Year of the Tiger

‘I hear you’ve been looking for me,’ Chavasse said as he peeled off his wet trenchcoat.

The Chief smiled faintly. ‘That’s putting it mildly. You must have found somewhere new.’

Chavasse nodded. ‘The Caravel Club in Great Portland Street. They do a nice steak and there’s a gaming room, Chemmy and Roulette mostly.’

‘Is it worth a visit?’

‘Not really,’ Chavasse grinned. ‘Rather boring and too damned expensive. It’s time I saw a little action of another kind.’

‘I think we can oblige you, Paul,’ the Chief said. ‘I’d like you to meet Professor Craig, by the way.’

The old man shook hands and smiled. ‘So you’re the language expert? I’ve heard a lot about you, young man.’

‘All to the good, I hope?’ Chavasse took a cigarette from a box on the coffee table and pulled forward a chair.

‘Professor Craig is Chairman of the Joint Space Research Programme recently set up by NATO,’ the Chief said. ‘He’s brought us rather an interesting problem. To be perfectly frank, I think you’re the only available Bureau agent capable of handling it.’

‘Well, that’s certainly a flattering beginning,’ Chavasse said. ‘What’s the story?’

The Chief carefully inserted a Turkish cigarette into an elegant silver holder. ‘When were you last in Tibet, Paul?’

Chavasse frowned. ‘You know that as well as I do. Three years ago when we brought out the Dalai Lama.’

‘How would you feel about going in again?’

Chavasse shrugged. ‘My Tibetan is still pretty fair. Not fluent, but good enough. It’s the other problems, specific to the area, which would worry me most. Mainly the fact that I’m a European, I suppose.’

‘But I understood you to say you’d helped out the Dalai Lama three years ago,’ Professor Craig said.

Chavasse nodded. ‘But that was different. Straight in and out again within a few days. I don’t know how long I could get by if I was there for any period of time. I don’t know if you’re aware of this fact, Professor, but not a single allied soldier escaped from a Chinese prison camp during the Korean War and for obvious reasons. Drop me into Russia in suitable clothes and I could pass without question. In a street in Peking, I’d stick out like a sore thumb.’

‘Fair enough,’ the Chief said. ‘I appreciate your point, but what if we could get round it?’

‘That would still leave the Chinese,’ Chavasse told him. ‘They’ve really tightened up since I was last there. Especially after the Tibetan revolt. Mind you, I think their control of large areas must be pretty nominal.’ He hesitated and then went on, ‘This thing – is it important?’

The Chief nodded gravely. ‘Probably the biggest I’ve ever asked you to handle.’

‘You’d better tell me about it.’

The Chief leaned back in his chair. ‘What would you say was the gravest international problem at the moment – the Bomb?’

Chavasse shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. Not any more, anyway. Probably the space race.’

The Chief nodded. ‘I agree, and the fact that John Glenn and those who have followed him have successfully emulated Gagarin and Titov has got our Russian friends worried. The gap is narrowing – and they know it.’

‘Is there anything they can do about it?’ Chavasse said.

The Chief nodded. ‘Indeed there is and they’ve been working on it for too damned long already, but perhaps Professor Craig would like to tell you about it. He’s the expert.’

Professor Craig took off his spectacles and started to polish their lenses with the handkerchief from his breast pocket. ‘The great problem is propulsion, Mr Chavasse. Bigger and better rockets just aren’t the answer, not when it comes to travelling to the Moon, and anything further involves immense distances.’

‘And presumably the Russians have got something?’ Chavasse said.

Craig shook his head. ‘Not yet, but I think they may be very near it. Since 1956, they’ve been experimenting with an ionic rocket drive using energy emitted by stars as the motive force.’

‘It sounds rather like something out of a science-fiction story,’ Chavasse said.

‘I only wish it were, young man,’ Professor Craig said gravely. ‘Unfortunately it’s hard fact and if we don’t come up with another answer quickly, we might as well throw in the towel.’

‘And presumably, there is another answer?’ Chavasse said softly.

The professor adjusted his spectacles carefully and nodded. ‘In normal circumstances, I would have said no, but in view of certain information which has recently come into my hands, it would appear that there is still a chance for us.’

The Chief leaned forward. ‘Ten days ago, a young Tibetan nobleman arrived in Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir. Ferguson, our local man, took him in charge. Besides possessing valuable information about the state of things in western Tibet at the present time, he was also carrying a letter for Professor Craig. It was from Karl Hoffner.’

Chavasse frowned. ‘I’ve heard of him vaguely. Wasn’t he some kind of medical missionary in Tibet for years?’

The Chief nodded. ‘A very wonderful man whom most people have completely forgotten. Remark-ably similar career to Albert Schweitzer. Doctor, musician, philosopher, mathematician. He’s given forty years of his life to Tibet.’

