The Iron Tiger. Jack Higgins

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      Several children ran forward excitedly and followed them, keeping a respectful distance from Moro who occasionally flicked out with the plaited leather whip that hung from his left wrist as someone moved too close.

      They came to a house near the centre of the village that seemed larger than the others and he opened the heavy wooden door and led the way in.

      There were no windows and in the half-darkness Drummond was aware of the mud walls, the sheepskins on the floor. On a stone hearth in the centre, a fire of yak dung burned brightly and an old Tibetan woman was crumbling brick tea into a cauldron of boiling water. She added butter and a pinch of salt and the men squatted on a sheepskin beside the fire.

      They waited in silence for the tea as ritual demanded. The old woman filled three metal cups and gave them one each. Moro took a sip, nodded in approval and they drank.

      It was, as always, curiously refreshing and Drummond held out his cup for more. ‘How are things going generally?’

      Moro shrugged. ‘They will not be beaten here, we cannot hope to accomplish so much, but we can keep them occupied, make life difficult.’

      ‘What about arms?’ Cheung said. ‘You need more?’

      ‘Always more. We can’t fight them with broadsword and musket.’

      ‘You were going to tell us about the patrol,’ Drummond reminded him.

      Moro nodded and got to his feet. ‘I was forgetting. If you have finished your tea, I will show you now.’

      They moved into the street, blinking in the bright, clear morning sunlight and the Tibetan led the way through the crumbling houses, the small tail of children keeping pace with them.

      The great wooden gates in the outer wall of the monastery swung crazily from their hinges, half-burnt away and blackened by fire.

      They crossed the courtyard beyond, still followed by the children, and mounted the broad steps to the ruin of what had once been one of the most famous seats of learning in Western Tibet.

      The doors had disappeared, splintered into matchwood by high explosive shells, and inside bright sunlight streamed down through holes in the roof.

      ‘There was a library here,’ Drummond told Cheung. ‘It held more than fifteen thousand books and manuscripts, most of them over a thousand years old. The Chinese burned the lot quite deliberately.’

      Beyond, in the shadows, something stirred and a kite rose lazily into the air, great ragged black wings brushing the roof beams and Drummond was aware of Cheung’s breath hissing between his teeth sharply.

      Disturbed by the bird’s passage, something was swinging to and fro, half-in, half-out of the bright shafts of sunlight cutting down through the darkness.

      Drummond moved a little closer. It was a Chinese soldier, swinging by a rope from one of the charred beams, tongue protruding obscenely from the black, swollen face. Where the eyes had been, were only empty, ragged sockets and one ear had been torn off.

      As his eyes became accustomed to the half-light, he saw the others, each hanging from a beam, staring blindly into eternity.

      ‘We were away when they arrived,’ Moro said simply. ‘When we returned, the fools were so busy ravishing the women, they had not even thought to post a guard.’

      One of the children ran forward with a harsh laugh and grabbed the nearest corpse by the legs, swinging it from side to side furiously and the other children followed suit, running through the shadows, dodging the swinging bodies, helpless with laughter.

      Drummond turned and moved into the sunlight again, his mouth dry. ‘I think we should be making a move.’

      Mr Cheung didn’t speak. His face was strangely pale and there was shock and pain in his eyes as they returned to the village. Moro whistled for his horse, caught the bridle and led the way back to the lake.

      ‘What did you bring this time?’ he asked Drummond.

      ‘Automatic rifles, sub-machine guns and ten thousand rounds of ammunition.’

      The Tibetan nodded. ‘Good, but we could do with some explosive next time.’

      Drummond glanced at Cheung enquiringly. ‘Can you manage that?’

      The Chinese nodded. ‘I think so. Would a fortnight today be too soon?’

      ‘Not for me,’ Drummond said. ‘Two more trips and I’m finished. The sooner I get them done, the better I’ll like it.’

      ‘A fortnight, then,’ Moro said and they went over the escarpment and down to the shore beside the lake.

      His men had unloaded the plane and already several packhorses were on their way to the village. Drummond gave him a final cigarette, climbed in and strapped himself into his seat. As the engine roared into life, Mr Cheung turned and held out his hand.

      ‘We are united in the same struggle,’ he said and climbed into the plane.

      As he closed the door and fastened his seat belt, the Beaver turned into the wind and started to taxi along the shore, sand whipped up by the propeller rattled against the windows. A moment later, the bluff at the far end of the lake was rushing to meet them and they were rising into the air.

      Drummond circled once and Moro, already back in the saddle, waved, turned his horse and galloped back towards the village.

      Drummond checked his instruments and started to gain altitude. ‘Well, what did you think?’

      ‘Words fail me.’

      ‘I thought they would.’

      Cheung lit a cigarette and sighed heavily. ‘To you, it is nothing. Jack. Dangerous, unpleasant, yes, but something you are mixed up in for one reason only – money.’

      ‘And to you it’s a holy war,’ Drummond said. ‘I know, only don’t start trying to get me to join the crusade. I had a bellyful of that kind of thing in Korea. Enough to last a lifetime.’

      ‘All right,’ Cheung said wearily. ‘What about these explosives Moro wants on the next trip? If I have them delivered to the railhead at Juma by next weekend can you pick them up?’

      ‘I’m flying down tomorrow with Major Hamid,’ Drummond said. ‘He’s taking a week’s leave. He thought he might enjoy it more if I went along. Why don’t you join us?’

      Cheung shook his head. ‘I’d like to, but I’ve been getting behind with the paperwork and I’m supposed to be dining with the old Khan on Saturday night.’

      ‘Suit yourself,’ Drummond said.

      Another two thousand. That brought the total standing to his credit in the Bank of Geneva to £23,000. Two more trips plus the money Ferguson owed him and he’d have a straight £30,000. After that, he was finished. Time he had a rest. He leaned back in the seat, humming to himself and concentrated on his instruments as СКАЧАТЬ