Читать книгу The Iron Tiger - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 9

Drummond emerged from the hot room, dropped his towel on the tiled floor and dived into the plunge bath, swimming down to touch the brightly coloured mosaic face of Kali, the Great Mother, staring blindly into eternity through the green water as she had done for a thousand years.

He surfaced and one of the house girls moved out of the steam and squatted at the side of the ancient bath, holding a tray containing a slender coffee pot and tiny cups. Drummond swam towards her and she handed him down a cup as he floated there in the water.

She was like all the rest of them, startlingly beautiful, with delicate features and great kohl-rimmed eyes. Her green silken sari was saturated with steam, outlining to perfection the firm body, the curving breasts.

As Drummond sipped his coffee, he heard a harsh laugh somewhere near at hand and Hamid’s great voice boomed between the walls. He was singing the first stanza of Zukhmee-Dil, a ballad immensely popular on the North-West Frontier, at one time the favourite march of the Khyber Rifles.

Wullud sureen shuftauloo-maunind duryah,

Ufsose! mun n’shinnah.

Drummond handed his cup back to the

girl and threw the song back at the Pathan,

translating into English.

There’s a boy across the river with a

bottom like a peach, but, alas, I cannot

swim.

Hamid bellowed with laughter as he moved out of the steam, a towel about his waist. He was a Pathan of the Hazara tribe, dark-skinned, bearded. A handsome buccaneer of a man of six feet three with broad muscular shoulders.

He smiled hugely. ‘Feeling better, Jack, headache gone?’

‘Ready for anything,’ Drummond replied.

‘Me, too.’ The Pathan ran his fingers through the long hair of the girl who still squatted at the side of the bath. ‘A good song, that, but where love’s concerned, I’m the old-fashioned kind.’

He pulled the girl to her feet and the damp sari parted exposing her left breast. ‘Now there’s a thing.’ He swung her up into his arms and grinned down at Drummond. ‘See you later.’

Drummond swam lazily across to the other side of the bath and back again. He repeated the process twice and then hauled himself out over the stone edge, smoothed by time. He picked up his towel, wrapped it around his waist and padded across the warm tiles.

The next room was long and narrow with a vaulted roof and lined with cubicles, some with curtains drawn. From one he heard Hamid’s deep chuckle followed by the lighter laughter of the girl and smiled to himself.

He went into the end cubicle, pulled the bell cord in the corner, climbed on to the stone massage slab and waited. After a while, the curtain was drawn and Ram Singh, the proprietor, entered followed by several bearers carrying buckets of hot and cold water.

The Hindu smiled. ‘All is in order, Mr Drummond?’

‘You’ve made a new man of me,’ Drummond said. ‘We could do with you in Sadar.’

The Hindu rolled his eyes to heaven in simulated horror. ‘The end of the world, Mr Drummond. The end of the world. I will send Raika.’

He withdrew and Drummond lay there staring up at the ceiling. The end of the world. Well, that wasn’t far off as a description of Sadar. A capital city with a population of three thousand, which gave some idea of the size of Balpur itself. A barren, ugly land, harsh and cruel as its inhabitants. The last place God made. Well, not for much longer, Praise be to Allah.

The curtain rustled and when he turned his head, Raika had entered. She was strikingly beautiful and wore a ruby in one nostril and great silver ear-rings with little bells on the end that tinkled when she moved her head.

Her sari was of blue silk threaded with gold and outlined every curve of her graceful body. Drummond nodded, and without speaking she started to work.

First came the hot rinse, water so scalding that he had to stifle the cry of pain that rose in his throat. She worked on his limbs to start with, first with the brushes and then with practised hands, loosening taut muscles, relaxing him so completely that he seemed to be floating, suspended in mid-air.

And as always, he was amazed at the matter-of-factness of it all, the lack of overt sensuality. But then this was India where life and death, love and the flesh, were all a part of one great mystery.

She sluiced him down again with another bucket of hot water that was followed immediately by one so cold it drew the breath from his body. He gasped and there was a glint of laughter in her eyes, barely contained, so that at once she became real, a creature of flesh and blood.

She leaned over him, the damp sari gaping to the waist and Drummond cupped a hand over one sharply pointed breast. She went very still and stayed there in that position, leaning across him, her hand still reaching for the brush.