‘And he’s still alive?’ Chavasse said.

The Chief nodded. ‘Living in a small town called Changu about one hundred and fifty miles across the border from Kashmir. Under house arrest, as far as we can make out.’

‘This letter,’ Chavasse said, turning to Professor Craig. ‘Why was it addressed to you?’

‘Karl and I were fellow students and research workers for years.’ Craig sighed. ‘One of the great minds of the century, Mr Chavasse. He could have had all the fame of an Einstein, but he chose to bury himself in a forgotten country.’

‘But what was in the letter that was so interesting?’ Chavasse asked.

‘On the face of it, nothing very much. It was simply a letter from one old friend to another. He’d apparently heard that this young Tibetan was making a break for it and decided to take the opportunity of writing to me, probably for the last time. He’s in poor health.’

‘How are they treating him?’

‘Apparently quite well.’ Craig shrugged. ‘He was always greatly loved by the people. Probably the Communists are using him as a sort of symbol. He said in his letter that he had been confined to his house for more than a year and, to help pass the time, had returned to his greatest love, mathematics.’

‘Presumably this is important?’

‘Karl Hoffner is probably one of the great mathematicians of all time,’ Professor Craig said solemnly. ‘Do you mind if I get a little technical?’

‘By all means,’ Chavasse told him.

‘I don’t know the extent of your knowledge of mathematical concepts,’ Craig said, ‘but you are perhaps aware that Einstein demonstrated that matter is nothing but energy fixed in a rigid pattern?’

‘E=mc2.’ Chavasse grinned. ‘I’m with you so far.’

‘In a celebrated thesis written for his doctorate when a young man,’ Craig went on, ‘Karl Hoffner demonstrated that energy itself is space locked up in a certain pattern. His proof involved an audacious development of non-Euclidean Geometry which was as revolutionary as Einstein’s Theory of Relativity.’

‘Now you’ve completely lost me,’ Chavasse said.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Craig smiled. ‘Probably only six brains on earth were capable of understanding his theory at the time, such was its complexity. It aroused considerable interest in academic circles and was then virtually forgotten. It was only theoretical, you see. It led nowhere and had no conceivable practical application.’

‘And now he’s taken it one stage further,’ Chavasse said. ‘Is that what you’re leading up to?’

Craig nodded. ‘He mentioned in his letter, quite casually, I might add, that he had reached the solution to the problem. He has proved that space can be twisted, manipulated if you like, until it becomes an energy field.’

‘And this is really important?’ Chavasse said.

‘Important?’ The professor sighed. ‘For one thing, it relegates nuclear physics to roughly the Eocene age of science. For another, it gives us an entirely new concept of space travel. We could produce an energy drive for our rockets from space itself, something which would be infinitely superior to the Russian concept of the ionic drive.’

‘Do you think Hoffner has any idea of the importance of his discovery?’ Chavasse said.

Craig shook his head. ‘I don’t think he can even be aware that orbital flights have taken place. If he knew that man had already crossed the space threshold, the value of his discovery would be at once obvious to him.’

‘It’s incredible,’ Chavasse said. ‘Quite incredible.’

‘What’s even more to the point is that knowing this does us no damn good at all as long as the knowhow remains locked in the brain of a sick old man under house arrest in a Communist-dominated country,’ the Chief said. ‘We’ve got to get him out, Paul.’

Chavasse sighed. ‘Well, I was begging for action,’ he said, ‘and now I’ve got it, though how the hell I’m supposed to pull it off, I don’t know.’

‘I’ve already given that quite some thought.’ The Chief pushed the chessboard out of the way and unfolded a large map.

‘Now, this is the area involved – Kashmir and western Tibet. Changu is about a hundred and fifty miles from the border. You’ll notice that some fifty miles into Tibet, there’s a village called Rudok. In his despatch the other day, Ferguson informed me that, according to the young Tibetan nobleman who brought out the letter, the Chinese have little control of the area. He says the monastery outside Rudok is quite a centre of resistance. If we could get you there, you’d at least have a base. Of course, from then on, you’d have to play it by ear.’

‘Two obvious points,’ Chavasse said. ‘How do I get in and how do I get the locals to accept me if I do?’

‘That’s all arranged,’ the Chief said. ‘Since yesterday evening when Professor Craig first came to see me to point out that there was more in the letter than met the eye, I’ve used the special line to speak to Ferguson in Srinagar no less than four times. He’s arranged for this young Tibetan to go in with you.’

‘And what about transportation?’

‘We’ll fly you in.’

Chavasse frowned. ‘Are you sure it’s possible from Kashmir? The Ladakh range is a hell of a height.’

