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  “Yes he was. He was trying too hard to be relaxed but he wasn’t.”

  “So what are they up to?”

  “I have no idea but I can tell you one thing: if they have a perfect record of stock with no losses then it’ll be the first time in the history of the British Army. Any army for that matter.”

  ELEVEN

  Part way up the winding road to Fort Canning, Hegarty stopped briefly and pointed out the tropical trees and flowering bushes. He joked that it looked more like a botanical garden than a military post. This was where the general was based.

  Moving once more, Hegarty rounded a bend and as we approached a barrier, he slowed and flashed his ID at the MP on duty. The check was more thorough than at Tanglin but moments later we were driving beneath a white portico entrance with high walls on either side. Beyond was a courtyard the size of a football pitch with a grand colonial residence surrounded by more trees and gardens.

  I got out and absorbed the strange sense of tranquillity. There were no people. I started to walk towards the house and could hear the sweet sound of birdsong quickly replaced by the sharp crunch of gravel under my feet.

  Hegarty waited in the car as I entered the building and walked across a marble floor into a grand foyer. It was empty except for book cases, paintings, a bust and a clerk behind a reception desk. He looked up at me.

  “I’d like to see General Gaskill,” I said.

  The clerk looked down at what I guessed was an appointment’s diary, frowned and looked back at me. “Sorry, sir. You are…?”

  I introduced myself and said I was there on important security business.

  The clerk jumped up as though he’d just sat on a drawing pin and scurried away. A couple of minutes later he walked smartly back to his desk and avoided eye contact.

  Another minute passed and I heard shoes clacking on the marble floor. A door opened and an officer appeared. He had a broad smile and an even broader moustache.

  He held out a hand. “Colonel Simon Atkinson,” he said, “adjutant to the general.”

  I placed him at mid-forties although his hair was already steel-grey. The hard lines on his face and strong handshake told me this man was no pen-pusher and had likely seen action.

  I introduced myself and Atkinson nodded.

  “We were told to expect you though not quite so soon.”

  Of course they had been told. My father had spoken to Gaskill and Coates. Maybe Gaskill was also in on the arrangement.

  “My father rang a few days ago?”

  “Last Monday,” Atkinson said after a second’s thought. “I’m afraid the general hasn’t got much time but would like to meet you. Please follow me.”

  Despite the hard features, Atkinson’s tone was relaxed and welcoming. He led me to an antechamber from which more rooms fed off. Here, he went straight to a door, knocked and entered.

  The room was like a comfortable British study or small library with dark oak tables and chairs with burgundy upholstery, brass lamps with tasselled shades and a large rug that muffled their footsteps.

  General Gaskill sat at an oak desk big enough to be a family dining table. There were two reading lamps, both on but adding no additional illumination. There was a huge blotter pad with a pile of documents on it plus a copy of the London Times newspaper folded in front of him. There was also an array of photo frames that I guessed were of his family but couldn’t see. At the general’s back, was a bay window overlooking the gardens.

  My first impression of the general was of an eagle. He was heavy framed, balding with a slightly hooked, beak-like nose. I felt inclined to salute and did.

  The general reached across the table and shook my hand. Then he waved at the chairs in front of the desk. “Sit down man. Simon, you too.”

  As soon as we were settled, he said, “I know your father.” His bright blue eyes sparked as if recalling something. “A British hero through and through.”

  I said nothing. My opinion of what my father had done in the war differed from many.

  The general’s head cocked slightly to one side, complementing his bird-like appearance. I wondered if he could read me but didn’t comment on that. Instead he said, “You changed your surname.”

  “It’s my mother’s maiden name. I didn’t want my father’s reputation to go before me.”

  “Ah,” he said as though that explained it and I wondered whether he knew there was more to it. But he didn’t comment. Instead he continued: “I’m sure Simon has explained that I haven’t got much time today but he is more than capable of handling any questions you may have. I understand that the secretary has appointed you to liaise between the army and police regarding security matters.” He gave me an avuncular smile. “Don’t worry, we will be most cooperative, but do bear in mind there will be no need to baby sit me. I may be the new commander here, but it is like coming home. We were last here just before the Japs invaded. At the end of forty-one, I was transferred to Hong Kong. Sometimes the hand of fate can be on your side. Who knows? A few months later and I would have been with the other unlucky bastards who died in Changi.”

  “Can we talk about security, sir?”

  “Simon’s your man for that,” he said and leaned across the desk to shake my hand. And I knew the interview was over.

  Atkinson took me through another door and into another office similar to Gaskill’s only the desk was a few inches shorter.

  He sat in a leather chair and indicated that I should sit next to him. For the first time, I noticed his moustache twitch. I later realized it was a nervous tick.

  “You used to be a boxer,” Atkinson prompted.

  “At college.”

  “And in the army. You won the Golden Gloves competition in Palestine three years back. Then two years ago you dropped out after winning your bout.”

  Atkinson had done his research. I didn’t like talking about it so gave my stock answer, “Injury.” What I didn’t say was that the injury was to my opponent who lost an eye. A freak accident and I thought it honourable to retire at that point.

