Jack Higgins - Chavasse 02 (12 page)

 

He was not aware of coming awake, only of the fact that he was lying there and that the fire was almost out. He raised his wrist and the luminous dial of his watch glowed through the darkness. It was just after two
A
.
M
., which meant that he had been asleep for no more than four hours. And yet he no longer felt tired.

As he lay there, the very air seemed electric
and humming with energy, as if there was nothing sleeping, as if, outside in the darkness, a presence waited for something to happen.

In the distance, thunder rumbled menacingly and then lightning flared, and in the split second of its illumination he saw each item of furniture in the room clearly.

He swung his legs to the floor, reached for the bathrobe Hoffner had provided him and padded across to the window. As he opened the shutters and stepped out onto the balcony, the rain came in a sudden great rush, filling the air with its voice.

It was bitterly cold, but for a moment or two he stood there breathing deeply, taking the freshness into his lungs, filled with a strange inward restlessness.

A quiet voice said in English, “The night air is not good for one at this altitude, Mr. Chavasse.”

He turned slowly, every sense alert. Katya Stranoff stood a few feet away by the rail and as lightning exploded again, her face seemed to jump out of the night, the high cheekbones somehow accentuating the depths of her dark eyes, her flaxen hair falling down to her shoulders.

And she was beautiful—that was the thing that came to him suddenly and with a sense of wonder. That she was pretty and attractive had been perfectly clear previously, but in that split
second as the lightning had flared, he had seen something more.

There was about her an air of innocence trying desperately to come to grips with the harsh realities of the world, reminding him, with a pang, of another girl in another time and another place.

“Can't you sleep?” he asked.

She shook her head. “One could say I've got too much on my mind.”

“Then let's go inside and discuss it,” he said. “The fire is almost out in my room, but it's quite warm.”

She moved past him without a word and he followed her in and closed the shutters. When he turned, he saw that she had poked the fire into life again and replenished it with a couple of logs from the pile that was neatly stacked at one side of the hearth.

She sat on the sheepskin rug and held her hands to the blaze, and he pulled a chair forward.

“I saw Hoffner leaving your room earlier,” she said without looking at him. “I suppose he told you about our conversation?”

He nodded. “You mean about your eavesdropping on us when we were talking after dinner?”

She turned quickly, and something sparked in her eyes. “I'm not ashamed. He's an old man. If I don't worry about him, no one else will.”

There was a toughness in her voice, an indication of something stronger in her than he
would have imagined, and he grinned and held up a hand in mock alarm. “Hey, I'm on your side.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, immediately contrite, “but Hoffner's been like a father to me. He's a very wonderful man. I only want what's best for him.”

“We're in agreement on that point, for a start.”

“But are we?” she asked. “Do you honestly think that a seventy-four-year-old man with a weak heart has the slightest chance of enduring the kind of trip you contemplate?”

“Under the right circumstances, I do,” Chavasse told her.

“But he's a sick man,” she insisted. “Do you seriously think he could survive a trip on horseback at this altitude over some of the roughest country in the world?”

“Maybe he won't have to.”

She frowned at once. “I'm afraid I don't understand.”

“You don't have to, and neither does the doctor for the moment. Just leave the details to me.” He leaned forward and grinned. “And relax. Everything's going to be fine, I promise you.”

She shook her head in exasperation. “You make everything sound so easy—just like my father used to. If he said something, then it had to be.”

“It's not a bad way to live.”

“You think so?” She sighed. “He said we would go to Lhasa by caravan. That it would be simple, the journey of a lifetime. His plans didn't include dying of typhoid on the way.”

“How could they?” Chavasse said gently. “Death has a perverse habit of making his own appointments.”

In the short silence which followed, he took out his cigarettes and offered her one. She accepted without a murmur and he gave her a light.

After a moment, she said, “The real Kurbsky—he's dead, isn't he?”

He nodded soberly. “I'm afraid so.”

“Did you kill him?”

He shook his head. “He and his escort really were ambushed by partisans. They obviously cared as little for Russians as they do for Chinese.”

“I see,” she said. “And you simply assume his identity? These partisans—were they friends of yours?”

He shrugged. “In a manner of speaking. If you mean could I have saved Kurbsky's life, I'm afraid not. I didn't have that kind of influence with them.”

“What about this Tibetan who came here with you? Joro, I think you said his name was. Couldn't he have done something?”

“You obviously haven't been mixing in the right circles,” Chavasse told her. “As far as these
people are concerned, this is war. They're fighting against a brutal invader who's attempting to change this entire way of life by force.”

“Please,” she said. “I'm not a child. I know that the Chinese have done some terrible things here, but all this bloodshed and killing.” She shuddered. “It seems such an appalling waste of human life.”

“Perhaps it is,” he said, “but remember what Lenin once said: The purpose of terrorism is to terrorize. It's the only way left for a small people to fight back against an empire.”

“My father used to say that no man was God,” she said, “least of all Lenin. I'm afraid he didn't care for him very much.”

“He sounds like a man after my own heart,” Chavasse said. “Tell me about him.”

She shrugged. “There seems so little to tell now. He was a scholar, you see, with no interest in government or politics. I think that, of all activities, archaeology is the one in which the State can interfere least. We tended to live very much our own lives.”

