by Jack Higgins
They were dour and unsmiling, drab as the rocky land that bred them. Even the children in the market place lacked the energy and humour of their Indian counterparts, and there was a strange absence of bustle and vitality as they drove through the bazaar.
'No one seems to smile,' Janet said. 'Have you noticed that?'
'This is a poor country,' Hamid told her. 'Anything they get has to be squeezed out of the very rocks. Life is hard, work from dawn till dusk. It leaves little time for laughter.'
Across the square stood a barrack-like building, the flag of Balpur, a black eagle against a grey and gold background, lifting in the slight breeze above the entrance. Two sentries, almost incongruously smart in neat khaki uniforms and military turbans, presented arms as Drummond braked and Hamid got out.
He reached for his canvas grip and an orderly ran down the steps and relieved him of it. 'I'll see you tonight, then,' he said and his hand lifted in a brief salute.
The palace was a hundred yards further on and looked considerably less forbidding than it had done from the air, wrought iron gates standing open to reveal a gravel drive, tall cypress trees fringing the wall, a profusion of greenery beyond to where a fountain lifted gracefully into the calm air.
'I must say that looks rather more inviting,' Janet remarked.
'Not surprising,' Drummond said. 'The Khan's a Muslim, remember. At least they know how to live.'
'What's the religion of his people generally?'
'A lot pay lip service to Islam and a great many still adhere to Buddhism, but in a bastardised form. And then there's a minority group of Hindus who've kept themselves apart over the centuries. Not more than two or three thousand in the entire country.'
They were by now moving out of the town again and the houses were more scattered, two-storeyed walled villas in the main, obviously the homes of the rich of Sadar, whoever they were.
Drummond slowed, swung the jeep in through an arched entrance and braked to a halt in the courtyard of a small bungalow surrounded by a walled garden.
'This is my place,' he said. 'If you don't mind hanging on, I'll drop my things and be straight out again.'
As he got out, a small, greying woman, swathed in a dark robe, her face seamed and wrinkled, opened the front door and moved out on to the verandah inclining her head in greeting, hands together, Indian style.
'Your housekeeper?' Janet asked.
He nodded and reached for his canvas holdall. 'I won't be a minute.'
'Mind if I come in?' she said. 'I'd love to see inside.'
He hesitated perceptibly and then shrugged. 'If you'd like to, but there really isn't much to see.'
She followed him up the steps. At the top, he murmured something quickly to the old woman who went back in, then stood to one side. 'After you.'
She found herself in a narrow entrance hall with rough cast walls and a floor of polished wood. He opened a door to the right and she moved into the main living room. There was a great stone fireplace, skin rugs on the wood floor and the furniture was of the simplest; a dining table, several easy chairs and a couple of shelves of books.
'I'll be with you in a minute,' Drummond said and he crossed the room and went through another door.
She walked slowly around the room, examining everything and paused at the bookshelves. There was a small figurine of a dancer on the table beneath, carved from some dark wood of incredible hardness. She picked it up and examined it closely. The breasts were of a ripeness that was almost lifelike, hands extended in a ritualistic pose, the unsmiling, grave face fixed for all eternity. There was a slight sound from behind and she swung round and found a woman standing in the doorway to the hall.
Like the old housekeeper she was an Indian, but quite young with a pale, flawless complexion, set off to perfection by her scarlet sari. There was a silver rope necklace around her neck, gold bracelets on the wrists and her dark eyes were rimmed with kohl.
In that same moment, Drummond came in from the bedroom. He said something quietly in Urdu and the girl turned at once and disappeared into the hall.
'Who was that?' Janet said.
'The old girl's daughter, Famia.' He took the figurine gently from her hands. 'You like this?'
'Yes, is it very old?' she replied automatically.
'Greco-Buddhist. Probably second century. You'll find things like this all over Balpur. As I said before, Buddhism used to be very strong up here, real Buddhism, I mean. Monasteries all over the place.'
