High Time To Kill rbb-3

by Raymond Benson

  The views were exhilarating. They were in magnificent hills colored m brown and green, and the vast Himalayas were just beyond them. They passed farmers working with water buffalo. The men were dressed in vests and loincloths, while some women were wearing the graceful Indian sari, a five-meter length of cloth draped over a tight, short-sleeved blouse called a choli. The saris were always brightly colored and they fluttered like banners. Nepali women delighted in decoration, layering themselves with jewelry in carnival colors. Their long, black hair was usually braided with red cotton tassels, or they twisted it into a neat bun with a flower set in it. The essential tika mark made on the forehead with red sindhur powder was part of the daily puja.

  “In a mystic sense,” Chandra explained, “the tika represents the thirdeye of spiritual insight. For women it’s a cosmetic essential.”

  They reached Phurumba, a drop in altitude to 922 meters, right on schedule at one o’clock. The Sherpas had lunch ready, which again con. sisted of dhal bhat. Rumor had it that there would be chicken for dinner.

  After two hours’ rest, the team pushed on toward Chirwa, which was a significantly more difficult walk, as the altitude would have I increased to 1,270 meters by the time they arrived. Because they had already trekked a fair distance that morning, it took them nearly six I hours instead of the allotted four to reach their destination.

  Again, the scenery was beautiful. At one point Bond noticed a temple built high on a hill, with a single dirt road winding up to it. An old man standing at the foot of the road with a stick for a cane smiled and beckoned them forward, asking for a handout. One of the Americans gave him a few rupees.

  “Right,” Marquis said as they approached Chirwa. The village looked similar to Taplejung but was smaller. “Congratulations on a good day’s trekking. I know we’re all tired. I’m certainly feeling the effects of the altitude change. Let’s get another good night’s sleep and will our bodies to acclimatize quickly! The Sherpas will have dinner ready in an hour. There are not enough lodges to go around, I’m afraid. Some of us will have to pitch tents. There is room for ten people in the lodges. We can draw straws for them, if you’d like, unless someone wants to volunteer to stay in their tents.”

  “We don’t mind,” Bond said. He looked at Chandra for approval. The Gurkha shrugged.

  “I’ll stay in a tent,” Hope Kendall said.

  “Uhm, you don’t have to do that,” Marquis said.

  “Why not? Just because I’m a woman? Stop giving me special attention, Roland. Pretty soon we’ll all be in tents for a long time. It doesn’t matter to me, really.”

  Bond could see that it was Marquis who didn’t particularly want to sleep in a tent that night. Was she attempting to distance herself from him?

  “Fine,” Marquis said. “We’ll do that, then.”

  “I’d rather stay in my own tent tonight, if you don’t mind,” She said. It was loud enough for the entire group to hear. Marquis was noticeably embarrassed. Something unpleasant must have occurred between them during the previous night.

  Marquis made light of the comment, but Bond knew he was cross that she had said something like that in front of everyone. Marquis ended up staying in a lodge.

  Bond and Chandra started to erect a two-man Bibler Torre tent, which was sturdy and could withstand high winds and keep the icy chill out when completely sealed. By the time they were done, a campfire had been lit and people gathered around it. The evening developed into a beautiful mild spring night. There were thousands of stars, and the silhouettes of the peaks against them produced a skyscape that Bond had seldom seen.

  Dinner was an Indian-style chicken curry that the cook, Girmi, had made less spicy than usual to accommodate the western tastes. Bond was becoming accustomed to the art of eating with his right hand. The Nepalese were experts at flicking a bite of food into the mouth with their thumb. One of the Americans brought a bottle of inexpensive red wine out of his knapsack, saying that he was saving it for Base Camp but knew that drinking alcohol at higher altitudes was not wise. There was just enough for everyone to have a little in a paper cup. Philippe Leaud produced a harmonica and began to play plaintive melodies. One by one people began to wander away from the campfire and settle in for the night.

