The Tiger warrior jh-4

by David Gibbins

  “Ubique,” Wauchope repeated softly. “Spoken like a true sapper.”

  Howard’s vision had become a tunnel, the edges dark and blurred. All he could see was Wauchope’s bearded, turbaned head, as if it were framed in an old sepia portrait. Howard seemed to be levitating, and to be pricked by a thousand pins and needles, a not unpleasant feeling. He felt he should try to move, but wondered if he were caught in a dream, one where movement would break the spell. If he stayed still, at any moment he might lift himself up, and walk down that tunnel toward the light. “Robert,” he murmured. “I can’t see so well anymore.”

  Wauchope clutched his hand and held it tight. There was a sudden commotion at the entrance. A sound of neighing, of pawing hooves. They both peered up the rocky slope. Warm exhalation, crystallized, blew inward, sucked from the mountain air outside and drawn toward them, like a lick of dragon’s breath against the radiance of the rock. They heard more snorting, pawing, and then their eyes grew accustomed to the light, and they saw it. The silhouette of a horse framed against the red sun, a glow that seemed to make the sweat glisten like blood as it shook its mane, spraying flecks of crimson into the air. And riding it, the figure in the terrifying tiger mask, loins girt with plates of armor, the great sword with the gauntlet flashing against the sky, streaked red with freshly congealed blood. My blood. Howard’s heart began to pound, pumping froth out of his mouth. A drumbeat started up, a slow, insistent beat that became louder, coming up the valley slope toward them.

  “That horse won’t come in here,” Wauchope said. “But the others will be on us soon, those following on foot. We have a few minutes left.”

  Howard uncurled his left hand and clutched Wauchope’s hand hard, then stared up toward him. “Did I do any good, Robert? I built canals and bridges and roads. I showed them how to map the land. Did I do any good?”

  “You brought up a family. You were a loving father. There is no better good a man can do.”

  Howard’s face collapsed. “My son Edward. My boy. I should never have left him in Bangalore. I should have been with him at the end.”

  “You were a sapper officer, and you were doing the Queen’s duty.”

  “Duty? In the jungle? What were we doing there?”

  Wauchope gripped Howard’s hand. “Do you remember our friend Dr. Walker? He reported the terrible jungle fever that decimated our men back to Surgeon-Major Ross, and Ross came to the jungle to see for himself If you hadn’t told Walker your theory about mosquitoes and the fever, it might never have happened. Sir Ronald Ross, winner of the new Nobel Prize for medicine. Putting down that rebellion was a thankless task, but something came out of it for the common good.”

  “The common good.” Howard coughed, and swallowed hard. “The Koya were already immune to the fever. We killed scores of them. We burned their villages. The roads I traced with my sappers are still there, unfinished, grown over. The few we did finish only brought moneylenders, opium dealers, disease. We were there because our government tried to squeeze a few more rupees out of the Koya, and we failed because our government couldn’t be bothered with a place that was unprofitable. We do great deeds with high ideals, Robert, but this was not one of them, and it has shaped my life.” Howard suddenly convulsed, wracked with coughing. Blood poured down his chin, and he clutched the wet patch on his side, the blood bubbling out of his lung. He looked Wauchope in the eyes, his face gray. His voice was a whisper. “I can’t feel my legs anymore, Robert.”

  The drumbeat became louder. Wauchope put his hand on Howard’s shoulder, and leaned close to him, wiping the blood from his mouth with his sleeve. “Steady on there, old boy.”

  Howard gripped Wauchope’s hand. “Find the jewel, would you? Take it to the jungle, to Licinius. And return the sacred velpu to the Koya. We owe them.” His voice was trailing off He coughed again, then whispered, “Go back to the shrine, and put it in his tomb.”

  Wauchope squeezed his hand. “One thing at a time, old boy. And I’ll need you to help me move the lid.”

  “Look underneath, at the base of the sarcophagus,” Howard murmured. “There will be a hole, about the right size for that tube. Licinius was a stonemason, remember? Roman sarcophagi always had a hole in them, to let the decay out. To let the soul fly free.”

  “I always said you should have been an archaeologist,” Wauchope replied.