Drummond stared up at her, the nipple hardening against his palm and something stirred in her eyes. Her head came down slowly, the mouth slightly parted, and as he slid his free hand up around her neck, there was a discreet cough at the entrance.

Raika stood back at once completely unconcerned, and Drummond sat up. Ram Singh peered through the curtain, an anxious frown on his face.

‘So sorry, Mr Drummond, but there is a person to see you.’

Drummond frowned. ‘A person?’

‘A Miss Janet Tate.’ Ram Singh laughed nervously. ‘An American lady.’

‘In this place?’

Hamid appeared at the Hindu’s shoulder, a cigarette in his mouth. ‘A day for surprises, Jack. Any idea who she is?’

‘There’s one way of finding out.’

Drummond tightened the towel around his waist, left the cubicle and went into the next room. It was beautifully furnished with heavy carpets, low divans and round brass coffee tables at which several clients were relaxing after the rigours of the bath.

He crossed the room followed by Hamid and the Hindu, knelt on a divan and peered through the latticed partition of wrought iron into Ram Singh’s office.

Janet Tate stood at the desk, examining a figurine of a dancer. She put it down, turned and looked around her with interest, moving very slowly across the floor, incredibly lovely in the yellow dress, the long, shoulder-length black hair framing her calm face.

Hamid sighed softly. ‘A houri from Paradise itself, sent to delight us.’

Drummond straightened, a frown on his face. ‘Get me a robe, will you?’

The Hindu was back in a moment and helped him into it. ‘Aren’t you going to dress first?’ Hamid said.

Drummond grinned. ‘My curiosity won’t allow me to wait that long.’

When he opened the door and stepped into the office, Janet Tate was examining a tapestry hanging on one wall. She turned quickly and stood quite still.

The man who faced her was about forty, the crisp black hair already greying a little at the temples. He was perhaps six feet in height, well built with good, capable hands. She noticed them particularly as he fastened the belt of his robe.

But it was the face that interested her, the slight ironic quirk to the mouth of someone who laughed at himself and other people too much; the strong, well-defined bones of the Gael. Not handsome, the ugly, puckered scar running from the right eye to the corner of the mouth had taken care of that, but the eyes were like smoke slanting across a hillside on a winter’s day and she was aware of a strange, inexplicable hollowness inside her.

‘Mr Drummond? I’m Janet Tate.’

She didn’t hold out her hand. It was as if she was afraid to touch him, afraid of some elemental contact which, at this first moment, she might be unable to control.

And then he smiled, a smile of such devastating charm that the heart turned over inside her. He shook his head slowly. ‘You shouldn’t have come here, Miss Tate. It’s no place for a woman.’

‘That’s what the man at the hotel told me,’ she said. ‘But they have girls here. I saw two as I came in.’

And then she realised and her eyes widened. Drummond helped himself to a cigarette from a sandalwood box on the desk. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’m trying to get to Sadar. I believe you might be able to help.’

He frowned his surprise. ‘Why on earth do you want to go to Sadar?’

‘I’m a nurse,’ she said. ‘I’ve been sent here by the Society of Friends to escort the Khan of Balpur’s young son to our Chicago hospital. He’s to undergo serious eye surgery there.’

And then Drummond remembered. Father Kerrigan had told him about it before leaving. But the old priest had said they were expecting a doctor.

‘So you’re a Quaker.’

‘That’s right,’ she said calmly.

‘First visit to India.’

She nodded. ‘I’ve just finished a two-year tour of service in Vietnam. I was on my way home on leave anyway, so the Society asked me to make a detour.’

‘Some detour.’

‘You can take me?’

Drummond nodded. ‘No difficulty there. I fly a Beaver, there’s plenty of room. Just one other passenger – Major Hamid, Indian Army adviser in Balpur, not that they have much of an army for him to advise. We’ll take off about four-thirty, make an over-night stop at Juma and fly on through the mountains to Sadar in the morning. Much safer that way.’ He crushed his cigarette into the Benares ashtray. ‘If you’ll hang on, I’ll go and dress.’

He started for the door and she said quickly, ‘I was forgetting, I have a message for you from a Mr Ferguson.’

