“So you think Sophie Mackintosh is connected in some way to what you believe is going on, is that right?” There was little point in beating round the bush. What Abby had described really was out of my league but I was still intrigued as to why he had asked me to come and see him.
He turned the key in the ignition and there was a spluttering as the powerful engines coughed into life. He looked at me, locking his eyes with mine.
“I think maybe it is too much to ask of you, Richard.”
“If you don’t ask in the first place, you’ll never know will you?” I smiled understandingly.
Closing his eyes, his head dipping slightly, Abby pursed his lips before saying, “When I discovered you and this Mackintosh woman were on the same flight, and that you had met and had breakfast together … I changed what I was going to ask of you. Although she has no direct contact with His Majesty the Sultan, we believe she holds the key as to what your government’s intentions really are. I might be wrong but I would like you to find out whether our concerns are justified or whether we have misjudged what is happening.”
“Wow!” was all I could think of saying, followed by another inadequate, “I see. By saying, I see, I am only referring to what you’ve said and not the enormity of your request.”
“It was wrong of me to even think of it in the first place, Richard. Whatever we try to find out diplomatically, we receive the same answer. We have made representations to the High Commissioner here, and our Ambassador in London has been in talks with your government, but we always get the same reply. Very flowery political terminology is used but the message is quite simple – nobody is aware of any revolutionary activity in my country. We have not made any direct accusations because we are not certain, but we do need to know.”
“And you think I have the ability and the contacts, including Sophie Mackintosh, to achieve what you are asking?”
Abby looked up. “I don’t know, Richard, but I am asking you as a dear and close friend to do what you can. We need to know whether we should be worried. If what we believe is true, then we may have to consider other alliances – maybe with Indonesia – that previously we would have thought impossible and ones that certainly would not have received Britain’s approval. Brunei may be small and, in the eyes of some nations, insignificant but we are still a proud people and we would not give in to any aggressor, internal or external, without putting up the best fight possible. We would be fighting for the very survival … the very survival of Negara Brunei Darussalam.” His voice broke and there were tears his eyes.
I reached across the space between us and put my hand on his arm. “Abby, I really don’t see what I can do. I understand your concerns but I am no more than an out-of-work marine engineer. I have no contacts in the British Foreign Office –”
“Except Sophie Mackintosh,” Abby reminded me.
“All right, except Sophie, but other than her I wouldn’t know where to start and, even if I did, I wouldn’t know who and what to ask.”
“But you now have a starting point and I think you have a saying what you call ‘pillow talk’” Abby said.
He pushed the gear lever in front of him and the boat moved forward slowly, turning the wheel we were running parallel to the island we had anchored near. Once settled on his course, he made eye contact but the expression on his face told me that I really had little choice but to do as he asked.
“I can’t promise anything Abby, but if I can I’ll try to find out what she may or may not know.”
“I cannot ask more of you than that, Richard, and you never know, you might enjoy finding out.”
Chapter Sixteen
Having put on a pair of reasonably presentable lightweight cotton chinos and a cream short-sleeved shirt, I went down to the foyer to wait for Sophie. I had been waiting in the small anteroom opposite Reception for about five minutes when the lift pinged as it reached the ground floor. Sophie stepped out and immediately had the attention of the two male receptionists and a group of European businessmen at the table next to me.
Abby had dropped me off at the hotel a few minutes after three o’clock this afternoon, and after a refreshing swim, I fell onto my bed in an attempt to get a few hours’ sleep, which didn’t happen. My time with Abby whirled round in my mind as I endeavoured, once again, to make sense of everything. The previous night it had been because I didn’t know, now it was because I did … or I thought I did.
Belinda, Blue-Ridge, the twins, Charles and Elizabeth, they all seemed to be part of a different world. When I couldn’t sleep and in an effort to bring the others all closer to me I tried to ring Charles to ask after Elizabeth but there was no reply and the answer machine hadn’t been switched on. I had only been away for forty-eight hours but it seemed like a lifetime. I assumed that Charles was with Elizabeth in the hospital because I didn’t want to assume anything else. He had the telephone and fax numbers for the hotel – email addresses would have meant nothing to him. If there was a change in Elizabeth’s condition he had promised to let me know. No news was good news – I hoped.
Belinda was there, as ever, in my mind. I needed to talk to her because I wanted to ask her what I was now involved with. I was really having great difficulty in taking on board exactly what Abby had told me and, more importantly, what he had asked me to do.
Since discovering the unconscious Ingrid Mesterom in Dove Dale, my life had become one big surreal cauldron. I had expected my invited escape to Brunei and Abby to introduce a touch of familiarity. It had, at first, but then Abby had merely added to the unreality. There was obviously no connection between events in England, Germany and now Brunei but even so, I wondered what was going to happen next.
The Chinese fighters were real. The look in Abby’s eyes was real. His request was real but the circumstances were bizarre. If Abby were simply a friend with an ordinary job, then I might have been able to understand his concern and his request may have been more realistic. The result would be the same though, because I didn’t have the knowledge or the contacts to know where to start. However, at least everything would have been at a level with which I could relate and it wouldn’t have been a senior minister in the Brunei government asking me, an amateur, for help. Although I didn’t want to think of him like this, his behaviour and his appeal bordered on the unprofessional.
