the Iron Tiger (1974)

by Jack Higgins

  He smiled charmingly and Janet, hesitating, was saved by Hamid who entered at that moment. 'There you are.'

  'I thought you were playing billiards?' she said.

  'A variation of our own, a sort of knock-out competition. Jack and Sher Dil were too good for me.'

  'Mr. Cheung was showing me the Khan's collection. I had no idea the Chinese had so much influence in this area in ancient times.'

  'God knows why,' he said. 'The damned place must have been an economic liability even in those days.'

  Cheung glanced at his watch. 'It's getting late. I really think I must be going. I leave Miss Tate in your capable hands, Major.'

  He went out quickly and she turned to Hamid with a sigh. 'I feel rather sorry for him. We've been standing here talking about the splendours of China past and he isn't even permitted to be a part of China present. It must be a terrible thing to be an exile from one's own country.'

  'The tragedy of the twentieth century,' Hamid said. 'Did you like him?'

  'It's difficult to say. He puts himself out to be pleasant, but I feel that he's looking at me from behind his eyes if you know what I mean.'

  'An excellent description. What about Sher Dil?'

  'A wonderful man. He's so beautifully correct, so...'

  She hesitated and Hamid chuckled. 'So positively British? The Imperial taint still lies heavy upon us. Sher Dil was a Sword of Honour man at Sandhurst in his day. He was also a colonel in the Indian Army as long ago as 1945.'

  'What went wrong?'

  'For many years we tried to follow the way of peace in India. Nehru was sure that such a neutrality would be respected by all. Many men like Sher Dil, high ranking regular army officers, were not so sure and said so. When the army was reduced, they were the first to go.'

  'And so Sher Dil came here?'

  'To command an army of seventy-five men for the Khan, most of them recruited in India. The locals don't take kindly to uniforms.' He laughed. 'But a night like this is made for love and laughter and nothing else. I will show you the delights of the garden.'

  'Which Mr. Cheung has already done.'

  'Not with my superb efficiency.'

  They left the display room and moved out to the terrace, pausing at the top of a flight of shallow steps for Hamid to light a cigar.

  The moon was caught in the dark meshes of the cypress trees, the night air heavy with the scent of flowers and a fountain splashed into a fish pool amongst the trees as they went down the steps, her hand on his arm.

  'The Hour of the Dove they call it.' He waved a hand theatrically. 'The time for lovers to unburden their hearts to each other.'

  They came to the fountain in the centre of the garden and she sat on the low wall that ringed the pool, dabbling her hand in the water, and somewhere a bird called sweetly through the night.

  'This place is like finding the Garden of Eden in the wilderness. How does he do it?'

  'An army of gardeners and careful cultivation and the walls keep out the winds, remember.' Hamid breathed in deeply and sighed. 'And the strange thing is that it can all die in a single night. When winter comes here, it strikes suddenly, like a sword biting into warm flesh.'

  She gazed down into the moonlit water, watching the fish nibbling gently at her trailing fingers. 'Jack told me about what happened in Korea.'

  Hamid raised her chin with one hand and looked into her eyes. 'You like him, don't you?'

  'Very much. I've never met anyone quite like him. He's a strange man, violent and bitter, and yet he can be the gentlest person I've ever known.'

  'The story of my life.' Hamid sighed. 'What would you like to know?'

  'We stopped at his bungalow this afternoon. There was a girl there. Famia, I think he called her.'

  'His housekeeper's daughter.'

  She seemed to hesitate and then plunged on, 'Is she his mistress?'

  'So that's it?' Hamid chuckled gently and took her hands. 'He's a grown man, Janet, not a boy. There would be something strange if he didn't feel the need for a woman occasionally, now wouldn't there?'

  Momentarily, her hands tightened on his as anger swept through her like an uncontrollable fire, and Hamid touched her gently on the right cheek.

  'Poor Janet. India makes a harsh taskmaster.'

  'I think I love him, you see,' she said in a low voice. 'It's as simple as that.'

