Алистер Маклин - South by Java Head

“Ten minutes,” he went on smoothly. “Not more. There is something we must have first, it will not take long, and then we will go.” He smiled again, looked slowly round the prisoners squatting on the floor beneath him. “And while we wait, I am sure you would all care to meet someone whom you think you know but do not know at all. Someone who is a very good friend of our glorious Empire, someone who, I feel sure, our glorious Emperor will wish to thank in person. Concealment is no longer necessary, sir.”

There was a sudden movement among the prisoners, then one of them was on his feet, advancing towards the platform, speaking fluently in Japanese and shaking the bowing Captain Yamata by the hand. Nicolson struggled half-way to his feet, consternation and disbelief in every line of his face, then fell heavily to the ground as a rifle butt caught him across the shoulder. For a moment his neck and arm seemed as if they were on fire, but he barely noticed it.

“Van Effen! What the devil do you think–”

“Not Van Effen, my dear Mr. Nicolson,” Van Effen protested. “Not ‘Van’ but ‘von’. I’m sick and tired of masquerading as a damned Hollander.” He smiled faintly and bowed. “I am at your service, Mr. Nicolson. Lieutenant-Colonel Alexis von Effen, German counter-espionage.”

Nicolson stared at him, stared without speaking, nor was he alone in his shocked astonishment. Every eye in the council house was on Van Effen, eyes held there involuntarily while stunned minds fought to orientate themselves, to grasp the situation as it was, and memories and incidents of the past ten days slowly coalesced into comprehension and the tentative beginnings of understanding.

The seconds dragged interminably by and formed themselves into a minute, and then almost another minute, and there were no more tentative wonderings and deepening suspicions. There was only certainty, stone cold certainty that Colonel Alexis von Effen was really who he claimed to be. There could be no doubt at all.

It was Van Effen who finally broke the silence. He turned his head slightly and looked out the door, then glanced again at his late comrades in distress. There was a smile on his face, but there was no triumph in it, no rejoicing, no signs of pleasure at all. If anything, the smile was sad.

“And here, gentlemen, comes the reason for all our trials and suffering of the past days, of why the Japanese – my people’s allies, I would remind you – have pursued and harried us without ceasing. Many of you wondered why we were so important to the Japanese, our tiny group of survivors. Now you will know.”

A Japanese soldier walked past the men and women on the floor and dumped a heavy bag between Van Effen and Yamata. They all stared at it, then stared at Miss Plenderleith. It was her bag, and her lips and knuckles were pale as ivory, her eyes half-shut as if in pain. But she made no move and said nothing at all.

At a sign from Van Effen the Japanese soldier took one handle of the bag, while Van Effen took the other. Between them they raised it to shoulder height, then inverted it. Nothing fell to the ground, but the heavily weighted lining dropped through the inverted mouth of the canvas and leather bag and hung down below it as it were filled with lead. Van Effen looked at the Japanese officer. “Captain Yamata?”

“My pleasure, Colonel.” Yamata stepped forward, the sword hissing from its sheath. It gleamed once in the bright yellow light from the oil-lamps, then its razored edge sliced cleanly through the tough canvas lining as if it had been so much paper. And then the gleam of the sword was lost, buried, extinguished in the dazzling, scintillating stream of fire that poured from the bag and pooled on the earth beneath in a deep, lambent cone of coruscating brilliance.

“Miss Plenderleith has quite a taste in gee-gaws and trinkets.” Van Effen smiled pleasantly and touched the sparkling radiance at his feet with a casual toe.

“Diamonds, Mr. Nicolson. The largest collection, I believe, ever seen outside the Union of South Africa. These are valued at just under two million pounds.”

THE SOFT murmur of Van Effen’s voice faded away and the silence in the council house was heavy and deep. For each man and woman there the others might not have existed. The great heap of diamonds at their feet, sparkling and flaming with a barbaric magnificence in the light of the flickering oil-lamps, had a weirdly hypnotic quality, held every eye in thrall. But by and by Nicolson stirred and looked up at Van Effen. Strangely enough, he could feel no bitterness, no hostility towards this man: they had come through too much together, and Van Effen had come through it better than most, unselfish, enduring and helpful all the way. The memory of that was much too recent to be washed away.

“Borneo stones, of course,” he murmured. “From Banjermasin by the Kerry Dancer – couldn’t have been any other way. Uncut, I suppose – and you say they’re worth two million?”

“Rough cut and uncut,” Van Effen nodded. “And their market value is at least that – a hundred fighter planes, a couple of destroyers, I don’t know. In wartime they’re worth infinitely more to any side that gets its hands on them.” He smiled faintly. “None of these stones will ever grace milady’s fingers. Industrial use only – diamond-tipped cutting tools. A great pity, is it not?”

No one spoke, no one as much as glanced at the speaker. They heard the words, but the words failed to register, for that moment they all lived in their eyes alone.

And then Van Effen had stepped quickly forward, his foot swinging, and the great pile of diamonds were tumbling over the earthen floor in a glittering cascade.

“Trash! Baubles!” His voice was harsh, contemptuous. “What matter all the diamonds, all the precious stones that ever were when the great nations of the world are at each other’s throats and men are dying in their thousands and their hundreds of thousands? I wouldn’t sacrifice a life, not even the life of an enemy, for all the diamonds in the Indies. But I have sacrificed many lives, and put many more I’m afraid, in deadly danger to secure another treasure, an infinitely more valuable treasure than these few paltry stones at our feet. What do a few lives matter, if losing them enables a man to save a thousand times more?”

“We can all see how fine and noble you are,” Nicolson said bitterly. “Spare us the rest and get to the point.”

“I have already arrived,” Van Effen said equably. “That treasure is in this room, with us, now. I have no wish to prolong this unduly or seek after dramatic effect.” He stretched out his hand. “Miss Plenderleith, if you please.”

She stared at him, her eyes uncomprehending.

“Oh, now, come, come.” He snapped his fingers and smiled at her. “I admire your performance, but I really can’t wait all night.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said blankly.

“Perhaps it may help you if I tell you that I know everything.” There was neither gloating nor triumph in Van Effen’s voice, only certainty and a curious overtone of weariness. “Everything, Miss Plenderleith, even to that simple little ceremony in a Sussex village on 18th February, 1902.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” Nicolson demanded.

“Miss Plenderleith knows, don’t you, Miss Plenderleith?” There was almost compassion in Van Effen’s voice: for the first time the life had faded from her lined old face and her shoulders were sagging wearily.

“I know.” She nodded in defeat and looked at Nicolson. “He is referring to the date of my marriage – my marriage to Brigadiers-General Farnholme. We celebrated our fortieth wedding anniversary aboard the lifeboat.” She tried to smile, but failed.