Jack Higgins - Chavasse 02

by Year of the Tiger

  “But it would be asking so much,” Hoffner said. “To turn against your own people. To live amongst strangers for the rest of your life.”

  She lifted one of his hands and held it against her cheek. “You are my people.” She turned and smiled straight at Chavasse. “You and Paul. Who else have I got in all the world?”

  Chavasse pulled her into his arms and when he kissed her, her face was wet with tears. She smiled happily as she looked up at him, and then her smile died.

  He felt a cold breath of wind from the outer hall as it touched the nape of his neck, and something seemed to crawl up his spine. He pushed Katya away and turned slowly. Captain Tsen stood just inside the doorway, Hoffner’s Chinese houseboy beside him, a machine pistol in his hand.

  There was an expression of unholy joy on Tsen’s face and his teeth gleamed in the firelight. “So, at last we have the truth, Mr. Chavasse? I’m sure you’ll agree it was well worth our little stratagem, but now the playacting is over.”

  He should have known, Chavasse told himself bitterly. The whole damn thing had been too easy. To Colonel Li, who knew his man, the escape was something he had counted on. Just another move in the game, and one that had paid off.

  Hoffner took a step forward, pushing Chavasse to one side. “Now look here, Captain,” he began.

  “Please stay exactly where you are,” Tsen told him coldly.

  For a brief moment the houseboy’s eyes flickered towards Hoffner, and it was all Chavasse needed. He gave Katya a push that sent her staggering out of harm’s way and dived for the safety of the shadows behind a wing-backed chair.

  As the houseboy swung the machine pistol in an arc, bullets spraying the furniture, Katya ran forward shouting, “No, Paul, no!” and then she screamed and fell to the floor.

  She lay on the sheepskin rug in front of the fire, blood pouring over her face from a wound in her forehead. Chavasse crouched for a moment to the side of the chair and peered round the edge.

  The houseboy and Tsen were still standing in the doorway and Hoffner was kneeling over Katya. “You can’t get away, Chavasse,” Tsen cried. “Come out with your hands up.”

  Chavasse crawled on his belly behind an antique divan and carefully lifted a small Chinese ornament from a table beside him. He hefted it in his hand for a moment.

  “I’m running out of patience,” Tsen cried.

  Chavasse lobbed the ornament across the room into the shadows of the far corner. The houseboy turned and fired twice in rapid succession and Chavasse stood up, took three quick paces forward and hit him across the back of the neck with the edge of his hand. He grabbed the machine pistol as it fell from nerveless fingers.

  Tsen had only just managed to get his automatic out. He dropped it hurriedly and Chavasse bent to pick it up and slipped it into his pocket.

  “There’s only one thing keeping you alive,” he said. “The fact that I happen to have a use for you. Now take off your belt and turn round.”

  Tsen complied, hate and fear in his eyes, and Chavasse tied his wrists together behind his back with the strap and pushed him down in a chair.

  He went and stood over Hoffner and Katya. The old man had his black medical bag on the floor and was gently swabbing blood away from her face.

  “How bad is it?” Chavasse asked.

  “She’s a lucky girl,” Hoffner told him. “The bullet has simply grazed her. She’ll be unconscious for some time and when she wakes up, she’ll be suffering from shock and possibly confusion.”

  “Can she travel? That’s the important thing.”

  Hoffner shrugged and started to unroll a bandage. “She’ll have to—we can’t leave her here after this.”

  Chavasse laid the machine pistol on the floor beside him. “I’ll get the necessary clothing and so on from the bedrooms. I’ll leave you the gun in case our friend tries to give you any trouble.”

  When he returned five minutes later with several sheepskin coats and quilted jackets in his arms, Hoffner had just finished bandaging Katya’s head and was in the act of giving her an injection.

  He closed his bag quickly and stood up. “Well, she’s as ready as she’ll ever be.”

  Chavasse lifted her gently from the ground and Hoffner slipped her arms into the sleeves of a quilted jacket and then a heavy sheepskin coat, pulling the hood up around her head.

