Jack Higgins - Year Of The Tiger

“Couldn’t be better,” Chavasse said. “Even if he radios Lhasa, what can they do except regret such unpleasantness befalling a Russian national in their territory and confirm my existence.”

“Assuming that Tsen accepts us, what then?”

“Kurbsky was looking for stories,” Chavasse said. “I don’t see why he couldn’t have visited Changu with the intention of interviewing Doctor Hoffner.”

The Tibetan smiled suddenly and his eyes sparkled. “This would really be a very good joke at the expense of the Chinese. Perhaps Doctor Hoffner would even agree to accommodate you at his home during your stay.” His smile suddenly disappeared and he looked serious again. “But whatever we do, it must be handled quickly and before Colonel Li returns. He is not an easy man to fool, I assure you.”

“Then we’d better get started.”

He left Joro to make arrangements with his lieutenants, went outside and stood at the top of a flight of stone steps gazing down into the dusty courtyard.

It was peaceful and deserted except for the row of monks sitting against a wall in the pale sunlight and praying together, their voices only a murmur on the quiet air.

That death had visited this place such a short time before seemed incredible and yet, as he crossed to the jeep, he passed great purple patches of blood which had soaked into the dust.

He climbed behind the wheel and lit a cigarette and thought about life. Five thousand years before, an Old Testament prophet had put it as perfectly as anyone ever could: Time and chance happeneth to all men !

For Kurbsky, who had seen so much of danger in his life, death had erupted out of nowhere in this dusty courtyard a thousand miles from nowhere when he had least expected it.

Chavasse shivered involuntarily. It was a sobering thought, and he was still considering it when Joro joined him a few minutes later. Then they drove out through the gates and started their journey.

For the first couple of hours, they followed the winding course of an ancient caravan trail through the steppes, now rutted by the wheels of Chinese military vehicles.

On several occasions they passed herdsmen and their flocks and once, a long caravan of heavily laden yaks and mules. The landscape was harsh and forbidding, with the skyline broken here and there by strange stone shrines and poles bearing sacred garlands and prayer flags.

Almost four hours after leaving Yalung Gompa, Chavasse braked to a halt and touched Joro, who was dozing in the corner, on the shoulder.

Changu stood beside a river in a wide and shallow valley and its flat-roofed buildings climbed the opposite slope in tiers. The most imposing structure by far was the monastery, which stood in the very centre of the ancient walled town, its walls striped in red, green and black.

“Is the monastery still functioning?” Chavasse asked Joro as he engaged a low gear and took the jeep down the steep slope.

The Tibetan shook his head. “Colonel Li uses it as his headquarters. There are only a few monasteries left in Tibet now. Only Yalung Gompa’s isolation has saved it so far.”

The familiar tents of the herdsmen clustered around the walls of the town and they passed a caravan, causing heads to turn cautiously, and went in through the great archway of the main gate.

Just inside, a white concrete pillbox looked somehow incongruous and three soldiers in quilted drab uniforms squatted in the dust and gambled with dice.

“It’s easy to see that Colonel Li is away,” Joro said.

Chavasse didn’t even bother to stop. As the soldiers glanced up in alarm, he roared forward, scattering men and animals, drove into the courtyard of the monastery and braked to a halt in what he hoped was a suitably arrogant manner.

A soldier lolling against the wall beside the main gate straightened at once and unslung his automatic rifle.

“Shall I come with you?” Joro asked.

Chavasse shook his head. “No, you stay here. It should give you some sort of chance if things go sour on me.”

He mounted the broad flight of shallow steps leading to the entrance, lighting one of Kurbsky’s cigarettes as he did so.

The guard stepped forward, fingering his rifle, and Chavasse snapped in Chinese, “Take me to Colonel Li at once, and be quick about it!”

There was just the right amount of iron in his voice and the soldier was properly impressed. He explained hastily that the colonel was away but that Captain Tsen was in his office and he would take Chavasse to him.

They went along a stone-flagged corridor, mounted some stairs at the end and passed into another corridor with a wooden floor. At the far end, the sentry opened a door and stood back respectfully for Chavasse to enter first.

An earnest and rather scholarly-looking young corporal looked up in surprise from his desk. When he saw Chavasse, his eyes widened behind the thick lenses of his steel spectacles and he got to his feet hastily.

“Where’s Captain Tsen?” Chavasse demanded angrily.

The corporal opened his mouth to speak, shut it again and turned instinctively to the door behind him. Chavasse brushed past him, opened it and went inside.

The young officer who sat behind the desk was perhaps twenty-five and when he rose to his feet, a frown of bewilderment on his face, Chavasse saw that he was no more than five feet.

“Are you Tsen?” he snarled. “My God, what sort of a bloody post are you running here? Guards dicing at the main gate and sentries propping up the wall while rebels gallop around at will, murdering your own men.”

Tsen tried to assert his authority. He came from behind his desk, fastening his collar, and said angrily to the corporal who stood in the doorway, “What is going on here? Who is this man?”

“Who am I?” Chavasse interrupted. “I’m Kurbsky. Surely they radioed you from Lhasa to say I was coming?”

“Kurbsky?” Tsen said blankly. “Lhasa?”

“I’m a journalist, you dolt,” Chavasse roared, “on a roving commission in Tibet to find stories for my paper in Moscow. And a fine story I’ve got for them, I can tell you. Held prisoner by a gang of murderous cutthroats, my escort murdered. That’s going to look good in Pravda . I don’t know who’s supposed to be in charge here, but when the Central Committee in Peking hears about it, heads will roll, I promise you.”

Captain Tsen’s face was ashen and he pulled a chair forward quickly. “Please sit down. I’d no idea.”

“I bet you hadn’t,” Chavasse said. “I trust you’ve at least got a drink handy.”

Tsen turned to the corporal, who went to a cupboard and returned with a dark bottle and a glass, which he hastily filled.

“What the hell is this supposed to be?” Chavasse demanded as the liquor burned its way down his throat. “Petrol?”

Tsen managed a smile with some difficulty and went back to his chair. “If I could see your papers, Comrade Kurbsky.”

“Papers?” Chavasse said in amazement. “Good God, man, they stripped me of everything. I’m lucky to be here in one piece. Get on the radio to Lhasa – they’ll tell you all about me.”

Captain Tsen smiled placatingly. “Of course, comrade, but I can attend to that later. Perhaps if you could give me an account of what happened?”

Chavasse ran quickly through his story and when he had finished, Tsen said, “This Tibetan who saved you – he is with you now?”

Chavasse nodded. “He’s outside in the jeep, but don’t go trying to make him into a hero. He’s only helped me because he knew which side his bread was buttered on. They’re all damned rogues, these Tibetans. There’s only one way you’ll solve your problem here, Captain, and that’s to stamp on their necks, and stamp hard!”