South by Java Head

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The soft murmur of Van Effen's voice faded away and the silence in the council house was heavy and deep. For each man and woman there the others might not have existed. The great heap of diamonds at their feet, sparkling and flaming with a barbaric magnificence in the light of the flickering oil-lamps, had a weirdly hypnotic quality, held every eye in thrall. But by and by Nicolson stirred and looked up at Van Effen. Strangely enough, he could feel no bitterness, no hostility towards this man: they had come through too much together, and Van Effen had come through it better than most, unselfish, enduring and helpful all the way. The memory of that was much too recent to be washed away.

"Borneo stones, of course," he murmured. "From Banjer-masin by the Kerry Dancer ― couldn't have been any other way. Uncut, I suppose ― and you say they're worth two million?",

"Rough cut and uncut," Van Effen nodded. "And their market value is at least that ― a hundred fighter planes, a couple of destroyers, I don't know. In wartime they're worth infinitely more to any side that gets its hands on them." He smiled faintly. "None of these stones will ever grace milady's fingers. Industrial use only ― diamond-tipped cutting tools. A great pity, is it not?"

No one spoke, no one as much as glanced at the speaker. They heard the words, but the words failed to register, for that moment they all lived in their eyes alone. And then Van Effen had stepped quickly forward, his foot swinging, and the great pile of diamonds were tumbling over the earthen floor in a glittering cascade.

"Trash! Baubles!" His voice was harsh, contemptuous. "What matter all the diamonds, all the precious stones that ever were when the great nations of the world are at each other's throats and men are dying in their thousands and their hundreds of thousands? I wouldn't sacrifice a life, not even the life of an enemy, for all the diamonds in the Indies. But I have sacrificed many lives, and put many more I'm afraid, in deadly danger to secure another treasure, an infinitely more valuable treasure than these few paltry stones at our feet. What do a few lives matter, if losing them enables a man to save a thousand times more?"

"We can all see how fine and noble you are," Nicolson said bitterly. "Spare us the rest and get to the point."

"I have already arrived," Van Effen said equably. "That treasure is in this room, with us, now. I have no wish to prolong this unduly or seek after dramatic effect." He stretched out his hand. "Miss Plenderleith, if you please."

She stared at him, her eyes uncomprehending.

"Oh, now, come, come." He snapped his fingers and smiled at her. "I admire your performance, but I really can't wait all night."

"I don't know what you mean," she said blankly.

"Perhaps it may help you if I tell you that I know everything." There was neither gloating nor triumph in Van Effen's voice, only certainty and a curious overtone of weariness.

"Everything, Miss Plenderleith, even to that simple little ceremony in a Sussex village on 18th February, 1902."

"What the devil are you talking about?" Nicolson demanded.

"Miss Plenderleith knows, don't you, Miss Plenderleith?" There was almost compassion in Van Effen's voice: for the first time the life had faded from her lined old face and her shoulders were sagging wearily.

"I know." She nodded in defeat and looked at Nicolson. "He is referring to the date of my marriage ― my marriage to Brigadiers-General Farnholme. We celebrated our fortieth wedding anniversary aboard the lifeboat." She tried to smile, but failed.

Nicolson stared at her, at the tired little face and empty eyes, and all at once he was convinced of the truth of it. Even as he looked at her, not really seeing her, memories came flooding in on him and many things that had baffled him gradually began to become clear… But Van Eft'en was speaking again.

"18th February, 1902. If I know that, Miss Plenderleith, I know everything."

"Yes, you know everything." Her voice was a distant murmur.

"Please." His hand was still outstretched. "You would not care for Captain Yamata's men to search you."

"No.". She fumbled under her salt-stained, bleached jacket, undid a belt and handed it to Van Effen. "I think this is what you want."

"Thank you." For a man who had secured what he had spoken of as a priceless treasure, Van Effen's face was strangely empty of all triumph and satisfaction. "This is indeed what I want."

He undid the pouches of the belt, lifted out the photostats and films that had lain inside and held them up to the light of the flickering oil-lamps. Almost a minute passed while he examined them in complete silence, then he nodded his head in satisfaction and returned papers and films to the belt.

"All intact," he murmured. "A long time and a long way ― but all intact."

"What the devil are you talking about?" Nicolson demanded irritably. "What is that?"

"This?" Van Effen glanced down at the belt he was buckling round his waist. "This, Mr. Nicolson, is what makes everything worth while. This is the reason for all the action and suffering of the past days, the reason why the Kerry Dancer and the Viroma were sunk, why so many people have died, why my allies were prepared to go to any length to prevent your escape into the Timor Sea. This is why Captain Yamata is here now, although I doubt whether even he knows that ― but his commanding officer will. This is――-"

"Get to the point!" Nicolson snapped.

"Sorry." Van Effen tapped the belt. "This contains the complete, fully detailed plans, in code, of Japan's projected invasion of Northern Australia. Japanese codes are almost impossible to break, but our people know that there is one man in London who could do it. If anyone could have escaped with these and got them to London, it would have been worth a fortune to the allies."

