Year Of The Tiger

by Jack Higgins

  Chavasse lit a cigarette and leaned forward. “Many years ago you prepared a thesis for your doctorate in mathematics in which you proved theoretically that energy is space locked up in a certain pattern.”

  Hoffner frowned. “But how did you know this?”

  “You mentioned it to Craig in your letter. You also went on to say that you’ve now carried things a stage further – you’ve now proved that space itself can be changed into an energy field.”

  “But I don’t understand,” Hoffner said in surprise. “Why is Edwin Craig so concerned about what, at best, is an interesting new mathematical concept? All entirely theoretical, I assure you.”

  “It was, until the Russians sent a man called Gagarin into space to orbit the world,” Chavasse told him. “And then sent another to prove it was no fluke.”

  Hoffner had been in the act of applying a lighted taper to the bowl of his pipe. He paused, and something glowed deep in his dark eyes. “It would be stupid of me to imagine that you are joking?”

  Chavasse nodded. “The Americans have already emulated the performance. They’re trailing slightly, but catching up fast. I wouldn’t like to say who’ll be first on the moon. One thing Iam sure of. It won’t be the Chinese. They aren’t even in the race.”

  “Which explains why here in Changu we have been kept in the dark.” Hoffner jumped to his feet and paced restlessly across to the window and turned. “For once in my life I feel really angry. Not only as a scientist, but as a human being. To think that while here one day has followed the next like any other, outside, in the world, man has already taken the first steps on the greatest adventure ever known.”

  He came back to his chair and sat down. His face had become animated and flushed and there was a sparkle in his eyes. “Tell me about it,” he demanded. “Everything you know. What kind of propulsion are they using, for example?”

  “Both solid and liquid fuels,” Chavasse told him. “Multistage rockets, of course.”

  Hoffner shook his head. “But this is primitive, my friend. To take a satellite to the edge of space is one thing, but to reach the moon or beyond…”

  “That’s where you come in,” Chavasse explained. “The Russians have been working for years on an ionic rocket drive using energy emitted by stars as the motive force. They’re years ahead of the West. If they keep that lead, it means eventual world domination by Communism.”

  “And Craig thinks that my new theory can take that lead away from them?”

  Chavasse nodded. “I’m no scientist, but he seems to think that with your discovery, we could produce an energy drive for our rockets from space itself. Is he right?”

  Hoffner nodded soberly. “Speeds greater than we have ever dreamed of, something essential if the universe is ever to be fully explored.”

  There was a moment of silence before Chavasse said quietly, “I know your patients are important to you, but you must see now why it’s essential that you return to the outside world.”

  Hoffner sighed heavily and emptied his pipe. “I do indeed.” For a moment longer, he stared into the fire, and then he looked up and smiled. “I don’t know how on earth you intend to manage it, young man, but when do we leave?” He frowned suddenly. “And what about Katya? I can’t leave her behind.”

  “Do you really think she’d come?” Chavasse asked in surprise.

  Hoffner nodded. “She is anything but a political animal, and she has no ties here or in Russia, no family.”

  Chavasse sighed. “It could be awkward. Let me think about it, but for God’s sake don’t tell her a thing. What she doesn’t know can’t be squeezed out of her. That’s always important in an affair like this, in case anything goes wrong. There’s no need to rush things. We’ve got five days before my plane returns. The only real problem will be in finding a way of getting you out of Changu.”

  He had been subconsciously aware of a slight draught on his right cheek for several moments.

  He turned and found Katya standing just inside the door, holding a tray on which stood a glass of hot milk.

  He wondered how long she’d been standing there and, more important, just how much she had heard, but she gave him no sign. She moved forward, handed the glass of milk to Hoffner and said calmly in Russian, “Time for bed, Doctor. It’s been a long day.”

  Hoffner sighed, took a sip of milk and made a face. “You see, my friend,” he told Chavasse. “The wheel has come full circle. Like a schoolboy, I do as I am told.”

  “I’m sure Comrade Stranoff knows what’s best for you,” Chavasse said.

  She smiled down at him enigmatically. “But of course, Comrade Kurbsky. In everything.”

  For a moment, there was something strange in her eyes. Only briefly, but it told him what he wanted to know before she turned, crossed to the door and went out again.

  9

  It was pleasantly warm in the bedroom and someone had obviously made up the fire quite recently. Chavasse placed the oil lamp on the table beside the bed, opened the shutters and stepped out onto a covered balcony which ran the length of the house and overlooked the garden at the rear.

  There was no rain, but the wind was moist and he inhaled the freshness of wet earth, and then the tiredness hit him and he went back inside and closed the shutters.

  As he started to undress, there was a soft knock at the door and Hoffner came in. He carried an old bathrobe over one arm and, smiling, dropped it across the end of the bed. “I thought you might need one.”

  There was something in his voice, a slight element of strain, that brought a frown to Chavasse’s face. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

  Hoffner sighed and sat down on the bed. “I’m afraid Katya knows everything.”

  Chavasse lit a cigarette calmly. “You’d better tell me about it.”

  “It’s very simple. She heard rather more of the tail end of our conversation than we thought. For one thing, she speaks very good English; for another, she’s no fool. She’s just been to my room. Wanted to know exactly what was going on and who you really were.”

  “What did you say?”

  Hoffner shrugged. “That I’m a tired old man who wants to go home to die and that friends of mine have sent you in to help me get out.”

  “And nothing more than that?”

  “There didn’t seem any point at the moment.”

  “That was wise,” Chavasse told him. “After all, she is a Russian citizen. Helping you is one thing, but aiding and abetting in an affair, the success of which can only be to the ultimate harm of her country, presents her with a difficult psychological choice. In any case, as I said before, the less she knows, the less she can give out under pressure.”

  “You know best,” Hoffner said, “but I don’t think you need to worry. As I said before, she isn’t interested in politics. She isn’t even a Party member.”

  “If anything goes wrong and Chinese intelligence gets their hands on her, she’ll end up being anything they want her to be,” Chavasse told him grimly.

  “I suppose you’re right.” Hoffner got to his feet. “You’d better have a word with her in the morning; at the moment she is quite convinced I’d be committing suicide. That my heart wouldn’t stand the trip.”

  “I’ll handle it,” Chavasse told him. “You get some sleep and don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine, I promise you.”

  The door closed softly behind the old man and Chavasse stood there for a moment, thinking about the whole affair, and then the tiredness hit him again, driving everything else from his mind.

  He had barely sufficient strength to strip the clothes from his body and climb into bed. He blew out the lamp and, for a while, lay there, allowing each tired muscle to relax, staring up at the shadows on the ceiling, and then he was asleep.

  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 t
hat 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.