The Iron Tiger. Jack Higgins

were moving into the centre of Juma now and he tapped the driver on the shoulder and told him to stop. ‘We’ll walk from here. You want to see the real India, I’ll show it to you.’

      He paid the driver, took her arm and they moved along the street. As they neared the centre, it became busier and busier. Vendors of cooked food squatted inside their wooden stalls beside charcoal fires, busy with their pans, the scent of spices and cooked meats pungent on the cooling air.

      And then they turned into the old quarter where lamps hung from the houses and the bazaar was even more crowded than during the daylight hours as people walked abroad to savour the cool night air.

      The pavements were jammed with wooden stalls, overflowing with masses of paper flowers, shoddy plastic sandals imported from Hong Kong, aluminium pots and pans looking somehow incongruous and out of place.

      Craftsmen sat cross-legged in their booths behind the stalls of the brass merchants, still plying their ancient craft next to the silversmiths and the garment-makers where they embroidered dancing girls’ clothes.

      There were Bohara carpets, rugs from Isfahan and, at the far end, prostitutes waiting in their booths, unveiled and heavily painted, and even here the curtain of night, the flickering lamps shining on cheap bangles and jewellery, cloaked the filth and disease, the squalor of the daylight hours.

      They moved on, Drummond pushing to one side the numerous beggars who whined for alms, and finally turned into a narrow, quiet street leading to the river. Faintly on the night air, Janet could hear music. It grew louder and then they came to a narrow arched door.

      ‘You wanted India? Well, this is it,’ Drummond said.

      They went along a narrow passage and came out on to a small landing at the head of a flight of steps overlooking a large, square room. It was crowded with Indians, mainly men, most of them wearing traditional dress. They were all eating hugely and talking loudly at the same time.

      In the centre on a raised platform, a young, womanish tabla player, eyes rimmed with kohl, beat his drums with an insolent skill, looking around at the crowd as he did so, a bored and haughty expression on his face. His companion, an older man in baggy white trousers, three-quarter length black frock coat buttoned to the neck, looked strangely formal and played the zita, his fingers moving across the strings with incredible dexterity.

      A small, neat Hindu in scarlet turban, his eyes flickering towards Janet with frank admiration, approached with a ready smile. ‘A table, Mr Drummond? You wish to dine?’

      ‘A booth, I think,’ Drummond told him.

      They threaded their way between the tables, all eyes turning towards Janet and gasps of admiration, even clapping, followed them to their booth.

      They sat facing each other across a small brass table, a bead curtain partially obscuring them from the other diners and Drummond ordered.

      It was a simple meal, but superbly cooked. Curried chicken so strong that Janet gasped for breath, swallowing great draughts of cold water, thoughtfully provided by the proprietor, to cool her burning mouth. Afterwards, they had green mangoes soaked in syrup, followed by Yemeni mocha, the finest coffee in the world, in tiny, exquisite cups.

      ‘Satisfied?’ he asked her as he lit a cheroot.

      She nodded, her eyes shining. ‘Marvellous, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.’

      ‘There’s a floor show of sorts,’ he said. ‘Do you want to see it? Not exactly the Copacabana, I warn you.’

      There was an unmistakable challenge in his voice and she responded immediately. ‘I’ve never refused a dare since I was old enough to walk.’

      ‘Suit yourself.’

      There was a sudden roll on the drum, the lights dimmed a little and there was silence. There was an atmosphere of expectancy that she could sense at once and then a gentle, universal sigh echoed through the room.

      A woman stepped through a curtain at the rear and poised for a moment, a dark silhouette against the light. ‘Saida! Saida!’ the name echoed faintly through the crowd.

      ‘One of the few great nautch dancers left,’ Drummond whispered to Janet. ‘She’s fifty if she’s a day, but you’d never guess it.’

      The right arm extended slowly and a tiny, tinkling cymbal sounded. Immediately the musicians responded on the tabla and zita and Saida started to sway sensuously, moving into the centre of the room.

      Her face was heavily painted, a symbolic mask that never changed expression, but the body beneath the swirling, silken veils was that of a young and vibrant girl.

      Gradually, the music increased in tempo and she moved in time, swaying from side to side, discarding her veils one by one until she stood before them, naked except for a small, beaded girdle low across her loins.

      She stood quite still as the music stopped and the audience waited. The tabla player’s fingers broke into a fast monotonous tattoo and she started to sway, hands above her head, clapping rhythmically, and the audience swayed with her, clapping in time, crying aloud with delight.

      Round and round the perimeter of the floor she moved, faster and faster, sweat glistening on her body, until, with a sudden fierce gesture, she ripped the girdle from her loins and flung herself forward on her knees, sliding to a halt in front of a large, richly dressed merchant who squatted on cushions before a low table with two companions.

      There was another abrupt silence and then the drum sounded again, slower this time, the beat becoming more insistent each moment as she writhed sinuously, thrusting her pointed breasts at him, twisting effortlessly from knees to buttocks, sliding away from his grasping hands, sharp cries rising from the crowd.

      And then he had her, fingers hooking into her buttocks. As the crowd roared its approval, the drum stopped. She twisted from his grasp, her oiled body slipping between his hands, ran across the floor and melted through the curtain.

      The musicians started to play again on a more muted key and the audience returned to their food, discussing the performance with much laughter and joking. When Drummond turned to look at Janet, her face was strangely pale.

      ‘I warned you,’ he said. ‘You wanted to see the real India and this is a country where sex is as much a part of daily life as eating and drinking, an appetite to be satisfied, that’s all.’

      ‘Do you believe that?’

      ‘Depends what a man’s looking for, doesn’t it? Had enough?’

      She nodded and he called for the bill and paid it. The room was by this time heavy with smoke and there was the sound of drunken laughter everywhere. As they threaded their way between the tables, eyes turned on Janet, there were winks and leers and sly nudges.

      Someone stood up at the edge of the floor and made an obscene gesture. There was a roar of spontaneous laughter and as she turned her head, flushing angrily, she was aware of a hand on her right leg, sliding up beneath the skirt.

      She cried out in rage and mortification and swung round. There were four men seated at a low table, three of them typical of a breed to be found the world over in spite of their turbans and loose robes, young, vicious animals, spoiling for trouble. The man who had grabbed at her was older with wild, drunken eyes in a bearded face. He wore a black outer robe threaded with gold and his hands were a blaze of jewels.

      As his chin tilted, the mouth wide with laughter, her hand caught him full across the face. His head rocked to one side, there was a general gasp and the room was silent.

      His head turned slowly and there was rage and madness in the eyes. As he grabbed at her coat, Drummond spun her to one side. The bearded man was only half-way to his feet when Drummond’s right foot swung into his crutch. The man screamed, doubling over, and Drummond raised a knee into the descending face, smashing the nose, sending him crashing back across the coffee table.

      And