Chapter Twenty-Six.

His Majesty's Destroyer Asterion was steaming at twenty-five knots towards the Nicobar Islands, heading for the Malacca Strait between Sumatra and the Malayan peninsula, through which she would steam south to Singapore. The survivors from the freighter had settled down and were causing no problems to the everyday running of the ship. They had tended to stay either below decks, or laze on the afterdeck.

Captain John Fellows consulted his Admiralty charts. The mouth of the Malacca Strait was a little more than a hundred nautical miles ahead. He would soon need to order a course change. The coast of the Malayan peninsula appeared as a thin, dark line ahead. Penang would be slightly to port. Once into the Malacca Strait, Singapore was five-hundred-and-sixty nautical miles south, on the tip of the Malayan peninsula. If he proposed to keep Asterion at her present speed they would need to stay sharp. During the War, the Strait had been heavily mined by the Japanese with moored mines Back in 1945, a force of British minesweepers had been employed to clear a safe lane through the shallow waters of the Malacca Strait to enable the ships of the East Indies Fleet, along with convoys made up of food, and hospital ships to arrive safely at Singapore and other Malayan ports. The odd Japanese mine still turned up no- and-again, so a careful watch would need to be mounted for this final run down to HMS Sembawang... the Singapore Naval Base and dockyard.

As if this were not enough; the main shipping channel was narrow in some areas and had irregular depths, shallow areas, and shifting sand banks and mud flats. The channel was also littered with sunken vessels, some marked, others not. It looked as though the next twenty-four hours were going to be somewhat nerve-racking.

John Fellows studied the skies. Cumulonimbus... tall, deep, and dark, stretched across the horizon to the south-east; it looked as though a monsoon storm was sweeping up from the Java Sea. Asterion had a twelve-feet, four-inches draught, and parts of the Malacca channel which started at One Fathom Bank off Port Swettenham, Selangor almost half-way down the Malacca Strait, and continued down to Horsburgh Lighthouse in the Singapore Straits could only guarantee an under-keel clearance of eleve-feet-six- inches.

So; what were the choices? Put two lookouts in the bow and steam on at a relatively safe twenty-five knots?... Or should he increase speed to make best distance before nightfall? He glanced at the chronometer. Sunset would be 18.26. It was now 09.55. Asterion could make thirty-six knots. That would take her some way down the Strait... probably off Dinding, by nightfall. Here, she would be a hundred nautical miles above Port Swettenham, and he could slow down and run through the darkness with the aid of the searchlights.

Sunrise would be at 06.30. He estimated that if he reduced speed to ten knots through the night, he should be off Port Swettenham by daylight. Then he could increase speed with the lookouts keeping watch ahead.

Turning to the helmsman, he gave a clipped order.

'Steer one-twenty, east-south-east.'

The rating replied,

'Aye Aye, Sir.'

And spun the ship's wheel to starboard, as Fellows signalled "Full Ahead Both" on the engine order telegraph, and Asterion heeled over into the turn as her bow swung towards the mouth of the Malacca Strait.

The sea boiled under her stern as her propellers cavitated momentarily with the torque build-up, then faded as her propellers bit into the water, driving her forwards at an ever-increasing speed.

Almost two-thousand-miles to the North-west, Charlotte, and Max, together with their new-found "friends" were flying through cloud which obscured most of the view from the cabin windows. There was little of the southern Sind Desert or of the canal system fed by the famous Lloyd Barrage built across the mighty Indus and feeding a quarter of the irrigation needs of the country, to see as they flew east to pass to the south of the old Imperial Airways stop at Gwalior.

Their Steward had mentioned that Gwalior had superb fort that was a favourite with the earlier passengers, but now sadly, was too far north for the present-day passengers to observe as "Pembroke" flew on across the Indian Sub-Continent. The old Imperial Airways stop was at a lake near Gwalior, to the west of the city. These days it had been turned into a reservoir providing drinking water to the city, and, as the Sandringham flying boats had a much greater range, and were infinitely more efficient than the old "C" Class flying boats, their route was farther to the south and unbroken for the eight hour flight to Calcutta. Peter Kincaid was flying low at four-hundred-feet to avoid the headwinds that eternally plagued this leg of the journey. It afforded his passengers a panoramic view of the Sub-Continent interior, but at the cost of accompanying turbulence from the ground. The Steward had chosen this moment to begin serving lunch. It was not surprising that no one chose to avail themselves of the chocolate éclairs that he proffered at the end of the meal.

