes played on the bamboo xylophone, came on. Rosalie seemed to find the sound reassuring. I did not.
Whether the insurgents had forcibly rounded up the engineers and were now standing over them below with guns, or whether they were relying on sympathisers among the technical personnel was immaterial. The fact that they already had the station on the air was an impressive demonstration of efficient staff-work. If their other arrangements were working as smoothly, the possibility of an early change in the situation was remote. I wondered what had happened to Nasjah and his followers. Had they managed to get away, or had they been taken by surprise and hacked to pieces in their homes?
At six thirty the xylophone sound ceased and a man’s voice gave the station identification. This was followed by the announcement, repeated three times, of an important government statement and a request to stand by. At six forty-five the same voice read out the statement.
It began with a recital of the “crimes” committed by the Nasjah Government, and then went on to say that, in order to save the nation from the colonialist vultures gathering over its helpless body, the People’s National Freedom Party had taken over the functions of government. The Nasjah gang had run away. Insignificant bands of their adherents, incited by foreign agents, might make isolated attempts to resist the authority of the new government; but these would quickly be eliminated. In the capital, order had been restored and all was calm. However, as a precaution against reactionary elements and to protect life and property, certain temporary security measures had been ordered by General Sanusi, head of the People’s National Freedom Party.
There followed a list of ordinances, amounting in effect to a declaration of martial law, and an intimidating series of instructions to provincial mayors. It was stated finally that, within the next few hours, General Sanusi would himself broadcast a message of hope and encouragement to the loyal people of Sunda from his secret headquarters. Meanwhile, they should stay quietly in their houses. Groups of more than three persons assembling in the streets would be treated as hostile and dealt with accordingly. Admittedly, this was harsh, but if the people were to be protected against the Godless forces of reaction, harshness was necessary. All loyal, right-thinking men would understand the necessity. Through discipline the way lay open to freedom.
The voice stopped. A few seconds later the recognition signal began again.
The sunlight was pouring on to the terrace now. At that time yesterday I had lain half-awake on the spare bed in the living room, trying to ignore the sounds of traffic coming up from the square below. Today, there was scarcely a sound. Now and again a vehicle drove up to the Air Terminal entrance, but apart from that the square was silent. Like a wary animal, the whole city seemed to have gone to ground. Six floors down, in the roadway, a soldier hawked and spat, and the noise interested the soldier on the terrace sufficiently to make him look down over the balustrade.
“Freedom!” said Rosalie sharply. She used the Sundanese word “merkeda” and made it sound like a curse.
She was sitting in the chair behind the drawn curtain, the sunlight casting the pattern of the material across her face. I could not see her eyes, but her hands were gripping the arms of the chair tightly and her whole body was tense.
I shrugged. “All political parties use that word.” I paused, then added: “Why don’t you lie down and try to get some rest?”
She did not answer, and after a moment or two I went over and put my hand on her shoulder. As I touched her, she sobbed and began to cry helplessly. I put my arm round her and waited. When I felt that the worst of it was over, I led her to the bed and made her lie down. Then, I went back to the chair, took my shirt off and wondered what it was she did not like about freedom. In the next room the recognition signal stopped again and the voice began to repeat the earlier announcement.
I was quite sure that she had gone to sleep, but, as the announcement ended, I heard her sigh and looked over at her.
She was watching me.
“There is something I wish to say,” she said.
“Go to sleep. You will feel better.”
She shook her head. “It is about my father. I did not tell you the truth. I said that he died in a Japanese prison camp. That is not true.”
“Is he alive then?”
“No. He died, but not in that way.”
I waited.
For a moment or so she stared at the ceiling, then she went on. “My father was in a camp in Siam. When he came back, we went outside the city to a small place where my father owned a plot of land. We thought that for us it would be safer where there were other Eurasian families, because of the way the pemoedas hated us.”
“Pemoedas?”
“That is what we called the young soldiers of the liberation army. Anyone who was not Sundanese they wanted to kill. When the Amboina troops left, there was nothing to stop them. Even the poli
ce were afraid of them, or perhaps they did not care.”
She paused, and then went on slowly. “One day, a lot of them came in trucks. They had guns, and they made everyone in the village leave their houses and stand in the square while they searched the houses. They said that they were looking for hidden arms, but they were really looting. They took everything of value that there was and put it in the trucks. Then, one of them saw my father. Some of the other men in the village had made him stand among them so that he would not be noticed, but this pemoeda saw him and shouted to the others that he had found a Dutchman. The others came running up. Some of them were boys of fifteen or sixteen.” She drew a deep breath. “They took my father, and tied him by the wrists to a hook at the back of one of the trucks. They said that he should stay there until there was nothing left of him but his hands. Then they drove the truck fast up and down the road and round the square in front of us. And while my father was battered to death, the pemoedas clapped and laughed and ran along behind the truck shouting ‘ Merkeda! Merkeda!’ ”
She stopped, still staring up at the ceiling.
“Why did you say that he’d died in a prison camp?” I asked.
“That is something that everybody understands. Sometimes I almost believe it myself. It is easier to think of.”
Her eyes closed. When I went over to her a few minutes later I saw that this time she was really asleep. The voice on the radio in the next room finished the second reading of the announcement and the bamboo xylophone began again.
I needed to go to the bathhouse. I picked up a towel, went to the window and snapped my fingers. The sentry turned quickly and raised his gun.
I explained what I wanted. He said something that I did not catch; but he nodded, too, so I went along the terrace. I had left my shaving things in the bathhouse, and by the time I had finished there, I felt less depressed. I have always sympathised with those legendary Empire-builders who changed for dinner in the jungle. When I came out, I did something which I would not have done when I had gone in. Although the sentry was watching me, I walked over to the balustrade of the terrace and looked down into the square.
