JACK HIGGINS

THE IRON TIGER

Contents

Title Page Publisher’s Note Dedication Foreword Chapter One: The Place Of Silence Chapter Two: House Of Pleasure Chapter Three: The Nightwalkers Chapter Four: The Last Place God Made Chapter Five: Dinner At The Palace Chapter Six: Action By Night Chapter Seven: Edge Of The Sword Chapter Eight: Forced March Chapter Nine: Council Of War Chapter Ten: Nightwatch Chapter Eleven: The Bridge At Sokim Chapter Twelve: The Long Night Chapter Thirteen: The Mountain Of God Chapter Fourteen: The Last Round About the Author Also By Jack Higgins Copyright About the Publisher

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

THE IRON TIGER was first published in the UK by John Long in 1966, then later by Signet books, but has been out of print for some years.

In 2008, it seemed to the author and his publishers that it was a pity to leave such a good story languishing on his shelves. So we are delighted to be able to bring back THE IRON TIGER for the pleasure of the vast majority of us who never had a chance to read the earlier editions.

For Brenda Godfrey who likes a good story

Foreword

India has always fascinated me, although I had not visited the country when I wrote The Iron Tiger. I have since, of course, and was delighted to find that, thanks to careful research, I had got it right. The period during which I wrote the book, the early sixties, was one in which the Chinese occupying power treated the Tibetan people with great brutality and many thousands of those unfortunates died. The Chinese invasion of India hardly made them popular in that country and, because of this, The Iron Tiger was a great success with Indian people. However, a strange thing happened. It made me, as the author, highly popular for a while as for some reason people believed that I had simply fictionalised a true story about myself and that the events of the book had actually taken place.

Jack Higgins July 1996

1

The Place of Silence

Beyond the mountains, the sky was sapphire and blue, a golden glow spreading across the ice caps as the sun slowly lifted. Below, the valleys lay dark and quiet, the only sound the tiny, insignificant drone of the Beaver’s engine as it followed the maze through to Tibet.

Jack Drummond was tired and a slight dull ache behind his right eye nagged constantly. Too many late nights, too much whisky and he was getting old. Too old to be dicing in the worst flying area in the world at sixteen thousand feet in a non-pressurised cabin.

He turned to Cheung and grinned. ‘There’s coffee in a black flask under your seat. I could do with some.’

His companion was Chinese, but it was obvious that he had European blood. The eyes were startlingly blue in the bronzed, healthy face and his mouth lifted slightly in a quirk of ironic good humour.

He wore a heavy sheepskin coat and an astrakhan cap and shivered as he opened the vacuum flask and poured coffee into a plastic cup.

‘Is it always as cold as this?’

Drummond nodded. ‘The wind comes all the way from Mongolia. There have been times when it’s stripped pieces off the fuselage.’

Cheung peered down into the jagged valley below. ‘What would happen if the engine stopped?’

Drummond laughed harshly. ‘You’re joking, of course.’

Cheung sighed. ‘It becomes clearer minute-by-minute that you have been earning your money during the past six months.’

‘And perhaps a little more?’

The Chinese smiled amiably. ‘My dear Jack, in Formosa, we subsist almost entirely on the goodwill of our American friends. If it wasn’t for their generosity, we couldn’t even afford such minor gestures as this Tibetan venture.’

Drummond shrugged. ‘It doesn’t worry me. A couple more trips and I’m through. I’ve done this run too often. I’m on borrowed time.’

Cheung frowned. ‘But Jack, there is no one else. What will we do?’

‘There’s always someone else,’ Drummond said. ‘You’ll find him in one bar or another in Calcutta. Plenty of ex-R.A.F. types who can’t settle down or the other kind who’ve lost their licences to fly commercially. They’ll go anywhere if the money’s right.’

They moved on through a landscape so barren that it might have been the moon, great snow-covered peaks towering on either side. Drummond handling the plane with the skill of genius. Once they dropped sickeningly in an air pocket, and on another occasion flew along a canyon so narrow that the wingtips seemed to brush the rock face. Finally, they lifted across a snow-covered ridge and plunged into space.

Beneath them an enormous valley dropped ten thousand feet, black with depth, purple and gold, great shimmering banks of cloud strung across it in broken strands. Perhaps seven or eight miles away on the other side was the last frozen barrier between Balpur and Tibet.

The sound of the engine suddenly seemed strangely muted and Cheung sighed through the uncanny quiet. ‘The most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.’

‘The Place of Silence, that’s what they call it,’ Drummond told him. ‘Used to take two days to get across on foot when caravans were still coming through.’

The Beaver seemed to glide on through the enormous blue vault, drifting through the shadows, and then they burst out into golden sunlight and the final barrier rose before them.

Drummond eased back the stick and the Beaver lifted, the sound of the engine deepening into a full-throated roar and a deep valley appeared between the peaks.

‘Sangong Pass,’ he called above the roar of the engine.

They swept into the pass, a brilliant red and gold leaf, bright against the dark walls, and the frozen earth rose to meet them. Drummond gave the Beaver full power and pulled the stick right into the pit of his stomach.

Cheung held his breath, waiting for the crash as they rushed to meet the skyline, wheels no more than ten feet above the boulder-strewn ground and then they were over the hump and flashing across a great, cold glacier.

Rolling steppes, golden in the morning sun, stretched to the horizon and Drummond grinned. ‘Now you know why I charge two thousand a trip.’

Cheung wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of a gloved hand and managed a weak smile. ‘I’m beginning to get the point. How much further?’

‘Ten or twelve miles, that’s all. Better get ready.’

The Chinese reached behind his seat for a sub-machine gun, cocked it and held it across his knees. As the Beaver descended, he could see a narrow river, brawling across a mass of tumbled boulders, widening into a shallow lake. A hundred yards to the left, sheltered against a rock escarpment, was a ruined monastery, a scattering of houses at its feet.

Drummond pointed to a wide sand flat at the far end of the lake. ‘That’s where we land if we get the signal.’

‘And if not?’

‘We get the hell out of here.’

He circled, coming in low across the lake, and Cheung pointed excitedly. ‘There are people down there, standing in the shallows.’

‘Women doing the washing,’ Drummond said and swung in across the village, turning away from the escarpment and the fire-blackened ruins of the monastery.

‘What happened there?’ Cheung demanded.

‘It was a headquarters for local resistance back in 1950 when the Chinese Reds first invaded Tibet. There was a siege for a couple of days, but it didn’t last long. They brought up a couple of field guns and blew the necessary holes through the walls.’

‘Then what?’

Drummond shrugged. ‘They saved everything worth having, then burnt the place to the ground and executed a couple of hundred monks.’

‘To encourage the others?’

Drummond nodded and took the Beaver round to the other side of the lake in a graceful curve. ‘Not that it’s done them much good. In areas like this, they only control the towns.’

He took the Beaver down towards the village again and Cheung touched his arm quickly. ‘Is that the signal?’

Three flares, spaced out in a crude triangle, started to burn furiously, plumes of white smoke lifting into the cold air and Drummond nodded.

He throttled back, turned the Beaver into the wind, dropped it neatly down on the firm, sandy shore of the lake and taxied along to the far end.