  Bond walked a short distance into the darkness to answer a call of nature. On the way back, he noticed Hope Kendall’s tent, which she had put up a good hundred feet away from the others. An oil lamp was burning inside, and he could see the outline of her figure against the canvas. As he walked past, roughly fifteen feet away from it, he’d see that the tent flap was open. The doctor was squatting on mat in the middle of the tent. She was still dressed in pants, but she had removed her sweater, exposing a white T-shirt. He paused a moment, anticipating a wave.

  She didn’t see him. Instead, she took hold of the bottom of the T-shirt pulled it off over her head. She was naked underneath. Her breasts were larger than was readily apparent when she was full dressed, and the nipples were erect and extended. The areolas were also red and large, almost as if blush had been applied to them. The sight of her sitting there topless was very erotic.

  Then she looked up and noticed him standing there. Rather than covering herself with a start, she simply looked at him knowingly and didn’t say a word. Without averting her eyes from his, she reached out and unsnapped the flap of the tent, letting it fall to cover the opening.

  What the hell was that all about? Bond wondered. Was she Marquis’s girlfriend or not? It was almost as if she didn’t mind that he got a good look at her and was daring him to do something.

  He walked back toward the rest of the camp, pondering the mysteries of the opposite sex, when he noticed Paul Baack working at a portable table. He sat on a collapsible stool, and his large frame looked comical on top of it. He was busily typing on the laptop, which was connected to a Microcom-M Global Satellite Telephone.

  “How are things back in civilization?” Bond asked.

  “Ah, hello,” Baack said. “This is a wonderful device. It’s the world’s smallest and lightest Inmarsat M satellite telephone. I just got a fix on a satellite and made a call to my girlfriend.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She lives in Utrecht. Ingrid. Nice German girl. I’m glad you came by. I just received a message for you.”

  Baack punched a few more keys and brought up an e-mail written in code. “I can’t understand a word of it, but you might be able to.

  Bond leaned over to look at the monitor. It was in a standard SIS code that used word associations to get its message across. Bond frowned as he read it, then said, “Thanks. You can delete it.”

  Baack shrugged and said, “I hope it’s not bad news.”

  “It’s good and bad,” Bond said. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Mr. Bond.”

  He walked back to his own tent, where Chandra had just boiled some water with a Bibler hanging stove. It hung from the tent roof to keep the floor clear, minimizing spillage.

  “Want some tea?” he asked. “It’s special herbs from Nepal. Help you sleep.”

  “I normally despise tea, but I’ll have some,” Bond said. “I just got message from London.

  “Oh?”

  “No word on Otto Schrenk. SIS confirms that he is known to be a serious mountaineer, but they’re still doing a background check. More interesting is that Dr. Steven Harding is dead. His body was found washed up on the shore at Gibraltar. His throat was cut. There was a note in his pocket that said, ‘Your traitor has ceased to be useful. We hereby return him to you.’ It was signed The Union.’ “

  Chandra gave a low whistle. “Then they are on to us, I expect.”

  “Have you observed anything unusual so far?”

  He shook his head. “Only that Group Captain Marquis and Dr. Kendall aren’t sleeping together tonight!” He chuckled.

  Bond avoided that subject and said, “I have a sneaking suspicion that someone from the Union is here.”

  “I feel that, too
. If not among us, then they are nearby. Perhaps with the Chinese or the Russian expedition?”

  Bond removed his boots and put on Patagonia Activist Fleece sleeveless bibs, perfect sleepwear for chilly high altitudes.

  “It’s possible. Let’s just be on our guard. Maybe you and I will take a side trip and take a look at the Chinese group.”

  “Okay commander.”

  “Chandra?”

  “Yes?”

  “You can call me James.”

  “Fine, James.”

  Fatigue must have hit the Gurkha harder than on the previous night, for he was asleep within ten minutes. Bond, however, was wide awake. Sometimes it is difficult to sleep at high altitudes; insomnia is a common malady among mountaineers. Bond often experienced it himself, and he knew it would get worse as they kept ascending. Insomnia, however, wasn’t what was keeping him awake tonight.

