Year Of The Tiger

by Jack Higgins

  “You are a kind man, Sir Paul,” Lama Moro said.

  “No, just a wet one,” Chavasse told him. “So let’s get in out of the rain,” and he led the way across the road.

  An hour later there was a knock at the drawing room door and in came Lucy, the apple of Jackson’s eye, a face on her like that of some ancient Egyptian princess, her hair tied in a velvet bow, neat in a black dress and apron.

  “I’ve got him for you, Sir Paul. Lucky I had plenty of rice and vegetables in. He’s a nice man. I like him.” She stood back and Moro entered in his saffron robes. “I’ve got his raincoat and hat in the cloakroom,” she added, and left.

  A glass in his hand, Chavasse was sitting in one of the armchairs beside the fire, which burned brightly.

  “Come and sit down.”

  “You are too kind.” Moro sat in the chair opposite him.

  “I won’t offer you one of these.” Chavasse raised the glass. “It’s Bushmills Irish whiskey, the oldest in the world, some say, and invented by monks.”

  “How enterprising.”

  “You’re a long way from home,” Chavasse said.

  “Not really. I left Tibet with other refugees when I was fifteen years of age. That was in 1975.”

  “I see. And since then?”

  “Three years with the Dalai Lama in India, then he arranged for me to go to Cambridge to your old college – Trinity. You were also at the Sorbonne. I too have studied there, but Harvard eluded me.”

  “You certainly know a great deal about me,” Chavasse told him.

  “Oh, yes,” Moro said calmly. “Your father was French.”

  “Breton,” Chavasse said. “There is a difference.”

  “Of course. Your mother was English. You had a unique gift for languages, which explains your studies at three of the world’s greatest universities. A Ph.D. at twenty-one, you returned to Cambridge to your own college, where they made you a Fellow at twenty-three. So there you were, at an exceptionally young age, set on an academic career at a great university.”

  “And then?” Chavasse enquired.

  “You had a colleague at Trinity whose daughter was married to a Czech. When he died, she wanted to return to England with her children. The Communists refused to let her go and the British Foreign Office wouldn’t help.” Moro shrugged. “You went in on your own initiative and got them out, sustaining a slight wound from a border guard’s rifle.”

  “Ah, the foolishness of youth,” Chavasse said.

  “Safely back at Cambridge, you were visited by Sir Ian Moncrieff, known only as the Chief in intelligence circles, the man who controlled the Bureau, the most secret of all British intelligence units.”

  “Where in the hell did you get all this from?” Chavasse demanded.

  “Sources of my own,” Moro told him. “Twenty years in the field for the Bureau and twenty years as Chief after Moncrieff’s death. A remarkable record.”

  “The only thing remarkable about it is that I’m still here,” Chavasse said. “Now who exactly are you?”

  “As I told you, I’m from the Tibetan temple at Glen Aristoun in Scotland.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Chavasse told him. “A Buddhist community.”

  “I live and work there. I am the librarian. I have been collating information on the escape of the Dalai Lama from Tibet in March 1959.”

  A great light dawned. “Oh, I see now,” Chavasse said. “You’ve found out that I was there. That I was one of those who got him out.”

  “Yes, I know all about that, Sir Paul, heard of those adventures from the Dalai Lama’s own lips. No, it is what comes after that interests me.”

  “And what would that be?” Chavasse asked warily.

  “In 1962, exactly three years after you helped the Dalai Lama to escape, you returned to Tibet to the town of Changu to effect the escape of Dr. Karl Hoffner, who’d worked as a medical missionary in the area for years.”

  “Karl Hoffner?” Chavasse said.

  “One of the greatest mathematicians of the century,” Moro said. “As great as Einstein.” He was almost impatient now. “Come, Sir Paul, I know from sound sources that you undertook the mission, and yet there is no record of Hoffner other than his time in Tibet. Did he die there? What happened?”

  “Why do you wish to know?”

  “For the record. The history of my country’s troubled times under Chinese rule. Please, Sir Paul, is there any reason for secrecy after thirty-four years?”

  “No, I suppose not.” Chavasse poured another whiskey. “All right. Strictly off the record, of course. Flight of fancy when you put it on the page.”