The women washing clothing in the shallows a few yards away, moved up on the shore, their long woollen shubas tucked into their belts and stood in a tight little group, watching the plane.

Cheung reached for the door handle and Drummond shook his head. ‘Not yet. We’ve got to be sure.’

At that moment, a horseman galloped over the crest of the slope above them and plunged down towards the plane. Drummond switched off the engine and grinned in the sudden silence.

‘There’s our man.’

As he opened the door and jumped to the ground, the rider reined in his small Tibetan horse, dismounted and strode towards them. He was tall and muscular with a deeply-tanned face and high Mongolian cheekbones. He wore a long, wide-sleeved robe and sheepskin shuba which left his chest bare, and knee-length boots of untanned hide. His hair was coiled into plaits and he wore a sheepskin hat.

‘His English isn’t much good,’ Drummond said to Cheung as the Tibetan approached. ‘We’ll use Chinese and for God’s sake treat him with respect. He’s a nobleman. They can be touchy about things like that.’

The Tibetan grinned and held out his hand, and behind him another dozen men rode down to the shore. ‘It is good to see you again, my friend. You have more guns for us?’

Drummond nodded as he shook hands. ‘Your men can unload them as soon as they like. I don’t want to hang around here for any longer than I have to.’

The Tibetan shouted an order and he and Drummond and Cheung moved out of the way. ‘Moro, this is Mr Cheung,’ Drummond said. ‘He’s the Balpur representative of the Chinese National Government, the people who’ve been supplying the guns and ammunition I’ve been flying in to you during the past six months.’

Moro took Cheung’s hand warmly. ‘Before the Lord Buddha brought the way of peace to this land, the Tibetans were warriors. Your guns have helped us prove to the Communists that we can be warriors again. You will take tea with me before you leave?’

Cheung turned to Drummond. ‘Have we time?’

‘I don’t see why not.’ Drummond offered the Tibetan a cigarette. ‘Any Reds in the area recently?’

‘One patrol,’ Moro said. ‘Fifteen men. They turned up a week ago.’

‘What happened?’

The Tibetan grinned. ‘You’ll see when we reach the village.’

They went over the escarpment and walked towards the houses, the Tibetan with the bridle of his horse looped over one arm.

‘Mr Cheung has to make a special report to his government in Formosa about the state of things here,’ Drummond said. ‘He thought he’d like to see for himself.’

‘How strong are the Reds in this area?’ Cheung asked.

‘Their nearest real strength is at a town called Juhma about a hundred miles from here,’ Moro said. ‘Half a regiment of infantry. No more than four hundred men. At larger villages like Hurok which is thirty miles east across the plain, they keep a cavalry troop. Between the villages they are as nothing.’

‘There have been no large scale troop movements, no road building in this area of the border at all?’

‘Not here, but further east towards the Aksai Chin and the Ladakh where they fought the Indians in 1962, they have built many roads.’ The Tibetan looked surprised. ‘Why would they need roads here?’

‘They have claimed Balpur,’ Cheung said simply.

Moro laughed, showing strong white teeth. ‘They have claimed the whole world, is this not so?’

‘They came to the outskirts of the village, a small, mean place, single-storey houses of mud and wattle strung along either side of the single street.

Several children ran forward excitedly and followed them, keeping a respectful distance from Moro who occasionally flicked out with the plaited leather whip that hung from his left wrist as someone moved too close.

They came to a house near the centre of the village that seemed larger than the others and he opened the heavy wooden door and led the way in.

There were no windows and in the half-darkness Drummond was aware of the mud walls, the sheepskins on the floor. On a stone hearth in the centre, a fire of yak dung burned brightly and an old Tibetan woman was crumbling brick tea into a cauldron of boiling water. She added butter and a pinch of salt and the men squatted on a sheepskin beside the fire.

They waited in silence for the tea as ritual demanded. The old woman filled three metal cups and gave them one each. Moro took a sip, nodded in approval and they drank.

It was, as always, curiously refreshing and Drummond held out his cup for more. ‘How are things going generally?’

Moro shrugged. ‘They will not be beaten here, we cannot hope to accomplish so much, but we can keep them occupied, make life difficult.’

‘What about arms?’ Cheung said. ‘You need more?’

‘Always more. We can’t fight them with broadsword and musket.’

‘You were going to tell us about the patrol,’ Drummond reminded him.

Moro nodded and got to his feet. ‘I was forgetting. If you have finished your tea, I will show you now.’

They moved into the street, blinking in the bright, clear morning sunlight and the Tibetan led the way through the crumbling houses, the small tail of children keeping pace with them.

The great wooden gates in the outer wall of the monastery swung crazily from their hinges, half-burnt away and blackened by fire.

They crossed the courtyard beyond, still followed by the children, and mounted the broad steps to the ruin of what had once been one of the most famous seats of learning in Western Tibet.

The doors had disappeared, splintered into matchwood by high explosive shells, and inside bright sunlight streamed down through holes in the roof.

‘There was a library here,’ Drummond told Cheung. ‘It held more than fifteen thousand books and manuscripts, most of them over a thousand years old. The Chinese burned the lot quite deliberately.’

Beyond, in the shadows, something stirred and a kite rose lazily into the air, great ragged black wings brushing the roof beams and Drummond was aware of Cheung’s breath hissing between his teeth sharply.

Disturbed by the bird’s passage, something was swinging to and fro, half-in, half-out of the bright shafts of sunlight cutting down through the darkness.

Drummond moved a little closer. It was a Chinese soldier, swinging by a rope from one of the charred beams, tongue protruding obscenely from the black, swollen face. Where the eyes had been, were only empty, ragged sockets and one ear had been torn off.

As his eyes became accustomed to the half-light, he saw the others, each hanging from a beam, staring blindly into eternity.

‘We were away when they arrived,’ Moro said simply. ‘When we returned, the fools were so busy ravishing the women, they had not even thought to post a guard.’

One of the children ran forward with a harsh laugh and grabbed the nearest corpse by the legs, swinging it from side to side furiously and the other children followed suit, running through the shadows, dodging the swinging bodies, helpless with laughter.

Drummond turned and moved into the sunlight again, his mouth dry. ‘I think we should be making a move.’

Mr Cheung didn’t speak. His face was strangely pale and there was shock and pain in his eyes as they returned to the village. Moro whistled for his horse, caught the bridle and led the way back to the lake.

‘What did you bring this time?’ he asked Drummond.

‘Automatic rifles, sub-machine guns and ten thousand rounds of ammunition.’

The Tibetan nodded. ‘Good, but we could do with some explosive next time.’

Drummond glanced at Cheung enquiringly. ‘Can you manage that?’

The Chinese nodded. ‘I think so. Would a fortnight today be too soon?’

‘Not for me,’ Drummond said. ‘Two more trips and I’m finished. The sooner I get them done, the better I’ll like it.’

‘A fortnight, then,’ Moro said and they went over the escarpment and down to the shore beside the lake.

His men had unloaded the plane and already several packhorses were on their way to the village. Drummond gave him a final cigarette, climbed in and strapped himself into his seat. As the engine roared into life, Mr Cheung turned and held out his hand.

‘We are united in the same struggle,’ he said and climbed into the plane.

