In the Mouth of the Tiger (108 page)

Denis stared coldly at John Morton. ‘You are accusing me of high treason.'

Morton inclined his head. ‘An accusation has been made. It is supported by argument and by evidence. It requires some answers. That is why I have asked you here today – to give you a chance to provide those answers. If you cannot give us those answers, I regret that we will have no option but to put the matter into the hands of the Director of Public Prosecutions.' He paused, cleared his throat again, and looked Denis steadily in the eye. ‘Are you working for the Russians?'

Denis stared back. ‘Do you think I'm stark, staring mad?' he asked softly. ‘Do you seriously expect me to answer a charge like that without the faintest idea what the case is against me? I want to know everything you have against me.'

For nearly two hours, without a break, they read out the charges that Malcolm had been carefully compiling over the past twelve months. They included clandestine meetings with the Russian ‘legal' in Singapore, the channelling of funds and equipment to the MCP, the establishment of Elesmere-Elliott & Co. as a front for the MCP, the provision of Moonlight (‘Number One Bungalow') to the MCP as a safe house, and (based on the Selangor Papers) actual participation in the deliberations of the Communist Politburo. The last charge was very recent indeed: a letter found on Xiao Lau
Hu's body, addressed to Denis, made it crystal clear that he was in regular contact with Chin Peng. They were damning charges and Morton was almost drooling. In relation to each, Denis had shaken his head: ‘I refuse to answer on the grounds that my answer may incriminate me.'

The reading of the charges took until well after midday, when the heat in the room forced them to turn on the overhead fans. Outside, there was the sound of soldiers drilling on the parade ground, a raucous, angry sound punctuated by the crash of boots on macadam.

‘You leave us with no choice, Denis,' Morton said, screwing the cap back on his fountain pen. ‘There is ample material here on which a prosecution could properly be brought. You have not exercised your right to challenge a single word of it. Is there any reason why I should not immediately order you into custody?'

Denis rose to his feet and wandered over to the polished expanse of Morton's desk. He stood there for a moment, leaning over the desk with the fingers of both hands splayed on its polished surface. Then he looked at the three men sitting there in turn. ‘I have, over the past years and months, been carrying out the specific instructions of the Director-General of the Secret Intelligence Service,' he said quietly. ‘Those instructions provide a complete answer to all the allegations made against me today. Before you do anything, I strongly suggest that you seek Stewart Menzies' confirmation of what I have just told you.' Then he returned to his chair and casually slumped in it, turning to the window as though the proceedings no longer held any interest.

There was utter silence in the room. The three men behind the desk looked at each other. The MI5 man was the first to speak.

‘I don't think it is quite that easy,' he said. ‘We have a duty to act on the evidence we have. On that evidence you are guilty of treason.'

‘Don't be a fool, Norton.' It was John Morton, his voice low and angry. ‘We are going to have to suspend this inquiry until we have checked with Sir Stewart.' Then he turned to Denis, his face livid, his voice barely under control. ‘Why the devil have you put us through this charade, Denis? Why didn't you tell us right at the beginning that you were acting under orders? I think that at the very least you have treated us with the most abominable contempt.'

Denis swung round to face him. ‘I needed to know what Bryant managed to unearth. Stewart Menzies needs to know. I don't have to tell you how important it is that all that material – every scrap of it – is collected and destroyed.'

Again there was silence. The enormity of what had been suggested was only now being absorbed – that the Communist insurrection in Malaya, with all the death and agony it had caused, had been engineered by MI6.

If such knowledge became publicly known it would certainly bring down the British Government.

Morton squared his shoulders. ‘If what you say is true, then clearly the material collected by Bryant must be destroyed. But first things first. I will return to KL where I can get a secure cable to the Director-General, and I will seek his instructions. Until I receive those instructions, I have no alternative but to assume that what you have told us is the truth.'

‘So he's going to simply stroll out of here?' the MI5 man asked angrily. ‘What if he
is
a double agent? He'll be long gone before the Director-General can get back to you.'

‘Clearly the appropriate course would be for Captain McManus to continue to keep me and my family under protective custody,' Denis said promptly. ‘I give my word that I will not attempt to leave Cameron Highlands, but in return I must have complete freedom of movement while I am up here. As soon as you have had word from C, I intend to move my family to Penang or to Singapore, and from there we intend to sail to England.'