‘Ferguson’s dug up a bush pilot named Jan Karensky. He’s a Pole – flew for the RAF during the war. He’s doing government work in the area, aerial reconnaissance and so forth. Apparently, there’s an old RAF emergency airstrip outside Leh which he sometimes uses. That’s only eighty or ninety miles from the Tibetan border. We’ve offered him five thousand to fly you in and land you at this monastery near Rudok and another five to pick you up again exactly one week later.’

‘Does he think he can do it?’

The Chief nodded. ‘He says it’s possible, no more than that. You’re obviously going to need a hell of a lot of luck.’

‘You can say that again,’ Chavasse told him. ‘When do I go?’

‘There’s a Vulcan bomber leaving RAF Edgworth at nine for Singapore. It’ll drop you off at Aden. You can fly on to Kashmir from there.’

He got to his feet and said briskly, ‘I don’t think there’s anything more we can do here, Professor. I’ll take you home. You look as if you could do with some sleep.’

As Craig started to get up, Chavasse said quickly, ‘Just a moment, Professor, if you don’t mind.’ Craig sat down again and Chavasse went on, ‘There’s always the question of how I’m to identify myself to Dr Hoffner. I’ve got to make him believe beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’m absolutely genuine. Can you suggest anything?’

Craig stared into space for a moment, a slight frown on his face and then, quite suddenly, he smiled. ‘There is something in Karl Hoffner’s past which only he and I know,’ he said. ‘We were both in love with the same girl. There was a certain May evening at his rooms in Cambridge when we decided to settle the matter once and for all. She was sitting in the garden and, on the toss of a coin, Karl went out to her first. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he returned. Later, as I stood in the garden with her after she’d promised to become my wife, he sat in the darkness inside and played the Moonlight Sonata. He was a superb pianist, you know.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Chavasse said gently.

‘A long, long time ago, young man, but he’ll remember every detail of that night. I know I do.’ Craig held out his hand. ‘I can only wish you luck, Mr Chavasse. I hope to see you again, very soon.’

He picked up his coat and moved to the door. The Chief turned briskly and smiled. ‘Well, Paul, it’s going to be a tough one. Just remember how important this is to all of us. Jean’s going to stay and cook you a meal and so on. She’ll drive you to Edgworth and see you off. Sorry I can’t come myself, but I’ve an important conference at the Foreign Office at nine-thirty.’

‘That’s all right, sir,’ Chavasse said.

The Chief ushered Craig to the door, opened it and turned. He seemed to be about to say something else and then thought better of it and closed the door gently behind him.

Chavasse stood there in the middle of the room for a long moment after they had gone and then he lit a cigarette and went back into the kitchen.

Jean Frazer was making a bacon and egg fry. She turned and wrinkled her nose. ‘Better have a shower. You look awful.’

‘So would you if you’d been handed a job like this,’ he said. ‘What’s happened to the coffee, anyway?’

‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’ She hesitated and came towards him, smoothing her palms nervously along her thighs. ‘It’s not so good, is it, Paul?’

‘It stinks,’ he said. ‘Putting it mildly.’ He grinned crookedly. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I ever got mixed up in this crazy business.’

Suddenly, she seemed close to tears. He bent down quickly and kissed her on the mouth. ‘Give me ten minutes to shower and change and I’ll have breakfast with you. Afterwards, you can drive me to my doom.’

She turned away quickly and he went back into the living-room and started to take off his tie. He opened the window and stood there for a moment, breathing in the raw freshness of the rain and suddenly felt exhilarated – tremendously exhilarated. It was the first time for two months that he had felt really alive. When he went into the bathroom, he was whistling.

INDIA—TIBET 1962

4

When Chavasse crossed the tarmac at Srinagar airport the following morning, Ferguson was waiting by the gate, a tall, greying man in his middle forties who looked cool and immaculate in a white linen suit.

He grinned and shook hands. ‘It’s been a long time, Paul. How are you?’

Chavasse was tired and his suit looked as if it had been slept in, but he managed a smile. ‘Bloody awful. I caught my flight out of Aden on time, but we ran into an electric storm and I missed my connection in Delhi. Had to hang around for hours waiting for a plane out.’

‘What you need is a shower and a stiff drink,’ Ferguson told him. ‘Any luggage?’

‘I’m travelling light this trip.’ Chavasse held up his canvas grip. ‘I’m relying on you to supply me with the sort of outfit I’m going to need.’

‘I’ve already got it in hand,’ Ferguson said. ‘Let’s get out of here. My car’s parked just outside.’

As they drove into Srinagar, Chavasse lit a cigarette and looked out of the window at the great white peaks of the mountains outlined like a jagged frieze against the vivid blue sky. ‘So this is the Vale of Kashmir?’

