South by Java Head. Alistair MacLean

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СКАЧАТЬ in South-East Asia, speak more Asiatic languages than any other——”

      “Spare my blushes.” His shirt unbuttoned, Farnholme was unfastening a wide, flat rubber-covered belt that encircled his waist. “I don’t suppose you speak any Eastern languages yourself, Colonel?”

      “For my sins, yes. That’s why I’m here. Japanese.” The colonel grinned mirthlessly. “It’ll come in very handy in the concentration camps, I should think.”

      “Japanese, eh? That’s a help.” Farnholme unzipped two pouches on the belt, placed their contents on the table before him. “See what you make of these, will you, Colonel?”

      The colonel glanced sharply at him, glanced down at the photostats and rolls of film that lay on the table, nodded, went out of the room and returned with a pair of spectacles, a magnifying glass and a torch. For three minutes he sat at the table without looking up or speaking. From outside came the occasional crump of an exploding shell, the staccato chattering of a distant machine-gun and the evil whine of some misshapen ricochet whistling blindly through the smoke-filled night. But no noise whatsoever came from inside the room itself. The colonel sat at his table like a man carved from stone, only his eyes alive: Farnholme, a fresh cheroot in his mouth, was stretched out in his wicker chair, lost in a seeming vast indifference.

      By and by the colonel stirred and looked across at Farnholme. When he spoke both his voice and the hands that held the photostats were unsteady.

      “I don’t need Japanese to understand these. My God, sir, where did you get them?”

      “Borneo. Two of our best men, and two Dutchmen, died to get these. But that’s not important now, and quite irrelevant.” Farnholme puffed at his cheroot. “All that matters is that I have them and the Japs don’t know it.”

      The colonel didn’t seem to have heard him. He was staring down at the papers in his hands, shaking his head slowly from side to side. Finally he laid the papers down on the desk, folded his spectacles away into their case and lit a cigarette. His hands were still trembling.

      “This is fantastic,” he muttered. “This is quite fantastic. There can only be a few of these in existence. All Northern Australia—blueprints for invasion!”

      “Complete in every relevant detail,” Farnholme assented. “The invasion ports and airfields, the times to the last minute, the forces to be used down to the last battalion of infantry.”

      “Yes.” The colonel stared down at the photostats, his brows wrinkling. “But there’s something that——”

      “I know, I know,” Farnholme interrupted bitterly. “We haven’t got the key. It was inevitable. The dates and primary and secondary objectives are in code. They couldn’t take the risk of having these in plain language —and Japanese codes are unbreakable, all of them. All of them, that is, except to a little old man in London who looks as if he couldn’t write his own name.” He paused and puffed some more blue smoke into the air. “Still, It’s quite something, isn’t it, Colonel?”

      “But—but how did you happen to get——”

      “That’s quite irrelevant, I’ve told you.” The steel below was beginning to show through the camouflage of lazy indifference. He shook his head, then laughed softly. “Sorry, Colonel. Must be getting edgy. There was no ‘happen’ about it, I assure you. I’ve worked for five years on one thing and one thing only—to get these delivered to me at the right time and the right place: the Japanese are not incorruptible. I managed to get them at the right time: not at the right place. That’s why I’m here.”

      The colonel hadn’t even been listening. He had been staring down at the papers, shaking his head slowly from side to side, but now he looked up again. All at once his face was haggard and defeated and very old.

      “These papers—these papers are priceless, sir.” He lifted the photostats in his hand and stared unseeingly at Farnholme. “God above, all the fortunes that ever were are nothing compared to these. It’s all the difference between life and death, victory and defeat. It’s—it’s—great heavens, sir, think of Australia! Our people must have these—they must have them!”

      “Exactly,” Farnholme agreed. “They must have them.”

      The colonel stared at him in silence, the tired eyes slowly widening in shocked understanding, then slumped back into his chair, his head resting on his chest. The spiralling cigarette smoke laced painfully across his eyes, but he didn’t even seem to notice it.

      “Exactly, once again,” Farnholme said dryly. He reached out for the films and photostats and began to replace them carefully in the waterproof pouches of his belt. “You begin to understand, perhaps, my earlier anxiety for—ah—aerial transport out of Singapore.” He zipped the pouches shut. “I’m still as anxious as ever, I assure you.”

      The colonel nodded dully, but said nothing.

      “No ‘plane at all?” Farnholme persisted. “Not even the most dilapidated, broken down——” He stopped abruptly at the sight of the expression on the colonel’s face, then tried again. “Submarine?”

      “No.”

      Farnholme’s mouth tightened. “Destroyer, frigate, any naval vessel at all?”

      “No.” The colonel stirred. “And not even a merchant ship. The last of them—the Grasshopper, Tien Kwang, Katydid, Kuala, Dragonfly and a few other small coastal vessels like these—pulled out of Singapore last night. They won’t be back. They wouldn’t get a hundred miles, even, the Jap air force is everywhere round the archipelago. Wounded, women and children aboard all these vessels, Brigadier. Most of them will finish up at the bottom of the sea.”

      “A kindly alternative to a Japanese prison camp. Believe me, Colonel, I know.” Farnholme was buckling on the heavy belt again. He sighed. “This is all very handy, Colonel. Where do we go from here?”

      “Why in God’s name did you ever come here?” the colonel demanded bitterly. “Of all places, of all times, you had to come to Singapore now. And how in the world did you manage to get here anyway?”

      “Boat from Banjermasin,” Farnholme replied briefly. “The Kerry Dancer—the most dilapidated floating death-trap that was ever refused a certificate of seaworthiness. Operated by a smooth, dangerous character by the name of Siran. Hard to say, but I’d almost swear he was a renegade Englishman of some kind, and on more than nodding terms with the Japs. He stated he was heading for Kota Bharu—lord knows why—but he changed his mind and came here.”

      “He changed his mind?”

      “I paid him well. Not my money, so I could afford it. I thought Singapore would be safe enough. I was in North Borneo when I heard on my own receiver that Hong Kong and Guam and Wake had fallen, but I had to move in a considerable hurry. A long time passed before I heard the next item of news, and that was on board the Kerry Dancer. We waited ten days in Banjermasin before Siran condescended to sail,” Farnholme went on bitterly. “The only respectable piece of equipment and the only respectable man on that ship were both to be found in the radio room—Siran must have considered them both necessary for his nefarious activities—and I was in the radio room with this lad Loon on our second day aboard the ship—29th January, it was, when we picked up this B.B.C. broadcast that Ipoh was being bombarded, so, naturally, I thought the Japs were advancing very slowly and that we’d plenty of time to СКАЧАТЬ