Jack Higgins - The Iron Tiger

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

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

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.’