David Gibbins - The Tiger warrior

“I just hope ISAF sends what’s needed to take out all the Taliban in this area, those who led that poor man down the road to hell.”

“I think Rahid can probably manage,” Pradesh said weakly. “They’ve had enough outside interference here already. Where are Katya and Altamaty?”

“They rode off down the valley, the way we came in,” Costas said. “We’ll get the chopper to pick them up after you’re safely out of here.”

“Roger that,” Pradesh said. “It’ll take at least half an hour, which gives you time to see if there’s anything to find up here.”

“Anything more we can do for you?” Jack said.

“I could use a little morphine.”

Costas took an ampoule out of the bag, tapped it, then slapped it on Pradesh’s thigh. “That should do it.” He pulled out an emergency blanket and tucked it around Pradesh, and Jack slipped off his coat and put it on top.

“Better. Much better.” Pradesh closed his eyes, then waved his hand. “You can go now. I think it’s time you had a look in that mine shaft.”

Twenty minutes later Jack and Costas stood in front of the central shaft entrance, looking into the dark hole above a large pile of mine tailing that partly blocked the way in. Costas had Jack’s copy of Wood’s Source of the River Oxus in his hands, and quickly read out the passage on the lapis lazuli mines:

“The shaft by which you descend to the gallery is about ten feet square, and is not so perpendicular as to prevent your walking down. The gallery is eighty paces long, with a gentle descent; but it terminates abruptly in a hole twenty feet in diameter and as many deep. The width and height of the gallery, though irregular, may be estimated at about twelve feet; but at some places where the roof has fallen in, its section is so contracted that the visitor is forced to advance upon his hands and knees. Accidents would appear to have been frequent and one place in the mine is named after some unhappy sufferers who were crushed by the falling roof No precaution has been taken to support by means of pillars the top of the mine, which, formed of detached blocks wedged together, requires only a little more lateral expansion to drop into the cavity. Any further operations can only be carried out at the most imminent risk to the miners”

He shut the book carefully and handed it to Jack, who slipped it into his khaki bag. Costas began to trudge up the pile of rock chippings, slipping back down with each step. “Well, it doesn’t sound less safe than anything else we’ve done today,” he muttered. “You say no one else comes up here?”

“That’s what Rahid told me. They think it’s haunted.” Jack followed Costas. He felt heavy, suddenly tired. Each step seemed a monumental effort, as if he were walking in deep snow. His feet slipped back on the rock chippings, and halfway up the mound it seemed as if he was going nowhere. He felt as if he were constantly striving for an objective that was just beyond his grasp, like in a dream. Finally he stood at the top of the mound of tailings, the roof of the cavern entrance within arm’s reach above him. Costas was ten meters or so ahead, inside the shaft below Jack, crouching down. Jack watched him take out a Mini Maglite and pan the light over the walls. The rock was dark, almost black. Jack remembered the description, the thick layer of carbon from the fires used over thousands of years by miners to crack open the veins of lazurite. He looked back at the entrance. He was not sure, but the light seemed to reflect a haze of blue off the walls, a blue like the azure of the sky. He turned back. Costas had advanced a few more steps down and was stooped over, close to the base of the mound where it sloped down into the cavern. He was motionless, staring hard at the chips of rock, shining the torch on one spot directly in front of him. He straightened, then looked back up. “Jack,” he said quietly.

“I’m here.”

There was silence for a moment. Costas cleared his throat. “That old Colt revolver of John Howard’s. The other one of the pair, the one you said his father had used in the Indian Mutiny.”

“Yes?” Jack’s voice felt disembodied, as if he were hearing himself speak from a long distance away.

“Do you know where it was made?”

Jack’s mind was a blank. He struggled to think. “It would have been Colt’s London factory. The address would have been stamped on the barrel.”

Costas got up, switched off the Maglite and made his way back to where Jack was standing. He looked him full in the face. “I know what Rahid found. I know why they never let anyone near this place.”

Jack put his hand on Costas’ shoulder. Costas offered him the Maglite, but Jack shook his head and reached deep into his bag, holding something tight. He left Costas, stumbling down, sliding on the rock chips, feeling where it was frozen underneath. He reached the spot where Costas had been, and dropped down on his knees. He let his eyes grow accustomed to the gloom. Then he saw what Costas had seen. It was half-buried in the tailings, but unmistakable. The revolver had been well-oiled so was not rusted, but had turned a deep plum color. He could see the address on the barrel. Col. Colt, London. The grip and the trigger guard were surrounded by rags, a coarse cloth, tightly wound. The fabric extended back under the rock chippings, then rose again in a mound, and then extended up again, a few feet away. The shape was symmetrical. Jack felt himself swaying. Two arms, outstretched. He looked at the other side. There was no pistol there, but a hollow where something had been, something that had once been grasped.

Jack peered again. The hollow could have been anything. It could have been the shape of a clenched hand, retracted in death. It could have held another weapon, a sword perhaps. But it could have been something else. The shape of a bamboo tube, the sacred velpu, once held in that hand, now gone.

Jack swallowed hard. He was crying, and he did not know why. He took a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled slowly, blinking hard. He thought about what he knew of the man, of his love for his children, his family. He hoped they had been there at the end. He hoped that whatever had tormented him, the anguish, the loss, had lifted from him here, in those final moments. He hoped he had found what he had been seeking all those years since the jungle, the greatest treasure imaginable.

Jack wiped his eyes, and looked up. There was a noise outside, pulsing into the cavern, the clatter of a helicopter coming up the valley. He heard a crunching of feet on the rock behind. Costas had left him alone with the body for a few minutes, but Jack had vaguely been aware of him skirting around and exploring the recess beyond. “I checked it out,” Costas said, his breath crystallizing in the shaft of sunlight coming from the entrance. “The mine extends about twenty meters farther on, then drops into a well about five meters deep. If this was where Licinius hid that stone, my guess is that’s where it would have been. There are ledges in the rock created by the ancient pick work, but I looked and there’s nothing loose. It’s as if someone has been in here and methodically worked through the entire place. If that jewel was here, it’s gone now.”

Jack cleared his throat, and pointed. His voice sounded hoarse. “Look at his hand, the empty one. It’s exactly as if he were holding a Koya bamboo velpu. I think they brought that with them, the one they had taken from the jungle all those years before, and now that’s gone too. And so is Robert Wauchope. There’s no sign of another body here. Maybe when they came here the velpu was empty, but when it was taken away it was heavy with a new weight. Maybe Wauchope took it from Howard’s grasp, and escaped from here. Maybe they really did find the jewel.”