“Colonel, what is the name of our contact in Gangtok?” asked Shaw.
Looking over his notes, Simcoe said, “Her name is Miss Amrit York.”
“Have you ever met her?” asked Shaw.
“No, but her reputation is quite solid,” replied Simcoe. “At one time, not very long ago, her brother was our contact, but after he died on assignment in Tibet, Miss York willingly took over his assignment.”
Shaw stood and offered his hand. “Well then, Colonel, as much as I’d rather not climb aboard yet another airplane, Duncan and I must be off. Thanks for the information and your hospitality.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, Mister Shaw,” said Simcoe, eagerly shaking Shaw’s hand.
“Any chance of getting a different driver to take us back to the base?” asked Shaw.
Simcoe shook his head. “I take it young Darcy was up to his usual tricks. I guess another month as duty officer will sort him out. Don’t worry, your bags are waiting for you in a jeep downstairs, I’ll have the soldier drive you to your plane.”
Shaw and Bruce headed downstairs, leaving Simcoe to deal with his young officer. Both men climbed into the back of an idling jeep, sat back and then waited for their driver to finish being briefed by an Indian captain before they left the fort.
Shaw thought about the date provided by Irene. It had to mean something. The Germans wouldn’t have recorded it if it weren’t important. But what was it?
They would soon find out, and it would become a date neither man would ever forget.
Chapter 9
Troop train
Northern India
The gentle, rhythmic rocking of the steam train as it made its way through the picturesque mountainous region of Northern India with its lush tree-filled valleys and steep mountain peaks was slowly putting Bruce to sleep. He was barely able to keep his eyes open. He found himself nodding off when the door to their cabin opened and Shaw stepped inside.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” said Shaw as sat down on the bench across from Bruce. “You’re missing the sights.”
Turning his head, Bruce saw that they were passing through a rocky valley. Looking up, he couldn’t see the top of the tall mountains, lost from sight in the dark-gray rain filled clouds that hung low in the early evening sky.
“This surely is one bloody big country,” said Bruce. “We’ve gone from a broiling desert to the stifling humidity in New Delhi to a cool, mountain-filled countryside in the space of a few days.”
“It is breathtaking, I’ll give it that,” agreed Shaw.
“Where’s our travelling companion?” asked Bruce, looking around for the British captain who was travelling in their cabin with them.
“I think he got bored of us and went to chat with his fellow officers.”
“I guess us civilian types aren’t all that interesting,” said Bruce with a chuckle.
As they approached Gangtok, Shaw and Bruce had stopped using British military planes, as they were deemed too conspicuous and boarded a train that was passing near Tibet on its long journey to Burma. There were several businessmen traveling to the east, so it was easy for Shaw and Bruce to blend in and get lost with the other passengers.
“Who did the captain say these soldiers were?” asked Bruce, watching a couple of short, but fierce-looking soldiers walk past the glass window on the door to their cabin, with their rifles slung over their shoulders.
“They’re Gurkhas, from the Ninth Gurkha Rifles,” replied Shaw.
“They don’t look Indian,” said Bruce.
“They’re not; they’re from Nepal. By a special agreement with the King of Nepal, they’re recruited directly into the British and Indian Armies, and they’re among the finest troops ever raised. Or at least that’s what the good captain told me.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to go up against them. Have you seen the size of that knife they all carry with them?”
“It’s called a kukri, and I agree they look like damned tough soldiers,” replied Shaw honestly.
A moment later, there was a knock on the door. Shaw stood and opened it. Standing there was a young train steward. In his hands were two metal serving trays filled with rice, potatoes, and curried lamb. After thanking the boy, Shaw took the trays, tipped the young steward, and then closed the door.
“Smells delicious,” said Bruce.
“Everything smells delicious to you,” said Shaw as he grabbed a fork and dug into his food.
An hour later, the steward returned for their empty plates. Bruce passed his compliments to the chef, which was lost on the poor boy, as the food had been prepared in large pots at the back of the train. Everyone from the lowliest soldier to the richest Englishman traveling on the train all ate the same meal.