  His mind was racing with thoughts of Steven Harding, the Union, the dangerous mission they were undertaking . . . and Hope Kendall’s magnificent breasts.

  SEVENTEEN

  ELEMINATING THE COMPETITION

  THE TEAM WERE in relatively good spirits when they awoke and prepared for the second day of trekking. The day’s goal was to reach Ghaiya Bai, which was at an altitude of 2,050 meters—not much of an increase, but it was a good six hours’ hike to get there. The Sherpas left early, as usual, and Bond and Chandra enjoyed a light breakfast of yogurt, known throughout the subcontinent as curd. The buffalo milk curd of Nepal was surprisingly good, Bond thought, but he also imagined that sending overweight people on a trek across Nepal for a month would be an excellent way to diet.

  The team met in the center of Chirwa at eight-thirty. The sky was overcast, causing a drop in temperature. Everyone was dressed in more layers—sweaters, jackets—some were even wearing their parkas. Chandra preferred to dress in combat equipment marching order, which basically consisted of a bergen, or rucksack, topped by what he called a “grab bag.” This contained essential bits of kit that he might need in a hurry; such as a radio, small gas stove, articles of warmer clothing, and a waterproof jacket. Ever present was the Gurkha staple, the outstanding khukri knife. It was carried at his waist in a shiny black leather sheath. Two smaller knives, the sharp karta and the blunt jhi, were also part of the khukri package, and these were used to light fires and peel fruit. The larger knife, which was eighteen inches long, was made of tempered steel with a handle 0f buffalo horn.

  “The boomerang-like shape symbolizes the Hindu trilogy of Rama, Vishnu, and Shiva,” Chandra explained when Bond asked him about it He pointed to a little nick in the blade near the handle. “You know what this is for? It’s to catch your enemy’s blood as it runs down the blade and keep it from reaching your hand!”

  Hope Kendall barely glanced at Bond. It was as if the voyeuristic episode of the previous evening never happened. As the team set off, she began by striding beside Roland Marquis, but after an hour she had dropped back and was walking and talking with one of the Americans. Marquis seemed to be most friendly with Carl Glass, who occasionally looked at Bond as if the “Foreign Office representative” were an outsider and didn’t belong on the expedition. Bond expected a certain lack of acceptance from the other climbers, but Glass in particular looked down his nose at him.

  Otto Schrenk always walked alone and rarely said much to anyone. Bond attempted to engage him in conversation, but the man was tight-lipped.

  “How did they find you on such short notice?” he asked.

  “In eight-thousand-meter climbing, one’s reputation is known,” Schrenk said, as if that explained everything.

  A sudden downpour made the second hour into the trek less than pleasant. Everyone scrambled to put on rain parkas, but they kept moving.

  Paul Baack caught up to Bond and said, “Hey, Mr. Englishman, there’s your umbrella?” He laughed loudly.

  “I left it at home with my bowler hat,” Bond replied.

  The rain stopped in thirty minutes, but it left the ground wet and muddy. Marquis gave the order to halt for fifteen minutes to air out the wet parkas. Magically, the sun appeared from behind the clouds and the rest of the day promised to be beautiful.

  Bond sat on a rock near Hope Kendall. She was brushing her hair, which glistened in the new sunlight.

  “I don’t know about you,” she said offhandedly, “but I’ll be ready for a full aftermatch function when we’re through today, providing I don’t bust my boiler getting to camp.”

  “Oh, you like to drink?” Bond asked, referring to her kiwi jargon.

  “I’m a doctor, I’m not supposed to drink,” she said. “But I enjoy a pint or two. When I was in college it would make me chunder all the time, but not anymore.”

  “How long have you known Marquis?”

  “Roland? Uhm . . . six years? I was on an expedition to Everest with him. We met again when he climbed Mount Cook in New Zealand. What about you?”

  “Oh, we’re old rivals from Eton. It was a long time ago.”

  “I thought there was something between you two,” she said. She began to apply sunblock to her face and other exposed skin areas. “You have to admit that he’s a good head sherang. He always goes for the doctor in everything he does. He’s a hard case.”

