Year Of The Tiger

7

He opened his eyes slowly. For a moment, his mind was a complete blank, and he struggled up on one elbow, panic moving inside him.

He was lying on a narrow bed in one corner of a dark and windowless room. A flickering butter lamp hung from a chain in the centre and all the gods and devils in the Buddhist pantheon chased each other through the shadows on the ancient tapestries which covered the walls.

Their great demons’ faces loomed out of the darkness at him and he closed his eyes for a moment and became aware of a low, monotonous voice. When he opened them again, he realized that a saffron-robed monk in a conical hat was sitting in the shadows a few feet away, beads clicking between his fingers as he prayed.

As Chavasse moved, the old man stopped praying, got to his feet and came forward. He looked incredibly old, his yellow parchment face netted with a thousand wrinkles. Quite suddenly, he smiled and, pulling the tapestry at the end of the bed to one side, went out through a low arch.

Chavasse felt completely rested and his headache had vanished. He flung the sheepskin to one side and swung his legs to the floor. At that moment, the tapestry was pulled back and Joro entered.

The Tibetan was dressed in the brown robe and sheepskin shuba he had worn on the plane and there was a smile on his face. The other Joro, the one who had worn the mask of the King of Hell, might never have existed.

“How are you feeling?” he said.

“All things considered, pretty good,” Chavasse told him. “I don’t know what made me act the way I did. I think I had a touch of fever or something.”

“It was the mountain sickness, nothing more.

It makes a man do strange things. The abbot gave you something for it while you slept.”

“That was a pretty neat trick you pulled out there in the courtyard,” Chavasse said.

Joro shrugged. “They had the machine gun so we had to be careful. I’m glad it worked. I had to walk most of the night to get here in time. But I knew they would take you to Changu and this meant that they would have to pass through here.”

“What happened to the Russian? Is he dead?”

Joro nodded. “Naturally. To my people, the Russians and the Chinese are simply two sides of the same coin. Here is your Walther. I found it in his pocket.”

Chavasse sighed, a feeling of genuine regret running through him. “He was a good man, by any standards.”

“Not by mine,” Joro told him. “To me this is war and he was the enemy. It is as simple as that. In any case, I couldn’t have stopped the people once they got started. I had enough trouble saving you when you got in among them.”

“My thanks for that, anyway.”

Joro shook his head. “They are not needed. I was simply repaying a debt. It was your quickness which saved me at the lake.”

“You’ve found the arms, I suppose?” Chavasse said. “They were in the rear of the jeep.”

Joro nodded. “Some of my men are preparing them for use in the next room. Why not come through. There is a fire there and some tea. Tibetan, I’m afraid, but it’s time you got used to it.”

He plucked back the tapestry and Chavasse followed him into a much larger room with a low, crudely plastered ceiling and tiny windows set high in the wall. The guns were laid out on a large wooden table and three Tibetan warriors cleaned them expertly.

“They seem to know their stuff,” Chavasse commented.

Joro nodded. “They are quick to learn. This is something the Chinese have yet to discover.”

A fire of yak dung burned brightly on the large stone hearth and as Chavasse watched, Joro crumbled a handful of brick tea into a cauldron of boiling water and added butter and a pinch of salt.

“You haven’t got such a thing as a cigarette, have you?” Chavasse asked.

Joro nodded across to the table. “One of my men emptied the Russian’s pockets. His things are over there. There were three of four packets of cigarettes, I believe.”

Chavasse crossed to the table and stood looking down for a moment at all that remained of a man: a wallet, his travelling papers and three packets of cigarettes.

He lit one slowly and, carrying the wallet and travelling papers, returned to the fire, where he sat down on a rough wooden bench.

The wallet contained a wad of Chinese bank-notes, a couple of letters obviously received from friends in Russia and a membership card for a Moscow press club. There were no intimate little snapshots of wife or children, and feeling curiously relieved, Chavasse turned to the papers.

There were the usual travelling permits plus a special visa for Tibet, date-stamped Peking and countersigned by the military governor in Lhasa. They were smeared with blood and badly damaged by a knife-thrust, but Kurbsky’s face still stared out from the photo of identification.

Chavasse sat there looking at the papers, so deeply immersed in thought that when Joro pronounced the tea ready and handed him a metal cup, he drank the contents down without thinking.

“The tea.” Joro smiled. “You like it?”

Chavasse looked at the empty cup in his hands with a slight frown and then grinned. “I didn’t even feel it go down. You’d better give me another.”

It was curiously refreshing and he felt life returning to him. He lit another cigarette and said, “How far is Changu from here?”

“Perhaps ninety miles,” Joro said. “Two days’ hard travelling by horse.”