  “I agree. You can trust me.”

  Chavasse sipped a little Bushmills. “So, where to begin?”

  But where did anything begin? A long time ago, he told himself. A hell of a long time ago.

  TIBET 1959

  2

  Chavasse wore a sheepskin shuba wrapped closely around him, sheepskin boots and a hat of some indeterminate fur, flaps down over his ears. He cradled a British Lee Enfield rifle in one arm and allowed the hardy mountain pony to find its own way. He thought he heard a plane at one point, but could not be sure as the sound faded rapidly.

  The Land of Snows the Tibetans called this part of the border area, and it was well named, a living nightmare of a place with passes through the mountains as high as twenty thousand feet. It was not uncommon for mules in the caravans in the old days to die of asthma and for their masters to get pulmonary edema as their lungs filled with water.

  An ironic way to die, Chavasse thought, to drown while standing up. Of course, it didn’t matter these days. There were no more caravans to India, by Chinese decree.

  It started to snow again lightly and he paused to check the ground ahead. The sky being blanketed by low swollen clouds, there was no snow glare. He had spent the previous night in a herdsman’s cave, sheltering from a sudden blizzard, and had started again at first light. Now, the pass between the peaks emptied onto a final slope that ran down towards the Indian border. In fact, in the far distance there was a flicker of colour, obviously a flag, and Chavasse urged his pony forward.

  The border post was quite simple. A large stone hut, no barbed wire, no defence system. Half a dozen Indian soldiers stood outside wearing white winter combat uniforms, the hoods pulled up over their turbans. There was a jeep painted in white camouflage, and the young man leaning against it smoking a cigarette came forward and looked up at Chavasse.

  “Mr. Chavasse? I am Lieutenant Piroo. We heard over the radio from Tibetan freedom fighters that you were coming.” He smiled. “I’m surprised that there are any left, if the reports we get of Chinese reaction are true.”

  Chavasse heaved himself out of the saddle and a soldier led the pony away. “Oh, they’re true all right. They’re killing people by the thousands, wiping out whole villages.” Piroo gave him a cigarette and lit it for him and Chavasse continued. “No, I’m afraid this time they intend to wipe out Tibetan resistance once and for all.”

  “Which is why the Dalai Lama has fled?”

  “Yes, he hopes to continue the struggle from India. Do you think Prime Minister Nehru will accept him?”

  “Oh, yes, that has been made quite clear. But come, Mr. Chavasse, my boss is waiting to see you at Gela. That’s about ten miles from here.” He smiled. “And only sixteen thousand feet.”

  Chavasse got into the jeep and Piroo slipped behind the wheel. “And who might your boss be?”

  “Colonel Ram Singh. Very correct and old school. Even went to Sandhurst.” Piroo, in spite of the jeep sliding from side to side on the rough track, found another cigarette and lit it one-handed. “I thought the CIA were to do great things? Help the rebels and so on?”

  “They dropped in a certain amount of arms,” Chavasse told him. “Mostly British, because they didn’t want the Chinese to make an American connection. Other than that, they haven’t done much.”

  “But you have, Mr. Chavasse. British inte
lligence still functions, it would seem.”

  “So they tell me.”

  “I understand you were told by the Indian government not to cross the border, but went anyway?”

  “That’s true.”

  “And Major Hamid went with you?”

  “Also true.”

  Piroo shook his head. “Crazy Pathan. They’ll court-martial him for this.”

  “No they won’t. He’s behind me right now with the Dalai Lama. I only came ahead to confirm their arrival time. Hamid will be an instant hero to every Indian on this continent.”

  “Perhaps not, my friend.”

  “And what do you mean by that?” Chavasse demanded.

  “Oh, that’s for my boss to tell you.”

  Chavasse sat there, frowning, and they came over a rise and saw a number of Nissen huts below beside an airstrip. The aircraft parked at one end had twin engines and was painted white.

  “A Navajo,” Chavasse said. “What’s that doing here?”

  “A quick link with the lowlands. Supplies, communications. The Airstair door means we can get stretchers in.”

  “And why the white strip?”

