Chapter Twenty-Seven.

Seong Kim Hyong, the stoker from the "Schijnt Meisje" sat on his allocated bunk in the aft crew compartment of His Majesty's Destroyer Asterion as she cut through the shallow waters of the Strait of Malacca, and furtively opened the little velvet pouch. He poured its contents out onto the grey woollen blanket. A broad grin spread across his flat face, he gave a soft giggle, and his small black eyes glittered. Poking at the stones with a blunt, dirty finger, he flicked out the flawless, dark-blue, Burmese Sapphire. The price of that one stone would be enough and more to get him a berth on some ship in Singapore that was bound for his homeland of Korea. The Diamonds and Rubies would keep him in luxury for years... and as for the Garnet...that gemstone would ensure limitless esteem and protection if given as a gift to a suitable Korean mob-boss. If the recipient ever reneged on this arrangement, he would face the prospect of losing everything in his society... his honour, prestige, credibility, face, status, and, worse still, he would be branded a dishonoured scoundrel unworthy of anyone's company. The word of his disgrace would spread faster and with greater finality than any formal financial debt.

The Garnet, so prized in Eastern culture, was, in effect, a most effective poisoned chalice; a flawless insurance policy for Seong Kim Hyong. The motion of the vessel caused the light from the bulkhead lamp to shimmer and refract from the jewels as they lay on the coarse grey blanket. As he admired them, suddenly, a tiny, blood-red spark appeared deep within the heart of the Garnet, which slowly flared and grew brighter. Seong Kim Hyong stared at it mesmerised. The spark seemed to be pulsating... keeping time with his heartbeat. This gemstone would certainly enhance some Criminal boss's "Prestige"; and thus, compel him to owe Seong Kim Hyong much "Obligation."

The sound of someone coming down the companionway ladder from abovedeck echoed along the corridor. Swiftly, he scooped the gems back into the little velvet pouch, and stuffed it into the duffle bag that the navy had provided for him, then lounged back on his bunk with an expression of inscrutable Oriental innocence on his impassive face.

Charlotte and Max were awakened at five-thirty in the morning by their allocated servant. They had breakfast on the veranda and gazed down on the dawn panorama of Calcutta. The breeze off the Hooghly River was balmy at this time of the morning. The usual sweaty, cloying monsoon season atmosphere of the city had not yet risen from the sordid back streets and alleyways of the old town to the north of The Great Eastern Hotel. As they enjoyed the cool morning air, there was a knock on the door. Max crossed the room and opened it, to be confronted by another servant boy proffering a large, manila paper-wrapped parcel. A note was slipped under the string tie.

Slipping the boy a few loose Anna coins, Max carried the parcel across to the bed and pulled off the string. The note was from the Colonel. He wrote that these were the Tropical suits that old Munjal Gupta had fashioned during the night. He hoped that they would like them; and their original clothing that the old tailor had used for measurements were included in the parcel, and had been laundered by the local Dhobi wallah, so that they would be fresh, and not become mildewed whilst they were packed away, by the excessive humidity that they would encounter as they journeyed further east.

The Colonel had settled the bill, which, in total, came to the equivalent of twenty American Dollars. They could leave the cash in an envelope at the reception desk. Max unfolded the brown paper parcel. It contained four linen suits... two for Charlotte, and two for him; all tailored from the finest Indian pale cream linen. There were also three men's cotton shirts, and three women's cotton shirts, all of the finest white Madras cotton. He shook his head disbelievingly. How could the old tailor possibly charge so little for such quality? But then, this was India... and he supposed that to the tailor, any business was good business. Nonetheless, he would see that the envelope would contain considerably more that the Colonel had mentioned. It would be down to the Colonel to pass it on; and Max had no doubts that the old Civil Servant would do exactly that.

Saturday, 1st October, 1949.

The BOAC Agent called for them at six o'clock in the morning. Departure was scheduled for six-fifteen. Dressed in their new linen attire, Charlotte and Max went down to reception where Max left the envelope addressed to the Colonel at the desk. The passengers were then ushered to their transport. This time, it was not the charabanc which had brought them; but an enclosed Leyland coach with a curious "Dorsal fin" at the rear of the roofline. The Agent explained that this feature was part of the ventilation system. This vehicle dated from the thirties, and back in England was known as an "Harrington Observation Coach." The interior seating was arranged on a stepped principle extending to the rear of the passenger compartment. This arrangement had provided its operators with the advantage of being able to boast in their advertising that "Every seat is a front seat," and "Your feet are in an even, restful position throughout your journey."