  “Does that appeal to you?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I like men who are boots and all.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sorry, I meant that I like men who give it everything they’ve got. You haven’t been to New Zealand much, have you?”

  “I’m afraid not. Once or twice.”

  “Where did you go?” She finished brushing her hair and began to reorganize her pack.

  “Auckland, mostly.”

  “Ah, well, that’s where I live and work,” she said. “It’s the big smoke of New Zealand, isn’t it? I was born in Taupo. It’s a fairly well- to-do place. I got out of there as soon as I could. I didn’t like the snobbery.”

  Bond had thought that she might have come from money. She had an aristocratic air about her that bordered on being snooty. Somehow, though, she had risen above the stereotype and seemed to be a genuinely friendly person. Perhaps it was the medical profession that had changed her.

  “I lived for a while on the west coast of the south island, where everyone is basically pretty weird,” she said. “People say it’s a lot like California there. I spent some time around Mount Cook—that’s where I learned to climb.”

  “What made you become a doctor?”

  “That’s a long story. I was pretty wild when I was young. Hell, I’m still young. When I was younger, I should say. All I wanted to do was live in the outdoors, go camping, climb mountains, that sort of thing. And, uhm, there were men.” She shook her head, whistled, and smiled. “I had a huge men problem. I thought there was something wrong with me! I couldn’t get enough . . . hell, I don’t know why I’m telling you this, I hardly know you!”

  Bond laughed. “We’re spending the next few weeks together, so I wouldn’t worry about that. As a matter of fact, I sometimes think I have the same problem. With women, of course.”

  “Well, I had it with women, too,” she said under her breath and rolling her eyes. “I didn’t think there could be such a thing as sex addiction, but I had it bad. When I was treated for it, I became interested in psychology, and that in turn led to medicine. I hadn’t gone to college yet, so I did a complete turnaround. The wild child became a serious student. I moved to Auckland to study to be a doctor, and now I can name every part of your body and spell it, too. I turned the interest in sex into a specialization in sexology for a while—you know, sexual dysfunction and all that—but then I became more attracted to general practice. I suppose you could say I find the human body a very interesting machine. I’m fascinated by it, the way a bloke knows how to take apart a sports car and put it back together. I like to test the body’s limits.”

  That explained the rather rough physical examination he experienced the other day. />
  “And how’s that addiction now?” he asked.

  She stood up and put the pack on her back. “Like any vice, as long as it’s in moderation, it can’t be too bad.” She winked at him and walked away.

  She was a “hard case” herself, Bond thought. He knew that he shouldn’t bother attempting to figure her out, but he found that he was very attracted to her. Hope obviously exhibited a great deal of energy and intelligence, but she also possessed a distinct and unsubtle animal magnetism that was inviting.

  They reached the picnic site set up by the Sherpas at approximately one o’clock. There was still another two hours or more to go before they reached the day’s stop. Lunch was tama, a Nepali soup made from dried bamboo shoots. Bond found it less than satisfying, but it would have to do.

  As they rested for a half hour, Bond wandered over to Paul Baack and asked, “Any new messages from London?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “I’ll let you know. I check the e-mail three times a day. I did receive a note from our liaison in Kathmandu. He says the Chinese are only a mile to the southwest of us and are gaining ground. If we stay on the same schedule, we’ll still beat them to the mountain. But if they happen to double their efforts and attempt to pass us . . .”

  “Noted,” Bond said.

  The team prepared to leave the site as the Sherpas packed up. The three Americans were standing on a ledge looking at a glorious view of a terraced hill that farmers were plowing. When they turned to join the others, Bill Scott, one of the Americans, tripped over a stone and fell. He cried out in pain and held on to his foot. Hope Kendall rushed to him.

  “Now what?” Marquis muttered. He wandered over to the huddle and listened to what the doctor had to say.

  Bond and Chandra joined them. Hope had unlashed Scott’s boot and was examining his ankle. It was already swelling badly.

  “It’s broken,” she said finally.