  “And what of Palestine?”

  “It’s a damn mess. It’s hard to tell who the good guys are over there and the League of Nations doesn’t seem to know how to resolve it. It’s like being in a pit of smiling vipers. You have to treat everyone as a friend and yet anyone could be a potential terrorist.”

  “Must have been tense.” His moustache did its twitch thing.

  “All the time. Every day we went into the streets, we were on edge. In the last few months before I left, there was no downtime. Men were exhausted and exhausted men make mistakes.”

  “Did you make a mistake?”

  “I felt so.”

  “Tell me,” Atkinson said kindly.

  At this point I started to realize the colonel was adept at getting people to talk. I needed to get onto the main reason for the visit. But I could see this man was a politician and an abrupt switch of subjects wouldn’t work in my favour so I humoured him a little longer.

  “There were always meetings and negotiations. The multiple factions were kept apart except for critical points of mediation. On the whole the security was well controlled. Of course there were threats and even murders, but nothing directly related to the negotiated settlement. And then the League announced a big conference in Palestine with the unofficial aim of achieving a resolution at the same time.”

  “A political leader’s publicity stunt? It happens all the time.”

  “I had information that there was an assassination plot by an extreme Israeli faction aiming to break up the talks. For them compromise was unacceptable. Ironically the League called the conference off anyway.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a mistake.”

  “My mistake was not protecting my informant and his family.”

  “Ah.”

  Like Secretary Coates, I was pretty sure Atkinson didn’t know the truth. I hadn’t protected my Palestinian informant but he hadn’t been murdered. It had been his wife and
five children. I knew them. I considered them my friends. Abdul was made to watch them die and then had his eyes gouged out. He was still alive with his pain and torment. And I was told it was not my concern. So I had resigned, found the perpetrators and killed them. I wasn’t proud about it. It just needed to be done.

  Atkinson stood. “Let’s take a walk around the grounds.”

  “I need to talk about security.”

  He nodded and led me outside to an orchard at the side of the building. I could see the sea through the trees.

  When he stopped, he said, “Politics.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Who is in control here—on Singapore I mean?”

  “The government?”

  “That’s what the Governor and Secretary Coates would like to believe. But take a look around the city. Who do you see more of? The police or the army? We are everywhere and guard the causeway from Malaya and manage the docks. We also manage the security of the Straits. So who is really in control? The government are also in a state of transition and the Second Legislative Council has only been established for a matter of months.”

  I remained silent. This was something I knew nothing about.

  He continued with a smile: “Democracy is coming, Ash. Only nine members were elected out of thirty-two but the government of this country is changing. Maybe slowly, maybe more quickly.”

  “So you’re telling me that my role is just political?”

  “Palestine all over again, I’m afraid,” Atkinson said with a smile that creased his face even more. “Now, come. Let’s take a look at the spice garden.”

  As we walked, I said, “The Secretary is concerned that there will be an attack on the island. He has intelligence—”

  “Really?”

  We passed through a gothic gate and followed a narrow path. “Look at this—a spice garden designed by Raffles himself.” He waved his hands as if directing the scent towards his face. “Just breathe that in, Ash. Now the whole island smells of spices, but in the early nineteen hundreds this was a revelation; a hill amidst the jungles with a manicured spice garden at the top of it!”

  “Real or not, how could bandits get weapons into the country.”

  Atkinson looked at me as if wondering about dismissing my question. His moustache twitched before he eventually spoke. “Via the private wharves.”

  “I’ve had a look around. Customs seem to have a tight control over it.”

  Atkinson was walking again. He led me down the gentle slope to the island-facing side of the fort. He pointed to an iron gate in a grass embankment and said, “A sally port. There are three of them. Tunnels that led down the hill for emergency escapes.”

  “It comes from Latin, I believe. From sallir, to jump.”

  “Excellent. What’s the Latin for making or being safe?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Exsisto tutus. We’ve seen the sally now let me show you the totty!” The colonel laughed at his own pun. He had clearly used the line many times before. He stroked his moustache. “I know, I know it’s a bit of a stretch, but funny anyway.” He pointed to a short grey concrete wall with a metal door. It was a bunker. The bunker, more formally known as the Battle Box.

  Although my First World War history was patchy at best, I’d heard of this. “So this is where we surrendered Singapore to the Japanese?”

  “Of course everyone knows the official surrender was signed at the Ford factory, but this is where Lieutenant General Percival surrendered.” Atkinson took out a key and opened the door. Inside, the lighting was dim with a grey-orange tint. In the centre of the room was a table—the size of two end-to-end table tennis tables—with a relief map of South East Asia. The rest of the room was sparsely furnished with the exception of four metal filing cabinets and shelves with books and papers on. It was a stark contrast to the sumptuous feel and opulence of the main building.

  “The official reason for the Battle Box is for campaign planning and troop movements. It is my responsibility to maintain the records—to keep the map up to date with where the regiments are. I must also track the Chinese Red Army and our friends the Americans. Officially the general and I spend time in here every day. Truth is there’s little need for him to be here.”