As it was; the interior of the coach was surprisingly roomy, and the seating did give passengers a better view. Unfortunately, the view on this trip happened to be the street beggars and urchins. The ventilation system through the rear "Dorsal fin" did work reasonably well, but the journey was accompanied by a muted sigh emanating from its vertical louvres. Although not particularly intrusive for the short, noisy, one-and-one-quarter-mile journey up to the jetty at Strand Bank Road, a little to the north of the New Howrah Bridge; a journey of any distance might well become rather annoying.

"Pembroke" was moored out on the Hooghly River, facing north, and about two-hundred-feet out. Alighting from the coach, the passengers were guided to two BOAC passenger tenders waiting at the jetty. As they were helped aboard; Charlotte caught the smell of what seemed like roasting mutton. Smoke was wafting down the river from a location on the eastern bank, a little over half-a-mile upstream. The Agent noticed her wrinkle her nose and smiled apologetically.

'My apologies Ma'am. That's the smoke from the Nimtala Burning Ghat and crematorium. Certain Hindu traditions require bodies to be cremated within twenty-four-hours of a person dying. The pyres burn day and night, and, unfortunately, Captain Kincaid has to take off into the wind.

The crematorium is free to the poor, but the place is very polluted and you can almost feel the ash in the air. The wealthier families can afford to use the outside cremation area alongside the river. These areas are brick courtyards with several rectangle holes above them. These pits are where the make up a fire and burn the wood. When ready they lift the body onto the fire. Eventually, the ashes from the body will be scattered into the river. This smell is unpleasant now, but it becomes much worse as the day gets hotter.'

Peter Kincaid had already started the engines which were ticking over and spitting flames from their fishtail exhausts as they warmed up. As the passenger tenders bumped along "Pembroke's" port side the Purser was already at the entry door to help the remaining passengers aboard. Four of the original passengers from Southampton had left the flight in Calcutta. Cameron Bray and Sophie Thị Chung re-embarked; as did the two middle-aged ladies from the aft "D" cabin. Hollis and Lambert were obviously continuing, but otherwise, all remaining seats were now vacant. The purser settled Charlotte and Max back into their seats in "B" cabin, whilst Lambert and Hollis took seats in "C" cabin; thus shielding their charges from anyone coming forward along the fuselage. Cameron Bray and Sophie Thị Chung were forward in "A" cabin directly behind the port access door.

The purser returned along the centre aisle and closed the port access door. The mooring hatch closed with a clang, and the inboard engines picked up as Tim Walker eased the throttle levers forward and the 'boat began to move. Kincaid taxied sedately across the turbid brown waters towards the west bank of the river, and brought her round close to the old Howrah docks. Pointing her up-river, and into the wind, he had four thousand yards of free water to the western bend of the river. The bloody smoke from the Nimtala Burning Ghat was hazing across the track of his take-off run and hanging just above the surface of the river. She would be just getting up onto the step when she reached that point; and just one bloody dhow straying blindly into her path would be catastrophic.

His gaze darted across his engine instruments. The temperature gauges were creeping above normal readings. He glanced at Walker and told him to switch off the cabin ventilation systems. Any intake of that cremation stink would certainly turn the passengers' stomachs. Tim Walker nodded, flicked the ventilation control lever up to "Off," and placed his right hand over the throttle lever knobs. On Kincaid's word of command, he pushed the two inner throttle levers hard forward. "Pembroke" began to gather speed breaking the brown soup beneath her bow into a pale beige feather of spray. Floats clear! Walker shoved the outer engines' throttle levers hard forward, and watched as the airspeed indicator pointer rose through sixty knots and she lifted up onto the step. She was running straight and true, and burst through the smoke haze; her howling propeller wash biting into, and curling the reeking, ash-laden smoke into tight, swirling vortices that spun giddily away across the river.

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Then, she was through. Their view of the river cleared. Ninety knots indicated... holding her straight and level through the centre channel between the Bhot Bagan Ghat sands on the eastern side of the river and the mid-river shoal off Old Powder Mill Ghat to the west, Kincaid eased back on the control column... she lifted off... he gently eased the control column slightly forward as the ASI climbed up to one hundred and ten; and "Pembroke" climbed majestically away out over the Gun and Shell factory at Chitpore; turning gently into the south-east for the next five-hundred-and-sixty-six nautical miles leg across the Bay of Bengal to the Burmese coastline.