Charlotte and Max sat quietly in "B" cabin, pretending that the unpredictable motions of the 'boat, and the sticky atmosphere of the hard-pressed heating and ventilating system, were not causing too much disturbance to their stomachs, in spite of the fact that their seats were situated under the wings directly over the centre of gravity of the 'boat, which gave the smoothest ride in regards to pitch and buffet.

The steward brought round what he referred to as "Cuspidors" for the comfort of the passengers... with the stiff, upper-class ways of BOAC; they could never bring themselves to call them something as uncouth as "air sickness bags." He also had a supply of the new American anti-air sickness "Dramamine" pills for passengers who required them. Charlotte and Max politely declined both, and left their seats to move aft to the promenade deck situated directly behind their cabin and accessed by two steps up through the central doorway. Here, they could focus their gaze on distant objects on the ground rather than trying to read or look at something inside the cabin. This would prevent their senses from receiving conflicting messages from the body affecting their balance and equilibrium.

Standing and looking down on the scudding vista of fields and farms, the trees crowding into the level spaces, the muddy lakes, and the herds of white oxen, it was very evident that it was getting much bumpier. Hanging onto the waist-high safety rail, Charlotte turned to Max.

'So, what do you make of our new-found friends? D'you think they are on the level?'

Max shrugged; but his reply was circumspect.

'Lambert and Hollis are most certainly British Intelligence... or some covert department attached to it... and Cameron Bray is in the Diplomatic Service, attached to the Vietnamese Government. I am familiar with the names. We have detailed files on all three back in Karlshorst. The girl, Sophie Thị Chung, though, is a mystery.'

Charlotte nodded.

'I agree. She seems to know something about the "Red Horseman". How... and just how much, I can't tell. When we get to the Hotel in Calcutta, I'll engage her in a girlie chat and see what I can get her to disclose. French Military Intelligence? It sounds rather far-fetched to me; and besides which, how would they know about the stone unless Washburn has briefed them for some reason?'

Max nodded.

'Just be careful. She's a little too adept with the quick-draw of that Walther she carries strapped to her thigh.'

Charlotte smiled, and gazed back out of the promenade deck window.

Booming along at six-hundred-feet, "Pembroke's" passage scattered herds of buffalo and sent them charging away through the trees. Parts of the countryside below might easily pass for an English Park - but there were no tigers in English Parks, and Charlotte was certain that was what she saw bounding from a clearing to be hidden by the trees. At least, it was one of the big cats. Another startled creature looked like a big brown bear. The soil was very red and the countryside was very green. Sometimes they passed close to verdant, rolling hills, crossed steep escarpments, or swept low over groups of huts, where the natives were apparently preparing their evening meal. These big 'boats were such a common sight that scarcely anyone, apart from the children, even bothered to look up.

The sun was lowering over the green, wet plain, painting the skies to the west in a soft golden and tea-rose pink as "Pembroke" flew the last few miles into Calcutta, and lights were beginning to glimmer in the villages below. Some three nautical miles east beyond the Jhikra levees, and approaching Howrah; Kincaid picked up and followed the Hooghly River, then brought her round onto final approach over the docks and tidal basin at Kidderpore as he lined up on the cantilever New Howrah Bridge and began his descent to the alighting area off Belur Math Ghat... the waterside steps close to the beautiful, multi-domed Ramakrishna temple built on the west bank of the river built from glowing Chunar sand stone.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

The flap motors whined as he put out one-third flaps, and "Pembroke" flared gently on her final approach. There was a slight bump followed by the hiss of water against her hull as she settled onto the river. Kincaid held her straight and true as Tim Walker eased the throttle levers back and closed the gills. The alighting area was slightly less than two miles long, and its northern reach was spanned by the multispan, steel Willingdon road and rail bridge. If "Pembroke's" alighting distance was excessive, Kincaid knew her tail fin and rudder could clear the bridge span heights by at least ten feet... but it was not the best handling option. Normal taxiing was sometimes difficult as the river was full of eddies and undercurrents, and the river swirl around the bases of the piers would not be conclusive to his passengers' comfort. He would need to take care in reading the currents.

Having safely moored in midstream a little way downriver of the Willingdon Bridge. Kincaid ran the engines at tick-over to cool them, and finally shut them down. The stewards then informed the passengers that they could now leave their cabins to disembark.