  Chavasse carried her out to the jeep while Hoffner got himself ready. It was still raining outside, and a cold wind was blowing. Chavasse made Katya as comfortable as he could on the rear bench seat and then hurried back inside.

  Hoffner stood in the centre of the room dressed in a long sheepskin coat and fur cap with earflaps, the machine pistol in his right hand looking somehow incongruous and out of place.

  There was a slight frown on his face, but it suddenly cleared and he crossed to his desk, opened one of its cupboards and took out a worn leather briefcase. “I mustn’t forget this, of all things.”

  “The papers?” The old man nodded and Chavasse asked, “Anything else?”

  Hoffner looked around the room and sighed. “So very many years.” He shook his head sadly. “I think I’d like to leave everything exactly as it is. I’ve never believed in the erection of sentimental monuments, and I’m too old to start now.” He picked up his medical bag.

  Tsen still sat huddled in his seat, and he glared at them malevolently. “You’ll never get away with this.”

  “Oh, but we will,” Chavasse said, pulling him to his feet, “because you’re going to sit beside me as we go right through the gates.”

  Tsen suddenly looked as if he were going to be sick, but Chavasse remembered Joro and there was no pity in his heart. He sent Tsen staggering out into the hall with a powerful shove and followed.

  When they reached the jeep Hoffner got into the rear seat beside Katya and Chavasse took the wheel, Tsen sitting beside him.

  The streets were completely deserted as they rolled through the town. As they approached the gate, Chavasse brought the automatic out of his pocket and held it in his lap.

  “Remember to say the right things,” he said warningly.

  There was no sentry box and the soldier who stood under the lantern by the closed gates looked the picture of misery as the rain beat down on him.

  Chavasse slowed and the soldier moved forward, burp gun shining in the headlights. Tsen leaned out and cried, “Get the gates open, you dolt, I’m in a hurry.”

  The man’s jaw dropped in dismay and he turned at once and lifted the great swing bar which secured the gates. He pulled them back quickly and stood to one side.

  Chavasse kept his head down as they went by, the peak of the military cap shading his face. He turned once to look back and saw the gates beginning to close and then he moved into top gear and drove forward into the night.

  Dogs barked as they passed through the camp of the herdsmen and then they were climbing up out of the valley, leaving Changu in the darkness below.

  About twenty minutes later, Chavasse braked to a halt and turned to Tsen. “Get out.”

  “But my wrists,” Tsen pleaded. “How can I walk all the way back?”

  “I said get out!” Chavasse told him coldly.

  As Tsen scrambled to the ground and started back along the track, Chavasse got out and went after him.

  “Captain Tsen!” he called. “I was forgetting something. A debt I owe you, for myself and a lot of other people.”

  As Tsen turned warily, Chavasse pulled the automatic from his pocket and shot him twice through the head at close quarters.

  For a moment he stood over the body, then he returned to the jeep and, disregarding Hoffner’s shocked face, drove away into the night.

  16

  In the grey of the early dawn, the walls of Yalung Gompa were a vivid splash of orange against the storm-filled skies. Chavasse frowned in puzzlement. There was something different about the place, something not quite right. As they drove down into the valley, he realized what it was: There was no encampment
under the walls.

  The whole place had a strange, neglected air about it. It was as if they were approaching some ancient ruined city, empty and forlorn. He drove slowly through the great open gates into the courtyard and braked to a halt at once.

  A line of saffron-clad monks sprawled against the far wall, some with fingers digging into the dirt, others with knees drawn up to their bellies as if they had died hard.

  “Oh, my God,” said Hoffner, and there was horror in his voice.

  “This gives you a mild idea of how the Chinese are trying to run this country,” Chavasse told him. “You stay here. I’m going to have a look round.”

  Earlier, in a compartment in the dashboard, he had discovered an excellent military map of the area, two stick grenades and a canvas belt of .45 ammunition, obviously intended for the machine gun which was usually mounted in the rear. He quickly reloaded the machine pistol, put a handful of rounds in his pocket and crossed the courtyard to the main door.