Shaw stood up, stretched his arms up over his head and then touched the roof of the cabin with his fingers. “Feel like going for a stroll before turning in?”
“No thanks, sir, I think I’ll stay here and read a bit,” replied Bruce as he dug out a book on the history of Tibet given to him by Irene.
“Suit yourself, make sure that you lock the door behind me. I shouldn’t be gone long,” said Shaw.
As he stepped out into the narrow carriage hallway, Shaw looked both ways before deciding to head towards the front of the train. He knew that the cars further back were packed with several hundred soldiers on their way to the front. The last thing they needed to see was someone walking around looking at them while ostensibly avoiding the war himself. Shaw walked through the next couple of carriages, dodging his fellow travelers and harried train employees as they went about their business. He made his way to the only first-class car on the train, but found his way barred by a couple of Gurkha riflemen, who told him in halting English that the carriage was off limits. Obviously, a general or two didn’t want to be bothered, thought Shaw. With a shrug his shoulders, Shaw tried his best to look disinterested. He realized that his stroll tonight was going to be far shorter than expected, when a young Indian businessman stepped out of his room unexpectedly, nearly tripping over Shaw.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the young man. “I didn’t see you standing there.”
“It’s all right,” replied Shaw, steadying the man on his feet.
“You’re American?” said the man.
“You are correct,” replied Shaw.
“I’ve only met a couple of gentlemen from the States before the war. They were from New York City, are you from New York as well?”
Shaw smiled. “Sorry, my good man, but I’m from Pennsylvania.”
The businessman scrunched up his face and then said, “Can’t say that I’ve ever met anybody from Pennsylvania.”
“It’s ok. There’re plenty of places in India I’d never heard of until I came here.”
The young man chuckled at Shaw’s answer before excusing himself. He turned about and walked down the carriage hallway, leaving Shaw standing all alone.
“I guess that’s my cue to call it an evening,” mumbled Shaw to himself. Taking his time, he headed back the way he came. However, it didn’t take him long to come to walkway leading to his carriage. He was about to reach for the door between the two carriages, when Shaw froze. He could see the young Indian gentleman standing outside the door to his room, busily talking to a short, wiry-looking man dressed in an ill-fitting train steward’s uniform. The hair on Shaw’s neck went up the instant he saw the Indian man point at the closed door to Shaw’s cabin. Shaw reached behind his back and slowly drew his 9mm automatic from its holster. He pulled back on the slide, loading a round into the pistol’s chamber. He held the pistol out of sight behind his back and then opened the door.
“Good evening gentlemen,” said Shaw. “May I be of service?”
The Indian man’s eyes widened when he realized that it was Shaw standing in front of him. “Not at all, sir,” said the businessman. “I was just asking this young man when we were going to be arriving at Gangtok.”
“Not that I don’t believe you,�
� said Shaw, pulling the gun from behind his back, “but I don’t.”
“Sir, this is all some big misunderstanding, there’s no need for a gun,” said the Indian man.
“Well, there’s one way to settle this,” said Shaw. “Let’s find the train conductor and see if he knows either of you fine gentlemen.”
“Please, sir, you’re being irrational. You don’t need a gun. You’re not in Chicago.”
“I told you I’m from Pennsylvania,” replied Shaw, bluntly. “Now, both of you raise your hands and turn around.”
The Indian man nodded his head, looked over at the steward and said something in a language that Shaw didn’t understand.
A moment later, the young steward smiled at Shaw and slowly began to raise his hands. With cat-like reflexes, he reached behind his neck, dropped to one knee and threw two knives straight at Shaw’s chest.
Shaw barely had time to react. Instinctively, he turned on his heels. One of the blades flew past him, imbedding itself in the carriage wall. The other razor-sharp knife cut through Shaw’s jacket, shirt and down into his skin before striking the wall. Shaw gritted his teeth and tried to block out the searing pain from the deep cut across his chest.