  Although I hadn’t mentioned it, Atkinson was telling me he had the general’s own security in hand.

  We stepped outside into the bright sunshine and the colonel locked the heavy door. Then he surprised me by handing me the key.

  “The general wants you to have a key. Traditionally the adjutant has one and the officer in charge of security has the other.”

  “So you’re giving it to me as such an officer?” After all he had said it seemed to be a contradiction.

  Atkinson patted me on the arm. “He wants you to have it because of who you are, not what you do.”

  “I’m flattered,” I said but wondered if there was more to it, whether this was also a political play. In any case, I put the key in my pocket.

  Atkinson held out his hand as if in farewell.

  “One more question,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “Let’s just for argument’s sake say that munitions could be stolen from the army here. How would you do it?”

  For a brief moment Atkinson’s face became serious. Then he gave me the broad smile again. “You’ve been over to Tanglin Barracks I hear.”

  “I have.”

  “Sinclair is a good man.”

  “I have no doubt—”

  “Goodbye, Captain Carter,” he said using my old title. “Good luck with handling the role but I assure you there are no guns missing under Sinclair’s watch.”

  TWELVE

  Hegarty wanted to know how my meeting had gone and I gave him a high-level summary. I had no doubt the information would go straight back to Major Vernon.

  “What’s the general like?” Hegarty asked.

  “Friendly enough,” I said. “Atkinson is a difficult one to read though.”

  “He has a reputation.”

  I waited for an explanation that was delayed as Hegarty manoeuvred around a trishaw that suddenly stopped in front of us, blocking the way as a passenger climbed in.

  “He was here during the war, at Tanglin. When the Japs invaded, I mean.”

  Gaskill had said they had both been here and said he’d been posted to Hong Kong. He didn’t explain what had happened to Atkinson. I wondered if the colonel had been one of the unlucky ones imprisoned at Changi.

  “Must have been difficult,” I said.

  “Anyway, he’s supposed to be very religious. Whatever he went through changed the man.”

  Back at Gillman Barracks there was a shiny black Bentley waiting by the barrier. The driver wore a chauffeur’s uniform and stepped out as we drew alongside.

  “Ash Carter?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Sir, Mr Pope should be honoured if you would accompany him at The Singapore Club. If you have the time, sir.”

  The guy sounded intriguing, so I climbed into the back of the luxury car and was driven back the way we had just come.

  When we arrived, Fullerton Square was a chaos of cars. The Bentley parked in front of the Fullerton Building, a grandiose four storey structure with many columns and buttresses. A stone staircase and grand entrance dominated the front and the sign above proclaimed this to be the General Post Office. However, the Fullerton Building was much more than an elaborate post office, I had been told. It also contained the Chamber of Commerce, Marine Offices and The Singapore Club.

  The chauffeur pointed out a discreet side door and informed me it was the club’s entrance. I walked over and took a flight of steps to the first floor where a Punjabi doorman—typically dressed in a white uniform, gold trimmed sash and matching turban—asked for my identity and the purpose of my visit.

  Once past him I was met by a broad reception desk and more questions. A young man in a green and gold uniform was waved over and sent off to find my host while
I was directed to sit and wait.

  Within a couple of minutes a portly gentleman in a morning suit appeared. Apart from his girth the most noticeable attribute was the man’s skin, white like tissue paper.

  “Captain Carter, Captain Carter, my dear chap, how good of you to come and visit me,” Pope said effusively. He offered a plump and impossibly soft hand.

  I explained my recently acquired civilian status but it didn’t seem to register. He just led me into a glorious lounge which must have been almost two hundred feet long with sumptuous leather armchairs around tables. Everywhere, gentlemen sat smoking, reading newspapers and having meetings.

  There was a view of the sea and open windows allowed the delightful sea breeze to cool the room. The fittings were all brass and the floor was a rich brown marble.

  “Tampines marblette,” Pope said after he noticed me looking down. “All made in Singapore, you know.” Then he pointed beyond the bar. “Over there we have the reading room and a library next to it. Upstairs there is a billiard room—with six tables no less! There is also a dining room for two hundred and on the upper floor there are the bedrooms. Everything a gentleman could wish for! Now, Captain, please take a seat.”

  We sat by a window, the chairs making a comfortable sigh as we sank into them. Immediately, a waiter came alongside and Pope ordered two stengahs.

  As the drinks were served along with iced water, I studied my host. Pope looked to be in his mid to late fifties, and I wondered if he’d ever been in the sun or done a day’s work.

  “So. Good of you to come,” Pope said and raised his whisky as a toast. “And thank you.”

  “I understand you are the owner of the market stall.”

  Pope laughed. “No, my dear chap, no. Much too small for me, but I do supply all the traders of Japanese merchandise. No, the reason for my gratitude is really for my daughter, Amelia. I understand from her that you protected her and tried to stop the affray.”

  Now it made sense. The girl in the white dress who had been pushed over. So she was Pope’s daughter.