Kingdom (13 page)

The Captain said quietly, ‘Sir, I have thirty-one men ready to go. And as you requested, I have told the army officer that you want him to stand guard here at the gompa, so we should have no more interference from him. I have ordered the men to leave all their kit here. We can move quickly. The monks only have a six- or seven-hour start at most on us. We will soon catch them.’

Colonel Jen shook his head again and stared in dissatisfaction at the map. The little that was on it was inaccurate. On the way down the river to the gompa from the Su La pass, they had followed the east bank of the Tsangpo, heading for a rope bridge. It had long since collapsed into the raging torrent. They had had to rely on a single rusted steel cable that wasn’t on the map at all and that was a further eleven miles further downstream beyond the gompa. If the rope bridge had still been intact, they would have reached the monastery before the soldiers had swarmed in and ruined everything.

These sorts of unlucky and unpredictable events made Colonel Jen very nervous. He looked up and said, ‘Monks travel fast. They do not need to eat and rest as much as our soldiers. I have seen lone monks travelling in the high Himalayas with nothing but a satchel of barley flour to sustain them. I have seen them perform feats of endurance that would make Olympic marathon runners wince. They can move at high speed for two or three weeks, day and night, without sleeping. Anyone else would freeze to death up there, or die of exhaustion, but these monks can generate their own heat and energy through their knowledge of yoga. Do not doubt their powers. We have to get to the caves before they do, or we will lose them for good.’

The Captain did not see the problem.

‘But can’t we follow them into the caves? We can take dynamite, or smoke them out . . .’

Colonel Jen looked up at the Captain – his face was grave.

‘Captain, no one knows where those caves go. The Himalayas are riddled with tales of whole cities that exist below ground. Once, in Shigatse, in western Tibet, I met an Old Believer from Moscow, one of those Russian Christians that wear black robes and have long beards. He told me of the lost city of the Chud. Do you know about the Chud?’

‘No, sir.’

‘The Old Believer told me that you can still hear them singing in their underground cathedrals – you can hear their bells at festival time under your feet . . . Mark my words, Captain, we know little of the Himalayas – it is our job merely to steal into Shangri-La and take what we need. We are burglars and that is all. We do not want to disturb the sleeping kings – if we do, we will never get out alive. No dynamite, no smoke. We must catch the monks, force them if necessary to show us the way, and then leave as silently as possible.’

The Captain looked doubtful. Colonel Jen pushed the useless map to one side.

‘You are sceptical, Captain. But I have seen things up here in the mountains and in the wild west of China that would astound you. I have ridden across the steppes of Sichuan and heard the horseshoes echo through the tunnel systems beneath. I have seen strange figures at the bazaars in Kashgar – figures who have walked right out of the depths of the Gobi desert, dressed in clothes from long ago, carrying unrecognizable coins from the days before Duke Chou. I have approached them, with all the skills that I was taught as a young intelligence officer, and I have seen them literally vanish before my eyes. Don’t underestimate the monks – they may not have weapons or army trucks but they have other knowledge . . .’

Decisively, the Colonel put his peaked cap on and folded up the map.

‘We must leave at once. If anyone falls behind they will be left to the mercy of the jungle.’

Neither Nancy nor Krishna said a word to each other until they were both sitting comfortably in the back of the
Herald Tribune
’s chauffeur-driven car. The Bazaar was too noisy for conversation and Nancy had had to keep her wits about her to avoid being knocked over by passing camels or robbed by mischievous smiling street children, and in any case she was too busy trying to work out the implications of everything that she had just learned.

Herzog was clearly on to something, something that he had been working on for years, she suspected, and Jack Adams was being economical with the truth. He had a far better idea of what Herzog was up to than he was letting on, and Nancy was convinced that he recognized the letters on the mouthpiece of the bone trumpet. She had clearly intuited that he was not telling the truth and she was sure that it had something to do with his initial hunch that the trumpet might come from as far west as Europe and not from Tibet at all. However, what was even stranger was that once he had learned that Herzog had sent the bone from Tibet, he had suddenly dropped his price just so that he could find out more. And then, of course, there was Maya.