Morton knew when he was beaten. He shuffled the papers back into the manila folder and tied it tightly with pink ribbon. ‘I will give McManus the orders you have suggested,' he said, his voice now pleasant, almost affable. He scratched his head. ‘What do we do with Bryant?'

‘He has done nothing wrong,' Denis said. ‘To the contrary, he has been far too good at his job. But clearly he cannot remain in Malaya. A position will have to be found for him in Hong Kong, or even in London. A promotion. By the way, how is the poor blighter?'

Morton's manner was now almost obsequious. ‘Whingeing away down in the hospital at Ringlet. The shoulder is fine, but the poor fellow is awfully upset about losing his ear. I rather think vanity is one of his weaknesses.' And then he laughed, a thoroughly unpleasant sound.

John Morton was working hard to get back on to the winning side.

PART 4

Pure Golden Fox

‘But it was a fine hunt for all that, and

although hounds and hunts-man had again

been defeated, there was consolation if not

actual joy in the thought that the golden

fox lived to run another day.'

CAPTAIN GEORGE CHEAPE OF WELLFIELD:
THE HISTORY OF THE LINLITHGOW AND STIRLINGSHIRE HUNT 1775–1910

Chapter Thirty-Eight

D
enis came back to Honeymoon Cottage in the same jeep in which he'd left, with John Morton fawning by his side and Captain McManus sitting poker-faced in front with the driver. I tried my best to seem cool and indifferent but McManus saw through me and when he climbed out he paused beside me. ‘I don't know what happened at the Barracks,' he confided quickly, ‘but things have changed. We really are a guard of honour now.'

‘I truly am sorry you have been inconvenienced, Norma,' Morton said with an ingratiating smile. ‘Bureaucratic nonsense, but of course we had to go through with it.'

‘We won't invite you in,' Denis said with perhaps just a shade too much emphasis. ‘I know you will want to push off as soon as you can. The sooner you get to KL and that secure line to London the better.'

Morton looked almost crestfallen as he stuck out a hand. ‘Then I suppose it's cheerio,' he said. ‘And I really am sorry . . .'

‘Shove off, Morton,' Denis said. He said it with a smile but there was no doubt John Morton was not in his good books. I remember thinking how extraordinarily quickly things can change. Only hours before I had been picturing Morton's cold, judgemental eyes with dread: now it was Morton's turn to be the worried supplicant.

The rub is of course that things can change back just as quickly.

The next few days were something of a circus. The children were escorted to school each morning by the Gurkhas, the other guests looking on in amazement. They came back in the afternoon in similar style, with two and sometimes three armoured jeeps crunching to a stop under the porch to disembark their cargo to a background of shouted orders and clattering weapons.

When Denis and I went out the same thing happened, but with even more pomp and circumstance. McManus had ordered that we be given the courtesy due to officers of Field rank and consequently if we went anywhere we would arrive like minor royalty, with a crash of glossy boots and the slapping of arms against manly chests as our Gurkhas came to the General Salute.

It could be a little embarrassing. One afternoon we decided on the spur of the moment to take afternoon tea at the Smoke House Inn. The heavilyarmed motorcade assembled at the hotel and then drove the half-mile or so along the Jalan Basar Road to the Inn under the startled eyes of hotel guests and golfers on the nearby links. As we sipped tea beside the traditional log fire in the Den I saw Mrs Warin staring at us from the hallway, too impressed to intrude. I could imagine her thinking:
My golly, those two have changed their tune! I told them to take care, but I'd no idea they'd rope in half the Gurkha infantry to look after them . . .

On another occasion a large, vivid woman bailed me up as I was looking for a book in the hotel library. ‘I say!' she said. ‘I've noticed that you and your husband have been given a small army to guard you from the bandits. How did you manage it?'

‘Oh, they more or less insisted,' I said vaguely. ‘We didn't ask for them, I assure you . . .'

‘My husband is Robert Standish,' she said. ‘He was Surveyor-General in Kashmir before Independence but he's out of his territory over here and nobody seems to know who he is. Do you think you might drop a quiet word? We would appreciate some sort of protection when we move about.'