"My God!" Nicolson felt dazed. "Where ― where did they come from?"

"I don't know." Van Effen shook his head. "If we had known that they would never have got into the wrong hands in the first place… The full-scale invasion plans, Mr. Nicolson ― forces employed, times, dates, places ― everything. In British or American hands, these would have meant three months' setback to the Japanese, perhaps even six. At this early stage of the war, such a delay could have been fatal to the Japanese: you can'understand their anxiety to recover these. What's a fortune in diamonds compared to these, Mr. Nicolson?"

"What, indeed," Nicolson muttered. He spoke automatically, a man with his mind far away.

"But now we have both ― the plans and the diamonds." There was still that strange, complete lack of any inflection of triumph in Van Effen's voice. He reached out a toe and touched the pile of diamonds. "Perhaps I was over hasty in expressing my contempt of these. They have their own beauty."

"Yes." The bitterness of defeat was sharp in Nicolson's mouth, but his face was impassive. "A fantastic sight, Van Effen."

"Admire them while you may, Mr. Nicolson." Captain Yamata's voice, cold and harsh, cut through the spell, brought them all tumbling back to reality. He touched the tip of the cone of diamonds with his sword-point and the white fire glittered and blazed as the stones spilled over on to the ground. "They are beautiful, but man must have eyes to see."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Nicolson demanded.

"Just that Colonel Kiseki has had orders only to recover the diamonds and deliver them intact to Japan. Nothing was said about prisoners. You killed his son. You will see what I mean."

"I can guess." Nicolson looked at him with contempt. "A shovel, a six by two hole and a shot in the back when I've finished digging. Oriental culture. We've heard all about it."

Yamata smiled emptily. "Nothing so quick and clean and easy, I assure you. We have, as you say, culture. Such crudities are not for us."

"Captain Yamata." Van Effen was looking at the Japanese officer, fractionally narrowed eyes the only sign of emotion in an expressionless face.

"Yes, Colonel?"

"You ― you can't do that. This man is not a spy, to be shot without trial. He's not even a member of the armed forces, Technically, he's a non-combatant."

"Of course, of course." Yamata was heavily ironic. "To date he has only been responsible for the deaths of fourteen of our sailors and an airman. I shudder to think of the carnage if he ever became a combatant. And he killed Kiseki's son."

"He didn't. Siran will bear that out."

"Let him explain that to the colonel," Yamata said indifferently. He sheathed his sword. "We quibble, and uselessly. Come, let us go. Our truck should be here shortly."

"Truck?" Van Effen queried.

"We left it almost a mile away." Yamata grinned. "We did not wish to disturb your sleep. What's the matter, Mr. Nicolson?" he finished sharply.

"Nothing," Nicolson answered shortly. He had been staring out through the open doorway and in spite of himself a flicker of excitement had crossed his face, but he knew that his eyes had been safely away before Yamata had caught his expression. "The truck isn't here yet. I would like to ask Van Effen one or two questions." He hoped his voice sounded casual.

"We have a minute or two," Yamata nodded. "It might amuse me. But be quick."

"Thank you." He looked at Van Effen. "As a matter of interest, who gave Miss Plenderleith the diamonds ― and the plans?"

"What does it matter now?" Van Effen's voice was heavy, remote. "It's all past and done with now."

"Please," Nicolson persisted. It had suddenly become essential to stall for time. "I really would like to know."

"Very well." Van Effen looked at him curiously. "I'll tell you. Farnholme had them both ― and he had them nearly all the time. That should have been obvious to you from the fact that Miss Plenderleith had them. Where the plans came from I've told you I don't know: the diamonds were given him by the Dutch authorities in Borneo."

"They must have had a great deal of faith in him," Nicolson said dryly.

"They had. They had every reason to. Farnholme was utterly reliable. He was an infinitely resourceful and clever man, and knew the East ― especially the islands ― as well as any man alive. We know for a fact that he spoke at least fourteen Asiatic languages."

"You seem to have known a great deal about him." "We did. It was our business ― and very much to our interest ― to find out all we could. Farnholme was one of our archenemies. To the best of our knowledge he had been a member of your Secret Service for just over thirty years."

There were one or two stifled gasps of surprise and the sudden low murmur of voices. Even Yamata had sat down again and was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his keen dark face alight with interest.

"Secret Service!" Nicolson let his breath go in a long, soundless whistle of surprise, rubbed a hand across his forehead in a gesture of disbelief and wonderment. He had guessed as much five minutes ago. Under the protective cover of his hand his eyes flickered sideways for a split second, glanced through the open door of the council house, then looked at Van Effen. "But ― but Miss Plenderleith said he commanded a regiment in Malaya, some years ago."

"That's right, he did." Van Effen smiled. "At least, he appeared to."

