by Jack Higgins
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 left 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.
3
The Nightwalkers
JANET stepped out of the shower, dried herself quickly and went into the bedroom, the towel wrapped around her slim body. The window to the terrace was open and she stood in the shadows and looked out.
A bank of cloud rolled away from the moon and Juma was bathed in a hard white light, flat-roofed houses straggling down to the river below. The night sky was incredibly beautiful with stars strung away to the horizon where the mountains lifted uneasily to meet them.
It was peaceful and quiet, a dog barking hollowly somewhere in the night. In the streets below, she could see torches flaring and then a drum started to beat monotonously, joined a moment later by some stringed instrument, and the sound of laughter drifted up on the warm air.
There was a discreet tap on the door and she called quickly, 'Who is it?'
'Ali - can I speak to you for a moment?'
She pulled on her dressing gown, fastened the cord and opened the door. Hamid came in, resplendent in his best uniform.
'How are you feeling?'
'Fine. I slept for an hour, then had a shower.'
'Good.' He hesitated and then went on apologetically. 'I'm sorry about this, Janet, but I'm afraid I'd already arranged something for this evening.' He glanced at his watch. 'As it is, I'm pressed for time.'
'A lady?'
'I hope not,' he said solemnly.
She chuckled. 'You're quite incorrigible. Better not keep her waiting.'
'Jack went out to the airstrip to check on some cargo we're taking with us tomorrow. Motor spare, I think. He shouldn't be more than half an hour.'
She listened to the sound of his footsteps fade along the narrow passage and then closed the door. She stood with her back to it, a slight frown on her face and then walked slowly across to the window.
The drumming was louder now, an insistent throbbing that filled the night and someone was singing in a high, reedy voice, hardly moving from one note to another, monotonous and yet strangely exciting.
She hurried across to the bed, opened her second suitcase and took out a sleeveless black dress in heavy silk that she had purchased in a moment of weakness in Saigon. She held it against herself for a moment in the mirror, and then smiled and started to dress. When she was ready, she pulled on a white linen duster coat against the night air, wound a silk scarf around her head and went downstairs.
The Hindu night clerk dozed at his desk, but came awake at once when she touched him lightly on the shoulder. 'I want to go to the airstrip. Can you get me a tonga?'
'Certainly, memsahib. Come this way.'
He took her out through the entrance and down the steps to the street. A light, two-wheeled tonga was parked at the kerb, a magnificent affair, a beautiful, high-stepping horse between the shafts, his brass harness gleaming in the lamplight.
The driver squatted on the pavement, chatting to an old beggar, but he sprang to his feet at once and ran forward. The Hindu desk clerk handed Janet in, gave the man his destination and then moved away.
The sky was scattered with the fire of a million stars, the moon so large that it seemed unreal like a pasteboard cut-out. The wind blew in through the darkness carrying the last heat of the day across the river and she breathed deeply, wondering what the night might bring, her body shaking with a strange, nervous excitement.
The airstrip was half a mile outside Juma on a flat plain beside the river. It was not an official stopping place f
or any of the big airlines and had been constructed by the RAF as an emergency strip during the war.
There was one prefabricated concrete hangar still painted in the camouflage of wartime, and the plane squatted inside, the scarlet and gold of its fuselage gleaming in the light of a hurricane lamp suspended from a beam.
Drummond leaned against a trestle table beside a wall-eyed Bengali merchant named Samil, Cheung's agent in Juma, and watched two porters load the narrow boxes into the plane.
'What's in this one?' he asked, kicking a wooden crate that carried the neatly stencilled legend Machine Parts, F. Cheung, Esq., Sadar, Sikkim.
Samil produced a bunch of keys, unfastened the padlock which secured the lid of the crate and opened it. He removed a mass of cotton waste and revealed a layer of rifles, each one still coated in grease from the factory.
Drummond took one out. It was a Garrand automatic, a beautiful weapon. He examined it closely and frowned. 'What about this?' He indicated the legend, United States Army on the butt plate. 'A bit stupid, isn't it? I don't think our American friends would be amused.'