  'It's never as simple as that,' he said solemnly and pulled her to her feet. 'I think we'd better go back while I can still remember that fact.'

  'Just one more thing,' she said. 'Is he as embittered over this Korean business as he appears to be sometimes?'

  Hamid shook his head. 'Not really. He's too intelligent to blame himself for what was really an accident of war, but he loved the Navy. That was his greatest loss.'

  'And what does he believe in now?'

  'Nothing. At least this is what he tells himself, and spends his time living dangerously, working for the highest bidder to amass a fortune.' He chuckled gently.

  'Only to end by betraying all his hard won principles when he looks upon the face of suffering, as he did in Ladakh during the Chinese invasion.'

  'You like him a great deal, don't you?'

  'I value real friendship,' he said simply. 'Jack Drummond has shown that to me many times.'

  They walked back through the garden in silence. As they mounted the steps to the terrace, Drummond came through the windows.

  'There you are. Father Kerrigan thinks he should be going. He doesn't like leaving Kerim for too long. I'll run you back in the jeep.'

  'I'll get your coat,' Hamid told her and went inside.

  'Did you win your game?' she asked.

  'No, did you?'

  Janet smiled faintly. 'You couldn't be more wrong.'

  She brushed past him and went inside and Drummond stood there in the half-darkness, listening to the rise and fall of the voices, a cold finger of excitement moving inside him, leaving his stomach hollow and empty.

  She sat next to him on the way back, Father Kerrigan on the other side, and now and then the wind lifted the edge of her silken headscarf into Drummond's face.

  He was aware of her warmth, the softness of the thigh against his, the delicate perfume, and gripped the wheel tightly, inhaling her sweetness, aware of feelings he had not experienced for a very long time.

  The old priest kept chuckling to himself. 'I wish you could have been there, the pair of you. And didn't I show him? It'll be many a long day before he comes crowing over Terence Kerrigan again.'

  Drummond glanced at Janet and grinned as he turned the jeep into the courtyard of the mission. 'I think he must have won.'

  'Ah, get away with you!' The old man snorted as he got out of the jeep and then smiled, his face clear in the moonlight. 'A fine night for a drive.'

  Drummond hesitated and Janet said calmly, 'Mr. Cheung mentioned the ruins of a Buddhist temple not far from here. He seemed to think they were worth seeing by moonlight.'

  'And maybe he had a point there.' Father Kerrigan slapped the side of the jeep with his bare palm. 'Off with you, now, and don't be late.'

  Drummond took the jeep out through the entrance and turned across the moonlit plain beside the river. He had taken down the canvas tilt earlier and the wind was sharp and cold, carrying with it the scent of wet earth. A few minutes later, they came over the edge of an escarpment and the ruins of the temple lay before them in the centre of a small plateau, bare and wind swept, crumbling with the years.

  He braked, switched off the engine and they walked the last few yards. The full moon touched the scene with a pale luminosity and the dark shadows of half-ruined pillars fell across the mosaic floor like iron bars.

  The statue of the Buddha was at the far end, chipped and cracked by time and the weather, one arm missing, but the great, serene face was still complete, hooded eyes staring blindly into eternity across the river.

  Janet walked towards it slowly and Drummond paused to light a cheroot. When he raised his h
ead, she was standing at the edge of the crumbling terrace, staring pensively into the night.

  The moon was directly behind her, outlining her shapely limbs through the thin silk of the dress, and when she turned and looked at him, she looked unreal and ethereal like some dark goddess of the night who might fly away at any moment.

  They stood like that, trapped by a moment of time, looking at each other, and then she came forward slowly, reached up and gently touched his face.

  Drummond turned his head, brushing her palm with his lips and slipped his arm about her waist. She leaned against him, trembling a little and in the distance, thunder rumbled menacingly.

  She glanced up quickly. 'What was that?'

  'Storm on the way.' He pointed to where sheet lightning flickered over the mountains. 'We'd better get moving.'

  She was conscious of the unnatural stillness. A blanket of dark moved in from the horizon, blotting out the stars as it came. Drummond took her hand and they ran back towards the jeep.