Peter Kincaid settled more comfortably into his seat as "Pembroke" climbed through twelve-thousand feet and settled into cruise flight. Take-offs were always a tad tense with these big 'boats. Drop a wing... lose a float; hit a floating log... puncture the hull. Now, with the wind under her wings he could relax a little. Time to turn the ventilation system back on. Tim Walker was watching the instruments. Another five-thousand feet climb to operational ceiling and he could ease back the throttle levers to her optimum cruise speed of one-hundred-and-sixty knots.

Simon Wallis called from his navigation table.

'Turning point over North Dumdum onto one-twenty-seven, South-east by east in five... four... three... two... one... Go! Skipper.'

Kincaid gently fed in starboard rudder and aileron, and the big 'boat banked smoothly over to starboard as the Direction Indicator drum swung languorously onto the new heading. The skies ahead were a clear topaz blue and visibility was unlimited. It looked as though it was going to be a beautiful day as he headed out across the Ganges delta aiming for the coast of Burma at Cheduba Island, three hundred and sixty-five nautical miles distant.

Charlotte averted her gaze from the cabin window from which she had been studying the Sundarbans... the great labyrinth of brackish muddy rivers and innumerable salt-water creeks surrounded by jungle, swamp, and alluvial plain, which formed a dense, impenetrable belt across the lower portion of the Ganges delta that reached to the sea. As the coastline receded, she turned to Max.

'I have an uneasy feeling about that Sophie Thị Chung. She knows something about the "Red Horseman"... but what, or why, is a mystery. I can't see any reason why the French overseas intelligence agency should even know of its existence, let alone, have any interest. I tried to engage her in conversation at the hotel, but Bray arrived and whisked her away before I had the chance.'

Max nodded.

'I know. That's why I asked Lambert to do some digging whilst we were in Calcutta. I've arranged to meet him on the upper deck in ten minutes. Perhaps he's managed to find something.'

Their discreet conversation was interrupted by Lambert appearing at the aft door of their cabin. He silently beckoned to them, so as to not allow Sophie Thị Chung, who was in the cabin immediately forward to become aware of their suspicions.

The upper deck cocktail bar was empty except for Hollis, who sat by the entrance door, ready to start down the stairs, thus blocking the access for anyone who might try to come up. The narrowness of the stairs would mean that he would have to fully descend them first, and give Lambert, Charlotte, and Max a few precious seconds to arrange themselves as though they were passengers merely socialising.

Lambert led them to the farthest most forward part of the cabin, and invited them to sit. His expression was ill at ease. He studied Charlotte for a moment, and spoke.

'Major Sophie Thị Chung was with Le Service de Documentation Extérieure et du Contre-Espionnage in French Indochina. Unfortunately, according to my source in La Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire...their domestic intelligence agency; she was killed during the 1947 "Operation Léa" mounted to take out the Việt Minh communications centre at Bắc Kạn in North Vietnam. She apparently went in with the French Bataillon de Parachutistes and was captured and executed by Vietnamese guerrilla troopers. They awarded her a posthumous Croix de Guerre des théâtres d'opérations extérieures.'

He paused, to let this damning piece of information sink in.

'So, it would appear that our Oriental cutie is something other than what she would have us believe. Cameron Bray is as sound as a pound. He is Diplomatic Advisor to the Provisional Central Government of Vietnam. His Civil Service career is as long as both arms. Perhaps, she's his floosie... or, more worrying; a Việt Minh honeypot. Considering your Russian adventures; might they have anything to do with this?'

Charlotte glanced at Max. He shrugged.

'I really can't see any reason why they would be interested. Captain Mckenna and I are on detachment to Seoul... nothing at all to do with Vietnam.'

Lambert shrugged his shoulders.

'Well, Colonel; I can only report what I have found. This woman is obviously dangerous and has the Captain on her agenda... whatever that might be. I think it's time for Hollis and me to raise our standing to individual protection.'

He glanced at Charlotte.

'With your permission, Ma'am I'll be with you and Hollis will be with the Colonel. I don't know if we'll stop at Rangoon, or carry straight on to Hong Kong. I'll check it out with the Purser in a while.'

A little later, having spoken with Lambert; the Purser climbed the ladder to the flight deck, and enquired of Tim Walker what the remaining flight plan entailed. Tim glanced back at Simon, who was also doubling up as the flight engineer on this trip. He scribbled a few notes on his pad, tapped the glasses of a couple of instruments to ascertain that they were reading correctly; and replied,

'From Cheduba Island, it is a direct flight into Kai Tak of thirteen-hundred-and-sixty-five nautical miles. We took on a full fuel load at Calcutta, which, subject to us not running into too many Monsoon conditions, should give us a cruise range of two=thousand, one- hundred-and-twenty nautical miles; so there will be at least a three-hour safety margin. We need to skirt south of Chinese territorial waters off Hainan Dao Island, to the turning point at Tango Green One; then it's straight into Kai Tak. With fair weather, the trip should take about eight-and-a-half-hours.'

