They moved into the street, blinking in the bright, clear morning sunlight and the Tibetan led the way through the crumbling houses, the small tail of children keeping pace with them.
The great wooden gates in the outer wall of the monastery swung crazily from their hinges, half-burnt away and blackened by fire.
They crossed the courtyard beyond, still followed by the children, and mounted the broad steps to the ruin of what had once been one of the most famous seats of learning in Western Tibet.
The doors had disappeared, splintered into matchwood by high explosive shells, and inside bright sunlight streamed down through holes in the roof.
‘There was a library here,’ Drummond told Cheung. ‘It held more than fifteen thousand books and manuscripts, most of them over a thousand years old. The Chinese burned the lot quite deliberately.’
Beyond, in the shadows, something stirred and a kite rose lazily into the air, great ragged black wings brushing the roof beams and Drummond was aware of Cheung’s breath hissing between his teeth sharply.
Disturbed by the bird’s passage, something was swinging to and fro, half-in, half-out of the bright shafts of sunlight cutting down through the darkness.
Drummond moved a little closer. It was a Chinese soldier, swinging by a rope from one of the charred beams, tongue protruding obscenely from the black, swollen face. Where the eyes had been, were only empty, ragged sockets and one ear had been torn off.
As his eyes became accustomed to the half-light, he saw the others, each hanging from a beam, staring blindly into eternity.
‘We were away when they arrived,’ Moro said simply. ‘When we returned, the fools were so busy ravishing the women, they had not even thought to post a guard.’
One of the children ran forward with a harsh laugh and grabbed the nearest corpse by the legs, swinging it from side to side furiously and the other children followed suit, running through the shadows, dodging the swinging bodies, helpless with laughter.
Drummond turned and moved into the sunlight again, his mouth dry. ‘I think we should be making a move.’
Mr Cheung didn’t speak. His face was strangely pale and there was shock and pain in his eyes as they returned to the village. Moro whistled for his horse, caught the bridle and led the way back to the lake.
‘What did you bring this time?’ he asked Drummond.
‘Automatic rifles, sub-machine guns and ten thousand rounds of ammunition.’
The Tibetan nodded. ‘Good, but we could do with some explosive next time.’
Drummond glanced at Cheung enquiringly. ‘Can you manage that?’
The Chinese nodded. ‘I think so. Would a fortnight today be too soon?’
‘Not for me,’ Drummond said. ‘Two more trips and I’m finished. The sooner I get them done, the better I’ll like it.’
‘A fortnight, then,’ Moro said and they went over the escarpment and down to the shore beside the lake.
His men had unloaded the plane and already several packhorses were on their way to the village. Drummond gave him a final cigarette, climbed in and strapped himself into his seat. As the engine roared into life, Mr Cheung turned and held out his hand.
‘We are united in the same struggle,’ he said and climbed into the plane.
As he closed the door and fastened his seat belt, the Beaver turned into the wind and started to taxi along the shore, sand whipped up by the propeller rattled against the windows. A moment later, the bluff at the far end of the lake was rushing to meet them and they were rising into the air.
Drummond circled once and Moro, already back in the saddle, waved, turned his horse and galloped back towards the village.
Drummond checked his instruments and started to gain altitude. ‘Well, what did you think?’
‘Words fail me.’
‘I thought they would.’
Cheung lit a cigarette and sighed heavily. ‘To you, it is nothing. Jack. Dangerous, unpleasant, yes, but something you are mixed up in for one reason only – money.’
‘And to you it’s a holy war,’ Drummond said. ‘I know, only don’t start trying to get me to join the crusade. I had a bellyful of that kind of thing in Korea. Enough to last a lifetime.’
‘All right,’ Cheung said wearily. ‘What about these explosives Moro wants on the next trip? If I have them delivered to the railhead at Juma by next weekend can you pick them up?’
‘I’m flying down tomorrow with Major Hamid,’ Drummond said. ‘He’s taking a week’s leave. He thought he might enjoy it more if I went along. Why don’t you join us?’
Cheung shook his head. ‘I’d like to, but I’ve been getting behind with the paperwork and I’m supposed to be dining with the old Khan on Saturday night.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Drummond said.
Another two thousand. That brought the total standing to his credit in the Bank of Geneva to £23,000. Two more trips plus the money Ferguson owed him and he’d have a straight £30,000. After that, he was finished. Time he had a rest. He leaned back in the seat, humming to himself and concentrated on his instruments as he took the Beaver slanting across the glacier and into the pass.
Moro galloped alongside the packhorses, whistling, slashing their bony rumps with the heavy leather riding whip. He urged his mount forward and entered the village first, clattering over the loose stones and dismounted outside his house.
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.
‘I did well?’ Moro said.
The young officer took the English cigarette from the Tibetan’s lips and inhaled deeply. A sunny smile appeared on 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,