“What if we went in the jeep?”

“That would be impossible,” Joro said. “There are at least two hundred troops stationed there, and they patrol the vicinity regularly. If we even tried to approach the town in the jeep, we would be arrested.”

“But what if we drove right in?”

Joro frowned in bewilderment. “How would this be possible?”

“By my telling the authorities that I’m Andrei Sergeievich Kurbsky, a Russian journalist touring Tibet on a visa from the Central Committee in Peking. I speak excellent Russian, by the way.”

“And what about your escort?”

“Murdered by the bandits who ambushed our camp during the night. You can be the guide I hired in Lhasa who pretended to fall in with them and saved my life by persuading them to hold me for ransom.”

Joro nodded slowly. “I see – and presumably we escaped in the jeep while the others slept?”

Chavasse grinned. “You’re catching on fine.”

The Tibetan shook his head. “There is one thing you are forgetting. The Russian’s papers – they carry his picture.”

Chavasse tossed them into the fire. The bloodstained documents started to go brown and curled at the edges. For a brief moment, Kurbsky stared out at him for the last time. Then they dissolved in a puff of flame.

“Let’s say the bandits emptied my pockets,” Chavasse said. “Anything else?”

Joro shook his head. “Only that it will be very dangerous. There is possibly one thing in our favour. One of my men arrived from Changu last night. Apparently, Colonel Li is away for a few days visiting the outlying villages. Only a captain called Tsen is in charge, and he is young and inexperienced.”

“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!”

“How I agree with you, comrade,” Captain Tsen said feelingly, “but the Central Committee in Peking has ordained other methods for the time being.”

“Then more fools they.” Chavasse got to his feet. “If you’ve no more questions for the moment, I’d like to make a move. I could do with a hot bath and some decent food.”

Captain Tsen looked bewildered. “But where do you intend to go? I shall naturally have quarters provided for you here.”

Chavasse allowed himself to thaw a little. “That’s very kind of you, Captain, but I’ve been hoping that Hoffner would put me up. After all, he’s the man I’ve come to see.”

A great light dawned for Tsen and he jumped to his feet, his face wreathed in smiles. “Ah, but I see now! You have come to Changu to do an article on the good doctor for your newspaper?”

“I can’t think of anything else that would have brought me here,” Chavasse told him. “I heard about Doctor Hoffner in Lhasa and he seemed to me to be a most extraordinary man.”

“But he is. He is indeed, comrade,” Tsen said. “The peasants worship him, and this helps our cause enormously.” He reached for his cap. “I will conduct you to his house personally.”

Chavasse found himself frowning. “The good doctor approves of your work here then?”

Tsen nodded. “But of course. He is a great humanitarian. He and the colonel are close friends. They play chess together.”

They paused in the office and he spoke rapidly to the corporal, who grabbed his cap and ran at once from the room. “I have sent him on ahead to warn Comrade Stranoff that we are coming.”

“Stranoff?” Chavasse said with a frown as they went downstairs.

“Doctor Hoffner’s housekeeper,” Captain Tsen explained. “Her father was Russian, her mother Chinese. A wonderful woman.”

There was a sudden warmth in his voice and Chavasse stifled a smile. “I shall look forward to meeting her.”

He managed the briefest of nods to Joro as the Tibetan climbed into one of the rear seats to make room for Tsen and they drove out of the courtyard and through the narrow streets. They passed through the bazaar, where merchants sat with their carpets and bootmakers and silversmiths worked in the open at their trade. People scattered hurriedly as Chavasse sounded his horn, and sullen, unfriendly glances weredirected towards them.

Hoffner’s house was one of the largest in town. It was a three-storeyed, flat-roofed building surrounded by a high wall, and Chavasse drove through the gate at Tsen’s direction and braked to a halt in the courtyard.

He switched off the engine, climbed from behind the wheel and started up the steps to the front porch, Tsen just behind him. At that moment, the door opened and a young, slightly built woman stepped out to greet him.

She wore narrow quilted pants and a Russian-style shirt in black silk edged with silver, buttoned high about her neck. Her hair was quite fair, but her skin had that creamy look peculiar to Eurasian women, her lips an extra fullness that gave her a faintly sensual air.

She had the breathtaking beauty that one always associates with simplicity and Chavasse shivered suddenly and for no accountable reason, as if somewhere, someone had walked over his grave.

She stood before him looking steadily and gravely into his face and then she smiled and it was as if a lamp had been lit within her.

“It is good to see you here,” she said in Russian.

Chavasse moistened dry lips. “I am glad to be here,” he replied, and as she led him into the house, he was surprised to find that he genuinely meant it.