“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know how much she meant to you.”
Hoffner shook his head slowly. “There was nothing else you could do. For the first time in my life I’m beginning to realize the strength of the opposition. I think we ought to do something about it.”
He picked up his briefcase and doctor’s bag and followed the others as Chavasse turned and looked down at Katya for the last time.
Colonel Li knelt beside her. After a moment, he got to his feet, and when he spoke, his voice seemed to belong to someone else.
“You are a hard man,” he said. “Harder than I ever imagined a man could be.”
“I’m a professional,” Chavasse told him. “That’s something you wouldn’t understand, but she would. She was one herself.”
He started to turn away and Li caught his arm. “Kill me, Paul!”
Chavasse jerked himself free without speaking and went outside. The sky was grey but already beginning to clear, and the snow was startlingly white.
The others were already mounted and Osman Sherif held a horse ready for him. Chavasse reached for the pommel of the high wooden saddle and pulled himself up. It was an effort, but he made it and they started to move forward.
He was aware that Colonel Li had stumbled out of the doorway to stand beside the tethered horse they had left him, but he didn’t bother to look back.
The effects of Hoffner’s injections were beginning to wear off and all of a sudden, he felt really tired. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except that in some strange way, life was now beginning all over again.
It must have been an hour later when they reached the crest of the pass. From somewhere a thousand miles away he seemed to hear his name and he turned and looked for the last time at the small figure, black against the snow beside the customs hut. He urged his horse forward and rode after the others, down into Kashmir.
LONDON 1995
19
The fire was low now, the room quiet for several moments as Chavasse finished talking. It was Moro who spoke first.
“So, you crossed into India safely, you and Dr. Hoffner and the Kazakhs?”
“That’s right.”
“But what happened then? No further word of Hoffner, not anywhere. I’ve checked all sources.”
“The whole thing was handled with total secrecy, just as if he didn’t exist. It was all meant to fool Chinese intelligence, of course.”
“So he was taken to England?”
Chavasse nodded. “Moncrieff arranged everything. As I say, total secrecy. There was a safe house arranged in the countryside outside Cambridge where he was supposed to meet with Professor Craig from the Joint Space Research Programme at NATO.”
There was a pause. Moro said, “You said ‘was supposed to.’”
“Life playing its usual bad joke. Karl Hoffner died of a heart attack on his first night in the house. He was an old man, remember; that dreadful journey and all that stress proved too much for him. Since in a manner of speaking he didn’t officially exist, he had a very private cremation by the Bureau’s disposal unit.”
“But you had his papers, all the details of his research. Why was nothing heard of this?”
“Oh, Professor Craig and his people went towork on them. He used the best brains he could find, but they all drew a blank. Hoffner’s theory was either seriously flawed or of such genius that no other mind on earth could make sense of it.”
There was another silence and then Moro said, “All for nothing. That dreadful journey. Colonel Li crippled, Katya’s death. So many deaths.” He shook his head and said again, “All for nothing.”
“That’s the way it goes sometimes. Life can be pretty bloody-minded,” Chavasse told him. He smiled. “A long time ago.”
“Yet you are still here,” Moro said. “The sole survivor, as it were.”
“Not really.” Chavasse reached to the coffee table, took a cigarette from a silver box and lit it. “There’s always you.”
This time the silence was profound. Moro’s face seemed to change, almost as if he had become another person, and he slipped a hand inside his robe.
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s forget your rather intimate knowledge of my background and stick with the fact that you knew about Karl Hoffner and the fact that I got him out of Tibet. Very interesting, that. When I asked you where you got your information you said from sources of your own.”
“So?” Moro said.
“Let’s go over it again. I crossed into India with Hoffner, and Osman Sherif and his family went to Turkey, so we can discount them. So who else knew? Professor Craig who died years ago. Sir Ian Moncrieff, also dead. No official record of the operation in the Bureau files. I know that for a fact, because I’ve been Chief of the Bureau for twenty years.”
“I see you are a logician, Sir Paul.”
“Oh, yes,” Chavasse said. “I like things to make sense. So, where does this all leave us? With me being the only person in the world who knows anything about the Hoffner affair at all.” He helped himself to another cigarette. “In fact, there would seem to be only one person you could have got your knowledge of Hoffner from, and according to my intelligence sources he died of cancer in Peking ten years ago.” Chavasse blew out smoke and leaned back in the chair, his right hand on the cushion. “Colonel Li.”
Moro took a deep breath, then said, “He was my father. I was the product of a brief encounter with his Tibetan housekeeper at Changu. I was born in 1960. She died shortly after the Hoffner affair. My father took me to Peking, raised me, loved me, educated me. The university background I told you of is true; I really did go to Cambridge.”
“And he told you about Hoffner. So if you knew most of it anyway, why ask me to go over it again?”
“To hear it from your own lips. Also, I have wondered all these years what kind of man you were. You killed my aunt, Katya; my father was left crippled, a claw for one hand, totally shamed. It was like acid burning into him over the years. It never went away.”
“So now you want revenge? You’ve taken your time.”
“I’ve dreamt of it for years. In a matter of family honour, the waiting is nothing. I knew my time would come.”
Chavasse nodded. “I should tell you that when they were feeding you in the kitchen I put in a call to the temple at Glen Aristoun. They’d never heard of a Lama Moro. I also spoke to Jackson on the house phone. He’s been right outside the door all this time. If you look you’ll see it’s slightly ajar.” He raised his voice. “Come in, Earl.”
The door swung open and Jackson stepped in. He closed it behind him. “I heard everything. Better than the midnight movie on TV.”
Moro’s hand came out of his robe clutching a pistol. He stood and backed away so that he could cover them both.
“Interesting,” Chavasse said to Earl. “Chinese copy of a Russian Tokarev.”
“Type 670,” Jackson nodded. “Trouble with those is that when you use them in the silenced Mode you can only get one round off, and there are two of us.”
“One is enough,” Moro said. “I really am a monk, Sir Paul, of the Shao Lin temple. Death means nothing to me. This is for Katya and my father.”
“When you intend to kill a man do it, don’t talk about it,” Chavasse said.
He found the silenced Walther he had placed in the cushion at his side, his hand swept up and he shot Moro twice in the heart, knocking him back against the wall. Moro dropped the Tokarev and fell to the floor. Jackson knelt