  Howard forced a grin, his teeth glistening with blood. “We’ve had a great adventure, haven’t we?”

  “Indeed we have.” Wauchope picked up the bamboo tube with his left hand, curling his fingers around it until they nearly touched, then reached down with his right hand and picked up his Webley. “And it’s not over yet.” He gestured at the pistol in Howard’s hand, where it had remained after he fell. “Any chambers left?”

  “Two.”

  “I can’t believe you still use that old thing. Cap and ball. In this day and age. You really ought to get a cartridge revolver.”

  “That’s what you said thirty years ago in the jungle. I’ve managed to avoid firing a shot in anger since then. It has served me well.”

  “Just as long as you keep your powder dry.”

  “A soldier always looks after his weapon, Robert.”

  “You are still a soldier. The best.”

  “But not always,” Howard murmured, “a knight in shining armor.”

  “Did it feel good? Shooting again in anger, I mean? Just now?”

  “I always enjoyed the smell of gunpowder.”

  “Well then. Let’s see if we can make up for lost time, shall we?”

  “Hann til Ragnaroks.”

  “What did you say?”

  Howard raised his left hand. His fingers were curled as if he were still holding the bamboo tube, but he could not feel them. His voice was soft, almost a whisper. “Look at the signet ring. The family crest, with the anchor. It’s made of Viking silver, brought to England by my Norse ancestors. Hann til Ragnaroks was their motto. It means ‘until we meet in Ragnaroks’ in Valhalla.”

  “How on earth do you know that?” Wauchope said.

  Howard managed a weak smile. “Family history. Always been a passion. Don’t expect it will pass on though. Nobody else interested. But at least I know what to say when I get there. To those who have gone before.”

  “Well, I’m deuced if I’m going to Valhalla without a fight,” Wauchope said. “Come on.”

  “My hand, Robert,” Howard whispered. “Have you seen? It’s stopped shaking. It’s had a tremor all those years, since the jungle. Since I pulled that trigger. Now I can’t feel it at all.”

  Wauchope reached over and cocked Howard’s Colt, wrapping his limp hand around the grip. “I’m going for a recce. Your job is to shoot anything that appears at that entranceway.”

  “Right-oh.” Howard’s voice was barely audible. “Soldier first, engineer second.”

  “Quo fas et Gloria ducunt. We are soldiers.” “Warriors,” Howard whispered. “Knights.” “What was it you said? Hann til Ragnaroks.” “Hann til Ragnaroks.” Howard whispered the words, then took a rasping breath, bringing up blood again, and clutched Wauchope’s arm. He was shaking again, and his breathing was shallow. “Did I do it?” he whispered. “In the jungle? Did I do it? Did I shoot that little boy?” He looked up imploringly, but he could no longer see Wauchope. All he saw now was the imprint of the light at the end of the cave, and the aura of blue from the rock surrounding it. Wauchope held his hand and squeezed it, then reached into Howard’s tunic to where he knew it was, and pulled out a faded photograph of a young woman holding a baby. He placed it in Howard’s blood-soaked hand, and put his own hand around it. Howard was crying, tears streaming from sightless eyes, crying for the first time. “I can see him,” he whispered. “Darling Edward.” He watched them coming down the tunnel toward him, coming from the light, the woman and the boy. The boy ran ahead, stumbled into his arms, and he held him high, laughing, crying with joy. Wauchope leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, then pushed hi
mself to his knees, staggering up on his feet, the Webley dangling from one hand and the bamboo tube from the other. The silhouette was gone, and all Howard could see was a blinding light, as the rising sun obliterated everything else in its beam. The blue on the walls lit up and channeled the light back out again, a beam of energy that seemed to lift him to his feet and carry him forward. Then he heard the drums again, closer now, reverberating through the cave, and he felt the wind from outside, sharp jabs of cold that seemed to pierce him like arrows, and he was gone.