Without waiting for his attacker to try anything else, Shaw fired off two shots at his opponent. However, the young steward had anticipated Shaw’s reaction and deftly shifted his position. With a muffled moan, the Indian man doubled over in pain hit in the stomach by both rounds. Instantly adjusting his aim, Shaw prepared to fire once more when the steward jumped up; with a loud yell, he ran straight at him. Surprised, Shaw took a step back and fired his weapon.
At the last second, the steward dove forward.
Shaw’s shot hit the carriage floor where the steward had been a split-second before.
The young man rolled over on his shoulder and came up right in front of Shaw. With a loud scream, the steward smashed his right hand into Shaw’s chest, painfully sending him flying backwards onto the floor.
White light filled Shaw’s eyes as his head hit the wooden floor of the carriage. He barely heard the sound of his pistol clattering across the floor and away from his hand. His chest felt like it was on fire as he fought to fill his lungs with oxygen.
Shaw rolled to one side, turned his head slightly and saw the steward standing over him, out the corner of his eye. The man seemed to be smiling. Shaw realized that he wasn’t up against any normal man. Someone had sent a highly trained assassin to kill him. Shaw, acting on pure instinct, shot out his right leg, his foot colliding with his opponent’s closest knee painfully buckling his leg out from under him. A moment later, the steward fell to the floor in agony. Still trying to catch his breath, Shaw climbed up onto his feet just as the steward let go of his injured knee and then, with an unexpected calm look on his face, he leapt straight up off the floor at him.
The man should have been down for the count with a shattered knee; however, he somehow seemed to be able to block the pain from his mind.
With a snarl on his lips, the steward shot his right fist straight at Shaw’s head.
Shaw, an accomplished boxer, saw the move coming, and turned his head slightly. His attacker’s blow missed its mark and harmlessly slid along Shaw’s sweat-covered face.
Shaw had had enough. He wanted to end the fight. He sent his balled-up fists flying into the steward’s exposed sides. Shaw tried to bring his attacker down. Punch after punch struck the man’s kidneys, yet unbelievably, Shaw’s assailant would not give up. Although grimacing in pain, the steward somehow managed to stay on his feet.
With his heart pounding away, Shaw felt his strength beginning to wane. He was about to change his tactics and try something new, when like a cobra striking its prey, the steward shot his forehead straight onto Shaw’s.
The impact sounded like two coconuts smashing together.
For a second, Shaw blacked out. His feet gave out beneath him. He tumbled down onto the floor or the carriage, the world above him spinning wildly.
Like a hungry tiger, the steward leapt down onto Shaw’s chest, grabbed his tie in his right hand and pulled it as tight as he could and began to choke the life out of his opponent.
Shaw struggled to escape. His legs kicked out, trying to find something, he could use to push against to throw his attacker off his body. He reached up with his hands trying to break the vice-like hold around his neck. It was no good; the young man’s grip was just too tight. Shaw’s vision quickly began to narrow and he knew he had to do something. He had seconds before he blacked out and died.
Suddenly, from behind, the door to his cabin was flung open. A sleepy-eyed Duncan Bruce staggered out into the hallway.
“Jesus!” hollered Bruce, instantly awake when he saw the steward choking Shaw to death. Bruce took two steps forward, hauled back on his right leg like a soccer player trying for a goal and, with all his might, sent his foot flying straight into the side of the steward’s head.
The sudden ferocity of the impact sent the steward’s head snapping to the side. The steward let go of Shaw and collapsed in a heap against the carriage wall.
Bruce dropped to one knee and quickly undid Shaw’s tie. Placing an arm around him, Bruce helped his friend to sit up.
Although his throat felt like it was still being compressed by a boa constrictor, Shaw took in several ragged breaths before he realized that he wasn’t going to die. His heart raced in his chest. Cold sweat covered his body. If it wasn’t for all the adrenaline surging through his veins, he was certain that he would have felt a lot worse than he did.
“What the hell happened out here?” asked Bruce as he looked over at the lifeless form of the Indian businessman.
“These two tried to kill me,” replied Shaw, his voice pained and raspy.