'Are there any left?'
'One or two.' He glanced at his watch. 'We'd better get moving. It's almost eleven o'clock and Father Kerrigan holds his daily surgery at half-past. We'll try and catch him before it starts.'
They went out to the jeep and he handed her in and drove away as if nothing had happened. But things were not the same and there was a constraint between them that had not been present before.
Janet remembered the girl, her shapely body, the pale beauty of her skin against the scarlet sari, and a burning anger took possession of her that she found impossible to analyse.
The mission was on a hill above the river. It was a long, low, flat-roofed building, walled in by grey stone, as seemed to be the custom with all houses in this stark country, and the tiny belfry of a small chapel reared above it.
Flocks of goats, sheep and a few small horses grazed on the sparse grass at the entrance, and thirty or forty people waited patiently, squatting on the ground or leaning against the wall.
As Drummond slowed the jeep to drive through, Janet leaned out, her trained eye quickly taking in the evidence of disease. Rickets and ringworm in the children, old people with faces eaten away by yaws, eyes encrusted with dried pus and, here and there, a broken limb held awkwardly in a crude bandage.
'He doesn't handle all this on his own?' she demanded, turning to Drummond as they drove in through the entrance and braked at the bottom of a flight of stone steps.
He switched off the engine and nodded. 'Don't ask me how, but he does. Has an old woman to do the cooking, but that's all. Here she comes now.'
The woman who opened the front door and came out into the porch had the same ageless Mongolian face as the people in the market place, but wore a long cotton skirt and an Indian Army issue khaki sweater with cloth epaulets. The red scarf around her head and gold earrings made her look like a gypsy.
Drummond went up the steps with Janet's two cases, put them down and spoke to her in slow, careful English. He came back down the steps and took Janet's arm.
'He's in the chapel.'
They crossed the courtyard to the tiny, grey-stone building, he opened the heavy wooden door and they went inside. The lights were very dim, and down by the altar the candles flickered and the statue of the Holy Mother seemed to float out of the darkness.
Father Terence Kerrigan knelt in prayer, his rugged, stubborn old Irish face momentarily relaxed, almost childlike in its purity, his white hair gleaming like silver. When he crossed himself and got to his feet, she saw that he was a big man, built like a tree with shoulders as wide as Hamid's.
He turned, narrowing his eyes short-sightedly when he saw them there in the shadows and came forward with a ready smile.
'Jack, is it yourself, and this will be Miss Tate?' He took her hands in his, holding them tightly. 'It's good to see you here, my dear. I got word from Colonel Dil that you were coming in today. He had a message last night from Ali Hamid over the radio.'
'I feel like a fraud, Father,' she said. 'I believe you were expecting a doctor.'
'Nonsense, my dear, a qualified nursing sister with two years' experience in Vietnam refugee camps will do for me any day of the week.' He chuckled at her astonishment. 'Major Hamid is always most thorough.'
They crossed the courtyard, mounted the steps and went inside. The entrance hall had been turned into a dispensary, the stone walls whitewashed, drugs, medicines and equipment neatly arranged on white-painted shelves giving an overall impression of cleanliness and efficiency.
'This is where most of the work is done and as I'm the only qualified doctor in Balpur the pace is usually fast and furious.' He glanced at his watch. 'You'll see for yourself in precisely fifteen minutes.'
'What about my patient?' Janet asked.
'Kerim?' the old man sighed. 'Frankly, he's not been too marvellous. He's been staying here, of course, so that I can give him constant supervision. The Khan wanted me to take up residence at the palace, but naturally, I had to refuse. As I pointed out, I do have other patients.'
'And how is Kerim now?'
'Rather better. He's been very feverish, but we seem to be over the worst of that now. In any event, I think we should wait for a few days before contemplating such a long journey.'
'So Janet stays here?' Drummond said.
'If she can put up with a crotchety old fool.' Father Kerrigan smiled. 'Would you like to take a peep at Kerim?'