Nancy had navigated her way through the scrum in silence, following Krishna back to the main street. Goodness only knows what he was thinking. Perhaps he was now even more worried about her plans, she thought. ‘So who’s Maya?’ she asked as soon as the car pulled out. Krishna turned to look out of the window:

‘Nancy, please. I think we’ve done enough for one day.’

‘Krishna, why are you being evasive?’

She was beginning to get angry. Why did no one want her to find out anything about Anton Herzog? She was frustrated with Krishna and furious with Dan Fischer for giving her Indian colleague carte blanche not to cooperate. That was obviously what had happened. And yet she suspected that any display of her true feelings would only succeed in alienating Krishna even further.

‘Listen, Krishna, you have to help me. Maya is Anton’s fiancée isn’t she?’

He turned back to look at her, but he said nothing.

‘Then she must be worried too. I know that you don’t want me poking my nose into Anton’s affairs but I really think you should be less secretive. We’re colleagues, remember, and all I want to do is help Anton.’ She studied the expression on Krishna’s face – was there any sign of him softening?

‘We should help her if we can. She must be very worried too. Have you been in touch with her?’

After a pause Krishna stirred from his silence.

‘No.’

‘Well, perhaps we should. We might be able to reassure her. Who else has she got to talk to?’

Keenly she waited for him to open up and give her a little more information, their body language mimicking their respective attitudes: Nancy alert, poised and receptive, Krishna hunched over, his eyes narrowed with worry. Then suddenly his reserve broke down.

Speaking hurriedly, he said, ‘I don’t know what to say to her. That is why I haven’t returned her calls. I don’t know what to tell her.’

Poor woman, thought Nancy. And poor Krishna too. He was entirely the wrong person to act as a counsellor to a grieving loved one.

‘She called the office?’

Krishna shrank again into himself and muttered, ‘A couple of times.’

‘That doesn’t matter, we can call her back now . . . it’s not too late.’ Then she had an idea. ‘Or visit her. Do you know where she lives?’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘Krishna, she must be worried sick and terribly isolated. What’s her address? Do you know?’

Silence again. Nancy pressed on urgently. ‘Krishna, Anton would have wanted you to help her, wouldn’t he? Surely he would hope that you would at least reassure her and console her? We don’t need to take things any further. I agree, let’s forget about Tibet and Jack Adams and the bone trumpet – but we really can’t just leave her to grieve alone.’

She held her breath as Krishna continued his own private debate, until finally he sighed and looked up.

‘Rumeli Street in Old Delhi. She lives on Rumeli Street. But this is the end of our investigation isn’t it? No more playing the detective. We will go to help her and that is all.’

Trying hard to look as if she meant it, Nancy nodded her head.

Nancy stepped back from the low doorway and glanced up and down the deserted street. Still no answer. Krishna was waiting in the car twenty yards further down the street; he had declined to come to the door with her. They had hardly spoken after she persuaded him to visit Maya. She assumed that he was very worried about everything, and for her part she was terrified that if she opened her mouth he might change his mind about taking her to Maya’s address.

At last, she heard a noise, then the door opened a fraction. She could see a woman’s face peering out at her from the gloom within. If this was Maya then she was younger than Nancy had expected; in her mid-thirties, she guessed, with soft features and beautiful dark eyes. But she looked afraid. Nancy stuck out her hand.

‘Hello, my name is Nancy Kelly, I’m from the
Tribune
, I’m a colleague of Anton’s. Are you Maya?’

The woman said nothing, and did not extend her own hand. Nancy fumbled in her pocket for her
Trib
ID and held it up so that the woman could read it and see her picture. But did she speak English? thought Nancy suddenly. Did she even know what Anton Herzog did for a living? Faced with the woman’s silence, Nancy realized that she was making a whole series of assumptions. Perhaps the woman knew nothing of Herzog’s professional life, perhaps they conversed in Hindi, or an Indian dialect. Perhaps Krishna’s instincts were entirely right and it was better to leave her alone in her grief. Or perhaps even, she wasn’t grieving at all, and was used to long periods alone whilst Herzog indulged his love of adventure – perhaps she even knew exactly where he was. For the first time Nancy feared that her eagerness to find Herzog had become presumptuous – and then the woman spoke.

