Jack Higgins: Year Of The Tiger

“But you had his papers, all the details of his research. Why was nothing heard of this?”

“Oh, Professor Craig and his people went towork on them. He used the best brains he could find, but they all drew a blank. Hoffner’s theory was either seriously flawed or of such genius that no other mind on earth could make sense of it.”

There was another silence and then Moro said, “All for nothing. That dreadful journey. Colonel Li crippled, Katya’s death. So many deaths.” He shook his head and said again, “All for nothing.”

“That’s the way it goes sometimes. Life can be pretty bloody-minded,” Chavasse told him. He smiled. “A long time ago.”

“Yet you are still here,” Moro said. “The sole survivor, as it were.”

“Not really.” Chavasse reached to the coffee table, took a cigarette from a silver box and lit it. “There’s always you.”

This time the silence was profound. Moro’s face seemed to change, almost as if he had become another person, and he slipped a hand inside his robe.

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s forget your rather intimate knowledge of my background and stick with the fact that you knew about Karl Hoffner and the fact that I got him out of Tibet. Very interesting, that. When I asked you where you got your information you said from sources of your own.”

“So?” Moro said.

“Let’s go over it again. I crossed into India with Hoffner, and Osman Sherif and his family went to Turkey, so we can discount them. So who else knew? Professor Craig who died years ago. Sir Ian Moncrieff, also dead. No official record of the operation in the Bureau files. I know that for a fact, because I’ve been Chief of the Bureau for twenty years.”

“I see you are a logician, Sir Paul.”

“Oh, yes,” Chavasse said. “I like things to make sense. So, where does this all leave us? With me being the only person in the world who knows anything about the Hoffner affair at all.” He helped himself to another cigarette. “In fact, there would seem to be only one person you could have got your knowledge of Hoffner from, and according to my intelligence sources he died of cancer in Peking ten years ago.” Chavasse blew out smoke and leaned back in the chair, his right hand on the cushion. “Colonel Li.”

Moro took a deep breath, then said, “He was my father. I was the product of a brief encounter with his Tibetan housekeeper at Changu. I was born in 1960. She died shortly after the Hoffner affair. My father took me to Peking, raised me, loved me, educated me. The university background I told you of is true; I really did go to Cambridge.”

“And he told you about Hoffner. So if you knew most of it anyway, why ask me to go over it again?”

“To hear it from your own lips. Also, I have wondered all these years what kind of man you were. You killed my aunt, Katya; my father was left crippled, a claw for one hand, totally shamed. It was like acid burning into him over the years. It never went away.”

“So now you want revenge? You’ve taken your time.”

“I’ve dreamt of it for years. In a matter of family honour, the waiting is nothing. I knew my time would come.”

Chavasse nodded. “I should tell you that when they were feeding you in the kitchen I put in a call to the temple at Glen Aristoun. They’d never heard of a Lama Moro. I also spoke to Jackson on the house phone. He’s been right outside the door all this time. If you look you’ll see it’s slightly ajar.” He raised his voice. “Come in, Earl.”

The door swung open and Jackson stepped in. He closed it behind him. “I heard everything. Better than the midnight movie on TV.”

Moro’s hand came out of his robe clutching a pistol. He stood and backed away so that he could cover them both.

“Interesting,” Chavasse said to Earl. “Chinese copy of a Russian Tokarev.”

“Type 670,” Jackson nodded. “Trouble with those is that when you use them in the silenced Mode you can only get one round off, and there are two of us.”

“One is enough,” Moro said. “I really am a monk, Sir Paul, of the Shao Lin temple. Death means nothing to me. This is for Katya and my father.”

“When you intend to kill a man do it, don’t talk about it,” Chavasse said.

He found the silenced Walther he had placed in the cushion at his side, his hand swept up and he shot Moro twice in the heart, knocking him back against the wall. Moro dropped the Tokarev and fell to the floor. Jackson knelt down and turned him on his back.

“Dead,” he said. “Two in the pumper. Good thing you check out on the range every week. This little sod was going to kill you.”

“I know.” Chavasse was on the phone. After a moment he said, “The Chief here. Tell Section Three I’ve had a red alert at my home. Need immediate disposal team.” He put the phone down. “Twenty minutes, Earl, and let’s keep Lucy out of it.”

“As you like, Sir Paul,” Jackson said formally.

The discreet undertaker’s van appeared on time. Two aging gentlemen in formal attire came to the drawing room with a coffin and departed with Moro’s body. The blood had soaked into his robe and there was no stain on the carpet.

“A few pounds of grey ash,” Jackson said. “That’s all he’ll be in the morning. They’ll probably strew him on one of the grass verges.”

“You’re a hard man, Earl.”

“Comes of soldiering too long.” Jackson shrugged. “Nothing else you could have done. It was you or him. Can I get you anything?”

“No thanks.”

“I’ll say goodnight then.”

The door closed and Chavasse sat down to think about recent events, then picked up the phone and rang Downing Street. When it was answered he said, “Code Eagle. Give me the prime minister.”

A moment later John Major came on. “Paul?”

“I just wanted to let you know, Prime Minister, that I’ll be at my desk tomorrow and that I’ll occupy it for as long as you need me.”

“Marvellous,” Major told him. “We’ll speak soon.”

Chavasse put down the phone and poured a Bushmills, then went and drew the curtains and opened the French window. Rain drummed down on the terrace.

After all was said and done, what else was he going to do? He raised his glass and toasted the night.