He grinned and shook hands. “It’s been a long time, Paul. How are you?”
Chavasse was tired and his suit looked as if it had been slept in, but he managed a smile. “Bloody awful. I caught my flight out of Aden on time, but we ran into an electric storm and I missed my connection in Delhi. Had to hang around for hours waiting for a plane out.”
“What you need is a shower and a stiff drink,” Ferguson told him. “Any luggage?”
“I’m travelling light this trip.” Chavasse held up his canvas grip. “I’m relying on you to supply me with the sort of outfit I’m going to need.”
“I’ve already got it in hand,” Ferguson said. “Let’s get out of here. My car’s parked just outside.”
As they drove into Srinagar, Chavasse lit a cigarette and looked out the window at the great white peaks of the mountains, outlined like a jagged frieze against the vivid blue sky. “So this is the Vale of Kashmir?”
“Disappointed?” said Ferguson.
“On the contrary,” Chavasse told him. “None of the books I’ve read do it justice. How long have you been here?”
“About eighteen months.” Ferguson grinned. “Oh, I know I’ve been put out to pasture, but I’m not complaining. I’m strictly a deskman from now on.”
“How’s the leg these days?”
Ferguson shrugged. “Could be worse. Sometimes I imagine it’s still there, but they say that kind of hallucination can last for years.”
They slowed down as the car nosed its way carefully through the narrow streets of a bazaar, and Chavasse looked out into the milling crowd and thought about Ferguson. A good, efficient agent, one of the best the Bureau had until someone had tossed that grenade through his bedroom window one dark night in Algiers. It was the sort of thing that could have happened to anybody. No matter how good you were, or how careful, sooner or later your number came out of the box.
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?”