‘What do you want?’ Her voice was soft and sad.

‘I’ve come to see you about Anton.’

‘What do you know of him?’ she asked, her voice cracking with emotion.

Suddenly, Nancy felt quite sick. What on earth did she think she was doing intruding on this woman’s life, a woman she knew nothing about, with her own private hopes and dreads?

‘I think he’s in Tibet. I am worried about him.’

Maya – Nancy was certain now it must be she – hesitated and then she said, ‘Come inside.’ She threw open the door, and Nancy followed her. As soon as they were inside, Maya turned and locked the door behind them. Nancy saw her hands were trembling as she turned the key. Then she saw something else, which made her gasp with surprise. Maya was pregnant.

‘Please, take a seat in here,’ she was saying, moving slowly into the house.

They entered a darkened living room. The blinds were drawn. The room contained two chairs and a sofa. Awkwardly Nancy sat down on one of the chairs. Maya perched on the edge of the sofa, waiting for Nancy to speak.

‘I’m sorry to surprise you like this . . .’ she began. ‘My colleague told me to leave you in peace. But I couldn’t.’

‘Is he dead, are you here to tell me that?’ Maya said sharply, her face contorted with what Nancy assumed must be fear. Quickly, Nancy shook her head.

‘You have not heard anything from him?’ Maya asked.

‘No.’

‘Then why have you come?’

Nancy took a deep breath.

‘Because I am trying to find him and I thought you might know why he went to Tibet.’

Maya looked crestfallen. She must have expected some news either way – that Herzog was alive and well or that he was in hospital in Tibet, or that he was dead. Any news was better than nothing and Nancy knew nothing at all.

‘I’m sorry, we didn’t have your phone number . . .’

Maya was staring dejectedly at the floor, one hand gently massaging her belly. She must be six or seven months pregnant, thought Nancy: but was it Anton Herzog’s baby? Now Maya looked up at her.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said, her voice so full of misery that Nancy could not stop herself from getting up and putting her arm around her.

Of course it was Herzog’s child. And now that he was gone how would this woman support the baby? As Nancy stroked Maya’s back and muttered soothing words, she glanced down to see if the woman was wearing a wedding ring, but her fingers were bare. She did not even stand to gain a newspaper pension.

‘Don’t give up hope, I’m sure he will be OK,’ Nancy said helplessly.

Maya shook her head, her face unchanged despite Nancy’s expressions of hope.

‘No. He’s not coming back.’

‘What do you mean?’

Tears were rolling down Maya’s cheeks.

‘He said it was the biggest story of his life. The biggest story the world has ever known – but most probably he would never make it back. He said he had to try. He said the world has to know the truth . . .’ She stopped, overwhelmed.

‘What story? What do you mean? What are you talking about? You mean the story about the glaciers melting?’

Maya wiped her eyes and regained her composure enough to speak:

‘No. It was nothing to do with glaciers – that was just his normal work. It was far, far bigger than that.’

She stood and walked over to the chest of drawers that leaned against the far wall of the room. In mounting confusion, Nancy looked on as Maya knelt down and pulled open the bottom drawer. It was stuffed with neatly folded and ironed linen. She carefully removed several layers of napkins and tablecloths and placed them on the top of the chest of drawers, and then she pulled out a medium-sized brown envelope.

‘He left me this. He said if he wasn’t back within two months then I should open it. He said if he wasn’t back by then, then I should forget all about him – I should get on with my life.’

She laid the envelope reverentially on the sofa.

‘Have you opened it?’

‘No. I was afraid, afraid that if I opened it he would never come back. I was afraid that I would curse him.’

A thousand thoughts rushed through Nancy’s brain, all her attention focused on the innocuous-looking manila envelope.

‘But what could be inside?’ she said, thinking aloud.

‘I don’t know.’

Nancy looked up at Maya. But the woman would not meet her gaze. ‘Maya – we have to look. You have to open it. Anton’s been gone more than three months now. There might be something here that can help us find him.’