“Do you know who they are?”
“Never saw either man in my life until a couple of minutes ago.”
“Bloody hell,” said Bruce as he reached over, picked up Shaw’s revolver and handed it to him.
The door at the far end of the carriage opened. In stepped a couple of Gurkha soldiers. Seeing the bloodied bodies lying on the floor of the cabin, they instantly pulled their rifles from their shoulders and ran to help Shaw and Bruce.
“Sir, what happened?” asked one of the soldiers in English.
“These two tried to kill my friend,” replied Bruce, pointing to the attackers lying on the carriage floor. “I suggest you fetch an officer right away.”
The soldier nodded his head and sent his partner to find an officer and bring him back immediately. Laying his rifle down, the soldier bent down to examine the body of the steward. His eyes were fixed on the man’s face and not his hands when the steward struck. With amazing speed, the steward pulled the unsuspecting Gurkha’s kukri knife from its scabbard and then thrust it deep into the hapless man’s side. A pained hiss escaped the Gurkha’s lips as he buckled and dropped to his knees.
Before Shaw could bring his pistol up to fire, the steward pivoted on his back and with his legs, he pushed the wounded Gurkha’s body over at Shaw and Bruce. With animal-like reflexes, the steward leapt onto his feet and ran straight for the nearest exit.
Shaw struggled to his feet and looked down at Bruce. “Stay with the soldier. See what you can do for him.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Bruce as he placed a handkerchief against the wound to try to stop the bleeding.
“I want answers,” said Shaw. With his pistol in his hand, Shaw chased after the steward. Using his shoulder like a battering ram, he crashed into the slowly closing door between the two carriages, sending it flying open. Without stopping, he leapt onto the next train car. Shaw saw his opponent, brought up his pistol and took aim at the steward. He was about to pull the trigger when a young woman stepped from her cabin, instantly blocking Shaw’s shot.
“Down!” yelled Shaw at the woman.
Fear and hesitation filled the woman’s mind. She had never seen a man with a gun on a train before. With her mouth ag
ape, she froze in place.
Shaw swore, reached over, and pushed her back into her room. He quickly brought up his pistol once more. Shaw grinned; he had the fleeing steward in his sights.
“Stop or I will shoot you!” ordered Shaw.
Coming to a sliding halt, the steward saw the carriage door in front of him open. Two Gurkhas walked in with their weapons aimed at him. The steward calmly turned about and looked back at Shaw.
He was trapped.
For the first time, Shaw got a good look at his assailant. His features weren’t Indian. In fact, he looked more like one of the Gurkhas.
“Drop the knife and place your hands on your head,” said Shaw firmly.
The steward shrugged his shoulders, took one quick look over his shoulder at the large glass window on the side of the carriage and before anyone knew what was happening, dove headfirst for the window. With a loud crash of shattering glass, the steward disappeared.
Shaw fired off a quick shot. He heard it hit the wall of the carriage. Shaw ran over and looked out the shattered window, trying to see in the darkness where the steward had landed.
He saw that the train was traveling over a long wooden bridge built over a deep gorge. His body would never be found, thought Shaw.
Cold rain whipped inside. After the struggle, Shaw found the rain a welcome change. He was about to pull his head inside when out of the corner of his eye, he saw a foot disappear up onto the top of the carriage.
The man had more moves than a circus acrobat, thought Shaw.
“He’s on the roof,” said Shaw to the soldiers. “Pass the word to have men placed between all of the carriages. I don’t want him to escape.”
Shaw spun about on his heels and ran for the nearest exit. As he stepped out between the train cars, he felt the heavy rain coming down, instantly soaking his rumpled clothes. He looked about in the dark until he found a metal ladder on the side of the car that led to the roof. Shaw placed his pistol in its holster, reached over and then began to climb. He was nearly at the top when his attacker came running out of the downpour straight towards him. A split-second later, the steward leapt into the air, his feet barely missing Shaw’s head. He swore, turned his head, and watched as the steward landed on the roof of the train car behind him.
The Mountain Page 6