Nevertheless, watching Sophie walk across the foyer of the Sheraton Utama Hotel towards me took my mind away from what had happened today and in the preceding few weeks. What was going to happen in the next few hours suddenly became more important.
When I stood up to greet Sophie, Belinda flashed back into my mind and her expression suggested that I ought to enter into whatever might happen with great caution. Women are good judges of other women and their intentions. Belinda was telling me to tread warily and play Sophie Mackintosh at her own game. I wasn’t sure what Belinda meant, but I would do as she asked.
I stood up, smiling and Sophie leant across the space between us to give me a peck on the cheek. She smelt of CK perfume, the same as Belinda sometimes used to wear. The connection wasn’t lost on me.
“I hope I’m not overdressed?” she asked taking the seat next to mine. She was wearing a light-blue long-sleeved silk blouse with its collar turned up. Her white cotton trousers finished an inch above her ankles, the blue belt was the same colour as her blouse and her white open-toed sandals, showing off her delicately small feet, were a shade or two darker than her trousers. Everything looked expensive. The gold bracelets on her wrists matched the necklace at her throat.
“Perfect,” I replied, doubting whether she had a pair of scruffy jeans to her name. “Would you like a drink before we go?”
“I would love a gin and tonic but will stick to a grapefruit juice,” she said.
A waiter was hovering by the bar door, I called him over and ordered the drinks. “They go through phases,” I said. “Sometimes you can get a drink and sometimes you can’t. I wish they would simply do one or the other.”
“I suppose if tourists, in the strict sense of the word, were encouraged, they would do something about it, but they need neither the money nor the tourism. It’s clean, air-conditioned and the food is good.” I shrugged. “I suppose it could be worse.”
“It could certainly be worse,” she commented as the waiter arrived with our drinks and a small plate of hors d’oeuvres. “Where are you taking me tonight?” She picked up a smoked salmon creation and popped it into her mouth.
“If I told you, I think you probably wouldn’t want to go.”
She held my eyes and there was a slight smile on her lips. “It sounds intriguing.” She didn’t seem as animated as she had been at breakfast. I wondered whether she had simply had a hard day or whether something else was troubling her. I was also asking myself whether what Abby had suspected was true: was she what she purported to be or was she something little more sinister? Belinda’s warning was in the back of my mind as I watched Sophie sip her grapefruit juice and screw up her face in disgust.
“Did you have a hard day?” I asked.
She took the glass from her lips a little too quickly, looking at me. “I’m sorry, does it show?” she asked, inclining her head. “I love Robert Cruickshank to bits but he doesn’t run the most efficient of High Commissions. He’s an absolute sweetie but an administrative nightmare, which resulted in a difficult day to say the least. Sorry.”
“No need to apologise,” I said. “I thought you might join me in a minute or two.” The sarcasm was unlike me but, for some reason, it seemed appropriate.
Sophie, without appearing to be offended, put her hand on my arm. “I really am sorry. If only I could have had that gin and tonic.”
“Be patient for another twenty minutes or so,” I said.
It was actually nearer thirty minutes.
The taxi I booked earlier was waiting for us outside the hotel and the driver knew exactly where I wanted to go. Sophie took one look at the outside of the restaurant – a loose description – another look at me and then at the taxi as it retreated back towards Bandar Seri Begawan.
“It’s a shack,” she observed accurately.
I nodded, smiling. “I think Mama Wong would prefer to call it a lean-to or an add-on.”
“Mama who?” she asked as I held the door open for her.
“Mama Wong.”
“Sounds like the proprietor of a brothel rather than a … a café,” Sophie informed me, looking for a table.
I took her arm and guided her towards a table for two by the wall. “Give it a chance,” I told her, pulling out her chair for her.
She regarded the plastic tablecloth and cheap cutlery with disgust, which made me smile. There were no candles on the table, the room was too brightly lit and the off-white walls were decorated with a mixture of prints and frames that most people would not hang in their garden shed. It wasn’t the setting for a cosy evening but Mama Wong’s always held a few surprises that I hoped even Sophie would be pleased with.
There were about twenty other people at scattered tables, who were mostly European but there was a Chinese family at one of the tables in the far corner. Sophie and I had been given the once over as we walked through the door but each table had gone back to its private conversation by the time we sat down, although Sophie, as would be expected, was getting a few furtive glances.
A young Chinese girl came from behind the counter at the far end of the room and thrust pieces of cardboard into our hands.
“You want drink?” she asked.
“Please.” I glanced at Sophie. “Two special tonics, please.”
“Two speshall tonics,” the girl repeated, writing something down on a scruffy piece of paper.
“I think I can guess what special tonics are, am I right?” Sophie asked, holding the piece of card between her fingertips as though it was a dirty rag. “Don’t forget I work quite a lot in Muslim countries.”
“You’ll see. I recommend the fish and chips, and the mushy peas. They’re the best this side of Harry Ramsden’s.”