As he closed the door and fastened his seat belt, the Beaver turned into the wind and started to taxi along the shore, sand whipped up by the propeller rattled against the windows. A moment later, the bluff at the far end of the lake was rushing to meet them and they were rising into the air.

Drummond circled once and Moro, already back in the saddle, waved, turned his horse and galloped back towards the village.

Drummond checked his instruments and started to gain altitude. ‘Well, what did you think?’

‘Words fail me.’

‘I thought they would.’

Cheung lit a cigarette and sighed heavily. ‘To you, it is nothing. Jack. Dangerous, unpleasant, yes, but something you are mixed up in for one reason only – money.’

‘And to you it’s a holy war,’ Drummond said. ‘I know, only don’t start trying to get me to join the crusade. I had a bellyful of that kind of thing in Korea. Enough to last a lifetime.’

‘All right,’ Cheung said wearily. ‘What about these explosives Moro wants on the next trip? If I have them delivered to the railhead at Juma by next weekend can you pick them up?’

‘I’m flying down tomorrow with Major Hamid,’ Drummond said. ‘He’s taking a week’s leave. He thought he might enjoy it more if I went along. Why don’t you join us?’

Cheung shook his head. ‘I’d like to, but I’ve been getting behind with the paperwork and I’m supposed to be dining with the old Khan on Saturday night.’

‘Suit yourself,’ Drummond said.

Another two thousand. That brought the total standing to his credit in the Bank of Geneva to £23,000. Two more trips plus the money Ferguson owed him and he’d have a straight £30,000. After that, he was finished. Time he had a rest. He leaned back in the seat, humming to himself and concentrated on his instruments as he took the Beaver slanting across the glacier and into the pass.

Moro galloped alongside the packhorses, whistling, slashing their bony rumps with the heavy leather riding whip. He urged his mount forward and entered the village first, clattering over the loose stones and dismounted outside his house.

The children had disappeared and the street was quite deserted as he stood there listening to the sound of the Beaver in the distance, drawing happily on the English cigarette Drummond had given him.

Doors opened in the houses along the street and one by one soldiers emerged in peaked caps and drab quilted jackets. As Moro turned, the door to his house opened and a young officer emerged. He wore a beautifully tailored riding coat with fur collar and the red star of the Army of the People’s Republic gleamed brightly in his cap.

‘I did well?’ Moro said.

The young officer took the English cigarette from the Tibetan’s lips and inhaled deeply. A sunny smile appeared on his face.

‘Excellent. Really quite excellent.’

Moro nodded, the eager smile still firmly in place and together they stood there, listening to the sound of the Beaver fade into the pass.

2

House of Pleasure

Drummond emerged from the hot room, dropped his towel on the tiled floor and dived into the plunge bath, swimming down to touch the brightly coloured mosaic face of Kali, the Great Mother, staring blindly into eternity through the green water as she had done for a thousand years.

He surfaced and one of the house girls moved out of the steam and squatted at the side of the ancient bath, holding a tray containing a slender coffee pot and tiny cups. Drummond swam towards her and she handed him down a cup as he floated there in the water.

She was like all the rest of them, startlingly beautiful, with delicate features and great kohl-rimmed eyes. Her green silken sari was saturated with steam, outlining to perfection the firm body, the curving breasts.

As Drummond sipped his coffee, he heard a harsh laugh somewhere near at hand and Hamid’s great voice boomed between the walls. He was singing the first stanza of Zukhmee-Dil, a ballad immensely popular on the North-West Frontier, at one time the favourite march of the Khyber Rifles.

Wullud sureen shuftauloo-maunind duryah,

Ufsose! mun n’shinnah.

Drummond handed his cup back to the

girl and threw the song back at the Pathan,

translating into English.

There’s a boy across the river with a

bottom like a peach, but, alas, I cannot

swim.

Hamid bellowed with laughter as he moved out of the steam, a towel about his waist. He was a Pathan of the Hazara tribe, dark-skinned, bearded. A handsome buccaneer of a man of six feet three with broad muscular shoulders.

He smiled hugely. ‘Feeling better, Jack, headache gone?’

‘Ready for anything,’ Drummond replied.

‘Me, too.’ The Pathan ran his fingers through the long hair of the girl who still squatted at the side of the bath. ‘A good song, that, but where love’s concerned, I’m the old-fashioned kind.’

He pulled the girl to her feet and the damp sari parted exposing her left breast. ‘Now there’s a thing.’ He swung her up into his arms and grinned down at Drummond. ‘See you later.’

Drummond swam lazily across to the other side of the bath and back again. He repeated the process twice and then hauled himself out over the stone edge, smoothed by time. He picked up his towel, wrapped it around his waist and padded across the warm tiles.

The next room was long and narrow with a vaulted roof and lined with cubicles, some with curtains drawn. From one he heard Hamid’s deep chuckle followed by the lighter laughter of the girl and smiled to himself.

He went into the end cubicle, pulled the bell cord in the corner, climbed on to the stone massage slab and waited. After a while, the curtain was drawn and Ram Singh, the proprietor, entered followed by several bearers carrying buckets of hot and cold water.

The Hindu smiled. ‘All is in order, Mr Drummond?’

‘You’ve made a new man of me,’ Drummond said. ‘We could do with you in Sadar.’

The Hindu rolled his eyes to heaven in simulated horror. ‘The end of the world, Mr Drummond. The end of the world. I will send Raika.’

He withdrew and Drummond lay there staring up at the ceiling. The end of the world. Well, that wasn’t far off as a description of Sadar. A capital city with a population of three thousand, which gave some idea of the size of Balpur itself. A barren, ugly land, harsh and cruel as its inhabitants. The last place God made. Well, not for much longer, Praise be to Allah.

The curtain rustled and when he turned his head, Raika had entered. She was strikingly beautiful and wore a ruby in one nostril and great silver ear-rings with little bells on the end that tinkled when she moved her head.

Her sari was of blue silk threaded with gold and outlined every curve of her graceful body. Drummond nodded, and without speaking she started to work.

First came the hot rinse, water so scalding that he had to stifle the cry of pain that rose in his throat. She worked on his limbs to start with, first with the brushes and then with practised hands, loosening taut muscles, relaxing him so completely that he seemed to be floating, suspended in mid-air.

And as always, he was amazed at the matter-of-factness of it all, the lack of overt sensuality. But then this was India where life and death, love and the flesh, were all a part of one great mystery.

She sluiced him down again with another bucket of hot water that was followed immediately by one so cold it drew the breath from his body. He gasped and there was a glint of laughter in her eyes, barely contained, so that at once she became real, a creature of flesh and blood.

She leaned over him, the damp sari gaping to the waist and Drummond cupped a hand over one sharply pointed breast. She went very still and stayed there in that position, leaning across him, her hand still reaching for the brush.

Drummond stared up at her, the nipple hardening against his palm and something stirred in her eyes. Her head came down slowly, the mouth slightly parted, and as he slid his free hand up around her neck, there was a discreet cough at the entrance.

Raika stood back at once completely unconcerned, and Drummond sat up. Ram Singh peered through the curtain, an anxious frown on his face.

‘So sorry, Mr Drummond, but there is a person to see you.’

Drummond frowned. ‘A person?’

