He pushed the thought away and lit another cigarette. “This flier you’ve dug up – Kerensky? Is he reliable?”
“One of the best pilots I’ve ever come across,” Ferguson said. “Squadron leader in the R.A.F. during the war, decorated by everybody in sight. He’s been out here for about five years.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Can’t go wrong, really. This mountain flying is pretty tricky; he doesn’t exactly have to worry about competition.”
“And he thinks he can fly me in?”
Ferguson grinned. “For the kind of money we’re paying him, he’d have a pretty good try at a round trip to hell. He’s that kind of man.”
“Does he live here in Srinagar?”
Ferguson nodded. “Has a houseboat on the river. Only five minutes from my place, as a matter of fact.”
They were driving out through the other side of the city, and now Ferguson slowed and turned the car into the driveway of a pleasant, white-painted bungalow. A houseboy in scarlet turban and white drill ran down the steps from the verandah and relieved Chavasse of the canvas grip.
Inside it was cool and dark, with venetian blinds covering the windows, and Ferguson led the way into a bathroom that was white-tiled and gleaming, startling in its modernity.
“I think you’ll find everything you need,” he said. “I’ve told the boy to lay out some fresh clothes for you. I’ll be on the terrace.”
When Ferguson had gone, Chavasse examined himself in the mirror. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, his face was lined with fatigue, and he badly needed a shave. He sighed heavily and started to undress.
When he went out on the terrace twenty minutes later, dressed in cotton slacks and a clean white shirt, his hair still damp from the shower, he felt like a different man. Ferguson sat at a small table shaded by a gaudy umbrella. Beneath the terrace, the garden ran all the way down to the River Jhelum.
“Quite a view you’ve got,” Chavasse said.
Ferguson nodded. “It’s even nicer in the evening. When the sun goes down over the mountains, it’s quite a sight, believe me.” The houseboy appeared, holding a tray on which stood two tall glasses beaded with frosted moisture. Chavasse picked one up, took a quick swallow and sighed with pleasure. “That’s all I needed. Now I feel human again.”
“We aim to please,” Ferguson said. “Would you like something to eat?”
“I had a meal on the plane,” Chavasse said. “I’d like to see Kerensky as soon as possible, if that’s all right with you.”
“Suits me,” Ferguson said, and rose to his feet and led the way down a flight of shallow stone steps to the sunbaked lawn.
As they passed through a wicker gate and turned on to the towpath, Chavasse said, “What about the Tibetan? What’s he like?”
“Joro?” Ferguson said. “I think you’ll be impressed. He’s about thirty, remarkably intelligent and speaks good English. Apparently, Hoffner arranged for him to spend three years at a mission school in Delhi when he was a kid. He thinks the world of the old man.”
“Where is he now?”
“Living in an encampment outside the city with some fellow countrymen. Plenty of refugees trailing into Kashmir from across the border these days.” He pointed suddenly. “There’s Kerensky now.”
The red and gold houseboat was moored to the riverbank about forty yards away. The man who stood on the cabin roof was wearing only bathing shorts. As Ferguson and Chavasse approached, he dived cleanly into the water.
Ferguson negotiated the narrow gangplank with some difficulty because of his leg, so Chavasse took the lead and gave him a hand down to the deck. It had been scrubbed to a dazzling whiteness; in fact, the whole boat was in beautiful condition.
“What’s it like below?” Chavasse asked. “First-rate!” Ferguson told him. “A lot of people spend their vacation in one of these things every year.”
Several cane chairs and a table were grouped under an awning by the stern and they sat down and waited for Kerensky, who had seen them and was returning to the boat in a fast, but effortless, crawl. He pulled himself over the rail, water streaming from his squat, powerful body, and grinned. “Ah, Mr. Ferguson, the man with all the money. I was beginning to give you up.”
“My friend missed his plane in Delhi,” Ferguson told him.
Jan Kerensky had an engagingly ugly face topped by a stubble of iron grey hair, and when he smiled, his skin creased in a thousand wrinkles. “I hope he’s got strong nerves.” He turned to Chavasse. “You’re going to need them where we’re going.”
Chavasse took an instant liking to the man. “According to Ferguson I couldn’t be in better hands.”
Kerensky’s teeth flashed in a wide grin. “I’m inclined to agree with him, but you’d better reserve your judgment. Excuse me a moment.”
He padded across the deck and vanished below. “Quite a character,” Chavasse said.
“And then some,” Ferguson said. “If anyone can get you there, he can.”
When Kerensky came back on deck, he carried a tray of drinks and a large, folded map. He placed the tray on the table and sat down. “Iced vodka, my friends. The best drink in the world.”
Chavasse took a long swallow. “Polish, isn’t it?”
“But of course,” Kerensky told him. “Only the best for Kerensky. A man needs it in this climate to help keep him in shape.” He slapped his brawny chest with one hand. “Not bad for forty-five, eh, Mr. Chavasse?”
Chavasse managed to keep his face straight, but it was quite an effort. “I’m impressed.”
Kerensky pushed the tray out of the way and unfolded the map. “Let’s get down to business. Ferguson says you’ve been inside Tibet before?”
“Only the southeast,” Chavasse told him.
“The west is different,” Kerensky said. “Nearly all of it is fifteen, maybe sixteen thousand feet above sea level. Wild, rugged country.”
“And you think we can fly in?”
Kerensky shrugged. “We can try. There’s an emergency strip at Leh which I sometimes use. That’s a village in the gorge of the upper Indus about eleven thousand feet up. From there to Rudok is only a hundred and twenty miles.”
“And can we land there all right?”
Kerensky nodded. “I’ve already had a talk with this Tibetan who’s going with you. He’s described a perfect spot about eight miles east of Rudok. A sand flat beside a lake.”
“That sounds fine,” Chavasse said. “What kind of plane are you using?”
“A de Havilland Beaver. Only a small, light plane with good maneuverability stands a chance in these mountains,” Kerensky said. “We’ll cross into Tibet through the Pangong Tso Pass. That’s maybe fifteen thousand feet up, so I’ll be scraping her belly. No picnic, I’m warning you, and there’s plenty of snow and ice up there. If you feel like backing out, say the word now.”
“And spoil your fun?” Chavasse said. “When do we leave?”
Kerensky grinned. “You know, I like you, my friend. Almost, I am persuaded to do this job for love, but my mercenary nature triumphs as usual. We’ll fly up to Leh this afternoon. There’s a full moon tonight. If the sky is clear, we can try for Rudok straightaway, but we can’t chance the passes through the mountains if there is cloud.”
“How does that suit you, Paul?” Ferguson said.
Chavasse shrugged. “The sooner we go, the sooner we’re back, as far as I’m concerned. What time?”
“Let’s make it three o’clock at the airport,” Kerensky said. “What about the Tibetan?”
“We’re going to see him now,” Ferguson told him. “I’ll arrange to have him there on time.”
They all stood up and Kerensky raised his glass in a toast. “As we say in my country, may we go to a good death.”
For a moment, his face was serious, and then he emptied his glass and grinned. “And now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’d like to finish my swim.”