Читать книгу Year of the Tiger - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 15

When Chavasse crossed the tarmac at Srinagar airport the following morning, Ferguson was waiting by the gate, a tall, greying man in his middle forties who looked cool and immaculate in a white linen suit.

He grinned and shook hands. ‘It’s been a long time, Paul. How are you?’

Chavasse was tired and his suit looked as if it had been slept in, but he managed a smile. ‘Bloody awful. I caught my flight out of Aden on time, but we ran into an electric storm and I missed my connection in Delhi. Had to hang around for hours waiting for a plane out.’

‘What you need is a shower and a stiff drink,’ Ferguson told him. ‘Any luggage?’

‘I’m travelling light this trip.’ Chavasse held up his canvas grip. ‘I’m relying on you to supply me with the sort of outfit I’m going to need.’

‘I’ve already got it in hand,’ Ferguson said. ‘Let’s get out of here. My car’s parked just outside.’

As they drove into Srinagar, Chavasse lit a cigarette and looked out of the window at the great white peaks of the mountains outlined like a jagged frieze against the vivid blue sky. ‘So this is the Vale of Kashmir?’

‘Disappointed?’ said Ferguson.

‘On the contrary,’ Chavasse told him. ‘All the books I’ve read don’t do it justice. How long have you been here?’

‘About eighteen months.’ Ferguson grinned. ‘Oh, I know I’ve been put out to pasture, but I’m not complaining. I’m strictly a desk man from now on.’

‘How’s the leg these days?’

Ferguson shrugged. ‘Could be worse. Sometimes, I imagine it’s still there, but they say that kind of hallucination can last for years.’

They slowed down as the car nosed its way carefully through the narrow streets of a bazaar and Chavasse looked out into the milling crowd and thought about Ferguson. A good, efficient agent, one of the best the Bureau had until someone had tossed that grenade through his bedroom window one dark night in Algiers. It was the sort of thing that could happen to anybody. No matter how good you were or careful, sooner or later your number came out of the box.

He pushed the thought away from him and lit another cigarette. ‘This flyer you’ve dug up – Kerensky? Is he reliable?’

‘One of the best pilots I’ve ever come across,’ Ferguson said. ‘Squadron-Leader in the RAF during the war, decorated by everybody in sight. He’s been out here for about five years.’

‘How’s he doing?’

‘Can’t go wrong, really. This mountain flying is pretty tricky. He doesn’t exactly have to worry about competition.’

‘And he thinks he can fly me in?’

Ferguson grinned. ‘For the kind of money we’re paying him, he’d have a pretty good try at a round trip to hell. He’s that kind of man.’

‘Does he live here in Srinagar?’

Ferguson nodded. ‘Has a houseboat on the river. Only five minutes from my place, as a matter of fact.’

They were driving out through the other side of the city, and now Ferguson slowed and turned the car into the driveway of a pleasant, white-painted bungalow. A houseboy in scarlet turban and white drill ran down the steps from the verandah and relieved Chavasse of the canvas grip.

Inside it was cool and dark with Venetian blinds covering the windows and Ferguson led the way into a bathroom that was white-tiled and gleaming, startling in its modernity.

‘I think you’ll find everything you need,’ he said. ‘I’ve told the boy to lay out some fresh clothes for you. I’ll be on the terrace.’

When he had gone, Chavasse examined himself in the mirror. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, his face lined with fatigue, and he badly needed a shave. He sighed heavily and started to undress.

When he went out on the terrace twenty minutes later dressed in cotton slacks and clean white shirt, his hair still damp from the shower, he felt like a different man. Ferguson sat at a small table shaded by a gaudy umbrella. Beneath the terrace, the garden ran all the way down to the River Jhelum.

‘Quite a view you’ve got,’ Chavasse said.

Ferguson nodded. ‘It’s even nicer in the evening. When the sun goes down over the mountains, it’s quite a sight, believe me.’

The houseboy appeared, a tray in his hands on which stood two tall glasses beaded with frosted moisture. Chavasse took a quick swallow and sighed with conscious pleasure. ‘That’s all I needed. Now I feel human again.’

‘We aim to please,’ Ferguson said. ‘Would you like something to eat?’

‘I had a meal on the plane,’ Chavasse said. ‘I’d like to see Kerensky as soon as possible, if that’s all right with you.’

‘Suits me,’ Ferguson said and he rose to his feet and led the way down a flight of shallow stone steps to the sun-baked lawn.

As they passed through a wicker gate and turned on to the towpath, Chavasse said, ‘What about the Tibetan? What’s he like?’

‘Joro?’ Ferguson said. ‘I think you’ll be impressed. He’s about thirty, remarkably intelligent and speaks good English. Apparently, Hoffner arranged for him to spend three years at a mission school in Delhi when he was a kid. He thinks the world of the old man.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Living in an encampment outside the city with some fellow countrymen. Plenty of refugees trailing into Kashmir from across the border these days.’ He pointed suddenly. ‘There’s Kerensky now.’

The red and gold houseboat was moored to the river bank about forty yards away. The man who stood on the cabin roof was wearing only bathing shorts. As they approached he dived cleanly into the water.

Ferguson negotiated the narrow gangplank with some difficulty because of his leg and Chavasse went first and gave him a hand down to the deck. It had been scrubbed to a dazzling whiteness and the whole boat was in beautiful condition.

‘What’s it like below?’ Chavasse asked.

‘First-rate!’ Ferguson told him. ‘A lot of people spend their vacation in one of these things every year.’

Several cane chairs and a table were grouped under an awning by the stern and they sat down and waited for Kerensky, who had already seen them and was returning to the boat in a fast, effortless crawl. He pulled himself over the rail, water streaming from his squat, powerful body, and grinned. ‘Ah, Mr Ferguson, the man with all the money. I was beginning to give you up.’