‘Disappointed?’ said Ferguson.

‘On the contrary,’ Chavasse told him. ‘All the books I’ve read don’t do it justice. How long have you been here?’

‘About eighteen months.’ Ferguson grinned. ‘Oh, I know I’ve been put out to pasture, but I’m not complaining. I’m strictly a desk man from now on.’

‘How’s the leg these days?’

Ferguson shrugged. ‘Could be worse. Sometimes, I imagine it’s still there, but they say that kind of hallucination can last for years.’

They slowed down as the car nosed its way carefully through the narrow streets of a bazaar and Chavasse looked out into the milling crowd and thought about Ferguson. A good, efficient agent, one of the best the Bureau had until someone had tossed that grenade through his bedroom window one dark night in Algiers. It was the sort of thing that could happen to anybody. No matter how good you were or careful, sooner or later your number came out of the box.

He pushed the thought away from him and lit another cigarette. ‘This flyer you’ve dug up – Kerensky? Is he reliable?’

‘One of the best pilots I’ve ever come across,’ Ferguson said. ‘Squadron-Leader in the RAF during the war, decorated by everybody in sight. He’s been out here for about five years.’

‘How’s he doing?’

‘Can’t go wrong, really. This mountain flying is pretty tricky. He doesn’t exactly have to worry about competition.’

‘And he thinks he can fly me in?’

Ferguson grinned. ‘For the kind of money we’re paying him, he’d have a pretty good try at a round trip to hell. He’s that kind of man.’

‘Does he live here in Srinagar?’

Ferguson nodded. ‘Has a houseboat on the river. Only five minutes from my place, as a matter of fact.’

They were driving out through the other side of the city, and now Ferguson slowed and turned the car into the driveway of a pleasant, white-painted bungalow. A houseboy in scarlet turban and white drill ran down the steps from the verandah and relieved Chavasse of the canvas grip.

Inside it was cool and dark with Venetian blinds covering the windows and Ferguson led the way into a bathroom that was white-tiled and gleaming, startling in its modernity.

‘I think you’ll find everything you need,’ he said. ‘I’ve told the boy to lay out some fresh clothes for you. I’ll be on the terrace.’

When he had gone, Chavasse examined himself in the mirror. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, his face lined with fatigue, and he badly needed a shave. He sighed heavily and started to undress.

When he went out on the terrace twenty minutes later dressed in cotton slacks and clean white shirt, his hair still damp from the shower, he felt like a different man. Ferguson sat at a small table shaded by a gaudy umbrella. Beneath the terrace, the garden ran all the way down to the River Jhelum.

‘Quite a view you’ve got,’ Chavasse said.

Ferguson nodded. ‘It’s even nicer in the evening. When the sun goes down over the mountains, it’s quite a sight, believe me.’

The houseboy appeared, a tray in his hands on which stood two tall glasses beaded with frosted moisture. Chavasse took a quick swallow and sighed with conscious pleasure. ‘That’s all I needed. Now I feel human again.’

‘We aim to please,’ Ferguson said. ‘Would you like something to eat?’

‘I had a meal on the plane,’ Chavasse said. ‘I’d like to see Kerensky as soon as possible, if that’s all right with you.’

‘Suits me,’ Ferguson said and he rose to his feet and led the way down a flight of shallow stone steps to the sun-baked lawn.

As they passed through a wicker gate and turned on to the towpath, Chavasse said, ‘What about the Tibetan? What’s he like?’

‘Joro?’ Ferguson said. ‘I think you’ll be impressed. He’s about thirty, remarkably intelligent and speaks good English. Apparently, Hoffner arranged for him to spend three years at a mission school in Delhi when he was a kid. He thinks the world of the old man.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Living in an encampment outside the city with some fellow countrymen. Plenty of refugees trailing into Kashmir from across the border these days.’ He pointed suddenly. ‘There’s Kerensky now.’

The red and gold houseboat was moored to the river bank about forty yards away. The man who stood on the cabin roof was wearing only bathing shorts. As they approached he dived cleanly into the water.

Ferguson negotiated the narrow gangplank with some difficulty because of his leg and Chavasse went first and gave him a hand down to the deck. It had been scrubbed to a dazzling whiteness and the whole boat was in beautiful condition.

‘What’s it like below?’ Chavasse asked.

‘First-rate!’ Ferguson told him. ‘A lot of people spend their vacation in one of these things every year.’

Several cane chairs and a table were grouped under an awning by the stern and they sat down and waited for Kerensky, who had already seen them and was returning to the boat in a fast, effortless crawl. He pulled himself over the rail, water streaming from his squat, powerful body, and grinned. ‘Ah, Mr Ferguson, the man with all the money. I was beginning to give you up.’

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