'That's what they sent me this time,' Samil shrugged. 'Surplus stock always comes cheaper, you should know that.'
'Somehow, I don't think Cheung is going to like it.' He raised the Garrand, took an imaginary sight out of the door and stiffened suddenly as Janet Tate moved out of the shadows.
'What in the hell are you doing here?' he demanded.
'I'm sorry,' she said, her face serious. 'Hamid's gone off for the night. Before he left he called and told me you were out here. I thought you might like to take me to dinner or something.'
'Exactly what I intended to do.'
The two porters had stopped working and glanced at Samil uncertainly. Drummond was still holding the Garrand in both hands, close to his chest and Janet said gravely, 'Hamid said he thought you were loading motor spares.'
He put the rifle back with the others, wiped his hands clean on a lump of cotton waste and nodded to Samil. 'You finish up here. Nothing to worry about. I'll handle it.'
He turned, straightening his tie. 'How did you get here?'
'I came in a tonga from the hotel. I told the driver to wait.'
'Shall we go, then?'
He took her arm, aware of the stiff restraint, the tilt of her chin and knew that in some way he had disappointed her. In the tonga she sat silently in her corner, as far away from him as possible and Drummond chuckled.
'I'm sorry to spoil the image of the big bad gunrunner for you, but Ali knows damn well what I fly up to Sikkim in boxes labelled Machine Parts.'
She turned quickly in the darkness and he was aware of her perfume, delicate on the cool air.
'So does everyone else including the Khan himself.' He groped for her hand in the darkness and held it tight. 'Look, I'll tell you about it because it's coming to an end anyway and because I don't want my dinner spoiled. I've been looking forward to it.'
'Go on,' she said.
There's a Chinese gentleman called Cheung up at Sadar. He's been there for six or seven months now. He's supposed to be a general merchant, but he happens to be an agent of the Chinese Nationalist Government on Formosa. He supplies the guns and I run them over the border into Tibet.'
'To help Tibetan guerrilla fighters against the Communist government?'
'Exactly.'
She reached over and touched his arm, the breath going out of her in a gentle sigh. 'Oh, Jack. I'm so glad.'
'Well that's a hell of a thing for a clean living Quaker girl to say,' he said. 'And don't go putting me on any pedestal. I do it for hard cash, not out of any political idealism.'
'You don't think the Tibetans stand any chance of winning then?'
He laughed harshly. 'Not in a thousand years. Their battle will be won or lost in other places. Vietnam, Malaysia, Sarawak, perhaps on the floor of the United Nations. But to hell with that. Where would you like to eat?'
'Somewhere full of colour, not just a tourist trap. I want to see the real India.'
'Good for you. We'll make a woman of you yet.'
They were moving into the centre of Juma now and he tapped the driver on the shoulder and told him to stop. 'We'll walk from here. You want to see the real India, I'll show it to you.'
He paid the driver, took her arm and they moved along the street. As they neared the centre, it became busier and busier. Vendors of cooked food squatted inside their wooden stalls beside charcoal fires, busy with their pans, the scent of spices and cooked meats pungent on the cooling air.
And then they turned into the old quarter where lamps hung from the houses and the bazaar was even more crowded than during the daylight hours as people walked abroad to savour the cool night air.
The pavements were jammed with wooden stalls, overflowing with masses of paper flowers, shoddy plastic sandals imported from Hong Kong, aluminium pots and pans looking somehow incongruous and out of place.
Craftsmen sat cross-legged in their booths behind the stalls of the brass merchants, still plying their ancient craft next to the silversmiths and the garment-makers where they embroidered dancing girls' clothes.
There were Bohara carpets, rugs from Isfahan and, at the far end, prostitutes waiting in their booths, unveiled and heavily painted, and even here the curtain of night, the flickering lamps shining on cheap bangles and jewellery, cloaked the filth and disease, the squalor of the daylight hours.
They moved on, Drummond pushing to one side the numerous beggars who whined for alms, and finally turned into a narrow, quiet street leading to the river. Faintly on the night air, Janet could hear music. It grew louder and then they came to a narrow arched door.