"Go on, go on." It was Captain Findhorn who urged him. "Not much to go on with. The Japanese and myself knew of the missing plans, within hours of their being stolen. I was after them with official Japanese backing. We hadn't reckoned on Farnholme having made arrangements to take the diamonds with him also ― a stroke of genius on Farnholme's part. It served a double purpose. If anyone penetrated his disguise as an alcoholic beachcomber on the run, he could buy his way out of trouble. Or if anyone were still suspicious of him and discovered the diamonds they would be sure to think that that accounted for his disguise and odd behaviour and let it go at that. And, in the last resort, if the Japanese discovered on what ship he was, he hoped that cupidity or their natural desire to recover such a valuable wartime merchandise would make them think twice about sinking the ship, in the hope that they might get the plans and so recover the diamonds another way, killing two birds with one stone. I tell you, Farnholme was brilliant. He had the most diabolically ill luck."

"It didn't work out that way," Findhorn objected. "Why did they sink the Kerry Dancer!"

"The Japanese didn't know he was aboard at the time," Van Effen explained. "But Siran did ― he always did. He was after the diamonds, I suspect, because some renegade Dutch official double-crossed his own people and gave Siran the information in return for a promised share of the profits when Siran laid hands on the stones. He would never have seen a single guilder or stone. Neither would the Japanese."

"A clever attempt to discredit me." It was Siran speaking for the first time, his voice smooth and controlled. "The stones would have gone to our good friends and allies, the Japanese. That was our intention. My two men here will bear me out."

"It will be difficult to prove otherwise," Van Effen said indifferently. "Your betrayal this night is worth something. No doubt your masters will throw the jackal a bone." He paused, then went on: "Farnholme never suspected who I was ― not, at least, until after we had been several days in the lifeboat. But I had known him all along, cultivated him, drunk with him. Siran here saw us together several times and must have thought that Farnholme and I were more than friends, a mistake anyone might make. That, I think, is why he rescued me ― or rather didn't chuck me overboard when the Kerry Dancer went down. He thought I either knew where the diamonds were or would find out from Farnholme."

"Another mistake," Siran admitted coldly. "I should have let you drown."

"You should. Then you might have got the whole two million to yourself." Van Effen paused for a moment's recollection, then looked at the Japanese officer. "Tell me, Captain Yamata, has there been any unusual British naval activity in the neighbourhood recently?"

Captain Yamata looked at him in quick surprise. "How do you know?"

"Destroyers, possibly?" Van Effen had ignored the question. "Moving in close at night?"

"Exactly." Yamata was astonished. "They come close in to Java Head each night, not eighty miles from here, then retire before dawn, before our planes can come near. But how――-"

"It is easily explained. On the dawn of the day the Kerry Dancer was sunk, Farnholme spent over an hour in the radio room. Almost certainly he told them of his escape hopes ― south from the Java Sea. No allied ship dare move north of Indonesia ― it would be a quick form of suicide. So they're patrolling the south, moving close in at nights. My guess is that they'll have another vessel patrolling near Bali. You have made no effort to deal with this intruder, Captain Yamata?"

"Hardly." Yamata's tone was dry. "The only vessel we have here is our commander's, Colonel Kiseki's. It is fast enough, but too small ― just a launch, really only a mobile radio station. Communications are very difficult in these parts."

"I see." Van Effen looked at Nicolson. "The rest is obvious. Farnholme came to the conclusion that it was no longer safe for him to carry the diamonds round with him any longer ― nor the plans. The plans, I think, he gave to Miss Plenderleith aboard the Viroma, the diamonds on the island ― he emptied his own bag and filled it with grenades… I have never known a braver man."

Van Effen was silent for a few moments, then continued. "The poor renegade Muslim priest was just that and no more: Farnholme's story, told on the spur of the moment, was completely untrue, but typical of the audacity of the man ― to accuse someone else of what he was doing himself… And just one final thing ― my apologies to Mr. Walters here." Van Effen smiled faintly. "Farnholme wasn't the only one who was wandering into strange cabins that night. I spent over an hour in Mr. Walters's radio room. Mr. Walters slept well. I carry things with me that ensure that people will sleep well."

Walters stared at him, then glanced at Nicolson, remembering how he had felt that next morning, and Nicolson remembered how the radio operator had looked, white, strained and sick. Van Effen caught Walters's slow nod of understanding.

"I apologise, Mr. Walters. But I had to do it, I had to send out a message. I am a skilled operator, but it took me a long time. Each time I heard footsteps in the passage outside, I died a thousand deaths. But I got my message through."

"Course, speed and position, eh?" Nicolson said grimly.

"Plus a request not to bomb the oil cargo tanks. You just wanted the ship stopped, isn't that it?"

"More or less," Van Effen admitted. "I didn't expect them to make quite so thorough a job of stopping the ship, though. On the other hand, don't forget that if I hadn't sent the message, telling them the diamonds were on board, they would probably have blown the ship sky-high."

