The children had disappeared and the street was quite deserted as he stood there listening to the sound of the Beaver in the distance, drawing happily on the English cigarette Drummond had given him.
Doors opened in the houses along the street and one by one soldiers emerged in peaked caps and drab quilted jackets. As Moro turned, the door to his house opened and a young officer emerged. He wore a beautifully tailored riding coat with fur collar and the red star of the Army of the People's Republic gleamed brightly in his cap.
1 did well?' Moro said.
The young officer took the English cigarette from the Tibetan's lips and inhaled deeply. A sunny smile appeared oa his face.
'Excellent. Really quite excellent.
Moro nodded, the eager smile still firmly in place and together they stood there, listening to the sound of the Beaver fade into the pass.
House of Pleasure
DRUMMOND emerged from the hot room, dropped his towel on the tiled floor and dived into the plunge bath, swimming down to touch the brightly coloured mosaic face of Kali, the Great Mother, staring blindly into eternity through the green water as she had done for a thousand years.
He surfaced and one of the house girls moved out of the steam and squatted at the side of the ancient bath, holding a tray containing a slender coffee pot and tiny cups. Drummond swam towards her and she handed him down a cup as he floated there in the water.
She was like all the rest of them, startlingly beautiful, with delicate features and great kohl-rimmed eyes. Her green silken sari was saturated with steam, outlining to perfection the firm body, the curving breasts.
As Drummond sipped his coffee, he heard a harsh laugh somewhere near at hand and Hamid's great voice boomed between the walls. He was singing the first stanza of Zukhmee-Dil, a ballad immensely popular on the North-West Frontier, at one time the favourite march of the Khyber Rifles.
Wullud sureen shuftauloo-maunind duryah, Ufsose! mun n'shinaah.
Drummond handed his cup back to the girl and threw the song back at the Pathan, translating into English.
There's a boy across the river with a bottom like a peach, but, alas, I cannot swim.
Hamid bellowed with laughter as he moved out of the steam, a towel about his waist. He was a Pathaa of the Hazara tribe, dark-skinned, bearded. A handsome buccaneer of a man of six feet three with broad muscular shoulders.
He smiled hugely. 'Feeling better, Jack, headache gone?'
'Ready for anything,' Drummond replied.
'Me, too.' The Pathan ran his fingers through the long hair of the girl who still squatted at the side of the bath. 'A good song, that, but where love's concerned, I'm the old fashioned kind.'
He pulled the girl to her feet and the damp sari parted exposing her left breast. 'Now there's a thing.. He swung her up into his arms and grinned down at Drummond. 'See you later.'
Drummond swam lazily across to the other side of the bath and back again. He repeated the process twics and then hauled himself out over the stone edge, smoothed by time. He picked up his towel, wrapped it around his waist and padded across the warm tiles.
The next room was long and narrow with a vaulted roof and lined with cubicles, some with curtains drawn. From one he heard Hamid's deep chuckle followed by the lighter laughter of the girl and smiled to himself.
He went into the end cubicle, pulled the bell cord In the comer, climbed on to the stone massage slab and waited. After a while, the curtain was drawn and Ram Singh, the proprietor, entered followed by several bearers carrying buckets of hot and cold water.
The Hindu smiled. 'All is in order, Mr. Drummond?.
"You've made a new man of me,' Drummond said..We could do with you in Sadar/
The Hindu rolled his eyes to heaven in simulated horror. The end of the world, Mr. Drummond. The end of the world. I will send Raika..
He withdrew and Drummond lay there staring up at the ceiling. The end of the world. Well, that wasn't far off as a description of Sadar. A capital city with a population of three thousand, which gave some idea of the size of Balpur itseE A barren, ugly land, harsh and "cruel as its inhabitants. The last place God made. Well, not for much longer, Praise be to Allah.
The curtain rustled and when he turned Ms head, Raika had entered. She was strikingly beautiful and wore a ruby in one nostril and great silver ear-rings with little bells on the end that tinkled when she moved ier head.
Her sari was of blue silk threaded with gold and outlined every curve of her graceful body. Drummond nodded, and without speaking she started to work.
First came the hot rinse, water so scalding that he had to stifle the cry of pain that rose in his throat. She worked on his limbs to start with, first with the brushes and then with practised hands, loosening taut muscles, relaxing him so completely that he seemed to be floating, suspended in mid-air.
And as always, he was amazed at the matter-of-fact-ness of it all, the lack of overt sensuality. But then this was India where life and death, love and the flesh, were all a part of one great mystery.
She sluiced him down again with another bucket of
'hot water that was followed immediately by one so cold it drew the breath from his body. He gasped and there was a glint of laughter in her eyes, barely contained, so that at once she became real, a creature of flesh and blood.
She leaned over Mm, the damp sari gaping to the waist and Drummond cupped a hand over one sharply pointed breast She went very still and stayed there ia that position, leaning across him, her hand still reaching for the brush.