‘A Miss Janet Tate.’ Ram Singh laughed nervously. ‘An American lady.’

‘In this place?’

Hamid appeared at the Hindu’s shoulder, a cigarette in his mouth. ‘A day for surprises, Jack. Any idea who she is?’

‘There’s one way of finding out.’

Drummond tightened the towel around his waist, left the cubicle and went into the next room. It was beautifully furnished with heavy carpets, low divans and round brass coffee tables at which several clients were relaxing after the rigours of the bath.

He crossed the room followed by Hamid and the Hindu, knelt on a divan and peered through the latticed partition of wrought iron into Ram Singh’s office.

Janet Tate stood at the desk, examining a figurine of a dancer. She put it down, turned and looked around her with interest, moving very slowly across the floor, incredibly lovely in the yellow dress, the long, shoulder-length black hair framing her calm face.

Hamid sighed softly. ‘A houri from Paradise itself, sent to delight us.’

Drummond straightened, a frown on his face. ‘Get me a robe, will you?’

The Hindu was back in a moment and helped him into it. ‘Aren’t you going to dress first?’ Hamid said.

Drummond grinned. ‘My curiosity won’t allow me to wait that long.’

When he opened the door and stepped into the office, Janet Tate was examining a tapestry hanging on one wall. She turned quickly and stood quite still.

The man who faced her was about forty, the crisp black hair already greying a little at the temples. He was perhaps six feet in height, well built with good, capable hands. She noticed them particularly as he fastened the belt of his robe.

But it was the face that interested her, the slight ironic quirk to the mouth of someone who laughed at himself and other people too much; the strong, well-defined bones of the Gael. Not handsome, the ugly, puckered scar running from the right eye to the corner of the mouth had taken care of that, but the eyes were like smoke slanting across a hillside on a winter’s day and she was aware of a strange, inexplicable hollowness inside her.

‘Mr Drummond? I’m Janet Tate.’

She didn’t hold out her hand. It was as if she was afraid to touch him, afraid of some elemental contact which, at this first moment, she might be unable to control.

And then he smiled, a smile of such devastating charm that the heart turned over inside her. He shook his head slowly. ‘You shouldn’t have come here, Miss Tate. It’s no place for a woman.’

‘That’s what the man at the hotel told me,’ she said. ‘But they have girls here. I saw two as I came in.’

And then she realised and her eyes widened. Drummond helped himself to a cigarette from a sandalwood box on the desk. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’m trying to get to Sadar. I believe you might be able to help.’

He frowned his surprise. ‘Why on earth do you want to go to Sadar?’

‘I’m a nurse,’ she said. ‘I’ve been sent here by the Society of Friends to escort the Khan of Balpur’s young son to our Chicago hospital. He’s to undergo serious eye surgery there.’

And then Drummond remembered. Father Kerrigan had told him about it before leaving. But the old priest had said they were expecting a doctor.

‘So you’re a Quaker.’

‘That’s right,’ she said calmly.

‘First visit to India.’

She nodded. ‘I’ve just finished a two-year tour of service in Vietnam. I was on my way home on leave anyway, so the Society asked me to make a detour.’

‘Some detour.’

‘You can take me?’

Drummond nodded. ‘No difficulty there. I fly a Beaver, there’s plenty of room. Just one other passenger – Major Hamid, Indian Army adviser in Balpur, not that they have much of an army for him to advise. We’ll take off about four-thirty, make an over-night stop at Juma and fly on through the mountains to Sadar in the morning. Much safer that way.’ He crushed his cigarette into the Benares ashtray. ‘If you’ll hang on, I’ll go and dress.’

He started for the door and she said quickly, ‘I was forgetting, I have a message for you from a Mr Ferguson.’

When he turned, it was the face of a different man, cold, hard, wiped clean of all expression, the eyes like slate.

‘Ferguson? Where did you meet Ferguson?’

‘On the train from Calcutta. He was very kind to me. He wants you to call on him at the usual place before you leave.’ She smiled brightly. ‘It all sounds very mysterious.’

An invisible hand seemed to pass across his face and he smiled again. ‘A great one for a joke, old Ferguson. I shan’t be long.’

He left her there and hurried through the other room to the changing cubicles where he dressed quickly in a cream nylon shirt, knitted tie and single-breasted blue suit of tropical worsted.

When he returned to the office, Hamid was sitting on the edge of the desk, Janet in the chair beside him looking up, a smile on her face.

Drummond was aware of a strange, irrational jealousy as he moved forward. ‘I see Ali’s managed to make his own introductions, as usual.’

‘If I must be formally introduced, then I must.’ Hamid grinned down at Janet. ‘Jack was at one time a Commander in the Navy. He’s never got over it. They’re very correct, you know.’

He jumped to his feet and stood there waiting for Drummond to speak, a handsome, challenging figure in his military turban and expertly tailored khaki drill uniform, the medal ribbons a bright splash of colour above his left breast pocket.

Drummond sighed. ‘Trapped, as usual. Miss Janet Tate, may I present Major Ali Mohammed Hamid, D.S.O., a British decoration, you’ll notice. Winchester, one of our better public schools, and Sandhurst. Rather more class than West Point, don’t you think?’

Hamid took her left hand and raised it to his lips gallantly. ‘See how the British have left their brand on us, clear to the bone, Miss Tate?’

‘Don’t look at me,’ Drummond said. ‘I’m a Scot.’

‘The same thing,’ Hamid said airily. ‘Everyone knows it’s the Scots who rule Britain.’

He gave his arm to Janet and they moved out into the bright, hot sunshine. Across the square, there was a low wall and beyond it, the river, usually two miles wide at this point, but as always when winter approached, narrowing to half a mile or less, winding its way through endless sandbanks.

‘Is this still the Ganges?’ Janet asked.

‘Ganges, Light amid the Darkness, Friend of the Helpless. It has a thousand names,’ Hamid said as they strolled towards the low wall. ‘To bathe in her waters is to be purified of all sin, or so the Hindus believe.’

Janet leaned on the wall and looked down the cobbled bank into the in-shore channel at the brown, silt-laden water. ‘It looks pretty unhealthy to me.’

Drummond lit a cigarette and leaned beside her. ‘Strangely enough, it does seem to have health-giving properties. During religious festivals pilgrims drink it, often at places where the drains disgorge the filth of the town, but they never seem to suffer. Bottled, it keeps for a year. They say that in the old days when taken on board clipper ships in Calcutta, it outlasted all other waters.’

Down below at the river edge some kind of ceremony was taking place and she glanced up at Hamid. ‘Can we go down?’

‘But of course. Anything you wish.’

‘Not me,’ Drummond said. ‘If I’m going to see Ferguson before we leave, I’d better be moving.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s almost two o’clock now. I’ll see you back at the hotel at four.’

He moved away across the square quickly and Janet watched him go, a slight frown on her face. ‘I believe Mr Ferguson said he was in the tea business.’

‘That’s right,’ Hamid said. ‘Jack has an air freight contract with him. Ferguson usually comes up to see him once a month. He has a houseboat lower down the river from here.’

‘You said Mr Drummond was once a naval commander?’

‘Fleet Air Arm.’

‘He was a regular officer, then? He would have been too young to have been a full commander during the war.’