"So we all owe our lives to you," Nicolson said bitterly. "Thank you very much." He looked at him bleakly for a long, tense moment, then swung his gaze away, his eyes so obviously unseeing that no one thought to follow his gaze. But his eyes were very far indeed from unseeing, and there could be no doubt about it now. McKinnon had moved, and moved six inches, perhaps nearer nine, in the past few minutes, not in the uncontrolled, jerky twitchings of an unconscious man in deep-reaching pain, but in the stealthy, smoothly coordinated movements of a fully conscious person concentrating on inching silently across the ground, so silently, so soundlessly, with such imperceptible speed that only a man with his nerves strung up to a pitch of hyper-sensitivity could have seen it at all. But Nicolson saw it, knew there could be no mistake at all. Where originally there had been head, shoulders and arms lying in the bar of light that streamed out through the door, now there was only the back of the black head and one tanned forearm. Slowly, unconcernedly, his face an empty, expressionless mask, Nicolson let his gaze wander back to the company. Van Effen was speaking again, watching him with speculative curiosity.

"As you will have guessed by now, Mr. Nicolson, Farnholme remained safely in the pantry during the fight because he was sitting with two million pounds in his lap and wasn't going to risk any of it for any old-fashioned virtue of courage and honour and decency. I remained in the dining-saloon because I wasn't going to fire on my allies ― and you will recall that the only time I did ― at the sailor in the conning-tower of the submarine ― I missed. A very convincing miss, I've always thought. After the initial attack no Japanese 'plane attacked us on the Viroma, when we were clearing the boat ― or afterwards: I had signalled with a torch from the top of the wheelhouse.

"Similarly the submarine did not sink us ― the captain wouldn't have been very popular had he returned to base and reported that he had sent two million pounds worth of diamonds to the bottom of the South China Sea." He smiled, again without mirth. "You may remember that I wished to surrender to that submarine ― you adopted a rather hostile view-point about that."

"Then why did that 'plane attack us?"

"Who knows?" Van Effen shrugged his shoulders. "Getting desperate, I suppose. And don't forget that it had a seaplane in attendance ― it could have picked up one or two selected survivors."

"Such as yourself?"

"Such as myself," Van Effen admitted. "Shortly after this Siran found out that I hadn't the diamonds ― he searched my bag during one of the nights we were becalmed: I saw him do it and I let him do it, and there was nothing in it anyway. And it always lessened my chances of being stabbed in the back ― which happened to his next suspect, the unfortunate Ahmed. Again he chose wrongly." He looked at Siran with unconcealed distaste. "I suppose Ahmed woke up while you were rifling his bag?"

"An unfortunate accident." Siran waved an airy hand. "My knife slipped."

"You have very little time to live, Siran." There was something curiously prophetic about the tone of Van Effen's voice, and the contemptuous smile drained slowly from Siran's face. "You are too evil to live."

"Superstitious nonsense!" The smile was back, the upper lip curled over the even white teeth.

"We shall see, we shall see." Van Effen transferred his gaze to Nicolson. "That's all, Mr. Nicolson. You'll have guessed why Farnholme hit me over the head when the torpedo boat came alongside. He had to, if he was to save your lives. A very, very gallant man ― and a fast thinker." He turned and looked at Miss Plenderleith. "And you gave me quite a fright, too, when you said Farnholme had left all his stuff on the island. Then I realised right away that he couldn't have done that, because he'd never have a chance of going back there again. So I knew you must have it." He looked at her compassionately. "You are a very courageous lady, Miss Plenderleith. You deserved better than this."

He finished speaking, and again the deep, heavy silence fell over the council house. Now and again the little boy whimpered in his uneasy sleep, a small frightened sound, but Gudrun rocked and soothed him in her arms and by and by he lay still. Yamata was staring down at the stones, the thin aquiline face dark and brooding, seemingly in no hurry to move off. The prisoners were almost all looking at Van Effen, their expressions ranging from astonishment to blank incredulity. Behind them stood the guards, ten or twelve in all, alert and watchful and their guns ready in their hands. Nicolson risked a last quick look out through the lighted doorway, felt the breath checking in his throat and the almost unconscious tightening of his fists. The doorway and the lighted oblong beyond it were completely empty. McKinnon had gone. Slowly, carelessly, easing out his pent-up breath in a long soundless sigh, Nicolson looked away ― and found Van Effen's speculative eyes full upon him. Speculative ― and understanding. Even as Nicolson watched, Van Effen looked sideways through the door for a long, meaningful moment, looked back at Nicolson again. Nicolson felt the chill wave of defeat wash through his mind, wondered if he could get to Van Effen's throat before he spoke. But that would do no good, it would only postpone the inevitable. Even if he killed him ― but Nicolson knew he was fooling himself, he hadn't a chance, and even if he had, even to save themselves, he could do Van Effen no harm. He owed Van Effen a life ― Peter's. Van Effen could have freed himself very easily that morning ― the clam hadn't been all that large. He could have let Peter go and released himself by the use of both his hands: but he had elected, instead, to stand there in agony with the child in his arms and have his leg badly mauled and cut… Van Effen was smiling at him, and Nicolson knew it was too late to stop him from speaking.

"Beautifully done, wasn't it, Mr. Nicolson?"

Nicolson said nothing. Captain Yamata lifted his head and looked puzzled. "What was beautifully done, Colonel?"

"Oh, just the whole operation." Van Effen waved his hand. "From beginning to end." He smiled deprecatingly, and Nicolson could feel the blood pounding in his pulse.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Yamata growled. He rose to his feet. "Time we were going. I can hear the truck coming."