When he turned, it was the face of a different man, cold, hard, wiped clean of all expression, the eyes like slate.

‘Ferguson? Where did you meet Ferguson?’

‘On the train from Calcutta. He was very kind to me. He wants you to call on him at the usual place before you leave.’ She smiled brightly. ‘It all sounds very mysterious.’

An invisible hand seemed to pass across his face and he smiled again. ‘A great one for a joke, old Ferguson. I shan’t be long.’

He left her there and hurried through the other room to the changing cubicles where he dressed quickly in a cream nylon shirt, knitted tie and single-breasted blue suit of tropical worsted.

When he returned to the office, Hamid was sitting on the edge of the desk, Janet in the chair beside him looking up, a smile on her face.

Drummond was aware of a strange, irrational jealousy as he moved forward. ‘I see Ali’s managed to make his own introductions, as usual.’

‘If I must be formally introduced, then I must.’ Hamid grinned down at Janet. ‘Jack was at one time a Commander in the Navy. He’s never got over it. They’re very correct, you know.’

He jumped to his feet and stood there waiting for Drummond to speak, a handsome, challenging figure in his military turban and expertly tailored khaki drill uniform, the medal ribbons a bright splash of colour above his left breast pocket.

Drummond sighed. ‘Trapped, as usual. Miss Janet Tate, may I present Major Ali Mohammed Hamid, D.S.O., a British decoration, you’ll notice. Winchester, one of our better public schools, and Sandhurst. Rather more class than West Point, don’t you think?’

Hamid took her left hand and raised it to his lips gallantly. ‘See how the British have left their brand on us, clear to the bone, Miss Tate?’

‘Don’t look at me,’ Drummond said. ‘I’m a Scot.’

‘The same thing,’ Hamid said airily. ‘Everyone knows it’s the Scots who rule Britain.’

He gave his arm to Janet and they moved out into the bright, hot sunshine. Across the square, there was a low wall and beyond it, the river, usually two miles wide at this point, but as always when winter approached, narrowing to half a mile or less, winding its way through endless sandbanks.

‘Is this still the Ganges?’ Janet asked.

‘Ganges, Light amid the Darkness, Friend of the Helpless. It has a thousand names,’ Hamid said as they strolled towards the low wall. ‘To bathe in her waters is to be purified of all sin, or so the Hindus believe.’

Janet leaned on the wall and looked down the cobbled bank into the in-shore channel at the brown, silt-laden water. ‘It looks pretty unhealthy to me.’

Drummond lit a cigarette and leaned beside her. ‘Strangely enough, it does seem to have health-giving properties. During religious festivals pilgrims drink it, often at places where the drains disgorge the filth of the town, but they never seem to suffer. Bottled, it keeps for a year. They say that in the old days when taken on board clipper ships in Calcutta, it outlasted all other waters.’

Down below at the river edge some kind of ceremony was taking place and she glanced up at Hamid. ‘Can we go down?’

‘But of course. Anything you wish.’

‘Not me,’ Drummond said. ‘If I’m going to see Ferguson before we leave, I’d better be moving.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s almost two o’clock now. I’ll see you back at the hotel at four.’

He moved away across the square quickly and Janet watched him go, a slight frown on her face. ‘I believe Mr Ferguson said he was in the tea business.’

‘That’s right,’ Hamid said. ‘Jack has an air freight contract with him. Ferguson usually comes up to see him once a month. He has a houseboat lower down the river from here.’

‘You said Mr Drummond was once a naval commander?’

‘Fleet Air Arm.’

‘He was a regular officer, then? He would have been too young to have been a full commander during the war.’

‘Quite right.’ The Pathan still smiled, but there was a slight, cutting edge to his voice, a look in the eye that warned her to go no further. ‘Shall we go down?’

They stood on the edge of a small crowd and watched the ceremony that was taking place. Several people stood knee-deep in the water, the men amongst them stripped to the waist and daubed with mud. One of them poured ashes from a muslin bag into a larger paper boat. Another put a match to it and pushed the frail craft away from the bank, out into the channel where the current caught it. Suddenly, the whole boat burst into flames, and a moment later sank beneath the surface.