The Hooghly River was filthy and turbulent. The crews of the two BOAC passenger tenders took great care to ensure the passengers boarded safely, and then it was off to the eastern river bank to transfer to the transport to the Hotel. Waiting for them was a curious-looking vehicle which resembled a standard coach, but with a full-length canvas hood that was rolled back for the entire length of the vehicle to the solid rear window panel This was one of the famed Leyland Lionesses…twenty-six-seater charabancs of late twenties vintage, finished in BOAC livery, and driven by an immaculately-uniformed Indian driver. He was a powerful Sikh, made fiercer looking by his bushy black beard, turban and the gleaming dagger stuck into his belt.

It was a hot and humid drive down the Kashipur road towards the city. The teeming humanity and their abject poverty was shocking. The crowded streets which seemed to double as open sewers, and the diseased and crippled beggars clamouring for attention from the rich tourists were dreadful. Every foot of the grimy pavement was occupied by ragged, tattered, dirty people. Some were sitting, some lying, some were squatting over tiny charcoal fires cooking little pots of frothing rice, or huddled around teapots. Children clad in filthy rags, with flies buzzing around their mouths and noses ran alongside the charabanc, loudly and boldly calling out "baksheesh, baba!"... Begging for money.

The driver barged his way through this pandemonium of trams, trucks, cars, hand-pulled rickshaws, animals, and pedestrians with his hand clamped on the horn and his foot pressed hard down on the accelerator. Alternately speeding, so that every nut and bolt in the chassis squeaked in protest, or braking with stomach-sinking suddenness, he hurtled through the crowded streets.

He kept this speed up all the way down through the outskirts, careering around the bullock carts and "gharries"... the small carriages drawn by decrepit-looking horses that choked the approaches to the centre of Calcutta. At last, after a wild foray through the seething Burrabazar Market, he slowed as he approached Dalhousie Square, where the hotel was situated.

It was like entering another world. Dalhousie Square was an oasis at the heart of this bedlam they called Calcutta; ringed by historic architecture and containing an immense pond... the Lal Dighi, or "Red Tank,"... a body of water that reflected the surrounding buildings. On the corner of Old Courthouse Street and British India Street stood their destination... The Great Eastern Hotel; a substantial, four-storey white stucco building with an arcade surmounted by a spacious balcony with ornamental wrought iron railings following the line of the façade which was curved at either end; and supported on slender columns marching the length of the building on either side of the imposing entrance. It was situated a short distance south of Dalhousie Square, almost directly opposite the extensive gardens and imposing edifice of Government House.

The Great Eastern Hotel, in its heyday in the thirties, was the nucleus of Calcuttan high society, and the favourite haunt of the city's elite. So exalted was its reputation, that for a while, the hotel was even referred to as the "Jewel of the East." It boasted a hundred rooms, including four of the largest, and most exclusive suites in the city.

As the charabanc stopped outside the hotel entrance, Attendants in military style uniforms rushed out and formed a cordon to prevent the passage of those walking past on the pavement, and saluting as the guests alighted, deferentially ushered them into the hotel foyer. The baggage would be whisked up to the rooms by servant boys as the guests were welcomed and shown to the restaurant. The BOAC agent greeted them, and guided his charges across the black and white marble floor to the lifts which conveyed them to the second floor. He led them through the corridors to the old "Firpo’s"... in the 1940s, one of the most famous restaurants in Southeast Asia, and the haunt of the elite of Calcutta Society. Charlotte and Max were shown to a table out on the balcony next to the wrought-iron railing. Here, they could dine in the cooler breezes that sighed off the Hooghly River and gaze across Chowringhee.

They were startled to discover that as revered guests, they had a private servant or "boy", who stood behind their chair, and attended to their every need during the meal, which comprised hors d'oeuvres, turtle soup; Pâté de foie gras, asparagus, and ices, washed down with several crystal flutes of extra dry champagne. As they were taking coffee, Hollis approached and invited them to the Sherry Bar for a drink.

The Bar was crowded. It was almost like stepping back into the long-lost days of Empire and seeing the faint ghosts of the British East India Company Army officers in the cloudy mirrors; hearing the clicking of backgammon stones, and the chink of crystal glasses.

Charlotte and Max sat at a vacant table whilst Hollis moved towards the bar. An elderly man at the next table called to him.

'Sit down, man. The sharaab wallah will wait for your order.'

Hollis turned and studied the elderly man. He wore an old-fashioned linen suit and held a Military bearing. He was of a florid complexion, and wore a neatly-clipped moustache.

Hollis returned, and sat down. The man chucked

'I'll show you how to do it, my boy'.

And merely snapped his fingers in the direction of the bar. The barman sent a "Khidmatgor"... a table boy scampering across to their table, who approached the group deferentially.

'Yes, Colonel Sahib?'

'Gee and Tees all round, Ahmed... Chop-chop!'