"Very well." Van Effen flexed his wounded leg stiffly: with the clam bite and the shrapnel wound in his thigh it was almost useless to him. "To see your colonel? tonight?"

"Inside the hour," Yamata said briefly. "tonight Colonel Kiseki entertains important headmen and chiefs in his villa. His son lies dead, but duty crushes grief. Crushes it, I say, not kills it. But the sight of all these prisoners will lighten his saddened heart."

Nicolson shivered. Someone, he thought wryly, walking over his grave. Even without the almost sadistic anticipation in Yamata's voice, he had no illusions as to what lay in store for himself. For a moment he thought of all the stories he had heard of Japanese atrocities in China, then resolutely pushed the thought away. An empty mind on a razor edge was his only hope, he knew, and that no hope at all. Not even with McKinnon out there, for what could McKinnon do except get himself killed. The thought that the bo'sun might try to make good his own escape never crossed Nicolson's mind. McKinnon just wasn't made that way… Van Effen was speaking again.

"And afterwards? When the colonel has seen the prisoners? You have quarters for them?"

"They won't need quarters," Yamata said brutally. "A burial party will be all that's required."

"I'm not joking, Captain Yamata," Van Effen said stiffly.

"Neither am I, Colonel." Yamata smiled, said no more. In the sudden silence they could hear the squeal of brakes and the blipping of an accelerator as the truck drew up in the middle of the kampong. Then Captain Findhorn cleared his throat.

"I am in charge of our party, Captain Yamata. Let me remind you of international wartime conventions." His voice was low and husky, but steady for all that. "As a captain in the British Mercantile Marine, I demand――-"

"Be quiet!" Yamata's voice was almost a shout, and his face was twisted in ugliness. He lowered his voice until it was almost a whisper, a caressing murmur more terrifying by far than a roar of anger. "You demand nothing, Captain. You are in no position to demand anything. International conventions! Bah! I spit at international conventions. These are for the weak, for simpletons and for children. The strong have no need for them. Colonel Kiseki has never heard of them. All Colonel Kiseki knows is that you have killed his son." Yamata shivered elaborately. "I fear no man on earth, but I fear Colonel Kiseki. Everyone fears Colonel Kiseki. At any time he is a terrible man. Ask your friend there. He has heard of him." He pointed at Telak, standing in the background between two armed guards.

"He is not a man." All Telak's left side was ridged and lumped in long streaks of coagulated blood. "He is a fiend. God will punish Colonel Kiseki."

"Ah, so?" Yamata said something quickly in Japanese, and Telak staggered back as a rifle butt jabbed cruelly into his face. "Our allies," Yamata purred apologetically, "but they have to be educated. In particular, they must not speak ill of our senior army officers… At any time, I said, Colonel Kiseki is a terrible man. But now that his only son has been killed…" He allowed his voice to trail off into silence.

"What will Colonel Kiseki do?" There was no trace of emotion, of any feeling in Van Effen's voice. "Surely the women and children―――"

"They will be the first to go ― and they will take a long time going." Captain Yamata might have been discussing arrangements for a garden party. "Colonel Kiseki is a connoisseur, an artist in this sort of thing ― it is an education for lesser men such as myself to watch him. He thinks mental suffering is no less important than physical pain." Yamata was warming to his subject, and finding it more than pleasant. "For instance, his main attention will be directed towards Mr. Nicolson here."

"Inevitably," Van Effen murmured.

"Inevitably. So he will ignore Mr. Nicolson ― at first, that is. He will concentrate instead on the child. But he may spare the boy, I don't know, he has a strange weakness for very small children." Yamata frowned, then his face cleared. "So he will pass on to the girl here ― the one with the scarred face. Siran tells me she and Nicolson are very friendly, to say the least." He looked at Gudrun for a long moment of time, and the expression on his face woke murder in Nicolson's heart. "Colonel Kiseki has rather a special way with the ladies ― especially the young one: a rather ingenious combination of the green bamboo bed and the water treatment. You have heard of them, perhaps, Colonel?"

"I have heard of them." For the first time that evening Van Effen smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile, and Nicolson felt fear for the first time, the overwhelming certainty of ultimate defeat. Van Effen was toying with him, the cat with the mouse, sadistically lending false encouragement while waiting for the moment to pounce. "Yes, indeed I have heard of them. It should be a most interesting performance. I presume I shall be permitted to watch the ― ah ― festivities?"

"You shall be our guest of honour, my dear Colonel," Yamata purred.

"Excellent, excellent. As you say, it should be most educative." Van Effen looked at him quiz/ically, waved a lackadaisical hand towards the prisoners. "You think it likely that Colonel Kiseki will ― ah ― interview them all? Even the wounded?"

"They murdered his son," Yamata answered flatly.

"Quite so. They murdered his son." Van Effen looked again at the prisoners, and his eyes were bleak and cold. "But one of them also tried to murder me. I don't think Colonel Kiseki would miss just one of them, would he?"