‘Quite right.’ The Pathan still smiled, but there was a slight, cutting edge to his voice, a look in the eye that warned her to go no further. ‘Shall we go down?’

They stood on the edge of a small crowd and watched the ceremony that was taking place. Several people stood knee-deep in the water, the men amongst them stripped to the waist and daubed with mud. One of them poured ashes from a muslin bag into a larger paper boat. Another put a match to it and pushed the frail craft away from the bank, out into the channel where the current caught it. Suddenly, the whole boat burst into flames, and a moment later sank beneath the surface.

‘What were they doing?’ Janet asked.

‘The ashes were those of a baby,’ Hamid said. ‘A man-child because the ceremony is expensive and not worth going through for a girl.’

‘And they do this all the time?’

He nodded. ‘It is every Hindu’s greatest dream to have his ashes scattered on the waters of Ganges. Near here there is a shamsan, a burning place for the dead. Would you like to see it?’

‘Do you think I can stand it?’

He smiled down at her. ‘Two years in Vietnam, you said. If you can take that, you can take anything.’

‘I’m not so sure.’ She shook her head. ‘India’s different, like no other place on earth. Ferguson told me that and he was right.’

As they moved along the shore, she could smell woodsmoke, and up ahead there was a bullock cart, three or four people standing beside it.

As they approached, she gave a sudden gasp and moved closer to Hamid. A naked man was lying on a bed of thorns, eyes closed, his tongue protruding, an iron spike pushed through it. His hair and beard were matted and filthy, his body daubed with cowdung and ashes.

‘A saddhu, a holy man,’ Hamid said, throwing a coin into an earthenware jar that stood at the man’s head. ‘He begs from the mourners and prays for the souls of the dead.’

There was nothing to distinguish the place from any other stretch of the shore, no temples, no monuments. Only the ashes of old fires, the piles of calcined bones and here and there a skull, glaring blindly up at the sky.

The people by the fire laughed and joked with each other and as the flames roared through the criss-crossed logs of the funeral pyre in a sudden gust of wind, she caught the sweetly-sick, distinctive stench of burning flesh and her throat went dry, panic threatening to choke her.

She turned, stumbling against Hamid, and beyond him in the water something turned over in the shallows, a rotting body, arms trailing, a grey headed gull swooping down, beak poised to strike.

There was immediate concern on his face, and unconsciously he used her first name. ‘Janet, what is it?’

‘The smell,’ she said. ‘Burning flesh. I was in a village called Nonking north of Saigon last year. The Viet Cong made one of their night raids and set fire to the hospital.’ She stared back into the past, horror on her face. ‘The patients, we could only get half of them out. There are nights when I can still hear the screams.’

She was aware of his hand under her arm and they were climbing rapidly up the bank, across a narrow stone causeway. Suddenly, they moved into a different world, a place of colour and light, scarlet hibiscus and graceful palms.

They walked through trees along a narrow path and emerged on to a stone, loopholed terrace high above the river, a couple of ancient iron cannon still at their stations as they had been for three hundred years.

Hamid pushed her gently forward. ‘And behold, said the genie …’

She gave an excited gasp and leaned across the wall. Between the sandbanks, hundreds of flamingoes paced through the shallows, setting the very air alight with the glory of their plumage. Hamid picked up a stone and tossed it down, and immediately the sky was filled with the heavy, pulsating beat of their wings as they lifted in a shimmering cloud.

He looked down at her gravely. ‘Back there, death, Janet. Here, life in all its magnificence. They are both sides of the same coin. This you must learn.’

She nodded slowly and slipped her hand into his arm. Together, they walked back quietly through the trees without speaking.

Beyond the old quarter of the town, Drummond moved into an area of stately walled villas and beautiful gardens, the homes of rich merchants and government officials. A narrow path, fringed with eucalyptus trees, brought him to the river bank again.

A red houseboat was moored at the end of an old stone wharf about forty yards away and Ferguson’s Sikh bearer squatted on the cabin roof. When he saw Drummond, he scrambled to the deck and disappeared below.

Drummond crossed the narrow gangway and stepped on to the deck which had been scrubbed to a dazzling whiteness. Several cane chairs and a table were grouped under an awning at the stern and as he sat down, the Sikh appeared with a tray containing a bottle of gin, ice-water and glasses. He placed the tray on the table and withdrew without speaking.

Drummond helped himself to a drink and walked to the stern rail, staring out across the river and thinking about Janet Tate, as a boat slipped by, sail bellying in the breeze.

There was a clink of a bottle against glass and when he turned, Ferguson was sitting at the table, pouring himself a drink.

‘You’re looking fit, Jack. Nothing like a steam bath to pull a man round after a hard night.’

‘Hullo, Fergy, you old rogue,’ Drummond said. ‘I got your message. It was delivered in person at Ram Singh’s House of Pleasure by a rather delectable little Quaker girl in a yellow dress.’

‘God in heaven,’ Ferguson said, astonishment on his face. ‘She didn’t, did she?’

‘I’m afraid so.’ Drummond sat down and took a cheroot from an old leather case. ‘Her first visit to India, apparently. She’s a lot to learn.’

‘I found her travelling from Calcutta second class,’ Ferguson said. ‘Can you imagine that? What’s all this about the Khan’s son needing eye surgery?’

‘The boy fell from his horse a month ago and took a nasty knock. The sight started to fail in the right eye, so the old man had me fly a specialist up from Calcutta. He’s got a detached retina and his balance has been affected.’

‘Tricky surgery to put that right.’

‘It seems the big expert’s on the staff of some Quaker foundation hospital in Chicago. Father Kerrigan got in touch with them and they agreed to take the case. Said they’d send a doctor to escort the boy.’

‘Instead, you get Janet Tate.’

‘Who was already in Vietnam and due home on leave, so they saved on the fare.’ Drummond grinned. ‘Never look a gift horse in the mouth, Fergy.’

Ferguson frowned slightly. ‘She’s a nice girl, Jack. A hell of a nice girl. I wouldn’t like to see her get hurt.’

‘So?’ Drummond said coolly.

Ferguson sighed. ‘All right, let it go. What have you got for me this time?’

Drummond took several spools of film from his pocket and pushed them across. ‘That’s the lot. You’ve got the whole Balpur-Tibet border region now.’

‘You’ve finished?’

Drummond nodded. ‘Trip before last. A good job, too. Cheung decided to fly in with me on the last trip, so I couldn’t have set the camera up if I’d wanted to.’

Ferguson smiled and shook his head. ‘Our Nationalist friends are still at it, are they? I wonder what Washington would say if they knew?’

‘I couldn’t care less,’ Drummond said. ‘A couple more trips and I’m through. I’ve told Cheung that already.’

Ferguson applied a match to the bowl of his old briar pipe and coughed as the smoke caught at the back of his throat. ‘How did you find things last trip? Any signs of Chinese activity?’

‘Swinging on the end of a rope,’ Drummond said. ‘Moro and his band dealt with a cavalry patrol in their own inimitable fashion, that’s all.’

‘Nothing else? You’re sure about that?’

Drummond nodded. ‘Moro says that all the activity’s still in the Aksai Chin, Ladakh region. No sign of any large scale interest in the Balpur border area at all.’