“It’s almost the only thing on the menu, are you serious?”
“Completely,” I said.
The girl arrived back at the table with two plastic beakers containing ice and a sliver of lemon. Next to the beakers, she placed, quite noisily, two open cans of Schweppes tonic water. After pouring the contents of one of the cans into Sophie’s beaker, I handed it to her.
“Cheers!” I said picking up my beaker and tapping it against Sophie’s.
Looking a little apprehensively at the edge of the beaker, Sophie took a sip and her eyes shot open. “Wow! And yes, cheers!”
I smiled. “Worth waiting for?”
“This is a tonic and gin not a gin and tonic,” she told me, taking an enthusiastic further sip. “That’s powerful. I’ve been in some places but these special tonics surpass anything I’ve had before.”
“If you think that’s good, wait until you get the fish and chips.”
The girl approached the table and I ordered without asking Sophie if she actually liked fish. “And,” Sophie added, “another two of your special tonics.” After draining her beaker, she poured the remainder of her can into it. “I’ve been coming to Brunei for five years and I didn’t know this place existed.”
“In many ways it doesn’t, for obvious reasons. What do you fancy with your fish, a Muscadet or a Chablis?”
“A Chablis, I think.”
“A Chablis it is.”
“Does this place ever get raided?” The girl had already returned with our second special tonics and Sophie poured them.
“Mama Wong has been running this place for well over fifteen years and I’ve been told in that time the police haven’t set foot through that door.” The gin was coursing its way through my bloodstream and was having the desired effect. “There’s nothing illegal about fish and chips and tonic water.”
“Obviously there’s all the alcohol you want in the Commission and I have been to a couple of restaurants in Bandar that sell special tea, but that turns out to be only beer. This,” she indicated the beaker in her hand, “is like nectar.”
“Pleased you like it.”
“You certainly know how to treat a girl,” she said, a mischievous smile on her lips.
“I do my best.”
“I’m sure you do,” Sophie said, peering at me over the rim of her beaker.
The fish and chips arrived and I asked the girl for some French lemonade. The chances of Sophie getting the Chablis she wanted were extremely remote but after two of Mama Wong’s special tonics, who cared? Vin Blanc de Table would be as palatable as the best Chablis available in Singapore.
Sophie ate in silence for a good five minutes, looking up every now and again. The expression on her face suggested that she was enjoying the products of Mama Wong’s kitchen. If we had gone through to thank the chef, we would probably worry about food poisoning for the next twenty-four hours. I had eaten there probably a dozen times – not with Abby though, he was too well known – over the years but there had never been any side effects.
Mid-way through a large plate of battered fish and chips cooked in beef dripping, and a generous helping of mushy peas, Sophie put her knife and fork down on the side of her plate, picked up her French lemonade and took a healthy gulp.
“I’ve been on some weird dates in my life but you’re right, if you had told me where we were going before we left the Sheraton Utama, I would have refused to budge. Now I’m here, all I can say is I wouldn’t have missed the experience for the world. Thank you.” Her smile was genuine and the fingers she placed on the back of my hand warm.
The fans whirled – Mama Wong’s didn’t extend to air-conditioning – and the disconnect between the resultant humidity and eating fish and chips became totally irrelev
ant. Two of Mama Wong’s special tonics combined with a bottle of her French lemonade seemed to create an atmosphere that I hadn’t experienced for a long time. When Sophie picked up the last chip from her plate with her fingers and delicately placed it between her lips, her knife and fork lying on an empty plate, I didn’t see her as somebody I had only met the day before but somebody who was desirable and, rightly or wrongly, available.
I closed my eyes.
Belinda’s warning, my conscience, Isabelle’s concerns, Abby’s beliefs and my early misgivings weren’t there anymore. I was with a very attractive female who had accepted my invitation to have dinner with me.
“Richard?” I felt the coolness of her fingers on my arm again. “Richard, are you all right?”
I heard Sophie’s voice but for a few seconds I was still lost in my thoughts. I was fooling myself. Of course everything was still there, they had all still happened. Being with Sophie was only a temporary respite from the real world.
“Richard?” she asked again. “Are you all right?”
This time I opened my eyes and shook my head. “I think so,” I said. “It’s a long time since I downed two strong gin and tonics in a matter of a few minutes. I think the sun may have got to me today as well. Abby and I went out on his boat.”
She smiled, her fingers softly moving on the back of my hand. “I’m glad it’s not only me the special tonics have affected.” She looked down at my plate. “You haven’t finished your chips.”
“I couldn’t, I’m fit to burst.”
“The black coffees aren’t special too, are they?” Her fingers were still on my hand and she was watching them as she stroked me gently.
Her touch seemed totally natural and I was enjoying it.
“The coffees can be special if you want them to be but I think I might forego the experience for the moment. Maybe before we leave?”
We both started to speak at the same time. “Sorry, you first,” I suggested.
“I was going to ask how long you had been divorced,” she said. “A personal question, I know, but I want to know a little more about you. Do you mind if I have a cigarette? I don’t smoke a lot but I always carry a packet for special occasions.”
Pooh Bridge: conscience stricken Page 18