Yamata raised his eyebrows. "I'm not quite certain that…"

"One of them tried to kill me," Van Effen said harshly. "I have a personal score to settle. I would take it as a great favour, Captain Yamata, to be able to settle that score now."

Yamata looked away from the soldier who was pouring the diamonds back into the torn bag and stroked his chin. Nicolson could once more feel the blood pounding in his pulse, forced himself to breathe quietly, normally. He doubted if anyone else knew what was going on.

"I suppose it is the least you are entitled to ― we owe you a very great deal. But the colonel――-" Suddenly the doubt and uncertainty cleared from Yamata's face, and he smiled. "But of course! You are a senior allied officer. An order from you――-"

"Thank you, Captain Yamata," Van Effen interrupted. "Consider it given." He whirled round, limped quickly into the middle of the prisoners, bent down, twisted his hand in Gordon's shirt-front and jerked him viciously to his feet. "I've been waiting a long time for this, you little rat. Get across there." He ignored Gordon's struggles, his fear-maddened face and incoherent protestations of innocence, marched him across to an empty space at the back of the council house, at a point directly opposite the door, and flung him into a huddled heap, sprawled almost his length against the back wall of the hut, one arm raised in pathetic defence, unreasoning panic limned in every line of his unlovely face.

Van Effen ignored the panic, the protestations and the man, turned quickly round and limped across towards the elders' platform, towards the Japanese soldier who stood with his own rifle under one arm and Farnholme's machine-carbine under the other. With the careless assurance of a man who expects neither question nor resistance, Van Effen firmly relieved the soldier of the machine-carbine, checked that it was fully loaded, slipped the catch to automatic and hobbled back again towards Gordon who still lay where he had left him, eyes unnaturally wide and staring, moaning softly, long, quivering indrawn breaths were the only sound in the room. Every eye in the room was on Van Effen and Gordon, eyes that reflected various states of pity or anger or anticipation or just blank incomprehension. Nicolson's face was quite expressionless, Yamata's almost so, but the tongue running slowly over his lips gave him away. But no one spoke, no one moved, no one thought to speak or move. A man was about to be killed, to be murdered, but some indefinable factor in that electric atmosphere prevented any protest, any interruption, from anyone inside that house. And when the interruption did come, a sudden, jarring shock that shattered the spell as a stone might shatter a delicate crystal, it came from the kam-pong outside.

The high-pitched yell in Japanese jerked every head towards the door. Immediately afterwards came the sound of a short, sharp scuffle, a cry, a revolting, hollow sound like a giant cleaver splitting a water-melon, a momentary, weirdly ominous silence, then a roar and a rush of smoke and flame and the doorway and most of the wall were engulfed, with incredible speed, in a leaping, crackling wall of flame.

Captain Yamata took two steps towards the doorway, opened his mouth to shout an order and died with his mouth still open, the slugs from Van Effen's carbine tearing half his chest away. The staccato hammering of the machine-gun inside the room was almost deafening, completely blotting out the roar of the flames. The sergeant still on the platform died next, then a soldier beside him, then a great red flower spread outwards from the centre of Siran's face, and still Van Effen crouched low over the slowly swinging barrel of his carbine, his hand locked on the trigger, his face that of a man carved from stone. He staggered when the first Japanese rifle bullet caught him high up on the shoulder, stumbled and fell to one knee as a second bullet smashed into his side with the force of a battering ram, but still no flicker of expression crossed his face and the ivory-knuckled trigger finger only tightened the more. That much and that only Nicolson saw before he catapulted himself backwards and crashed into the legs of a soldier lining his tommy-gun on the man by the far wall. They went down together in a writhing, twisting, furiously struggling heap, then Nicolson was smashing the butt of the tommy-gun again and again into the dark blur of the face before him and was on his feet once more, knocking aside a gleaming bayonet blade and kicking viciously for an unprotected groin. Even as he closed with the man, hooked fingers locking round a scrawny throat, he was conscious that Walters and Evans and Willoughby were on their feet also, fighting like madmen in the weird half-light compounded of the red glare of the flames and the choking acrid smoke that filled the room. He was conscious, too, that Van Effen's machine-carbine had fallen silent, that another machine-gun, with a different cyclic rate, was firing through the licking, resinous flames that all but curtained off the doorway. And then he had forgotten all about these things, another man had seized him from behind and locked an elbow round his throat, strangling him in a grim and savage silence. There was a red mist, a mist shot through with sparks and flame, swimming before his eyes, and he knew it was his own blood pounding in his head and not the furiously burning walls of the council house. His strength was going, he was just sliding away into the darkness, when he vaguely heard the man behind him cry out in agony, and then McKinnon had him by the arm, leading him at a stumbling run out through the blazing doorway. But they were too late ― too late at least for Nicolson. The blazing overhead beam falling from the roof caught him only a glancing blow on head and shoulder, but it was enough, in his weakened state more than enough, and the darkness closed over him.

He came to almost a minute later, lying huddled against the wall of the nearest upwind hut from the council house. He was dimly aware of men standing and moving around him, of Miss Plenderleith wiping blood and soot from his face, of the great tongue of flame licking thirty or forty feet vertically upwards into a dark and starless sky as the coucil house, a wall and most of the roof already gone, burnt torch-like to destruction.