‘That’s strange, you know. They’ve claimed it officially and the brutal truth is they’re on pretty firm ground this time, historically speaking.’

‘They can have it, for all I care,’ Drummond said. ‘Another month, and I’m out.’

Ferguson poked a match into the end of his pipe to clear the air hole and said casually, ‘What were you thinking of doing?’

‘Nothing you’d be interested in. I’m finished, Fergy. I’ve had enough. How long have I given you now; four years, five? I’ve played this sort of game on every border from Sarawak to Kashmir. I can’t go on forever. Nobody can.’

‘You’ve done a good job, Jack. I’m not denying that,’ Ferguson said. ‘But you’ve been well paid.’

‘What about last year when the Indonesians shot me down in Borneo?’ Drummond reminded him. ‘They chased me through that jungle for three weeks before I managed to scramble across the border.’ He ran a finger down the ugly scar that stretched from his right eye to the corner of his mouth. ‘I spent a month in hospital and what happened? You paid me the same as always. No more, no less.’

Ferguson sighed, took an envelope from his pocket and pushed it across. ‘Three thousand, deposited as usual with your Geneva bankers. You know how to get in touch with me if you change your mind.’

‘That’ll be the day.’ Drummond opened the envelope, examined the deposit slip, then put it in his wallet. ‘It’s been fun, Fergy.’

He moved along the deck to the gangplank and stepped on to the wharf. ‘One more thing, Jack,’ Ferguson called. ‘Don’t forget who the Beaver belongs to when you’ve finished up there. Government property, you know.’

‘And just how would you like to set about proving that?’ Drummond said and started to laugh as he walked away along the wharf.

3

The Nightwalkers

Janet stepped out of the shower, dried herself quickly and went into the bedroom, the towel wrapped around her slim body. The window to the terrace was open and she stood in the shadows and looked out.

A bank of cloud rolled away from the moon and Juma was bathed in a hard white light, flat-roofed houses straggling down to the river below. The night sky was incredibly beautiful with stars strung away to the horizon where the mountains lifted uneasily to meet them.

It was peaceful and quiet, a dog barking hollowly somewhere in the night. In the streets below, she could see torches flaring and then a drum started to beat monotonously, joined a moment later by some stringed instrument, and the sound of laughter drifted up on the warm air.

There was a discreet tap on the door and she called quickly, ‘Who is it?’

‘Ali – can I speak to you for a moment?’

She pulled on her dressing gown, fastened the cord and opened the door. Hamid came in, resplendent in his best uniform.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Fine. I slept for an hour, then had a shower.’

‘Good.’ He hesitated and then went on apologetically. ‘I’m sorry about this, Janet, but I’m afraid I’d already arranged something for this evening.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘As it is, I’m pressed for time.’

‘A lady?’

‘I hope not,’ he said solemnly.

She chuckled. ‘You’re quite incorrigible. Better not keep her waiting.’

‘Jack went out to the airstrip to check on some cargo we’re taking with us tomorrow. Motor spares, I think. He shouldn’t be more than half an hour.’

She listened to the sound of his footsteps fade along the narrow passage and then closed the door. She stood with her back to it, a slight frown on her face and then walked slowly across to the window.

The drumming was louder now, an insistent throbbing that filled the night and someone was singing in a high, reedy voice, hardly moving from one note to another, monotonous and yet strangely exciting.

She hurried across to the bed, opened her second suitcase and took out a sleeveless black dress in heavy silk that she had purchased in a moment of weakness in Saigon. She held it against herself for a moment in the mirror, and then smiled and started to dress. When she was ready, she pulled on a white linen duster coat against the night air, wound a silk scarf around her head and went downstairs.

The Hindu night clerk dozed at his desk, but came awake at once when she touched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘I want to go to the airstrip. Can you get me a tonga?’

‘Certainly, memsahib. Come this way.’

He took her out through the entrance and down the steps to the street. A light, two-wheeled tonga was parked at the kerb, a magnificent affair, a beautiful, high-stepping horse between the shafts, his brass harness gleaming in the lamplight.

The driver squatted on the pavement, chatting to an old beggar, but he sprang to his feet at once and ran forward. The Hindu desk clerk handed Janet in, gave the man his destination and then moved away.

The sky was scattered with the fire of a million stars, the moon so large that it seemed unreal like a paste-board cut-out. The wind blew in through the darkness carrying the last heat of the day across the river and she breathed deeply, wondering what the night might bring, her body shaking with a strange, nervous excitement.

The airstrip was half a mile outside Juma on a flat plain beside the river. It was not an official stopping place for any of the big airlines and had been constructed by the R.A.F. as an emergency strip during the war.

There was one prefabricated concrete hangar still painted in the camouflage of wartime, and the plane squatted inside, the scarlet and gold of its fuselage gleaming in the light of a hurricane lamp suspended from a beam.

Drummond leaned against a trestle table beside a wall-eyed Bengali merchant named Samil, Cheung’s agent in Juma, and watched two porters load the narrow boxes into the plane.

‘What’s in this one?’ he asked, kicking a wooden crate that carried the neatly stencilled legend Machine Parts, F. Cheung, Esq., Sadar, Sikkim.

Samil produced a bunch of keys, unfastened the padlock which secured the lid of the crate and opened it. He removed a mass of cotton waste and revealed a layer of rifles, each one still coated in grease from the factory.

Drummond took one out. It was a Garrand automatic, a beautiful weapon. He examined it closely and frowned. ‘What about this?’ He indicated the legend, United States Army on the butt plate. ‘A bit stupid, isn’t it? I don’t think our American friends would be amused.’

‘That’s what they sent me this time,’ Samil shrugged. ‘Surplus stock always comes cheaper, you should know that.’

‘Somehow, I don’t think Cheung is going to like it.’ He raised the Garrand, took an imaginary sight out of the door and stiffened suddenly as Janet Tate moved out of the shadows.

‘What in the hell are you doing here?’ he demanded.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her face serious. ‘Hamid’s gone off for the night. Before he left he called and told me you were out here. I thought you might like to take me to dinner or something.’

‘Exactly what I intended to do.’

The two porters had stopped working and glanced at Samil uncertainly. Drummond was still holding the Garrand in both hands, close to his chest and Janet said gravely, ‘Hamid said he thought you were loading motor spares.’

He put the rifle back with the others, wiped his hands clean on a lump of cotton waste and nodded to Samil. ‘You finish up here. Nothing to worry about. I’ll handle it.’

He turned, straightening his tie. ‘How did you get here?’

‘I came in a tonga from the hotel. I told the driver to wait.’

‘Shall we go, then?’

He took her arm, aware of the stiff restraint, the tilt of her chin and knew that in some way he had disappointed her. In the tonga she sat silently in her corner, as far away from him as possible and Drummond chuckled.

‘I’m sorry to spoil the image of the big bad gunrunner for you, but Ali knows damn well what I fly up to Sikkim in boxes labelled Machine Parts.’

She turned quickly in the darkness and he was aware of her perfume, delicate on the cool air.

‘So does everyone else including the Khan himself.’ He groped for her hand in the darkness and held it tight. ‘Look, I’ll tell you about it because it’s coming to an end anyway and because I don’t want my dinner spoiled. I’ve been looking forward to it.’