'Yes, Colonel Sahib...Chop-chop!'

Charlotte watched as the barman feverishly poured the drinks under the old Colonel's bilious stare. When the table boy returned and began to place the drinks on the table, the old man suddenly grabbed the boy's arm as he placed the glass in front of Charlotte, and called out to the barman...

'Dammit, baboo; you've brought a Chota peg! Give the Memsahib a Burra peg!'

Hollis spoke quietly to Charlotte who was somewhat taken aback by the Colonel's disparaging rebuke to the barman and the scared-looking table boy.

'Calcutta, in social matters, is a law unto herself, and the Colonel, being an old Imperialist, and Pukka Sahib, still considers himself to be in the time of the Queen Empress herself. There is no prejudice or discrimination involved. It is simply the way it still is out here.'

Charlotte stared at her glass. It looked like an ordinary measure. She gave the old Colonel a quizzical glance.

'I beg your pardon, Colonel?'

He harrumphed, and smiled.

'Sorry, M'dear. A Chota peg is a standard measure, and a Burra peg is a decent-sized drink. You look like the sort of filly who can use one of those.'

The Colonel harrumphed again, and glared balefully at Hollis.

'And who the hell are you, Sir?'

Hollis turned to him

'I work for His Majesty's Government, Sir.'

The Colonel snorted.

'One of those bally Intelligence Johnnies?'

He snorted again like an asthmatic walrus.

'Bunch of damned Nancy boys, swanning about and playing cloak and dagger.'

Charlotte, seeing that the Colonel was beginning to get hot under the collar; decided that it would be best to quickly change the subject. With a demure smile, she asked.

'Have you been out here long, Colonel?'

The old man nodded. She noticed that, although his complexion... and especially his nose, which was a purplish, cratered, and enlarged cauliflower-like protuberance that dominated his face, bore the classic signs of years of spicy food, sun damage... and countless Gin and tonics; however, his eyes were alert, and a bright, clear-blue.

He took a swig from the tall scalloped tumbler which was very similar in design to those she had seen and used back in Washington. There, they had called them soda glasses. He savoured the flavour for a moment, then muttered to himself,

'Hmm; Plymouth... Damned good... topping snifter!'

Fixing his gaze upon Charlotte, he began.

'I came out in '99 as a young Captain in The Bengal Lancers on active service in the North Western Province. After a stint in South Africa, I returned to India with the rank of Colonel, left the Army, and joined the Indian Civil Service here in Calcutta. The Memsahib is keen to retire "back home" to some damned draughty Georgian house or hotel in Cheltenham or Harrogate that will be crawling with retired Indian, Colonial, Foreign Civil or Military ghosts trying to maintain standards on their pensions. Much better to stay on here in our twilight years. But that's enough about me. What are you doing out here, m'dear?'

Charlotte smiled.

'Not much to tell, Colonel.'

She discreetly gestured towards Max.

'My colleague and I are with the United States Diplomatic Service. We are travelling out to Hong Kong.'

The Colonel nodded.

'Ah, the good old Speedbird to Honkers.'

He motioned towards Hollis and Lambert, who had now joined the party.

'I suppose these two coves are your escorts, seeing as how you are travelling between Crown Colonies?'

He put his hand on her arm in a fatherly fashion.

'You will need to be careful out there, m'dear. Those damned Chinks are getting restless. The yellow Commie hordes have more or less seen off Chiang's chappies, and I think it's all going to blow up in Korea. It was damned stupid of the fools to to divide the country across the thirty-eighth parallel into two countries. There have been continual cross-border skirmishes and raids for the last year or so, and I think the balloon will go up within the next twelve months, and become another full-scale war.'

Charlotte studied the old Colonel. His assertion tied in exactly with the hunch that Washburn had mentioned, that last day back in Berlin. She glanced at Max. His face was impassive.

The old Colonel suddenly changed subject in the way that the elderly have a tendency to do.

'You'll both need decent tropical togs. Tell you what; give your kit to your servant when you retire, and I'll have him run them round to the durzi wallah in Dhurrumtolla Street. He'll run you up a new set of togs on his old Singer sewing machine and complete them in a couple of hours; made to measure and beautifully finished. They'll be laid out ready for you when you wake up in the morning.'

Charlotte gave him a surprised look.

'In a couple of hours? How much will that cost?'

The old Colonel smiled.

'Old Munjal Gupta will ask for no more than fifteen Rupees per suit for both you and your companion. That will work out at about four American Dollars a go, and he'll be overjoyed to be paid in those.'