Drummond stared up at her, the nipple hardening against his palm and something stirred in her eyes. Her head came down slowly, the mouth slightly parted, and as he slid his free hand up around her neck, there was a discreet cough at the entrance.
Raika stood back at once completely unconcerned, and Drummond sat up. Ram Singh peered through the curtain, an anxious frown on his face.
'So sorry, Mr. Drummond but there is a person to see you.'
Dremmond frowned..A person?.
'A Miss Janet Tate.. Ram Singh laughed nervously. 'An American lady..
'In this place?'
Hamid appeared at the Hindu's shoulder, a cigarette in his mouth. 'A day for surprises, Jack. Any idea who she is?'
There's one way of finding out.
Drummond tightened the towel around his waist, left the cubicle and went into the next room. It was beautifully furnished with heavy carpets, low divans and round brass coffee tables at which several clients were relaxing after the rigours of the bath.
He crossed the room followed by Hamid and the
Hindu, knelt on a divan and peered through the latticed partition of wrought iron into Ram Singh's office.
Janet Tate stood at the desk, examining a figurine of a dancer. She put it down, turned and looked around her with interest, moving very slowly across the floor, incredibly lovely in the yellow dress, the long, shoulder-length black hair framing her calm face.
Hamid sighed softly. 'A hour! from Paradise itself, sent to delight us.'
Drummond straightened, a frown on his face. 'Get me a robe, will you?'
The Hindu was back in a. moment and helped him into it. 'Aren't you going to dress first?' Hamid said.
Drammond grinned. 'My curiosity won't allow me to wait that long.'
When he opened the door and stepped into the office, Janet Tate was examining a tapestry hanging on one wall. She turned quickly and stood quite still.
The man who faced her was about forty, the crisp black hair already greying a little at the temples. He was perhaps six feet in height, well built with good, capable hands. She noticed them particularly as he fastened the belt of his robe.
But it was the face that interested her, the slight ironic quirk to the mouth of someone who laughed at himself and other people too much; the strong, well-defined bones of the Gael. Not handsome, the ugly, puckered scar running from the right eye to the corner of the mouth had taken care of that, but the eyes were like
smoke slanting across a hillside on a winter's day and she was aware of a strange, inexplicable holiowness inside her.
'Mr. Drummond? I'm Janet Tate.
She didn't hold out her hand. It was as if she was afraid to touch him, afraid of some elemental contact which, at this first moment, she might be unable to control.
And then he smiled, a smile of such devastating charm that the heart turned over inside her. He shook his head slowly. 'You shouldn't have come here, Miss Tate. It's no place for a woman.'
That's what the man at the hotel told me,. she said. "But they have girls here. I saw two as I came in.'
And then she realised and her eyes widened. Drum-mond helped himself to a cigarette from a sandalwood box on the desk. 'What can I do for you?'
Tm trying to get to Sadar. I believe you might be able to help.'
He frowned his surprise. 'Why on earth do you want to go to Sadar?'
Tm a nurse,' she said. Tve been sent here by the Society of Friends to escort the Khan of Balpur's young son to our Chicago hospital. He's to undergo serious eye surgery there.'
And then Drummond remembered. Father Kerrigan had told him about it before leaving. But the old priest had said they were expecting a doctor.
'So you're a Quaker.'
That's right,' she said calmly.
Tirst visit to India..
She nodded. 'I've just finished a two-year tour of service in Vietnam. I was on my way home on leave anyway, so the Society asked me to make a detour.'
'Some detour.'
.You can take me?.
Drummond nodded. 'No difficulty there. I fly a Beaver, there's plenty of room. Just one other passenger-Major Hamid, Indian Army adviser in Balpur, not that they have much of an army for him to advise.
Well take off about four-thirty, make an over-night stop at Juma and fly on through the mountains to Sadar in the morning. Much safer that way.' He.crushed his cigarette into the Benares ashtray.-'If you'll hang on, I'll go and dress.'
He started for the door and she said quickly, 1 was forgetting. I have & message for you from a Mr. Ferguson.'
When he turned, it was the face of a different man, cold, hard, wiped clean of all expression, the eyes like slate.
'Ferguson? Where did you meet Ferguson?'
'On the train from Calcutta. He was very kind to me. He wants you to call on him at the usual place before you leave.' She smiled brightly. 'It all sounds very mysterious.'
An invisible hand seemed to pass across his face and he smiled again. 'A great one for a joke, old Ferguson. I shan't be long.'
He left her there and hurried through the other room to the changing cubicles where he dressed quickly in a cream nylon shirt, knitted tie and single-breasted blue suit of tropical worsted.
When he returned to the office, Hamid was sitting on the edge of the desk, Janet in the chair beside him looking up, a smile, on her face.
Drummond was aware of a strange, irrational jealousy as he moved forward. 'I see Ali's managed to make his own introductions, as usual.'
'If I must be formally introduced, then I must.. Hamid grinned down at Janet. 'Jack was at one time a Commander in the Navy. He's never got over it They're very correct, you know.'