  19

  Jack felt himself free-falling through the water, his limbs spread-eagled as he let the weight of his body take him down. At first he had kicked hard to descend to a depth where he was no longer buoyant, and then he had forced the remaining air in his lungs into his mouth and used it to equalize the pressure in his ears. He could taste the water now, fresh, sharp, a hint of salt. He could see the bottom of the lake below him, gray and flat, not rippled as it would have been in the sea. He saw the shape that had drawn him down, the outline of an ancient boat half-buried in the sediment. Inside it was a pulsing green glow, as if someone had dropped a strobe light into the sediment. He fell toward it, hit the bottom then reached his arm deep into the mud and grasped the object. He drew it out, and held it up. It was a brilliant jewel, green olivine, peridot from the island off Egypt. He felt a warmth from it, the glow suffusing his body. He was suddenly drowsy, weighted down by it, as if he had found what he had been searching for all his life and there was nowhere else to go, and all he wanted was to let the sediment envelop him and to sleep forever. But he jerked back to life, his heart pounding. He had to return to the surface. There was something more precious there. He pushed off, the jewel in his hand, and kicked hard, finning toward the sunlight that streamed down from the sparkling surface above. I am calm. I am strong. He repeated the mantra, but he did not need to. There was no craving for oxygen, no urge to breathe. But then, as he saw the outline of the dive boat above, the wavering figures leaning over the side, watching him, he again felt a heaviness, a tingling that moved up his limbs toward his core. The jewel, weighty on the lake bed, had become too heavy, an impossible burden. He saw Rebecca’s face peering down, her long hair floating on the surface of the water. He tried to reach up to her, but the jewel was dragging him back down. He opened his mouth and breathed in, taking the lake into his lungs, falling back, feeling only a terrible emptiness, not knowing if he was crying, his hands outstretched toward a form which receded into the sparkle of the sunlight until it was no more.

  “Jack. Wake up. Katya and Altamaty are returning.” Jack felt a hand shaking him, and awoke with a start. He was sitting in the front passenger seat of the jeep, and Costas was beside him. He heard a crinkling sound, and saw that he was covered by a survival blanket. Costas must have found one in the jeep’s medical kit. He felt a tingling in his hands, the circulation returning. He remembered how cold they had been when they had arrived at this place soon after dawn, the dew still heavy on the ground. He pulled his left hand out from under the blanket, and looked at his watch. It was almost noon. They had been here about three hours, and he must have been asleep for two of them. They had been poring over Lieutenant Wood’s account of his final trek up to the lapis lazuli mines, somewhere in the valley ahead of them now. Jack remembered closing his eyes when Pradesh had gone to boil water for tea. He glanced at Costas. He was wearing a faded green army coat over a dark fleece, a Soviet tank driver’s sheepskin hat pulled down tight over his head. They had not been prepared for the chill, and had supplemented their own gear with what they had found in the bin at the back of the jeep. Jack pushed the blanket down, and cleared his throat. “Sorry. I dozed off.”

  “I noticed. It sounded like the engine was still running.”

  “I don’t snore.”

  “Of course not.”

  Pradesh appeared beside the jeep door. “You needed sleep.” He was also wearing a sheepskin hat, and an Indian Army green sweater. He squatted down over a small Primus stove, and passed a steaming cup up to Jack. “Fresh brew. Finest Darjeeling. I always carry some with me. It’s one military tradition we inherited from you British and just can’t shake off.”

  “Thanks.” Jack took the metal cup and cradled it. He peered at the valley ahead. The mountains of the Hindu Kush rose beyond, huge folds of stark rock and scree, dusted white on the nearer ridges and carpeted with snow on the peaks beyond. Jack lifted the compact binoculars that were hanging around his neck and peered through them. He could make out Katya and Altamaty, coming down a path that skirted the side of the valley. There was another figure with them, in Afghan gear. Jack lowered the binoculars and glanced at Pradesh, who nodded. Everything seemed to be going according to plan. They had arrived at Feyzabad airport in northern Afghanistan just after dawn, and had walked out of the plane straight into the jeep. Jack had an old friend who ran an aid agency in Feyzabad, and he had arranged the vehicle, complete with the freshly painted letters TV on the roof and sides. They had wanted to keep a low profile, and avoid any kind of military reception from NATO. There was an ISAF reconstruction team in the region, but after a phone conversation with the Danish colonel they had decided against an escort. The colonel had warned them of the risk. Taliban attack was possible anywhere, even up here in the north of the country. But the local warlord was known to be an independent, a stalwart of the old Northern Alliance, and he was someone they needed to nurture, not provoke. The colonel had given them an assurance of a helicopter medevac if they needed it, but beyond that they were on their own.