  It was cold and dark inside and he moved along a stone-flagged passage cautiously. From somewhere near at hand he could hear a low, monotonous voice raised in prayer, and he ducked through a small door and found himself in the central temple.

  Candles burned beneath a great golden Buddha and a monk knelt there in prayer. He got to his feet and turned and Chavasse looked down into the familiar parchment face of the abbot, the old man whom he had found sitting beside his bed when he had awakened from his deep sleep after Kurbsky’s death a thousand years ago.

  “I am happy to see you,” the abbot said calmly.

  “And I you. What happened here?”

  “The Chinese have decreed that all monasteries must close. We knew our turn would come sooner or later. They came yesterday. A strong force of cavalry.”

  “But what about Joro’s men?” Chavasse demanded. “Couldn’t they help you?”

  The old man shook his head. “They left two weeks ago to join forces with a stronger group in the south.”

  His wise eyes stared up at Chavasse and he placed a hand on his shoulder. “But you, my son. You are a changed man. You have passed through the furnace.”

  “Joro is dead,” Chavasse said.

  The abbot nodded. “The time comes for all men. There is no escape. Can I do anything to help you?”

  Chavasse shook his head. “Not now. I’m trying to cross the border into Kashmir with two friends. I’d been hoping Joro’s men would help.”

  “A family passed through here two days ago,” the abbot said. “Kazakhs from Sinkiang. A chieftain, his wife and two children. They also were hoping to cross into Kashmir. They had horses with them, which slowed them down. Perhaps you will catch up.”

  Chavasse nodded. “I’ll have to go now.” He hesitated. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  The abbot smiled tranquilly and shook his head. “Nothing, my son.”

  He turned and dropped to his knees again, and his low monotonous voice filled the echoing hall as Chavasse walked away.

  He climbed behind the wheel of the jeep and turned to look at Katya. “How’s she doing?”

  “She has passed into a deep sleep,” Hoffner said. “She should come out of it during the next few hours. Did you find anyone?”

  Chavasse nodded. “The old abbot. He insisted on staying, I’m afraid.” He started the engine. “We’ll have to get moving. Colonel Li must be hot on our scent by now.”

  “Will he have many men with him, do you think?”

  Chavasse shook his head as he drove out through the gates. “His only chance of catching us is to use his jeeps, and he’s only got two. At the most, he could have ten men with him.”

  “Isn’t there a garrison at Rudok?” Hoffner asked.

  “According to Joro, ten men and a sergeant, but this is a bad security area. They stick pretty close to home.”

  “But surely Colonel Li will be in touch with them by radio?”

  “They may not even have one. It’s astonishing how primitive the Chinese can be about some things.” Chavasse shrugged. “In any case, they haven’t much hope of finding us in these steppes.”

  “I see,” Hoffner said, frowning. “Do you really think we stand a chance of getting out?”

  “People are doing it all the time,” Chavasse told him. “Kashmir is full of refugees. As a matter of fact, the abbot told me a Kazakh family from Sinkiang passed through Yalung Gompa two days ago heading for the border. We might come across them near the pass. They could be a real help on the way through.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Hoffner said. “Why should they want to leave Sinkiang? The Kazakhs have lived there for generations.”

  “Colonel Li’s really been keeping you in the dark, Doctor,” Chavasse said. “In 1951, the Kazakhs tried to set up their own government. The Chinese called them together to talk things over, and then butchered them.”

  Hoffner frowned. “What happened then?”

  “They’ve been trying to get out ever since, in large groups and single families. There were still quite a few in Kashmir when I came through, and the Turkish government has settled a lot of them on the Anatolian Plateau.”

  “It would seem I’ve been more cut off from the mainstream of events than I had imagined,” Hoffner said rather bitterly. He leaned back in his seat, a frown on his face, and made no further attempt at conversation.

  About two hours later it started to snow in great powdery flakes that stuck to the windscreen, prompting Chavasse to switch on the wipers.

