They rested for half an hour at the river, Philip finding it impossible to believe that such a tranquil place had been the scene of such horror only days before. The Rinpoche knelt and said prayers for the spirits of those who’d been killed, before they shared some dried fruit from their packs.
It was several hours later that they wearily crested the ridge and found themselves walking through the village of Thangboche once more. The chickens still scurried around, mangy dogs still lay sleeping in the shade and grubby children chased them gleefully. As they approached the monastery the great horn boomed its welcome, its note seeming to settle under the normal noise of the valley to lift everything upwards.
The monastery doors opened and the Head Lama scurried out, followed by a group of senior monks. They were followed by Mingma, who’d gone ahead with Lhamu, to warn the monastery of the arrival of their visitor. They all prostrated themselves before the Rinpoche, who acknowledged them with hands pushed together and told them to rise.
The abbot turned to face Philip and taking his hand pressed it to his head. He said something Philip didn’t understand.
Lhamu stepped forward smiling. “He says that you must eat with them tonight in thanksgiving.”
Philip smiled, rather embarrassed by the fuss. “Please tell him it would be an honour,” he replied, looking at Lhamu. “Although I have a very important appointment planned for later this evening so tell him to keep the prayers short.”
Lhamu giggled and translated the first part of the reply to the abbot, who smiled happily and turned his attention back to the Rinpoche, who was being ushered inside the monastery.
Before leaving Namche they’d arranged to meet up that evening at Lhamu’s family house where he was to stay as a guest. He smiled and winked at her. “I’ll see you later.” He nodded in the direction of where the expedition tents had been. “I’d better go and visit the Expedition and see if I still have a job. There should be a message or two by now.”
Lhamu waved as he turned and briskly set off across the small meadow. The camp was much smaller than it had been on his last visit. Most of the tents had gone and many of the crates of supplies had also been carried, he guessed, up the valley to the Base Camp. As he approached he saw a man busy unpacking what looked like oxygen bottles and using a screw-in gauge to check their pressure.
He walked over. “Major Roberts?” he enquired, recognising him from an introduction from James on his previous visit. “Philip Armitage, from The Times.”
The man stood up, wiped his hands on a cloth that had been draped over his shoulder and shook his hand. “Oh yes, hello again,” he replied with a smile. “James told me you’d probably appear at some point. Good to see you. You’ve timed your arrival very well,” he continued, walking over to a table that stood outside in the sun. He rummaged through a mound of papers and pulled out an envelope.
“This came in for you this morning with James runner. He dropped it before heading off again at full gallop for Kathmandu. He said things seemed to be going as planned.” He pointed at the desk. “There’s a party of porters heading up in the morning with some of this oxygen. If you want to send a reply, write it now and I’ll seal it in the dispatch bag.”
Philip thanked him and sank gratefully into a canvas camp chair that stood beside the desk. After satisfying himself that James seal was intact he ripped open the envelope and started reading the message;
“Base Camp, 3rd May
Philip, Base Camp established. Climbing started up the Ice-flow. Need to know that messages are secure. Any news on Izzard? Got a stinking cold. Wish I had my feet up in cosy Namche like you. Hope you’re not too bored! Best James.”
He smiled to himself and looking up, pulled over a sheet of plain paper from a pile on the desk being held down by a small lump of quartz. He picked up a pencil and started to write.
“James. Izzard no longer a threat and reports say has returned to Kathmandu. Dispatches can be sent with confidence, I suggest important messages are coded as planned and sent via the Namche radio who seem delighted to assist. I’ll head back to Kathmandu, checking for other reporters as I go.” He looked up, his eyes falling on the summit of Everest that was just visible above the huge snow ridge of Lhotse. It was a black pyramid of inhospitable rock, snow blasting from it as high altitude winds battered it from the north. On the other side of the mountain lay Rombuk, geographically so near and yet part of a different, turbulent world. He looked down at the paper and added. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll find something to pass the time.”
He sealed the note in an envelope and left it on the desk under the rock. He walked over to where Roberts was busy testing another oxygen cylinder, carefully noting its serial number and pressure before placing it in a porters load ready to be carried up the mountain.
“Did Hunt have anything interesting to say?” Philip asked after they’d chatted amicably for a while about the equipment.
Roberts looked at him. “I don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you since James will have written about it in that dispatch that’s just gone. He’s told them whose going to be going for the summit. Tom Bourdillon and Charlie Evans are having first crack and apparently they’re looking strong. If they fail then it’ll be Tenzing and Ed Hillary’s turn.”
They chatted a bit longer until the sun dipped beneath the western wall of the valley and Philip excused himself, walked slowly back towards the monastery. He was welcomed at the door and given some ornate yellow slippers and a long white scarf to wear, before being solemnly led up to the banqueting room. He was embarrassed to see that he’d been placed on the top table, next to the Rinpoche, and blushed brightly when the room fell silent and the monks bowed as he was led to his place.
This time the meal went quickly, mainly because he was able to talk to the Rinpoche. He asked about the mission the Llama had been given.