He led the way through into a narrow whitewashed passage and opened a door on the left. The boy looked very frail as he slept, head turned to one side on the white pillow, a heavy bandage crossing his left eye and they withdrew softly.
The priest opened the opposite door and ushered her into a small room, simply furnished with a narrow bed and wooden locker. The one touch of luxury was a large sheepskin rug on the floor. A french window opened on to a verandah overlooking an overgrown and neglected garden.
'The best I can do, I'm afraid,' he said apologetically.
'A palace compared to what I was used to in Vietnam.'
They returned to the dispensary and found Drummond standing at the door looking outside. The courtyard had filled with people, all squatting together in the dust, waiting patiently for the old priest to begin.
He took out his watch again and pursed his lips. 'Five minutes late. This will never do. I'll have to say goodbye for now, Jack. We'll be seeing you tonight at the palace, I imagine.'
'I expect so.'
Drummond turned to Janet, but she was touching Father Kerrigan on the arm as he moved away. 'Could I help, Father?'
The old man looked down at her searchingly and then a slow smile broke across his face. 'I'd be glad to have you, my dear. I'll find you a robe.'
She nodded briefly to Drummond. 'See you tonight, Jack.'
She turned away, different now, holding herself straighter, competent, assured. She and the old man stood at the back of the dispensary, talking as she pulled on the white robe he had found for her, a strange intimacy between them.
Drammond turned abruptly, pushed his way through the crowd, climbed into the jeep and drove quickly away.
5
Dinner at the Palace
THROUGH the french windows, the white balustrade of the terrace shimmered palely and the tall cypress trees were silhouetted against the evening sky. From the garden came the timeless, incessant chirping of the crickets.
Inside, the soft lamplight gleamed on delicate crystal decanters and silver and gold tableware, and the great ruby in the centre of the Khan's turban glowed dimly like an ember stirred by a soft wind.
He was seventy years of age, but carried himself well in his London tailored mohair and silk dinner jacket, and the face beneath the turban was still that of a warrior, proud and strong with the touch of arrogance of one born to rule.
He sat at the head of the table, Janet Tate on his left, and he turned to her with a smile, speaking in careful, precise English. 'More brandy, Miss Tate?'
'I don't think so, thank you.'
'A little more coffee, then?'
He snapped a finger and a servant came forward quickly. There were five of them at the table besides the Khan. Janet, supremely beautiful in her simple black silk dress, and Jack Drummond on her left in a white dinner jacket. Father Kerrigan sat on the Khan's right hand next to Mr. Cheung, and Hamid and Colonel Sher Dil, commander of the Khan's small army, faced each other, magnificent in dress uniform.
'Father Kerrigan has made you comfortable, Miss Tate?' the Khan asked.
'He couldn't have done more.'
The Khan sighed. 'It would have pleased me to have had you as my guest here at the palace, but he is a stubborn old man.'
'And if that's true, then I know another not a thousand miles from here,' the priest said, speaking with the familiarity of an old friend and reaching for the brandy decanter. 'Would you imagine it, Janet, he wanted me to forsake every other blessed patient I have, close the mission and move in here?'
The Khan shrugged helplessly. 'What can one do? He even refused the soldiers I sent. At this moment, who guards the Hope of Balpur?' he challenged the old priest.
'Tell me first who in Balpur would harm him,' Father Kerrigan countered.
The Khan sighed. 'You see, Miss Tate, I am not even ruler in my own house.'
'If you must know, old Nerida's sitting at the boy's bedside this very moment,' Father Kerrigan told him. 'She'd cut off her arm rather than move from that spot before I return.'
'You have seen Kerim today?' the Khan said to Janet. 'He is well?'
She nodded. 'But still a little weak. An injury of this kind is a great shock to the whole system, especially for a child.'
'A child who will be a man in another three years, an important distinction. Under our customs, he must then be presented to the people, ready to take my place if need be. That is why I am anxious that he starts on the journey to America with as little delay as possible.'