  They crossed the great military road to Yarkand, and a little while after that Chavasse looked out and saw on his right the lake where Kerensky had landed the Beaver that night which seemed so long ago now.

  He wondered if the Pole had made it back to base, and grinned suddenly. There was a man he really wanted to have another drink with.

  Suddenly, Katya moaned and stirred and Hoffner touched Chavasse on the shoulder. “She’s waking, Paul.”

  Chavasse brought the jeep to a halt and turned quickly. The rose had left her cheeks and beneath the bandage, the face seemed all hollows.

  Noting that the great sheepskin coat looked far too big for Katya, he smiled down at her. “Hello, angel.”

  There was puzzlement in her dark eyes and she tried to struggle up, but Hoffner pushed her down gently. “No, Katya,” he said. “You need rest. All the rest you can get.”

  She pushed his restraining hand away, sat up and looked out at the barren landscape and the steadily falling snow. “But I don’t understand. Where are we?”

  “Somewhere north of Rudok, about thirty miles from the border,” Chavasse told her, and grinned. “We’re almost home and dry.”

  She frowned and put a hand to her bandage. “What happened back there?”

  “There was a fight at the house and a bullet grazed you,” Hoffner said soothingly. “There’s nothing for you to worry about. Just relax. You’ll need all your strength for the final haul.”

  She leaned back in the corner, pulling the hood of her sheepskin coat up around her face. Chavasse turned to reach for the starter and Hoffner tapped him urgently on the shoulder.

  “Just a moment. I thought I heard something.”

  Chavasse waited, a slight frown on his face, and then, quite clearly from somewhere behind them, the sound of an engine was carried on the wind.

  Katya leaned forward. “What is it?”

  “Colonel Li, hot on our trail by the sound of it,” Chavasse told her grimly, then drove quickly away.

  Hoffner shouted above the roar of the engine, “He must be pushing hard.”

  “Of course he is,” Chavasse replied. “If we get away, he’s faced with failure and disgrace, and his career’s ruined. It might even mean his life.”

  “Of all alternatives, I think the last one would hurt him least,” Hoffner said.

  Chavasse didn’t bother to reply because, suddenly, he found it was all he could do to keep to the ancient caravan trail they were following. It dropped down through a
narrow ravine and its ruts were ice-bound and iron-hard.

  The ravine widened and the trail dropped steeply towards a great gorge that cut its way through the heart of the rising mountain, and far below he saw a bridge.

  He paused for a moment to examine the map and then engaged low gear and began a cautious descent. The cantilever bridge was a spindly, narrow affair supported by wooden beams on each side of the gorge.

  He braked to a halt, jumped down to the frozen ground, walked out onto the bridge and stood in the centre for a moment. The river that splashed idly over great boulders was only about twenty feet below, but it was far enough. He turned and ran back to the jeep.

  “Will it hold?” Hoffner asked.

  “Solid as a rock,” Chavasse said, trying to make it sound convincing. “It would take a three-ton truck easily.”

  There was only a couple of feet of clearance on either side as he drove slowly forward. He could feel the sweat soaking his shirt as the planks creaked ominously in the centre and then they were through and safe on the other side.

  There was still one thing to be done and he braked to a halt, grabbed one of the stick grenades and walked back to the bridge. He pulled the pin and tossed the grenade out into the centre and turned his back as the explosion shattered the peace.

  Pieces of stone and wooden girder lifted skywards and when he looked back, he saw that the entire middle section of the bridge had fallen in. He moved forward, waiting for the smoke to clear to get a better look. At that moment, two jeeps moved out of the mouth of the ravine on the opposite side of the river and started down the slope.

  The first one carried perhaps half a dozen men and a light machine gun was mounted in the rear. He was aware of these things and his brain took account of them even as he turned and ran back to the jeep.

  The wheels skidded on the icy mud and for a moment panic seized him, and then they were moving up out of the gorge. He recklessly changed to a higher gear and pressed his foot flat on the board so that the jeep bounded over the rim of the gorge, all four wheels leaving the ground as the machine gun chattered, kicking up dirt and stones to one side of them.