“Our country has been defending itself against China for many years. The eastern border has moved back and forward on numerous occasions.” He looked at Philip. “That was the cause of your friend Tashi’s hatred for us.”
“I still find it hard to believe that he’d help the Chinese,” Philip said. “He was a Tibetan, surely they could have settled elsewhere in Tibet?”
The Rinpoche shook his head. “If the Tibetans took their lands they would have been exiled and the Chinese would not have taken them in. They want their own people in these areas to make their grip on the land stronger. Any ill will he bore the Chinese would have been lost in the great revolution, when he must have thought that at last the people would have their say. The Kuomintang ruled China when his family were refused entry, but in 1949 they were beaten by the Communists under Mao Tse-tung.” He shrugged sadly. “It was the Communists Tashi thought were his allies, as they’d beaten his Chinese enemies and then invaded his Tibet ones.
“His father must have brought him up to remember the wrong we Tibetans had put their family through and at some point, perhaps under the guise of trading on the High Plateau, he must have contacted the Communists and started working for them.”
Philip interrupted. “He told me that he used to fly into Southern China during the war with the American planes. Perhaps that was the start of it?”
The Rinpoche nodded. “The Communists were fighting with the Kuomintang against the Japanese at that point, he may well have come across them. They were recruiting their network of spies to help them seize control of China after the war. They were paranoid that Tibet would gain the support of India and that they would come to our aid. He was a useful agent for them to recruit if he was living in Calcutta.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know how the Chinese discovered my trip to the UN, but they must have contacted him and told him to get to Nepal. I guess it was he who located me and then guided the soldiers to where they could ambush us.”
Philip sighed. “It’s a great shame he couldn’t put his early life behind him. From what I gathered he’d done rather well for himself in Cal
cutta.” He scratched the back of his head. “For all the time we spent together I don’t even know if he had a wife and family.”
“You shouldn’t feel bad,” the Rinpoche replied, placing his hand on Philip’s. “You were right to see the good in him rather than dwell on the dark. You couldn’t know about his past.”
The Rinpoche was distracted by the abbot and Philip sat picking at his meal, his anticipation growing about seeing Lhamu again. Soon the abbot stood and escorted the Rinpoche from the room, marking the end of the evening. He turned to see Lhamu walking up behind him and beckoning him to follow. He stood stiffly, his legs numb after sitting cross-legged for so long, and descended the steps before crossing to the monastery entrance.
They slipped on their shoes and stepped outside. The whole valley was bathed in moonlight, the snow-covered mountains glowing in the distance under a dazzling array of stars. They descended the steps in silence and as they did so Philip felt Lhamu’s hand slide tentatively into his. He forced his body to relax and when they reached the gate they stopped and turned to face each other.
“It’s been a strange way to get to know someone,” she said quietly. “Normally in Nepal, a potential suitor would bring food so their families could eat together and get to know each other.”
“Sorry,” replied Philip, laughing nervously, “I didn’t realise, I’m a bit out of practice. I thought rescuing a kidnapped Llama would be more impressive than a bunch of flowers and box of chocolates.”
They stood in the freezing night air together, and Philip could feel himself relaxing, enjoying the pleasure of simply being with a woman for the first time in many years. Lhamu giggled and turned away, pulling Philip by his hand along the small street.
“We had better hurry,” she laughed over her shoulder. “My father will wonder what you are doing with me out here in the dark. He might start demanding a large dowry!”
Chapter 22
Philip woke to the sound of the dawn chorus, every bird in Kathmandu seemingly outside his window. He tried rolling over, covering his ears with the heavy bolster that served as a pillow, but even that couldn’t muffle the hungry roar of a tiger.
The first time he’d heard it a few weeks before he’d been out of bed in a single leap, convinced in his half-asleep state that a wild animal had got into the grounds of the hotel. He now knew, thanks to Hutch who’d told him once he’d stopped laughing, that a Nepalese nobleman kept a small zoo in the grounds of his palace next door, the inhabitants of which could often be heard.
He’d arrived back into Kathmandu at an opportune time. Hutch was ill. He’d been feeling feverish for several days but with Philip back in town he took to his bed, weak and exhausted. The Embassy had sent their doctor over and it was diagnosed as Glandular Fever with a period of bed rest prescribed. Being an old hand on the subcontinent and used to bouts of Malaria he’d insisted on carrying on, so continued receiving the dispatches from James on Everest and transcribing them for onward transmission. But it was left to Philip to shuttle between his room, the telegraph office and the Embassy, as well as keep an eye on the other papers.
On his first few days back in the city he’d been surprised and alarmed by the number of journalists who’d descended on Kathmandu in an attempt to get the story. As well as the main British papers, there were reporters from various European countries, several from India and all of the major news agencies. As the Government had stopped issuing permits to trek up to Everest, they were all milling around the Embassy and City trying to unearth any news from the mountain.
Not long after he’d returned they’d received a dispatch bag from James that had obviously been opened, the seal was broken and the small lock that held the neck of the canvas closed was gone. He was relieved when he’d read it to discover that it was only an article about life on the mountain, rather than containing any important news, but the runner was paid off and not used again.