  Jack raised the binoculars again, scanning the opposite slope of the valley, looking for flashes of reflection, for hints of movement among the rocks, but knowing he would see nothing. Somewhere out there, somewhere ahead of them, was the sniper Katya was sure had watched them by the lake in Kyrgyzstan, and who would now be here. They would be safe until their destination was clear, until they had found what the Brotherhood wanted, but with every step closer they would become more vulnerable, until there was no reason left for the sniper not to strike. Jack felt powerless and exposed, but knew they now had no choice but to play the game out and hope they would find a way to even the odds. The others knew the score. Everything depended on whether Katya and Altamaty had succeeded in their objective in the two hours since they had left the jeep to reconnoiter up the valley.

  Pradesh folded up the stove and stowed it in his rucksack. “Time to saddle up, boys.”

  Costas swung his legs out of the jeep. “I don’t know where you get these expressions from, Pradesh.”

  “U.S. Army Engineer School, Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. Six month secondment last year.”

  Costas stopped and peered at him. “Really? Did you come across Jim Praeder?”

  “Submersibles technology, seconded from the Naval Academy? I did his course.”

  Costas looked at Jack, and jerked his thumb toward Pradesh. “We really need this guy. Big-time. Permanent IMU staff.”

  Jack flashed a smile at Pradesh, then got out of the jeep and stood up, stretching. He was wearing his own kit brought in the plane, his beaten-up leather hiking boots, a fleece with a green Gore-Tex outer shell, a cherished blue woolen cap he had been given as a boy by one of Captain Cousteau’s team. He pushed his old khaki sidebag until it was comfortable, feeling the shape of the holster inside. It was reassuring, but they needed more than handguns. He squinted up the path, and saw the Afghan figure with Katya and Altamaty leave them, bounding up another path and disappearing out of sight. He took a deep breath and said a silent prayer. Altamaty had been up here before, twenty years earlier, and he had known where to go. He and Katya both spoke the main Dari language of Afghanistan, and they both knew the Pashtun code. It was better for them to make the first contact. Too many westerners had come here promising help and peace, but bringing only betrayal and death. Jack knew they already had one sniper to contend with, and if they antagonized the local warlord as well they stood no chance of making it out of th
e valley alive.

  He reached back into the jeep and picked up Wood’s Source of the River Oxus. He opened the old volume where he had bookmarked it, and saw the faded notes made by John Howard, his great-great-grandfather, and then the neat notes on an interleaved sheet by Rebecca, his own daughter. There seemed to be a flow between them, a continuity, and the book seemed to bridge the generations. He glanced at the text, at the sentence that had been in his head when he had nodded off After a long and toilsome march we reached the foot of the Ladjword Mountains . Ladjword he knew was the old Persian name for the place where the lapis lazuli was mined. They were there now, where Wood had been, at the end of the road, at the farthest point they could reach by jeep. From here on in they would have to go by foot, just as Howard and Wauchope must have done if they really did make it this far. Jack closed the book and pushed it into his bag. He thought of Rebecca with the dive team on Lake Issyk-Kul. His dream of her a few moments ago was still visceral, sharp in his mind. He remembered what Katya had said about dreaming up here, on top of the world. Dreams were harder to distinguish from reality, as if you were always halfway in a dreamworld. She had said it was the thin air, the restless slumber. Jack shook himself, and concentrated on Katya and Altamaty as they came down to the jeep. It was time to focus on hard reality.

  Katya was bundled in a thick down climber’s coat but seemed in her element. “Okay. Here’s the score. The good news is that we made contact with Altamaty’s old friend.”

  “The mujahideen guy who captured him during the Soviet war?” Costas said.

  Katya nodded. “His name’s Rahid, Mohamed Rahid Khan. Word had already passed up here that we were on our way, a film crew. He knew your name, Jack. He knows who you are. He even knew there were Kyrgyz among us. Amazing how information travels here, in a place almost barren of people.”