Consciousness returned. He staggered to his feet, pushing Miss Plenderleith ungently to one side. All firing had stopped now, he realised, and he could hear the distant sound of a truck engine revving and fading, revving and fading as it slammed through the gears ― the Japanese, or what few of them were left, leaving in a panic-stricken hurry.

"McKinnon!" He had to raise his voice above the crackling roar of the flames. "McKinnon! Where are you?"

"He's round the other side of that house, somewhere." It was Willoughby speaking, and he was pointing to the burning council house. "He's all right, Johnny."

"Everybody out?" Nicolson demanded. "Anybody left inside that thing. For God's sake tell me!"

"They're all out, I think, sir." Walters was at his side, his 229

voice hesitant. "Nobody left where we were all sitting, I know that."

"Thank God, thank God!" He stopped abruptly. "Is Van Effen out?"

No one said anything.

"You heard what I said," Nicolson shouted. "Is Van Effen out?" He caught sight of Gordon, reached him in two steps and caught him by the shoulder. "Is Van Effen still in there? You were nearest him."

Gordon stared at him blankly, his eyes still wide with fear. His mouth was working, the lips jerking and twisting in uncontrollable fashion, but no words came out. Nicolson released his grip on the shoulder, struck him twice, savagely, across the face, open-handed and back-handed, caught him again before he could fall.

"Answer me or I'll kill you, Gordon. Did you leave Van Effen in there?"

Gordon nodded his head jerkily, his fear-whitened face wealing red from the imprint of Nicolson's fingers.

"You left him in there? "Nicolson demanded incredulously. "You left him to die in that inferno?"

"He was going to murder me!" Gordon whined. "He was going to kill me."

"You bloody fool! He saved your life. He saved all our lives." He sent Gordon staggering with a savage shove, brushed off a couple of restraining hands and had covered the ten paces to the council house and leapt through the sheeted flame of the doorway before he had properly realised what he was doing.

The heat inside struck at him with the physical impact of a violent blow, he could feel it engulf him, wash over him in a great wave of burning pain. The superheated air, starved now of its life-giving oxygen, seared down into his lungs like fire itself. He could smell his hair singeing almost immediately, and the tears flooded into his eyes and threatened to blind him, and had it been any darker inside he would have been blinded: but in the savage red glare of the flames it was as bright, almost, as the noon-day sun.

There was no difficulty in seeing Van Effen. He was huddled against the still intact far wall, sitting on the ground, propped up on one arm. His khaki shirt and drill trousers were saturated with blood, and his face was ashen. Gasping, choking, his heaving lungs fighting for air and getting none, Nicolson stumbled as fast as he could across to the far wall of the council house. He had to hurry, he knew, he could last only moments in this atmosphere, half a minute at the most. His clothes were already smouldering, torn edges smoking and burning irregularly red, his tortured lungs couldn't find the oxygen for his rapidly weakening body and the heat on his face and body was like a blast furnace.

Van Effen looked at him vaguely, without either expression or comment. Probably half dead already, Nicolson thought, God only knew how the man had survived even that long. He stooped, tried to pry Van Effen's fingers free from the guard and trigger of the machine-carbine, but it was hopeless, the hand was locked across the metal like a band of iron. There was no time to lose, perhaps it was already too late. Gasping, struggling, the sweat running off his overheated body in streams, Nicolson put out the last of his fading strength in one despairing effort and raised the wounded man up in his arms.

He had covered half the return journey when a crackling, rending noise, loud even above the roar of the flames, made him break step and halt just in time as several blazing, smoking timbers from the roof crashed to the ground in a pyrotechnic eruption of flying sparks and red-hot embers not three feet from where he stood. The doorway was completely, blocked off. Nicolson jerked back his head, stared upwards through smarting, sweat-filmed eyes, gathered a hasty blurred impression of a crumbling, caving roof already falling in upon him, and waited no longer. Four stumbling, plunging steps it took him to cross the blazing beams that lay between them and the doorway, and four steps were eternity. The now tindery dry khaki drills caught fire immediately and the writhing cocoons of flame ran up his legs so fast and so far that he could feel their hungry tips licking agonisingly at the bare forearms that supported the dead weight of Van Effen. Red-hot swords of fire pierced the soles of his feet in merciless excoriation and his nostrils were full of the sickening stench of scorching flesh. His mind was going, his strength was gone, and no sense of time or purpose or direction was left him when he felt urgent hands catching him by the arms and shoulders and pulling him out into the cool, sweet, life-giving air of the evening.

It would have been the easiest thing in the world to hand Van Effen over to outstretched arms, to collapse himself on the ground and let the waiting wave of unconsciousness wash over him and carry him off to merciful oblivion, and the temptation to do both was almost irresistible. But he did neither, just stood instead with wide-planted feet, sucking giant draughts of air into a body that seemed able to accommodate only a fraction of what it needed. Seconds passed and his mind began to clear, the trembling in his legs eased, and he could see Walters and Evans and Willoughby crowding round him, but he ignored them, brushed through and carried Van Effen to the shelter of the nearest up-wind hut in the kam-pong.