  He pressed the starter and moved away immediately, and in the same moment, great heavy drops started to splash against the windscreen. He pressed his foot flat against the boards, but it was no good. There was a tremendous clap of thunder overhead and the skies opened.

  There was no time to put up the canvas tilt and he crouched behind the wheel, eyes narrowed against the stinging, ice-cold rain and Janet huddled at his side.

  He drove into the courtyard at the mission, braked to a halt and they scrambled out and ran up the steps to the porch.

  The thin silken dress was plastered to her body like a second skin and she shivered uncontrollably, laughing at the same time.

  'That was marvellous, simply marvellous.'

  'Better get out of those wet things,' he said. 'You'll catch your death.'

  'You could use a towel yourself.' She took his hand.

  'We'll go round this way. Father Kerrigan's probably gone to bed.'

  They followed the verandah to the garden at the rear where the window of her bedroom stood ajar. She went in, turned up the lamp and found a spare towel.

  'Do what you can with that while I get changed.'

  'Like me to dry your back?' he said.

  She gave him a quick push towards the window. 'Go on, get out of here.'

  She pulled the curtain, peeled off her wet clothes and towelled herself briskly, still shivering. After a while, the shaking stopped and a warm glow spread through her body. She pulled on her dressing gown, tying the cord at her waist and went back outside.

  Drummond wiped the rain from his head and face and hung the towel across the rail. It was bitterly cold by now and he stood there breathing deeply, taking the freshness into his lungs, filled with a strange inward restlessness.

  'Feeling better?' she said quietly.

  He turned slowly. Janet Tate was standing a few feet away by the rail and as lightning exploded, her face seemed to jump out of the night, the hair like a dark curtain to her shoulders. And she was beautiful, that was the thing which came to him with a sense of real wonder. Not just attractive, but beautiful, and he took two stumbling steps towards her, pulling her close.

  The drumming of the rain on the corrugated iron roof increased into a solid roaring that seemed to fill her ears. She was aware of his strength, the arms crushing her to him and as her loose dressing gown parted, his lips found her bare shoulders, her breasts.

  She leaned against him, caught in a strong current there was no denying, and was aware of his hands, fumbling at the cord of her dressing gown.

  As it opened, she pulled away, struggling frantically. 'No, Jack, no!' He paused, head slightly forward, trying to see her more clearly in the half-darkness, and she pushed him away violently with both hands. 'Not this way, Jack! I'm not one of your kept women!'

  For a long moment he stood there, almost invisible in the shadows, staring at her, and then, without a word, he walked rapidly away.

  As another brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the empty verandah, Janet turned with a dry sob, went back inside and threw herself on the bed, anger and frustration sweeping through her.

  Drummond had left the window of his bedroom open deliberately in spite of the cold. He lay in bed, propped against a pillow smoking a cigarette and thinking about Janet Tate as the rain drummed endlessly on the roof.

  If that was the way she wanted it, then to hell with her. As he reached to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray on the locker at his bedside, there was a movement by the window, something stirred and Famia emerged from the shadows.

  Her hair was unbound, hanging to her waist and she wore a loose silken robe fastened with a scarlet sash. There was a slight rustling of silk and as she moved into the narrow circle of the lamplight, the robe slipped to the ground.

  She stood there for a moment, magnificent in her nakedness, breasts pointed with desire, hands flat against her thighs.

  She moved forward quickly and his arms went out to enfold her, crushing her softness against him. He held her close, staring blindly out of the open window at the night as she moaned softly, digging her nails into his shoulder.

  And after all, why not? This was one kind of answer and as good as any other.

  In the darkness of the terrace, the old woman listened for a moment, then nodded to herself in satisfaction and crept quietly away.

  It was close to dawn when he awakened, the sweat cold on his flesh. It was still raining hard outside and he hitched the blanket over his shoulders and turned into her warmth to sleep again.