  “So that if I stray over the border it will make it more difficult for the Chinese to shoot me down.” Piroo smiled. “Oh, yes, Mr. Chavasse. I am the pilot. Indian air force, not army,” and he drove down the track.

  It was warm in the Nissen hut as the four officers and Chavasse leaned over the map on the table. Colonel Ram Singh was small and fierce with a thin moustache, the medal ribbons on his shirt making a fine show.

  “Not good, Mr. Chavasse, not good. I can tell you unofficially that Prime Minister Nehru and the Indian government are prepared to receive the Dalai Lama. Piroo here was to fly him out as soon as he arrived.”

  “Which isn’t likely now, I’m afraid,” Piroo said. “I made an overflight – quite illegally, of course.” His finger touched the map. “Here is the Dalai Lama’s column. I’d estimate by now about fifteen miles to go.” He indicated again. “And here, twenty-five miles behind them, a Chinese column coming up fast – jeeps, not horses. Certain to catch them before the border.”

  Chavasse examined the map carefully. “When did you see all this?”

  “An hour ago. Not much more.”

  Chavasse nodded. “I came that way myself. The terrain is terrible. Even a jeep is lucky to cover ten miles in an hour. Rough ground and boulders everywhere.”

  “So?” Ram Singh said.

  “That means the Chinese are still on the other side of the Cholo Gorge. Hundreds of feet deep. There’s an old wooden bridge there. It’s the only way across. Destroy that and they’ve had it. The Dalai Lama will be home free.”

  “An attractive idea, Mr. Chavasse, but if you are suggesting that Lieutenant Piroo should somehow bomb their bridge, I must say no. Chinese territory, that is what they claim, and we are not at war with China.”

  “Well I am.” Chavasse turned to Piroo. “You carry parachutes on that thing?”

  “Of course.”

  Chavasse said to Ram Singh, “Meet me halfway, Colonel. You’ve already allowed Piroo to fly over there. Let him volunteer again. You find me some explosives. On the way in we drop a message to the Dalai Lama’s column to alert Hamid as to what’s going on, then I’ll parachute in at the bridge and blow it up.”

  “But what happens after?” Piroo demanded. “You’ll be all alone out there on foot.”

  “Hopefully Hamid will ride back for me.”

  There was a long silence as all the officers exchanged glances. The colonel looked down at the map, drumming his fingers on it. He glanced up.

  “You would do this, Lieutenant?” he asked Piroo.

  “My pleasure, Colonel.”

  “Madness,” Ram Singh said. “Total madness.” Suddenly he smiled. “We’d better get cracking, Mr. Chavasse. Not much time.”

  Ram Singh said, “A very simple explosive, Mr. Chavasse.” He opened an army haversack and produced one of several dark green blocks. “We get it from the French army.”

  “Plastique,” Chavasse said.

  “Totally harmless until used in conjunction with one of these timer pencils.” Ram Singh held a few up. “Five-minute fuses, but the two with yellow ends are two minutes.”

  The haversack was put on Chavasse’s back, then he pushed his arms through the straps. One of the officers helped him into a parachute, another gave him a Sten gun with two magazines taped together, which he draped across his chest.

  Ram Singh picked up a weighted signal can with a great scarlet streamer attached to it. “The message for Major Hamid. It tells him exactly what you intend.” Ram Singh put a hand on Chavasse’s shoulder. “I hope he finds it possible to… how shall I put it… to retrieve you, my friend.”

  “He’s a Pathan,” Chavasse said simply. “You know what they’re like. He’d walk into the jaws of hell just to have a look.” He smiled. “I’d better get moving.”

  Ram Singh pulled on a parka and led the way out. It was snowing a little, loose flakes on the wind and very cold. They crossed to the Navajo, where Piroo already had the engines warming up. Chavasse paused at the bottom of the Airstair door and Ram Singh shook hands and saluted.

  “As God wills, my friend.”

  Chavasse smiled, went up the steps and pushed the door shut. Piroo glanced over his shoulder and boosted power, then they roared along the airstrip and lifted off.

  In spite of the layers of clothing he wore, Chavasse was cold – very cold – and he found breathing difficult. He looked out of the window to a landscape as barren as the moon, snow-covered peaks on either side. Now and then they dropped sickeningly in an air pocket, and they were constantly buffeted by strong winds.

