keep them out of trouble. Of course, one telephone call back to the British Museum would immediately destroy their cover story, because nobody there had the slightest idea about where Angela was or what she was doing. Neither was there any official approval for any museum investigation in Kashmir, or anywhere else in northern India, for that matter.
The hotel restaurant was closed, so they stepped outside. Bronson was surprised to discover that it was late evening – his biological clock was telling him something completely different. The evening air was pleasantly cool, and they found a decent-looking restaurant that was still serving dinner without having to walk very far.
‘The first thing we have to do is get ourselves up to Leh,’ Angela said, unfolding a map of the Indian sub- continent on the restaurant table between them and pointing at a spot right up in the Jammu and Kashmir territory, at the very northern tip of India. This area was bordered by China to the east and by Pakistan to the north and west. ‘We’ll have to use Leh – or somewhere very near it – as our base, I think.’
Bronson studied the map, measuring distances by eye and using the scale that ran across the bottom of the sheet.
‘How do we do that? Fly up to Delhi and then take a train?’ he asked.
‘No – we can fly straight there. Leh’s been open to visitors – by which I mean tourists – since the seventies, and it’s actually a fairly big town. The whole area has become really popular with what you might call “adventure tourists” – the kind of people who don’t expect hot water or comfortable beds at the places they stay. There’s an airport, for domestic flights only, a few miles south of the town.’
‘Let’s see if we can take a direct flight tomorrow morning. Once we’re in Leh, we’ll have to hire a four- wheel-drive jeep because I think we’ll find there are very few roads or even tracks once you start climbing.
‘Now,’ Bronson continued, ‘you spent ages on the internet but you still haven’t told me what you’ve found out.’ He looked at her meaningfully.
Angela sighed. ‘I now know who “Yus of the purified” was, and how he acquired that name. In fact, he was called Yus Asaph, or sometimes Yuz Asaf. Yus or Yuz simply meant “leader”, so his name translated as “the leader of the healed” or “leader of the purified” – and that specifically meant lepers who’d been healed.’
‘I didn’t know you could cure leprosy.’
‘I’m just telling you what I found out, or at least what the records told me.’
‘And what about Mohalla? Did you find out where it was?’
‘Yes, and you won your bet. The only “Mohalla” that makes sense in this context is Mohalla Anzimarah, which was located in an area called Khanyar or Khanjar, which is near Srinigar, in Kashmir.’ She pointed at the map. ‘It’s some distance from Leh, maybe a couple of hundred miles, so that ties in quite well with your estimate of how far a small band of travellers could cover in about a week.’
‘And the man they called Yus Asaph was definitely there?’ Bronson asked.
‘According to two completely different sources – and one of them is pretty unimpeachable – yes, he was. And there’s a slightly spooky element I read about which might be related. According to another source, round about the time that the treasure was hidden away a story started to circulate about the so-called “Ghosts of the Silk Road”. That name was tagged on to the story a lot later, of course, because it wasn’t actually called the Silk Road until the nineteenth century. But this source claimed that a small caravan was attacked by a gang of bandits as it made its way up a valley. The leaders of the caravan were hit several times by arrows, but the missiles had no effect on them, and the bandits ran away in terror.’
‘I guess it could be a legend that was embellished over the years,’ Bronson suggested. ‘Maybe they only suffered flesh wounds, or were wearing some kind of armour. Or possibly it never happened at all?’
Angela frowned. ‘But for the story to have survived this long, there had to be a grain of truth in it. What I found interesting wasn’t actually the story about the leaders being bullet-proof, but the fact that the caravan was heading up into the hills well to the north-east of what later became known as Leh, because that area wasn’t part of the normal trade route. I think it’s possible that the story might even have been an eye-witness sighting of the caravan hauling the treasure itself.’
‘And you’re still convinced it’s worth following this up?’
‘Absolutely. If there’s even the slightest chance of finding it, we simply have to take it.’
45
The next morning Bronson and Angela stepped out of their hotel to look for a cab to take them to the airport.
Their senses were assaulted in every possible manner and from every possible direction. Above them, the sun blazed down, baking the still air to the point that it almost hurt to breathe. Dust clouds surrounded them, kicked up by the feet of what looked like hundreds of people milling around and the tyres of the dozens of vehicles – everything from trucks and buses down to cars and motorcycles – and literally hundreds of bicycles. And above all was the cacophony of yells and shouts from beggars, hawkers, taxi drivers and numerous other professions, interspersed with the roaring and grumbling of car and truck and bus engines, which virtually deafened them.
‘Dear God,’ Bronson muttered, pulling their two suitcases to one side of the uneven pavement. He stood there for a few moments with Angela, just looking at the scene in front of them.
‘It all looks like total chaos to me,’ Angela agreed.
‘Well, the sooner we’re in a taxi the better,’ Bronson said, ‘so keep your eyes open.’
He made sure Angela was clutching her handbag and laptop bag, then grabbed the handles on their two suitcases and stepped closer to the edge of the pavement, scanning the road in both directions. Pedestrians thronged the pavements and the edge of the road itself, many of them flapping handkerchiefs ineffectually in front of their faces or fanning themselves with their hats. Some even sported umbrellas against the sunlight.
‘It’s not just us,’ Angela murmured. ‘Even the locals are feeling the heat.’
‘We mustn’t get in any cab unless it’s air conditioned,’ Bronson instructed. ‘I’m not sweltering in a tin box in this heat.’
‘How will I tell?’
‘Simple. If all the windows are closed, it’s got air-con. If they’re open, it hasn’t.’
A couple of minutes later, they saw an elderly Mercedes draw up beside them, all the windows wide open.
‘Ignore it,’ Bronson said, looking down the street, watching out for another cab.
The next cab also had its windows open, but then he saw a fairly new taxi going the other way, all its windows closed. He whistled and waved, and was rewarded by the brake lights flaring red as the driver hauled the vehicle round in a tight – and probably illegal – U-turn.
‘Here’s our ride,’ Bronson said. He seized the handles of their suitcases and walked forwards as the car drew to a stop. The driver stepped out, opened the boot and helped Bronson lift their suitcases inside. Angela climbed into the back seat and Bronson sat beside the driver, revelling in the blast of cold air coming out of the dashboard vents.
‘Where to, sir?’ the driver asked, pulling out into the traffic, his English accented but clearly understandable.
‘The airport,’ Bronson said. ‘We need to fly up to Delhi.’
‘Very good. Domestic terminal. I very well know which way. You enjoy ride.’
The drive wasn’t perhaps the most enjoyable experience of their lives. Rush hour in Mumbai made the chaos of Cairo seem almost tame by comparison. Several times Bronson was absolutely certain a collision was imminent, and he’d close his eyes, only to hear a squeal of brakes and simultaneous bellowing of horns, and realize they’d somehow managed to scrape through without hitting anything. But the air conditioning in the taxi worked well and, despite the terrifying driving all around them, they were both almost sorry when their journey ended and they had