“What about your mother?”

“She died when I was born. I spent my early years at school in Moscow with an aunt of my father's. When I was a little older, he was able to take me with him on his field trips. We lived in Peking for the last three years of his life.”

“Why was he so keen to visit Lhasa?”

She shook her head. “I don't really know. A
dream he'd had for a very long time, I think. It seemed like a good opportunity before returning to Russia.”

“Don't you ever feel like going back yourself?”

“Not really,” she said. “Oh, I miss the theatres, the books, all that sort of thing, but nothing else. My aunt died three years ago, and I've nobody else.”

“Except for Hoffner,” Chavasse said gently.

She turned, a warm smile illuminating her face. “That's right. Except for Hoffner. He took me in when I was sick and nursed me back to health. He's come to mean a great deal to me.”

“He seems to feel exactly the same way about you,” Chavasse told her. “Did he tell you he wants you to leave with us?”

She nodded. “I would go with him gladly, I want you to accept that. It's just that the whole affair seems so impossible.”

He shook his head. “Believe me, it isn't. I might almost say it's going to be astonishingly simple. But you needn't worry about that for the time being. We've got several days to kill before we can make a move. We're better off here, considering the state of Hoffner's health and his age, than roughing it in the hills.”

“I see.” She got to her feet. “We'll just have to wait as patiently as we can, I suppose, until you're ready to take us into your confidence?”

She sounded slightly angry, and he stood up and smiled. “Don't take it like that. I'm only
thinking of you and the doctor. What you don't know can't harm you.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders. “The only real problem's going to be how to pass the time. What do you do for amusement round here?”

She shrugged. “Not very much. I usually go horseback riding outside the walls if the weather's reasonable.”

“Now that sounds just my style.”

She relaxed suddenly and smiled. “Perhaps you'd like to come with me? I usually go after lunch. How good a horseman are you?”

He grinned. “Pretty fair. Another of my accomplishments.”

She nodded. “And you have many, don't you, Mr. Chavasse? It occurs to me that no ordinary man would be able to speak Chinese so excellently and Russian like a native.”

“What about you?” he countered. “Your English is pretty good.”

She shrugged. “I started to learn it when I was six years of age at my first school in Moscow. It's the standard second language in Russia today.” She shook her head. “No, there's still something about you. Something special. Of one thing I'm certain: You're not just an adventurer.”

“But I assure you I am,” he told her.

She shook her head. “No, there's more to it than that.”

And then the thought came to her and her eyes
widened. She took a step towards him, one hand catching hold of the lapel of his bathrobe. “There
is
something more, isn't there? Something to do with the doctor?”

He did the only possible thing. His arms slid around her waist and he kissed her.

Her entire body seemed to come alive and she started to tremble. For a little while, he held her, and then she gently pushed him away.

When she looked up, her eyes were dark and troubled and her face was flushed. “I think I'd better go.”

He couldn't think of anything to say as he opened the shutters and she brushed past him. Outside, it was still raining. She turned and looked at him for a moment and suddenly reached up and touched his face with one hand, and then she was gone.

For a little while longer he remained there, his skin crawling with excitement, a small restless wind touching his naked flesh, and then he closed the shutters and went to bed.

 

The day was exhilarating, like new wine, and the blue sky dipped away to the horizon as they rode out through the main gates of Changu shortly after noon the following day.

They were mounted on small and wiry Tibetan horses and Katya urged her mount into a gallop and took the lead. She wore riding breeches and soft Russian boots and her hat and collar were of black astrakhan.

Chavasse, wearing the Tibetan boots and
shuba
he had arrived in, went after her, scattering a grazing flock of yaks as he and Katya skirted the herdsmen's encampment and rode up out of the valley.

The steppes were saffron yellow, golden in the sunlight, and he reined in beside a dark pool of
water at the foot of some tall rocks where wind whispered through the dry grass. A bird cried as it lifted across the slope and a strange, inexplicable sadness fell upon him.

He shivered for no accountable reason and then Katya called to him, her voice carried by the wind from the top of a hill in the distance, and he urged his mount forward and went after her.

There was a fine haze over the land that masked the distances and the wind was as warm as a caress. He reined in on top of the hill and saw a river running through a deep gorge below and Katya standing on the edge of the cliffs.

He cantered down the slope, dismounted andsent his horse to join hers with a smack on the rump. He paused to light a cigarette and as he looked up, she turned and headed his way.

She moved through the dry grass towards him and the sun was behind her and the image blurred at the edges. She looked unreal and ethereal and utterly transitory, as if at any moment she might fly away. But when she spoke, the spell was broken at once.

“Let's sit down, Paul.”

They flung themselves on the short grass and, after a while, he closed his eyes and relaxed. It was so pleasant, he thought, so wonderfully pleasant to lie in the sun with the right person and do nothing.

He decided there was a lot to be said for beachcombing. Something tickled his nose and
he opened his eyes and caught her gently stroking his face with a blade of grass.

“You know, I haven't done this for years,” he said.

“But you should. After all, life is for living.”

“You've got a point there,” he told her. “The trouble is, I never seem to have the time. Some sort of personality flaw, I suppose.”