‘Go on,’ she said.

‘There’s a Chinese gentleman called Cheung up at Sadar. He’s been there for six or seven months now. He’s supposed to be a general merchant, but he happens to be an agent of the Chinese Nationalist Government on Formosa. He supplies the guns and I run them over the border into Tibet.’

‘To help Tibetan guerrilla fighters against the Communist government?’

‘Exactly.’

She reached over and touched his arm, the breath going out of her in a gentle sigh. ‘Oh, Jack. I’m so glad.’

‘Well that’s a hell of a thing for a clean living Quaker girl to say,’ he said. ‘And don’t go putting me on any pedestal. I do it for hard cash, not out of any political idealism.’

‘You don’t think the Tibetans stand any chance of winning then?’

He laughed harshly. ‘Not in a thousand years. Their battle will be won or lost in other places. Vietnam, Malaysia, Sarawak, perhaps on the floor of the United Nations. But to hell with that. Where would you like to eat?’

‘Somewhere full of colour, not just a tourist trap. I want to see the real India.’

‘Good for you. We’ll make a woman of you yet.’

They were moving into the centre of Juma now and he tapped the driver on the shoulder and told him to stop. ‘We’ll walk from here. You want to see the real India, I’ll show it to you.’

He paid the driver, took her arm and they moved along the street. As they neared the centre, it became busier and busier. Vendors of cooked food squatted inside their wooden stalls beside charcoal fires, busy with their pans, the scent of spices and cooked meats pungent on the cooling air.

And then they turned into the old quarter where lamps hung from the houses and the bazaar was even more crowded than during the daylight hours as people walked abroad to savour the cool night air.

The pavements were jammed with wooden stalls, overflowing with masses of paper flowers, shoddy plastic sandals imported from Hong Kong, aluminium pots and pans looking somehow incongruous and out of place.

Craftsmen sat cross-legged in their booths behind the stalls of the brass merchants, still plying their ancient craft next to the silversmiths and the garment-makers where they embroidered dancing girls’ clothes.

There were Bohara carpets, rugs from Isfahan and, at the far end, prostitutes waiting in their booths, unveiled and heavily painted, and even here the curtain of night, the flickering lamps shining on cheap bangles and jewellery, cloaked the filth and disease, the squalor of the daylight hours.

They moved on, Drummond pushing to one side the numerous beggars who whined for alms, and finally turned into a narrow, quiet street leading to the river. Faintly on the night air, Janet could hear music. It grew louder and then they came to a narrow arched door.

‘You wanted India? Well, this is it,’ Drummond said.

They went along a narrow passage and came out on to a small landing at the head of a flight of steps overlooking a large, square room. It was crowded with Indians, mainly men, most of them wearing traditional dress. They were all eating hugely and talking loudly at the same time.

In the centre on a raised platform, a young, womanish tabla player, eyes rimmed with kohl, beat his drums with an insolent skill, looking around at the crowd as he did so, a bored and haughty expression on his face. His companion, an older man in baggy white trousers, three-quarter length black frock coat buttoned to the neck, looked strangely formal and played the zita, his fingers moving across the strings with incredible dexterity.

A small, neat Hindu in scarlet turban, his eyes flickering towards Janet with frank admiration, approached with a ready smile. ‘A table, Mr Drummond? You wish to dine?’

‘A booth, I think,’ Drummond told him.

They threaded their way between the tables, all eyes turning towards Janet and gasps of admiration, even clapping, followed them to their booth.

They sat facing each other across a small brass table, a bead curtain partially obscuring them from the other diners and Drummond ordered.

It was a simple meal, but superbly cooked. Curried chicken so strong that Janet gasped for breath, swallowing great draughts of cold water, thoughtfully provided by the proprietor, to cool her burning mouth. Afterwards, they had green mangoes soaked in syrup, followed by Yemeni mocha, the finest coffee in the world, in tiny, exquisite cups.

‘Satisfied?’ he asked her as he lit a cheroot.

She nodded, her eyes shining. ‘Marvellous, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.’

‘There’s a floor show of sorts,’ he said. ‘Do you want to see it? Not exactly the Copacabana, I warn you.’

There was an unmistakable challenge in his voice and she responded immediately. ‘I’ve never refused a dare since I was old enough to walk.’

‘Suit yourself.’

There was a sudden roll on the drum, the lights dimmed a little and there was silence. There was an atmosphere of expectancy that she could sense at once and then a gentle, universal sigh echoed through the room.

A woman stepped through a curtain at the rear and poised for a moment, a dark silhouette against the light. ‘Saida! Saida!’ the name echoed faintly through the crowd.

‘One of the few great nautch dancers left,’ Drummond whispered to Janet. ‘She’s fifty if she’s a day, but you’d never guess it.’

The right arm extended slowly and a tiny, tinkling cymbal sounded. Immediately the musicians responded on the tabla and zita and Saida started to sway sensuously, moving into the centre of the room.

Her face was heavily painted, a symbolic mask that never changed expression, but the body beneath the swirling, silken veils was that of a young and vibrant girl.

Gradually, the music increased in tempo and she moved in time, swaying from side to side, discarding her veils one by one until she stood before them, naked except for a small, beaded girdle low across her loins.

She stood quite still as the music stopped and the audience waited. The tabla player’s fingers broke into a fast monotonous tattoo and she started to sway, hands above her head, clapping rhythmically, and the audience swayed with her, clapping in time, crying aloud with delight.

Round and round the perimeter of the floor she moved, faster and faster, sweat glistening on her body, until, with a sudden fierce gesture, she ripped the girdle from her loins and flung herself forward on her knees, sliding to a halt in front of a large, richly dressed merchant who squatted on cushions before a low table with two companions.

There was another abrupt silence and then the drum sounded again, slower this time, the beat becoming more insistent each moment as she writhed sinuously, thrusting her pointed breasts at him, twisting effortlessly from knees to buttocks, sliding away from his grasping hands, sharp cries rising from the crowd.

And then he had her, fingers hooking into her buttocks. As the crowd roared its approval, the drum stopped. She twisted from his grasp, her oiled body slipping between his hands, ran across the floor and melted through the curtain.

The musicians started to play again on a more muted key and the audience returned to their food, discussing the performance with much laughter and joking. When Drummond turned to look at Janet, her face was strangely pale.

‘I warned you,’ he said. ‘You wanted to see the real India and this is a country where sex is as much a part of daily life as eating and drinking, an appetite to be satisfied, that’s all.’

‘Do you believe that?’

‘Depends what a man’s looking for, doesn’t it? Had enough?’

She nodded and he called for the bill and paid it. The room was by this time heavy with smoke and there was the sound of drunken laughter everywhere. As they threaded their way between the tables, eyes turned on Janet, there were winks and leers and sly nudges.

Someone stood up at the edge of the floor and made an obscene gesture. There was a roar of spontaneous laughter and as she turned her head, flushing angrily, she was aware of a hand on her right leg, sliding up beneath the skirt.

She cried out in rage and mortification and swung round. There were four men seated at a low table, three of them typical of a breed to be found the world over in spite of their turbans and loose robes, young, vicious animals, spoiling for trouble. The man who had grabbed at her was older with wild, drunken eyes in a bearded face. He wore a black outer robe threaded with gold and his hands were a blaze of jewels.