The Times had an agreement that the Embassy would send articles for them using their transmitter and Philip was a regular visitor to the Radio room. It was during one such visit, while he was waiting for the latest dispatch on establishing Camp Four high on the Lhotse ridge to be sent, that he discovered something alarming. He was chatting to the Second Secretary who shared the office.
“I suppose I’d better take you gentlemen out for a meal next time you’re back in London,” he’d suggested light heartedly. “You’ve saved me a lot of time and effort hanging around the Public Telegraph Office. Christ,” he laughed and shook his head. “I don’t think I’d have survived. I’d probably have been ripped to shreds by the pack of hacks that hangs about outside!”
The Second Secretary, a young, enthusiastic man on his first overseas posting, had smiled back. “You’d better throw in a decent bottle of claret as well,” he’d replied. “We’ve had quite a few offers that would have make us a few quid if we’d taken them up.”
Philip looked at him, perplexed. “What do you mean?”
“Well, without naming names, let’s just say that one of your Fleet Street chums has offered us £400 for copies of certain messages we might be asked to send.” He widened his eyes and nodded to where the Radio Operator was busy transmitting the dispatch. “That would pay for a pretty decent hotel next time I’m back on leave to Blighty!”
Philip was stunned. That was the best part of six months’ salary and if some of the papers were prepared to spend that much then they’d certainly be willing to obtain information in any way they could. He’d become even more careful.
All messages to him and Hutch from The Times in London weren’t allowed to be sent to the Embassy in case the other papers complained of preferential treatment. Instead they went to the Public Telegraph Office just off Durbar Square in the heart of Kathmandu. When he’d gone there to check for any new correspondence on his first day back, to his surprise, he’d been handed the entire pile of all incoming messages to check, regardless of who they were for. He’d immediately warned his editors not to send anything sensitive there and made a point of arriving at opening time every day to ensure he could check them before anyone else.
He’d also made a point of visiting and introducing himself at the Indian Embassy, wanting to ensure that if and when the coded message arrived from Namche they’d know exactly where to forward it to by runner. Once every week he popped round, usually with a box of fresh cakes he’d picked up from a little bakery near the hotel, and enjoyed a tea and chat with the Indian High Commissioner.
Interest in the Everest climb was reaching fever pitch in Nepal. Now that the population of Kathmandu knew that a Sherpa was going to be one of those attempting to reach the summit, the excitement had grown and with it an insatiable desire for news on how Tenzing Norgay was doing. People crowded around battered radios set up in shops and offices, listening to the daily updates from the state radio network. Others crowded around as someone read reports from the local paper, shaking their heads in wonder at the vivid accounts copied from James dispatches in The Times.
Life settled down into a routine that swung from complete boredom to frenzied activity when a runner arrived in Kathmandu. He now avoided the cafes of Durbar Square, fed up of being cross-examined by other journalists who congregated there and he spent more time out at the Buddhist shrine of Boudha. There were few other Westerners here and he found he could escape and relax. He’d gone there the day after he’d arrived back in Kathmandu and sought out the Tibetan Zigsa.
Zigsa had greeted him politely, leading him to a tiny tea house frequented only by Tibetans where you sat on old, upturned crates. When they’d both taken a sip of their drinks and exchanged pleasantries, Philip reached down and pulled something from a bag he’d brought with him. He passed it to the Tibetan.
“I’ve brought you something you might been interested in,” he said with a smile, watching Zigsa’s eyes widen.
“Where … where did you get it?” Zigsa asked in a stunned voice, looking down at the black pages and golden ink of the
Kanjur that lay on his knees.
“It’s a long story and I’m afraid it got a bit damaged on the way.”
The Tibetan shook his head, running his fingers gently over the damaged cover with its embedded precious stones. Philip sat in silence, letting him enjoy the beauty of what he was holding. He’d left the book at Mingma’s house while they’d been off pursuing the Chinese, his mother locking it in an ancient chest that sat in the corner of the family’s room.
After the fight at Rombuk, Mingma had carefully searched all the soldiers bags until he’d found the missing cover in the pack of the commander, plundered and hidden to be sold off later. The Sherpa had carefully wrapped it in his blanket and carried it back to Namche where he’d reunited the two pieces. Other than the ripped binding and a few loose stones, it had survived remarkably well. They’d offered it to the Rinpoche but he’d shaken his head.
“This manuscript needs to be taken to safety in Kathmandu and the safest way I can think of is for it to go with a westerner. Nobody will think you have a sacred book with you and as part of the expedition the authorities will not search your baggage. In any case I will give you a signed letter of authority that explains your possession of it.”
Philip had felt uneasy at first, worried about the responsibility and potential risks. The book, the Rinpoche had explained as he flicked through the beautifully illustrated pages, had been written in the 1450’s and been in Ganden Monastery ever since. It was sacred to all Buddhists as the original translation of the Buddha’s word. But he realised that what the Rinpoche said made sense and as he’d predicted he’d encountered no problems or awkward questions. The only downside had been a crick in the neck he’d developed as he slept every night with it safely stowed in his pack, which doubled as his pillow.
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