He jumped to his feet and stood there waiting for
Drummond to speak, a handsome, challenging figure in his military turban and expertly tailored khaki drill uniform, the medal ribbons a bright splash of colour above his left breast pocket.
Drummond sighed. Trapped, as usual. Miss Janet Tate, may I present Major Ali Mohammed Hamid, D.S.O., a British decoration, you'll notice. Winchester, one of our better public schools, and Sandhurst Rather more class than West Point, don't you think?'
Hamid took her left hand and raised it to his tips gallantly. 'See how the British have left their brand on us, clear to the bone, Miss Tate?'
'Don't look at me,' Drummond said. Tm a Scot.
The same thing,' Hamid said airily. 'Everyone knows it's the Scots who rule Britain.'
He gave his arm to Janet and they moved out into the bright, hot sunshine. Across the square, there was a low wall and beyond it, the river, usually two miles wide at this point, but as always when winter approached, narrowing to half a mile or less, winding its way through endless sandbanks.
'Is this still the Ganges?' Janet asked.
'Ganges, Light amid the Darkness, Friend of the Helpless. It has a thousand names,' Hamid said as they Strolled towards the low wall. To bathe in her waters is to be purified of all sin, or so the Hindus believe.'
Janet leaned on the wall and looked down the cobbled bank into the in-shore channel at the brown, silt-laden water. 'It looks pretty unhealthy to me.'
Drummond tit a cigarette and leaned beside her. 'Strangely enough, it does seem to have health-giving properties. During religious festivals pilgrims driak it, often at places where the drains disgorge the filth of the town, but they never seem to suffer. Bottled, it keeps for a year. They say that in the old days when taken on board clipper ships in Calcutta, it outlasted all other waters.'
Down below at the river edge some kind of ceremony was taking place and she glanced up at Hamid. 'Can we go down?'
'But of course. Anything you wish..
'Not me,' Drummond said. 'If I'm going to see Ferguson before we leave, I'd better be moving.' He glanced at his watch. 'It's almost two o'clock now. I'll see you back at fee hotel at four.'
He moved away across the square quickly and Janet watched him go, a slight frown oa her face, 'I believe Mr. Ferguson said he was in the tea business.'
That's right,' Hamid said, 'Jack has an air freight contract with him. Ferguson usually comes up to see him once a month. He has a houseboat lower down the liver from here.'
'You said Mr. Dremmosd was OECS a naval commander?.
'Fleet Air Arm."
'He was a regular officer, then? He would have bees too young to have been a full commander during the war.'
'Quite right. The Pathan still smiled, but there was a slight, cutting edge to his voice, a look in the eye that warned her to go no further. 'Shall we go down?'
They stood on the edge of a small crowd and watched the ceremony that was taking place. Several people stood knee-deep ia the water, the men amongst them stripped to the waist and daubed with mud. One of them poured ashes from a muslin bag into a larger paper boat. Another put a match to it and pushed the frail craft away from the bank, out into the channel where the current caught it. Suddenly, the whole boat burst into flames, and a moment later sank beneath the surface.
.What were they doing?' Janet asked.
.The ashes were those of a baby,' Hamid said. 'A man-child because the ceremony is expensive and not worth going through for a girl.'
'And they do this all the time?'
He nodded. 'It is every Hindu's greatest dream to have his ashes scattered on the waters of Ganges. Near here there is a shamsan, a burning place for the dead. Would you like to see it?'
'Do you think I can stand it?'
He smiled down at her. 'Two years in Vietnam, you said. If you can take that, you can take anything.'
Tm not so sure.' She shook her head. 'India's different, like no other place on earth. Ferguson told me that and he was right.'
As they moved along the shore, she could smell woodsmoke, and up ahead there was a bullock cart, three or four people standing beside it
As they approached, she gave a sudden gasp and moved closer to Hamid. A naked man was lying on a bed of thorns, eyes closed, his tongue protruding, an iron spike pushed through it. His hair and beard were matted and filthy, his body daubed with cowdung and ashes.
'A saddhu, a holy man,' Hamid said, throwing a coin into an earthenware jar that stood at the man's head. 'He begs from the mourners and prays for the souls of the dead.'
There was nothing to distinguish the place from any other stretch of the shore, no temples, no monuments. Only the ashes of old fires, the piles of calcined bones and here and there a skull, glaring blin
dly up at the sky.
The people by the fire laughed and joked with each other and as the flames roared through the criss-crossed logs of the funeral pyre in a sudden gust of wind, she caught the sweetly-sick, distinctive stench of burning flesh and her throat went dry, panic threatening to choke her.
She turned, stumbling against Hamid, and beyond him in the water something turned over in the shallows, a rotting body, arms trailing, a grey headed gull swooping down, beak poised to strike.
There was immediate concern oa Ms face, and unconsciously he used her first name. 'Janet, what is it?'
Jack Higgins - Iron Tiger Page 2