‘What were they doing?’ Janet asked.

‘The ashes were those of a baby,’ Hamid said. ‘A man-child because the ceremony is expensive and not worth going through for a girl.’

‘And they do this all the time?’

He nodded. ‘It is every Hindu’s greatest dream to have his ashes scattered on the waters of Ganges. Near here there is a shamsan, a burning place for the dead. Would you like to see it?’

‘Do you think I can stand it?’

He smiled down at her. ‘Two years in Vietnam, you said. If you can take that, you can take anything.’

‘I’m not so sure.’ She shook her head. ‘India’s different, like no other place on earth. Ferguson told me that and he was right.’

As they moved along the shore, she could smell woodsmoke, and up ahead there was a bullock cart, three or four people standing beside it.

As they approached, she gave a sudden gasp and moved closer to Hamid. A naked man was lying on a bed of thorns, eyes closed, his tongue protruding, an iron spike pushed through it. His hair and beard were matted and filthy, his body daubed with cowdung and ashes.

‘A saddhu, a holy man,’ Hamid said, throwing a coin into an earthenware jar that stood at the man’s head. ‘He begs from the mourners and prays for the souls of the dead.’

There was nothing to distinguish the place from any other stretch of the shore, no temples, no monuments. Only the ashes of old fires, the piles of calcined bones and here and there a skull, glaring blindly up at the sky.

The people by the fire laughed and joked with each other and as the flames roared through the criss-crossed logs of the funeral pyre in a sudden gust of wind, she caught the sweetly-sick, distinctive stench of burning flesh and her throat went dry, panic threatening to choke her.

She turned, stumbling against Hamid, and beyond him in the water something turned over in the shallows, a rotting body, arms trailing, a grey headed gull swooping down, beak poised to strike.

There was immediate concern on his face, and unconsciously he used her first name. ‘Janet, what is it?’

‘The smell,’ she said. ‘Burning flesh. I was in a village called Nonking north of Saigon last year. The Viet Cong made one of their night raids and set fire to the hospital.’ She stared back into the past, horror on her face. ‘The patients, we could only get half of them out. There are nights when I can still hear the screams.’

She was aware of his hand under her arm and they were climbing rapidly up the bank, across a narrow stone causeway. Suddenly, they moved into a different world, a place of colour and light, scarlet hibiscus and graceful palms.

They walked through trees along a narrow path and emerged on to a stone, loopholed terrace high above the river, a couple of ancient iron cannon still at their stations as they had been for three hundred years.

Hamid pushed her gently forward. ‘And behold, said the genie …’

She gave an excited gasp and leaned across the wall. Between the sandbanks, hundreds of flamingoes paced through the shallows, setting the very air alight with the glory of their plumage. Hamid picked up a stone and tossed it down, and immediately the sky was filled with the heavy, pulsating beat of their wings as they lifted in a shimmering cloud.

He looked down at her gravely. ‘Back there, death, Janet. Here, life in all its magnificence. They are both sides of the same coin. This you must learn.’

She nodded slowly and slipped her hand into his arm. Together, they walked back quietly through the trees without speaking.

Beyond the old quarter of the town, Drummond moved into an area of stately walled villas and beautiful gardens, the homes of rich merchants and government officials. A narrow path, fringed with eucalyptus trees, brought him to the river bank again.

A red houseboat was moored at the end of an old stone wharf about forty yards away and Ferguson’s Sikh bearer squatted on the cabin roof. When he saw Drummond, he scrambled to the deck and disappeared below.

Drummond crossed the narrow gangway and stepped on to the deck which had been scrubbed to a dazzling whiteness. Several cane chairs and a table were grouped under an awning at the stern and as he sat down, the Sikh appeared with a tray containing a bottle of gin, ice-water and glasses. He placed the tray on the table and withdrew without speaking.

Drummond helped himself to a drink and walked to the stern rail, staring out across the river and thinking about Janet Tate, as a boat slipped by, sail bellying in the breeze.

There was a clink of a bottle against glass and when he turned, Ferguson was sitting at the table, pouring himself a drink.

‘You’re looking fit, Jack. Nothing like a steam bath to pull a man round after a hard night.’