  Piroo glanced over his shoulder and shouted above the roar of the engines.

  “I’ll curve round to the gorge first. Let’s make sure the Chinese are still on the other side before we communicate with Hamid.”

  “Fine,” Chavasse told him.

  They entered a low cloud which enveloped them for five minutes. Then they came out on the other side and there was the gorge below, the bridge in clear view. Even clearer was the Chinese column perhaps a quarter of a mile on the other side, racing towards the bridge very fast over what was at that point a flat plain.

  “No time to hang around. They’ll be at the bridge in ten minutes,” Chavasse shouted. “I’m on my way. Take me down to five hundred.”

  Piroo dropped the nose, and the Navajo went down and levelled out. Chavasse moved awkwardly because of the bulk of his equipment and released the Airstair door. There was a great rush of air. He waited until they were as close to the bridge as possible, then tumbled out headfirst.

  Hamid dismounted and waited while one of the Tibetan freedom fighters galloped to where the signal can lay on the snow, the scarlet streamer plain. The man leaned down from the saddle, picked up the can and galloped back.

  Hamid was a typical Pathan, a large man, very tall, dark-skinned and with a proud look to his bearded face. Behind him the column had stopped as everyone waited. The horsemen arrived and handed over the can. Hamid opened it and took out the message and read it. He swore softly.

  From behind, a voice called, “What is it, Major Hamid?”

  The Dalai Lama, covered by sheepskins, lay on a kind of trailer pulled by a horse, for he was too ill to ride.

  “It’s from Chavasse.”

  “So he got through?”

  “Unfortunately there’s a Chinese column very close to us on the other side of the Cholo Gorge. It would seem Chavasse has dropped in by parachute in an effort to blow the bridge. I must go to his aid.”

  “I understand,” the Dalai Lama said.

  “Good. I’ll take two of the escorts with me. The rest of you must press on with all possible speed.”

  He rode across to one of the carts and picked up a Bren gun and two magazines, which he stuffed into his saddlebag, then he gave a quick order to two of the Tibetans and galloped away.
A few moments later, leading a spare horse, they went after him.

  Chavasse hit the ground heavily perhaps a hundred yards from the bridge. He lay there for a moment, winded, then stood up and struggled out of his parachute harness. There was still no sign of the Chinese and he unslung the Sten gun and ran along the uneven track between outcrops of rock.

  It was stupid, of course, such exertion of that altitude, and by the time he reached the bridge he was gasping for air, his breath like white smoke. He started across and it swayed gently. He got to the centre, took off the haversack and selected a block of plastique, inserted a five-minute timer, lay down and reached over the edge and wedged the explosive into a space between the ends of two struts. He activated the timer and stood up, and at that moment a Chinese jeep appeared on top of the rise on the other side.

  Its machine gun opened up at once. Chavasse ran, the Sten gun in one hand, the haversack in the other. He reached the end of the bridge, ducked behind one of the supporting posts, found another block of plastique, inserted a yellow two-minute fuse and activated it.

  The jeep kept firing, bullets clipping wood from the post. He laid the plastique block down and returned fire with his Sten, and a lucky shot knocked one soldier out. The jeep, halfway across the bridge, paused, with another just behind it, and on the ridge above the rest of the column arrived.

  “Just stay there,” Chavasse prayed, and tossed the block of plastique out onto the bridge.

  To his horror, it actually bounced over the edge, where it exploded in space. Firing relentlessly, the jeep started forward, followed by the other, and the column moved down on the other side.

  Chavasse ran up amongst the rocks, head down, glancing back to see the two jeeps reach firm ground. At that moment and just as the convoy started across, there was a huge explosion. The centre of the bridge twisted up into the air, lengths of timber flying everywhere. The two lead jeeps in the convoy on the other side went with it.

  As the reverberations died away there were cries of rage from the Chinese in the two jeeps that had got across, three soldiers in one and four in the other. They fired their light machine guns into the rocks below the escarpment and Chavasse cowered down and opened his haversack. There was one block of plastique left. He inserted the remaining two-minute pencil and started to count, the Sten gun ready in his other hand.