As his chin tilted, the mouth wide with laughter, her hand caught him full across the face. His head rocked to one side, there was a general gasp and the room was silent.

His head turned slowly and there was rage and madness in the eyes. As he grabbed at her coat, Drummond spun her to one side. The bearded man was only half-way to his feet when Drummond’s right foot swung into his crutch. The man screamed, doubling over, and Drummond raised a knee into the descending face, smashing the nose, sending him crashing back across the coffee table.

And the thing Janet couldn’t understand was the silence. No one moved to stop them when Drummond turned, straightening his jacket, took her arm, and pushed her through the crowd to the stairs.

Outside in the street, he urged her on, turning and twisting through several alleys until, finally, they emerged on an old stone embankment above the river.

‘Why the rush?’ she said. ‘Did you think they might follow us?’

‘That’s the general idea.’ He lit a cheroot, the match flaring in his cupped hands to reveal the strong, sardonic face. ‘The young squirt-about-town I treated so roughly back there happens to be the son of the town governor.’

‘Will there be trouble?’

‘Not the official kind, if that’s what you mean. He’s got away with too much in the past for anyone to start crying over his ruined looks at this stage. He might put someone on to me privately, but I can handle that.’

‘Did you really need to be so rough?’

‘It never pays to do things by halves, not here. This isn’t tourist India, you know. The only thing I’m sorry about is taking you there in the first place. I should have had more sense.’

‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘You weren’t responsible for what happened. To tell you the truth, I rather enjoyed myself.’

‘Including the nautch dance?’

She laughed. ‘I’ll reserve my opinion on that part of the programme. It was very educational, mind you.’

‘Something of an understatement. You know, you’re quite a girl, and for someone who believes in turning the other cheek, you throw a good punch. You certainly rocked him back there.’

‘A quick temper was always my besetting sin,’ she said. ‘My old grannie used to warn me about that when I was a little girl back home in Maine. Quakers are really quite nice when you get to know them. Flesh and blood, too.’

He grinned and took her arm. ‘All right, I surrender. Let’s walk.’

They went on to the beach below the embankment and strolled through the moonlight without talking for a while. Now and then, sandbanks collapsed into the water with a thunderous roar and cranes threshed through the shallows, disturbed by the noise.

Huge pale flowers swam out of the night, and beyond the trees the sky was violet and purple, more beautiful than anything she had ever seen before. They passed a solitary fisherman cooking a supper of fish over a small fire of dried cowdung and Drummond gave him a greeting in Urdu.

‘What do you do in Balpur beside fly in guns for Mr Cheung?’ she said after a while.

‘Survey work for the Indian government, freight general cargo or passengers. Anything that comes to hand.’

‘I shouldn’t have thought there was much of a living in that.’

‘There isn’t but Cheung pays well for the Tibetan trips. And I’ll be leaving soon, anyway. I’ve had enough of the place.’

‘What’s it like?’

‘Balpur?’ he shrugged. ‘Barren, treacherous mountains. A capital of three thousand people that’s more like an overgrown village. An army, if you can call it that, of seventy-five. When winter comes, it’s absolute hell and that’s in another month. The roads are the worst in the world at the best of times, but during the winter, they’re completely snowed up.’

‘What about the Khan?’

‘An old mountain hawk, proud as Lucifer. Quite a warrior in his day. To his people, something very special. Not only king, but priest, and that makes for quite a distinction. You’ll like Kerim, his son. A great pity about his accident. I hope your people in Chicago can fix him up all right.’

‘He’s eight, isn’t he?’

‘Nine in three months.’

‘My instructions told me to get in touch with a Father Kerrigan when I arrive. Apparently he’s in charge of all the arrangements.’

‘You’ll like him,’ Drummond said. ‘He’s about sixty. A marvellous old Irishman who just won’t give in. He’s been twelve years in Sikkim and hasn’t made a single convert and the people adore him. It’s fantastic.’

‘If he hasn’t got a congregation, what does he do with himself?’

‘As it happens, he’s a qualified doctor. Runs a small mission hospital about a mile outside of Sadar, completely on his own. There’s one other European up there, a man called Brackenhurst. A geologist for some British firm or other. They’ve also made him British Consul, but don’t let that impress you. It doesn’t mean a thing.’

‘You don’t like him, I take it?’

‘Not much.’

He stopped to light another cheroot and she said casually, ‘Why did you leave the Navy, Jack?’

He paused, the match flaring in his fingers, his eyes dark shadows. ‘You really want to know?’

She didn’t answer and he shrugged, flicking the match into the night. ‘They kicked me out, or advised me to leave, which comes to the same thing for a career officer.’

She could sense the pain in his voice and put a hand on his arm instinctively. ‘What happened?’

‘I was a Fleet Air Arm pilot during the Korean War. One bright morning in July, 1952, I took my squadron to the wrong target. When we left, it was a smoking ruin. We did a good job. We managed to kill twenty-three American marines and ten Royal Marine Commandos who had been serving with them.’

There was bewilderment in her voice. ‘But how could such a thing happen?’

‘The briefing officer gave me the wrong information.’

‘So it wasn’t your fault?’

‘Depends how you look at it. If I’d checked my orders more carefully, I’d have spotted the mistake. I was too tired, that was the trouble. Overtired. Too many missions, not enough sleep. I should have grounded myself weeks before, but I didn’t.’

‘So they couldn’t court-martial you?’

‘A quiet chat with someone with gold rings all the way up to his elbow, that’s all it took. I got the message.’

‘I’m sorry, Jack. Sorrier than I can say.’

Her voice was warm and full of sympathy. They had reached a flight of stone steps leading up from the shore and he paused and looked at her.

Her mouth opened to cry a warning and he ducked, turning to meet the rush of feet from the darkness.

A fist grazed his cheek, he lost his balance and rolled over and over, hands protecting his genitals as feet swung in viciously.

He sprang up and backed to the wall. There were three of them, dark, shadowy figures in tattered robes, scum from the market place hired for a few rupees. Above them on the steps below the lamp, stood the man from the cafe, supported by two of his friends, blood on his face.

A knife gleamed dully and Janet ran in past the three men to join Drummond against the wall. ‘Kill him!’ the bearded man cried. ‘Kill the swine!’

Drummond was tired. It had been a long evening. His hand disappeared inside his coat reaching to the leather holster on his left hip and reappeared holding a Smith & Wesson .38 Magnum revolver with a three-inch barrel.

He fired into the air and there was a sudden stillness. ‘Go on, get out of it!’ he shouted angrily and fired a shot towards the man on the steps that ricocheted into the night.

The men from the market place were already running away along the shore, cursing volubly, and the governor’s son and his two friends staggered into the darkness.

Drummond slipped the revolver back into its holster and looked down at her calmly. ‘You know, I really think it’s time we went back to the hotel, don’t you?’

She started to tremble uncontrollably and he reached out, pulling her into his arms. ‘It’s all right. Everything’s all right now.’

He stroked her hair gently with one hand and his lips brushed her forehead. In the heavy stillness of the night, she could almost hear her heart beating. When he tilted her chin and kissed her gently on the mouth, it was like nothing she had ever known before.

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