Tim nodded, and turned to Peter Kincaid.

'Well Skip? Are we going to do the top of the "horseshoe," or go for the straight run?'

He was, of course, referring to the section of the early Imperial Airways mail route from Durban to Sydney, which ran from Calcutta to Bangkok.

Kincaid peered out of the windscreen and scanned the skies. Tall cumulus clouds out to the north over the Shan States; clear as a bell to the south and east. He called to Johnnie Blake.

'Anything out there that we should know about?'

Johnnie slipped one of his headphones earpieces back.

'Nothing at all, skip. It sounds as though it's going to be clear all the way into Kai Tak.'

Kincaid glanced across his instruments. The fuel contents gauge needles had hardly moved off "Full." Barometric pressure was steady. He could gain something like eighteen hours with a direct flight. There were no passengers to pick up at either Rangoon or Bangkok; and his present passengers were all booked through to Hong Kong. He made his decision.

'We'll fly the direct route. Kindly inform the passengers, Mr Sinclair.'

The Purser nodded.

'Aye, Sir;'

And turned to descend the ladder.

Kincaid called back to him.

'Better check the potable water tank contents, Mr Sinclair. We won't get a chance to replenish after the old Empire Route base at Akyab.'

Sinclair grinned.

'Had her filled from the bowser at Calcutta, sir. I just had a hunch we'd be flying direct, this time.'

Kincaid grinned.

'Nobody likes a smart-ass, Mr Sinclair.'

Sinclair returned his Captain's grin.

'No Sir!'

Having landed the stoker Seong Kim Hyong and the other survivors of the "Schijnt Meisje" at HMS Sembawang; the Royal Navy's Naval Base on the north side of the main Singapore Island, Captain John Fellows took Asterion back out to sea to continue his patrol. He was not sad to see them go. They hadn't caused any particular trouble during the trip, but they had hindered the smooth running of his ship and caused a certain amount of discomfort to his crew by taking up space and causing his men to have to share their quarters. HMS Sembawang's Master at Arms had laid on a couple of three-tonners to take the merchant navy seamen down into the town, from where they could make their own arrangements for signing on to other ships, taking passage home, or whatever. This arrangement suited Seong Kim Hyong. He would drop off the truck in Chinatown, and find a buyer for the Burmese sapphire in one of the warren of shophouses off New Bridge Road. He would then buy a place on one of the many lighters that ferried goods to and from sea-going vessels out on the Singapore River, and secure a passage on a freighter heading east.

He found a buyer half-way down Temple Street... an old Chinese craftsman in precious metals and jewellery. When Seong Kim Hyong showed him the sapphire, the old Chinese invited him into his shophouse and offered him tea. This was a great honour; the Chinese usually regarded Koreans with an attitude of inscrutable superiority.

The old man studied the stone intently with an ancient magnifying glass; turning it every way in the light, measured it with his calipers, and finally expressed his judgement. It was an exceptional gem... a flawless Burmese Mogok Valley sapphire of just under one carat. He nodded sagely. Yes, he would be honoured to purchase this gem. His offer would, of course, be less than the market value; but it would be a fair price.

Seong Kim Hyong nodded deferentially. Respect might well be advantageous in this transaction. The old Chinese paused, placed the sapphire on the table, and made his offer. Nine-hundred Singapore Dollars. Seong Kim Hyong bowed his head, but his mind was working overtime as he mentally converted the offer into Korean Won...

Three hundred-thousand Won! This single stone was worth almost the average yearly income of an American citizen! When he had sold the remaining stones in the little velvet pouch he would never have to do a day's work again! He bowed deeply, and nodded. The old Chinese spat into his palm and offered his hand. Seong Kim Hyong took the old man's hand and shook it warmly. The deal was sealed.

Pocketing the thick wad of banknotes, and with much bowing and shaking of hands, Seong Kim Hyong took his leave of the old Chinese craftsman and took a tram down to the harbour. He walked around the wharves and jetties looking for a suitable freighter. He was in luck. Opposite the railway station, berthed in the Empire Dock, he found a Hanjin Line tramp steamer that was due to embark on the tide, three days hence, for the Korean port of Pusan. He secured a berth for fifty Singapore Dollars, and within two hours, was relaxing in a "Hostess Club" in the Hankow Road with a bottle of Johnny Walker whiskey and two Thai Bar girls.