'You wanted India? Well, this is it,' Drummond said.
They went along a narrow passage and came out on to a small landing at the head of a flight of steps overlooking a large, square room. It was crowded with Indians, mainly men, most of them wearing traditional dress. They were all eating hugely and talking loudly at the same time.
In the centre on a raised platform, a young, womanish tabla player, eyes rimmed with kohl, beat his drums with an insolent skill, looking around at the crowd as he did so, a bored and haughty expression on his face. His companion, an older man in baggy white trousers, three-quarter length black frock coat buttoned to the neck, looked strangely formal and played the zita, his fingers moving across the strings with incredible dexterity.
A small, neat Hindu in scarlet turban, his eyes flickering towards Janet with frank admiration, approached with a ready smile. 'A table, Mr. Drummond? You wish to dine?'
'A booth, I think,' Drummond told him.
They threaded their way between the tables, all eyes turning towards Janet and gasps of admiration, even clapping, followed them to their booth.
They sat facing each other across a small brass table, a bead curtain partially obscuring them from the other diners and Drummond ordered.
It was a simple meal, but superbly cooked. Curried chicken so strong that Janet gasped for breath, swallowing great draughts of cold water, thoughtfully provided by the proprietor, to cool her burning mouth. Afterwards, they had green mangoes soaked in syrup, followed by Yemeni mocha, the finest coffee in the world, in tiny, exquisite cups.
'Satisfied?' he asked her as he lit a cheroot.
She nodded, her eyes shining. 'Marvellous, I wouldn't have missed it for anything.'
'There's a floor show of sorts,' he said. 'Do you want to see it? Not exactly the Copocabana, I warn you.'
There was an unmistakable challenge in his voice and she responded immediately. 'I've never refused a dare since I was old enough to walk.'
'Suit yourself.'
There was a sudden roll on the drum, the lights dimmed a little and there was silence. There was an atmosphere of expectancy that she could sense at once and then a gentle, universal sigh echoed through the room.
A woman stepped through a curtain at the rear and poised for a moment, a dark silhouette against the light. 'Saida! Saida!'
the name echoed faintly through the crowd.
'One of the few great nautch dancers left,' Drummond whispered to Janet. 'She's fifty if she's a day, but you'd never guess it.'
The right arm extended slowly and a tiny, tinkling cymbal sounded. Immediately the musicians responded on the tabla and zita and Saida started to sway sensuously, moving into the centre of the room.
Her face was heavily painted, a symbolic mask that never changed expression, but the body beneath the swirling, silken veils was that of a young and vibrant girl.
Gradually, the music increased in tempo and she moved in time, swaying from side to side, discarding her veils one by one until she stood before them, naked except for a small, beaded girdle low across her loins.
She stood quite still as the music stopped and the audience waited. The tabla player's fingers broke into a fast monotonous tattoo and she started to sway, hands above her head, clapping rhythmically, and the audience swayed with her, clapping in time, crying aloud with delight.
Round and round the perimeter of the floor she moved, faster and faster, sweat glistening on her body, until, with a sudden fierce gesture, she ripped the girdle from her loins and flung herself forward on her knees, sliding to a halt in front of a large, richly dressed merchant who squatted on cushions before a low table with two companions.
There was another abrupt silence and then the drum sounded again, slower this time, the beat becoming more insistent each moment as she writhed sinuously, thrusting her pointed breasts at him, twisting effortlessly from knees to buttocks, sliding away from his grasping hands, sharp cries rising from the crowd.
And then he had her, fingers hooking into her buttocks. As the crowd roared its approval, the drum stopped. She twisted from his grasp, her oiled body slipping between his hands, ran across the floor and melted through the curtain.
The musicians started to play again on a more muted key and the audience returned to their food, discussing the performance with much laughter and joking. When Drummond turned to look at Janet, her face was strangely pale.
'I warned you,' he said. 'You wanted to see the real India and this is a country where sex is as much a part of daily life as eating and drinking, an appetite to be satisfied, that's all.'