'We must wait for another few days,' Father Kerrigan said. 'I'm sure Miss Tait agrees with me.'
The Khan glanced at Janet and she nodded. 'I think Father Kerrigan is right. And we've time to spare. Kerim can be back within a month of the operation, you know.'
He threw his arms wide. 'Then I must bow before the wind. You play chess, Miss Tate?'
'Not very well, I'm afraid.'
'Father Kerrigan considers himself a master. It is my painful and frequent duty to prove otherwise.'
'Indeed, so?' the priest said, pushing back his chair and rising, glass of brandy in hand. 'If your Highness would be good enough to lead the way to the usual place, we can get down to the business of making you eat your words.'
'A pleasure.' The Khan got to his feet and looked enquiringly at the others. 'Gentlemen?'
Hamid glanced at Drummond and Sher Dil. 'Billiards?'
They both nodded and Cheung smiled across at Janet. 'Which leaves Miss Tate and myself. With the Khan's permission, perhaps I could show her some of the treasures of the palace?'
'Please do. It should take me no longer than an hour to encompass the downfall of this turbulent priest.'
'Is that a fact, now?' Father Kerrigan said in mock anger and they went out.
Hamid, Sher Dil and Drummond had their heads together for a moment, something to do with a report over the radio from Indian Army Headquarters about patrol clashes in the Ladakh area. Cheung joined them and Janet moved to the window and looked into the garden.
It was very beautiful. Great, Grecian-style jars were spaced along the terrace, filled with dwarf iris, and the scent of hibiscus was heavy on the night air. Lower down in the shadows, the slender cypress trees stood like straight sentinels, dark against the sky, and the moon was full.
Cheung paused beside her. 'A startling contrast, isn't it? In here all the beauty in the world, a garden by night. Beyond those walls, a harsh, sterile land where even mere existence is a struggle.'
'Has it always been this way?'
He nodded. 'In the old days, the tribesmen raided into India like wolves. Their name was a byword for cruelty. But those days are gone. Now they must live off the land and the land has little to give.'
'Can nothing be done?'
He shrugged. 'Who knows? Brackenhurst may turn up with something in his survey, evidence of mineral deposits worth developing, perhaps. The Khan has his hopes, but I doubt if they will come to much. Brackenhurst would not be the first geologist to waste his time here.'
'And yet Hamid tells me the Chinese Government in Pekin has lai
d claim to Balpur.'
'And Nepal and Bhutan, even parts of Assam.' He shrugged. 'Words, merely words. But as a matter of interest, there can be little doubt that in other times Balpur was part of the Chinese Empire. Come, I will show you.'
They went back inside, moved into the central hall, and he opened another door. The room was in darkness. Janet heard the click of the switch, but was totally unprepared for what followed.
On every side a row of glass showcases, each with its own illumination, sprang into view to float in the darkness. But it was their contents which drew from her an involuntary gasp of admiration. They contained the most superb collection of pottery she had ever seen.
There were alabaster jars, pale, translucent and delicate, glazed urns in red and black, their colours as vivid as on the day they had been fired.
Most were unmistakably Chinese and others showed a distinct Chinese influence. There was also a collection of figurines like the one she had seen at Drummond's bungalow.
'Jack has one of these,' she said. 'He told me it was Greco-Buddhist.'
'That's right. As you're probably aware, Alexander the Great invaded India. Amazing to what extent Greek culture penetrated the entire border area and yet in India, their literature doesn't even mention his name.'
She reached out and touched a delicate and beautiful wine jar which had been painstakingly put together piece-by-piece to judge by the network of fine lines that covered it.
'Where was this discovered?'
'A burial mound south of the city near the river. There are many such sites. You must visit some of them while you are here. There is a most interesting ruin of a Buddhist temple not far from the mission. Breathtaking by moonlight. I can recommend it.'