  Outside, the sound that had awakened him came nearer, the roar of an engine thundering through the rain. There was a squeal of brakes, boots running across the courtyard. Drummond got out of bed, reached for his dressing gown and padded to the window. As he moved out on to the verandah, Tony Brackenhurst stumbled on the top step and dropped to one knee, his face wild and strained in the light of the porch lamp.

  'For God's sake, man, what is it?' Drummond demanded.

  'Chinese troops,' Brackenhurst gasped. 'At Howeel. They over-ran my camp, slaughtered my men.'

  'Chinese?' Drummond said. 'A patrol, you mean?'

  'Hundreds of the bastards! Hundreds!' Brackenhurst sobbed.

  Drummond stood stock-still for a moment and then pulled Brackenhurst to his feet. 'Have you told anyone else about this?'

  Brackenhurst shook his head. 'No, I haven't had time.'

  'Good, if word gets out too soon we might have a general panic and that plane of mine can take no more then fifteen in this kind of flying country.'

  'That's what I thought,' Brackenhurst said.

  'I bet you did. Now this is what we do. From here, we go to the mission to warn Father Kerrigan and Janet. We'll leave them my jeep and they can follow us in with Kerim as soon as they're ready.'

  'What do we do then?'

  'Come back to town in your Land Rover and break the news to the Khan. This might prove to him just how useless it was to rely on the border tribes for information.'

  He returned to his bedroom and dressed quickly, pulling on fur-lined boots and his old naval flying jacket. Famia sat up in bed, the blankets clutched to her breast and watched him.

  'When will you be back?' she said.

  He took the Smith & Wesson .38 from a drawer, checked that it was loaded and slipped a box of spare cartridges into his pocket. 'God knows, but you'll be all right. You don't need me. You never did.'

  He went out through the window and a moment later she heard the two engines break into life, one after the other, and the sound of them faded into the rain.

  The door creaked open and the old woman crept in. 'Did you hear?' the girl said softly in Urdu.

  The woman nodded and pulled the blankets aside. 'Come, girl, there is not much time and you know what must be done.'

  Famia dressed quickly in an old pair of Drummond's drill pants and a white naval sweater that dropped over her slim hips. She pulled on slippers, nodded to her mother and moved out on to the verandah. A moment late
r, she was running through the quiet streets, head down against the rain.

  Within five minutes, she came to a bungalow almost identical with Drummond's, ran up the steps to the verandah and knocked on the door furiously.

  'Mr. Cheung! Mr. Cheung!' she called.

  6

  Action by Night

  IT was the rain which saved Brackenhurst, the sudden torrential downpour which turned a normally quiet mountain stream into a brawling torrent, in one place filling a dip in the road with a ford of ice-cold water.

  He had spent a long, hard day in the mountains on his own, prospecting for ore specimens and now, on his way back to his base camp at Howeel, the sudden rush of water gleaming white and brown in his headlights caused him to stamp hard on the brake.

  He got out, found a branch at the side of the road and poked it carefully into the water. It was at least four feet deep. He might be able to drive through, but on the other hand, if the damned thing bogged down, he'd had it. He climbed back into the Land Rover and reversed to the top of the hill, switched off his headlights and returned on foot.

  The water was cold, damned cold, and it swirled around his thighs, numbing him to the bone. He floundered forward with a curse and found dry land again. Thank God the camp was no more than half a mile away.

  He trudged along the dirt road, head down against the driving rain, the light from his electric torch reaching into the darkness. Somewhere up ahead he seemed to hear a cry and then another, confused shouting and the dull, flat report of a gunshot muffled by the rain. A second later came the deadly staccato of a machine gun.

  He stood at the top of a small rise, a slight frown on his face as he looked down through the pine trees at the flickering light of the campfire. There was a flurry of movement, the noise of vehicles, a shouted command.

  He moved off the road and went down through the trees cautiously until he was no more than twenty or thirty yards away from the camp, but above it on the hillside.

  The hollow was alive with Chinese troops, little stocky peasants in quilted uniforms and peaked caps, shining Burp guns in their hands, and the heart seemed to freeze inside him.