adjoining room was empty except for a very efficient Japanese
tape recorder that was turning slowly with a two-hour reel on it, connected by
wires to the microphone bugs in Durell’s room.
He snapped off the tape recorder before he spoke, and the
colonel’s yellowish eyes followed him and he gave a short, choppy nod of his
cropped bullet head and spoke uncomfortably. “Perfectly correct. I apologize,
Mr. Durell.”
“You surprised rne , and you have
my apologies, too, Colonel Mayubashur."
“You know me? I am head of the local police.”
“Ruler pro tern of these islands, too, I understand.” Durell
smiled. “Do you personally bug every visitor’s room, sir?"
“You are not an ordinary visitor, Mr. Durell. We are not
stupid or ignorant, sir. Surely you must realize from your briefing that
the political climate here is most explosive, and any outside interference is
most unwelcome.”
“I am not here to interfere.”
“No?” The amber eyes were like a jungle cat’s. “Then perhaps
you will explain why a man in the K Section of the United States Central
Intelligence Agency honors our disturbed little islands with his presence. You
have a saying, do you not, about fishing in troubled waters?”
Durell started to reply and then someone knocked and he went
to open the door. It was the Malay bellhop With a tray of bourbon and soda and
a bucket of ice. The bellboy pretended Colonel Mayubashur did not exist; he
grinned and bowed to Durell, and departed, round-eyed. Durell poured the
bourbon, which was a good Kentucky vintage, and offered a drink to Mayubashur.
“Thank you, no, Mr. Durell. No alcohol for me.”
“You are a Moslem?”
"Forty percent of Pandakan’s people are Moslem, twelve
percent are Hindu, thirty me Buddhist, six percent Christian. and the rest
devote their prayers to the twin gods of materialism: Marx and Lenin.”
“Nicely put.”
“But an extremely ticklish balance, however nice.”
Colonel Mayubashur had recovered quickly. He put a cigarette
in an ornately carved ivory holder and lit it with a gold Zippo and regarded
Durell with cool, amused eyes. Durell liked the irony he saw, and felt a
rapport he could understand and appreciate. Mayubashur spoke in quiet, perfect
English.
“Will you explain your presence here, Mr. Durell? You are
not a tourist, come to admire the exquisite Javanese silver filigree work
of our Snake Temple. I should not like to arrest you."
“I would not advise it,” Durell said. “I can assure you I’m
not a political agitator and have no interest in the outcome of your plebiscite
next week."
The colonel’s almond eyes were not amused. “Then why have
search planes from the famous U.S. Seventh Fleet been seen flying at
extraordinarily low levels recently, over the Borneo coast and our little
islands?”
“I can’t say.”
Mayubashur sighed and sat down, crossing elegantly booted
legs. The boots were English. “I do not object to cooperation with America.
Since the Sultan’s assassination, I am thrust into a position of power I do not
enjoy. The days ahead are dangerous, filled with stubborn nationalism, a
threat of internal revolt, and a shaky political leadership based on a bumbling
and mismanaged bureaucracy left to us by the departed Sultan of Pandakan. If
your visit is innocent, Mr. Durell, I trust you will enlist my services. I
could be useful to you, if you wish.”
“You might, at that.”
“Let us see. You arrive with Miss Panapura, in her private
plane. She is a remarkable young lady of extraordinary talents. She has flown
off to see her beloved grandfather, who is ailing since his schoonerman, Simon,
was put on the critical list over there.” The colonel nodded across the padang to the
hospital flanked by crowded sidewalk cafes. The late sunlight struck slantwise
into the square, and traffic had slowed a bit, though there was still a
steady stream of trishaws and bicycles and buses, with here and there a
European car nosing around
tape recorder that was turning slowly with a two-hour reel on it, connected by
wires to the microphone bugs in Durell’s room.
He snapped off the tape recorder before he spoke, and the
colonel’s yellowish eyes followed him and he gave a short, choppy nod of his
cropped bullet head and spoke uncomfortably. “Perfectly correct. I apologize,
Mr. Durell.”
“You surprised rne , and you have
my apologies, too, Colonel Mayubashur."
“You know me? I am head of the local police.”
“Ruler pro tern of these islands, too, I understand.” Durell
smiled. “Do you personally bug every visitor’s room, sir?"
“You are not an ordinary visitor, Mr. Durell. We are not
stupid or ignorant, sir. Surely you must realize from your briefing that
the political climate here is most explosive, and any outside interference is
most unwelcome.”
“I am not here to interfere.”
“No?” The amber eyes were like a jungle cat’s. “Then perhaps
you will explain why a man in the K Section of the United States Central
Intelligence Agency honors our disturbed little islands with his presence. You
have a saying, do you not, about fishing in troubled waters?”
Durell started to reply and then someone knocked and he went
to open the door. It was the Malay bellhop With a tray of bourbon and soda and
a bucket of ice. The bellboy pretended Colonel Mayubashur did not exist; he
grinned and bowed to Durell, and departed, round-eyed. Durell poured the
bourbon, which was a good Kentucky vintage, and offered a drink to Mayubashur.
“Thank you, no, Mr. Durell. No alcohol for me.”
“You are a Moslem?”
"Forty percent of Pandakan’s people are Moslem, twelve
percent are Hindu, thirty me Buddhist, six percent Christian. and the rest
devote their prayers to the twin gods of materialism: Marx and Lenin.”
“Nicely put.”
“But an extremely ticklish balance, however nice.”
Colonel Mayubashur had recovered quickly. He put a cigarette
in an ornately carved ivory holder and lit it with a gold Zippo and regarded
Durell with cool, amused eyes. Durell liked the irony he saw, and felt a
rapport he could understand and appreciate. Mayubashur spoke in quiet, perfect
English.
“Will you explain your presence here, Mr. Durell? You are
not a tourist, come to admire the exquisite Javanese silver filigree work
of our Snake Temple. I should not like to arrest you."
“I would not advise it,” Durell said. “I can assure you I’m
not a political agitator and have no interest in the outcome of your plebiscite
next week."
The colonel’s almond eyes were not amused. “Then why have
search planes from the famous U.S. Seventh Fleet been seen flying at
extraordinarily low levels recently, over the Borneo coast and our little
islands?”
“I can’t say.”
Mayubashur sighed and sat down, crossing elegantly booted
legs. The boots were English. “I do not object to cooperation with America.
Since the Sultan’s assassination, I am thrust into a position of power I do not
enjoy. The days ahead are dangerous, filled with stubborn nationalism, a
threat of internal revolt, and a shaky political leadership based on a bumbling
and mismanaged bureaucracy left to us by the departed Sultan of Pandakan. If
your visit is innocent, Mr. Durell, I trust you will enlist my services. I
could be useful to you, if you wish.”
“You might, at that.”
“Let us see. You arrive with Miss Panapura, in her private
plane. She is a remarkable young lady of extraordinary talents. She has flown
off to see her beloved grandfather, who is ailing since his schoonerman, Simon,
was put on the critical list over there.” The colonel nodded across the padang to the
hospital flanked by crowded sidewalk cafes. The late sunlight struck slantwise
into the square, and traffic had slowed a bit, though there was still a
steady stream of trishaws and bicycles and buses, with here and there a
European car nosing around
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