‘Hullo, Fergy, you old rogue,’ Drummond said. ‘I got your message. It was delivered in person at Ram Singh’s House of Pleasure by a rather delectable little Quaker girl in a yellow dress.’

‘God in heaven,’ Ferguson said, astonishment on his face. ‘She didn’t, did she?’

‘I’m afraid so.’ Drummond sat down and took a cheroot from an old leather case. ‘Her first visit to India, apparently. She’s a lot to learn.’

‘I found her travelling from Calcutta second class,’ Ferguson said. ‘Can you imagine that? What’s all this about the Khan’s son needing eye surgery?’

‘The boy fell from his horse a month ago and took a nasty knock. The sight started to fail in the right eye, so the old man had me fly a specialist up from Calcutta. He’s got a detached retina and his balance has been affected.’

‘Tricky surgery to put that right.’

‘It seems the big expert’s on the staff of some Quaker foundation hospital in Chicago. Father Kerrigan got in touch with them and they agreed to take the case. Said they’d send a doctor to escort the boy.’

‘Instead, you get Janet Tate.’

‘Who was already in Vietnam and due home on leave, so they saved on the fare.’ Drummond grinned. ‘Never look a gift horse in the mouth, Fergy.’

Ferguson frowned slightly. ‘She’s a nice girl, Jack. A hell of a nice girl. I wouldn’t like to see her get hurt.’

‘So?’ Drummond said coolly.

Ferguson sighed. ‘All right, let it go. What have you got for me this time?’

Drummond took several spools of film from his pocket and pushed them across. ‘That’s the lot. You’ve got the whole Balpur-Tibet border region now.’

‘You’ve finished?’

Drummond nodded. ‘Trip before last. A good job, too. Cheung decided to fly in with me on the last trip, so I couldn’t have set the camera up if I’d wanted to.’

Ferguson smiled and shook his head. ‘Our Nationalist friends are still at it, are they? I wonder what Washington would say if they knew?’

‘I couldn’t care less,’ Drummond said. ‘A couple more trips and I’m through. I’ve told Cheung that already.’

Ferguson applied a match to the bowl of his old briar pipe and coughed as the smoke caught at the back of his throat. ‘How did you find things last trip? Any signs of Chinese activity?’

‘Swinging on the end of a rope,’ Drummond said. ‘Moro and his band dealt with a cavalry patrol in their own inimitable fashion, that’s all.’

‘Nothing else? You’re sure about that?’

Drummond nodded. ‘Moro says that all the activity’s still in the Aksai Chin, Ladakh region. No sign of any large scale interest in the Balpur border area at all.’

‘That’s strange, you know. They’ve claimed it officially and the brutal truth is they’re on pretty firm ground this time, historically speaking.’

‘They can have it, for all I care,’ Drummond said. ‘Another month, and I’m out.’

Ferguson poked a match into the end of his pipe to clear the air hole and said casually, ‘What were you thinking of doing?’

‘Nothing you’d be interested in. I’m finished, Fergy. I’ve had enough. How long have I given you now; four years, five? I’ve played this sort of game on every border from Sarawak to Kashmir. I can’t go on forever. Nobody can.’

‘You’ve done a good job, Jack. I’m not denying that,’ Ferguson said. ‘But you’ve been well paid.’

‘What about last year when the Indonesians shot me down in Borneo?’ Drummond reminded him. ‘They chased me through that jungle for three weeks before I managed to scramble across the border.’ He ran a finger down the ugly scar that stretched from his right eye to the corner of his mouth. ‘I spent a month in hospital and what happened? You paid me the same as always. No more, no less.’

Ferguson sighed, took an envelope from his pocket and pushed it across. ‘Three thousand, deposited as usual with your Geneva bankers. You know how to get in touch with me if you change your mind.’

‘That’ll be the day.’ Drummond opened the envelope, examined the deposit slip, then put it in his wallet. ‘It’s been fun, Fergy.’

He moved along the deck to the gangplank and stepped on to the wharf. ‘One more thing, Jack,’ Ferguson called. ‘Don’t forget who the Beaver belongs to when you’ve finished up there. Government property, you know.’

‘And just how would you like to set about proving that?’ Drummond said and started to laugh as he walked away along the wharf.