Slowly, with an infinite gentleness, he lowered the wounded man to the ground, and started to unbutton the holed and blood-stained shirt. Van Effen caught his wrists with feeble hands.

"You are wasting your time, Mr. Nicolson." His voice was only a feeble murmur with blood in it, barely audible above the crackling roar of the flames.

Nicolson ignored him, ripped the sides of the shirt apart and winced in shock at the sight that lay below. If Van Effen were to live, he would have to be strapped up, and at once. He tore off his own charred and shredded shirt, ripped it and padded the wounds as his eyes travelled up to the German's white, pinched face. Van Effen's lips twisted in some kind of a smile, it might have been a sardonic smile, but it was difficult to tell without reading the expression in his eyes, and it was no longer possible to read anything in Van Effen's eyes for they were already misted over with the glaze of approaching unconsciousness.

"I told you ― don't waste time," he murmured. "The launch ― Kiseki's launch. Get it. It has a radio, probably a big transmitter ― you heard what Yamata said… Walters can send a message." His voice was an urgent whisper. "At once, Mr. Nicolson, at once." His hands dropped away from Nicolson's wrists and fell limply by his side, palm upwards on the hard-packed earth of the kampong.

"Why did you do it, Van Effen?" Nicolson stared down at the sick man and shook his head, slowly, wonderingly, from side to side. "Why in the name of heaven did you do it?"

"God only knows. Or maybe I know also." He was breathing very rapidly, very shallowly, now, with only a few gasping words to every breath. "Total war is total war, Mr. Nicolson, but this is work for barbarians." He gestured weakly at the blazing hut. "If any one of my countrymen could have been with me tonight, he would have done what I have done. We're people, Mr. Nicolson, we're just people." He reached up one flaccid hand, pulled the opened shirt to one side, and smiled. "If you cut us, do we not bleed?" He burst into a paroxysm of bubbling, whooping coughs that contracted torn stomach muscles and lifted head and shoulders clear of the ground, then sank back again, so quiet, so still, that Nicolson stooped quickly forward, in sudden surety that the man was gone. But Van Effen lifted his eyelids again, with the slowness and infinite effort of a man raising a massive weight and smiled at Nicolson through filmed and misted eyes.

"We Germans do not go easily. This is not the end of van Effen." He paused for a long moment, went on in a whisper: "Winning a war costs a great deal. It always costs a great deal. But sometimes the cost is too high, and it is not worth the price. tonight the cost, the price asked, was far too high. I ― I could not pay the price." A great gout of flame shot up from the roof of the council house, bathing his face in its red and savage glare, then it died down again and his face was white and still and he was murmuring something about Kiseki.

"What is it?" Nicolson was so low over him now that their faces were almost touching. "What did you say?"

"Colonel Kiseki." Van Effen's voice was very far away. He tried to smile again, but it was only a pathetic twitch of his lower lip. "Perhaps we have something in common. I think――-" Here his voice faded into nothingness, then came again, strongly. "I think we both have a weakness for very little children."

Nicolson stared down at him, then twisted round as a loud, rending crash echoed across the kampong and a sheet of flame leapt up, a flame that illumined every remotest corner of the little village. The council house, its last supports burnt out, had collapsed in on itself and was burning more furiously than ever. But only for a moment. Even as Nicolson watched the licking tongues of flame shrank back down towards the earth and the dark gloomy shadows crept forward from every side. Nicolson looked away and bent down to talk again to Van Effen, but Van Effen was unconscious.

Slowly, wearily, Nicolson straightened himself, but remained sunk on his knees, staring down at the grievously wounded man. All at once the exhaustion, the despair and the sharp, fiery agony of his legs and feet and arms flooded in on him and the temptation to let himself go, to slip into the friendly, embracing darkness that hovered round the woolly, shadowed edges of his mind was almost overpowering. He was actually swaying backwards and forwards on his knees, eyes all but closed and his arms swinging limply from his shoulders, when he heard a voice shouting, the sound of feet thudding across the kampong at a dead run and felt the hard urgent fingers biting cruelly through the red charred skin of his upper arm.

"Come on, sir, come on! For God's sake get to your feet!" There was a fierceness, a burning desperation in McKinnon's voice that Nicolson had never heard before, "They've got them, sir. Those yellow devils have taken them away!"

"What? What?" Nicolson shook his aching fuzzy head from side to side. "They've taken what away? The plans, the diamonds? They're welcome to all――-"

"I hope the diamonds go to hell and roast there with every little yellow bastard in the East." McKinnon was half-sobbing, half-shouting at the top of his voice in a voice Nicolson had never heard before, his eyes were flooded with tears, his great fists white-knuckled by his side, and he was quite mad, insane with rage. "It's not only the diamonds they've taken, sir, I wish to God it was. The inhuman devils have taken hostages with them, I saw them throw them into their truck. The captain, Miss Drachmann and that poor wee boy!"