‘I'm afraid nothing I could say would do any good,' I said truthfully.

The woman gave an audible ‘humph'. ‘I really think you might try,' she said. ‘I see so many underemployed Gurkhas sloping about the place. Surely they could be doing something useful? I assure you that Robert would have been afforded the courtesy of a guard in the old days . . .'

I suddenly felt sorry for her, and reached out to touch her arm. ‘I'll mention your husband's name to Captain McManus,' I said, feeling an awful fraud. ‘I'm sure he'll do what he can.'

‘Thank you,' she said, suddenly pink in the face. ‘It's so dangerous here, isn't it? We were shot at in Srinagar once, you know. An awful business, with one of the Indians with us killed outright. One can never quite get over the shock . . .'

We thought we might have trouble playing our regular round of golf. After all, the average golfing party isn't trailed by half a platoon of battlehardened Gurkhas. But in the event it turned out to be almost fun. The Gurkhas kept an eye on us, but stayed well clear while we were out on the links. Captain McManus accompanied us on these outings, and played in our foursome. He was a fine golfer and a good mixer, and so the game was always enjoyable. So were the good-humoured comments from others we met on the course. ‘Brought your lads along to keep track of the ball?' someone would shout, or ‘Taking your forays into the rough a bit seriously, aren't you?'

Afterwards, in the clubhouse, we'd have a drink with our friends and perhaps join in the singing that was one of the club's traditions, and if anyone wondered why the soldiers were still there, waiting on the verandah to escort us home, they were too polite to ask.

But of course it wasn't all beer and skittles. At night, in the security of our room, we'd talk about what Menzies was going to say in his reply to Morton's cable. ‘I feel pretty sure he'll do the right thing,' Denis would say, but I could sense that he was a little concerned. It was a concern that I shared.

‘Isn't it in Menzies' interests to cut you adrift?' I'd ask. ‘Isn't that how it's done in the secret service? If you're caught out, you're left to your own devices . . .'

It was very early in the morning of our fourth day in Honeymoon Cottage when Captain McManus tapped on the front door and I knew in an instant that the answer had come back from London. Denis swung out of bed with a grunt. ‘Hardly six o'clock. The young devil must have insomnia.' But his face was grave as he paused and looked back from the doorway, his fingers crossed for luck.

They spoke for a long time in our tiny lounge room, and hard as I tried I could not read anything in the tones of their voices. And then Denis stuck his head in the bedroom door: ‘I'm afraid the blighters have tired of us, Norma. Captain McManus has orders to withdraw our guard of honour. We're on our own again.'

I felt so much like running up and hugging him that I had to wrap my arms around my knees to stop myself. ‘It's not like that at all,' McManus called from the lounge. ‘It's been an honour, Ma'am, but all good things must come to an end.' I did get out of bed then and ran into the lounge, scandalising the hotel boy who had just brought up our tea by planting a kiss on McManus's cheek.

Morton had in fact offered to leave our guard with us until we left the highlands, but Denis had refused. I understood his refusal completely: the Gurkhas were a physical reminder of the world he now desperately wanted to forget. But their departure did cause me some disquiet. The small garden around Honeymoon Cottage suddenly seemed so still, and when I stared into the jungle beyond the hotel boundary we seemed suddenly so vulnerable. I understood perfectly how Mrs Standish felt.

Before they left, the Gurkhas had paraded one last time to say goodbye. It was a surprisingly emotional moment as they crashed to attention and slapped their guns to their chests, and a lump rose in my throat when their sergeant, a nuggetty little man called Jangahabur Rai, presented me with a huge bunch of flowers. ‘For a brave lady who always smiles,' he said. ‘We will miss that smile, Memsahib.'

That evening I asked the hotel boy to bring up a bottle of chilled champagne, and after we had put the children to bed I led Denis out to our little patio and poured a couple of glasses. ‘I know you'll not get any public recognition,' I said. ‘But I for one appreciate what you have done. You have made sure that Malaya will never, ever suffer under the iron heel of Communism.' I lifted my glass. ‘Let us drink to a task well done.'