The Iron Tiger. Jack Higgins

he urged her on, turning and twisting through several alleys until, finally, they emerged on an old stone embankment above the river.

      ‘Why the rush?’ she said. ‘Did you think they might follow us?’

      ‘That’s the general idea.’ He lit a cheroot, the match flaring in his cupped hands to reveal the strong, sardonic face. ‘The young squirt-about-town I treated so roughly back there happens to be the son of the town governor.’

      ‘Will there be trouble?’

      ‘Not the official kind, if that’s what you mean. He’s got away with too much in the past for anyone to start crying over his ruined looks at this stage. He might put someone on to me privately, but I can handle that.’

      ‘Did you really need to be so rough?’

      ‘It never pays to do things by halves, not here. This isn’t tourist India, you know. The only thing I’m sorry about is taking you there in the first place. I should have had more sense.’

      ‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘You weren’t responsible for what happened. To tell you the truth, I rather enjoyed myself.’

      ‘Including the nautch dance?’

      She laughed. ‘I’ll reserve my opinion on that part of the programme. It was very educational, mind you.’

      ‘Something of an understatement. You know, you’re quite a girl, and for someone who believes in turning the other cheek, you throw a good punch. You certainly rocked him back there.’

      ‘A quick temper was always my besetting sin,’ she said. ‘My old grannie used to warn me about that when I was a little girl back home in Maine. Quakers are really quite nice when you get to know them. Flesh and blood, too.’

      He grinned and took her arm. ‘All right, I surrender. Let’s walk.’

      They went on to the beach below the embankment and strolled through the moonlight without talking for a while. Now and then, sandbanks collapsed into the water with a thunderous roar and cranes threshed through the shallows, disturbed by the noise.

      Huge pale flowers swam out of the night, and beyond the trees the sky was violet and purple, more beautiful than anything she had ever seen before. They passed a solitary fisherman cooking a supper of fish over a small fire of dried cowdung and Drummond gave him a greeting in Urdu.

      ‘What do you do in Balpur beside fly in guns for Mr Cheung?’ she said after a while.

      ‘Survey work for the Indian government, freight general cargo or passengers. Anything that comes to hand.’

      ‘I shouldn’t have thought there was much of a living in that.’

      ‘There isn’t but Cheung pays well for the Tibetan trips. And I’ll be leaving soon, anyway. I’ve had enough of the place.’

      ‘What’s it like?’

      ‘Balpur?’ he shrugged. ‘Barren, treacherous mountains. A capital of three thousand people that’s more like an overgrown village. An army, if you can call it that, of seventy-five. When winter comes, it’s absolute hell and that’s in another month. The roads are the worst in the world at the best of times, but during the winter, they’re completely snowed up.’

      ‘What about the Khan?’

      ‘An old mountain hawk, proud as Lucifer. Quite a warrior in his day. To his people, something very special. Not only king, but priest, and that makes for quite a distinction. You’ll like Kerim, his son. A great pity about his accident. I hope your people in Chicago can fix him up all right.’

      ‘He’s eight, isn’t he?’

      ‘Nine in three months.’

      ‘My instructions told me to get in touch with a Father Kerrigan when I arrive. Apparently he’s in charge of all the arrangements.’

      ‘You’ll like him,’ Drummond said. ‘He’s about sixty. A marvellous old Irishman who just won’t give in. He’s been twelve years in Sikkim and hasn’t made a single convert and the people adore him. It’s fantastic.’

      ‘If he hasn’t got a congregation, what does he do with himself?’

      ‘As it happens, he’s a qualified doctor. Runs a small mission hospital about a mile outside of Sadar, completely on his own. There’s one other European up there, a man called Brackenhurst. A geologist for some British firm or other. They’ve also made him British Consul, but don’t let that impress you. It doesn’t mean a thing.’

      ‘You don’t like him, I take it?’

      ‘Not much.’

      He stopped to light another cheroot and she said casually, ‘Why did you leave the Navy, Jack?’

      He paused, the match flaring in his fingers, his eyes dark shadows. ‘You really want to know?’

      She didn’t answer and he shrugged, flicking the match into the night. ‘They kicked me out, or advised me to leave, which comes to the same thing for a career officer.’

      She could sense the pain in his voice and put a hand on his arm instinctively. ‘What happened?’

      ‘I was a Fleet Air Arm pilot during the Korean War. One bright morning in July, 1952, I took my squadron to the wrong target. When we left, it was a smoking ruin. We did a good job. We managed to kill twenty-three American marines and ten Royal Marine Commandos who had been serving with them.’

      There was bewilderment in her voice. ‘But how could such a thing happen?’

      ‘The briefing officer gave me the wrong information.’

      ‘So it wasn’t your fault?’

      ‘Depends how you look at it. If I’d checked my orders more carefully, I’d have spotted the mistake. I was too tired, that was the trouble. Overtired. Too many missions, not enough sleep. I should have grounded myself weeks before, but I didn’t.’

      ‘So they couldn’t court-martial you?’

      ‘A quiet chat with someone with gold rings all the way up to his elbow, that’s all it took. I got the message.’

      ‘I’m sorry, Jack. Sorrier than I can say.’

      Her voice was warm and full of sympathy. They had reached a flight of stone steps leading up from the shore and he paused and looked at her.

      Her mouth opened to cry a warning and he ducked, turning to meet the rush of feet from the darkness.

      A fist grazed his cheek, he lost his balance and rolled over and over, hands protecting his genitals as feet swung in viciously.

      He sprang up and backed to the wall. There were three of them, dark, shadowy figures in tattered robes, scum from the market place hired for a few rupees. Above them on the steps below the lamp, stood the man from the cafe, supported by two of his friends, blood on his face.

      A knife gleamed dully and Janet ran in past the three men to join Drummond against the wall. ‘Kill him!’ the bearded man cried. ‘Kill the swine!’

      Drummond was tired. It had been a long evening. His hand disappeared inside his coat reaching to the leather holster on his left hip and reappeared holding a Smith & Wesson .38 Magnum revolver with a three-inch barrel.

      He fired into the air and there was a sudden stillness. ‘Go on, get out of it!’ he shouted angrily and fired a shot towards the man on the steps that ricocheted into the night.

      The men from the market place were already running away along the shore, cursing volubly, and the governor’s son and his two friends staggered into the darkness.

      Drummond slipped the revolver back into its holster and looked down at her calmly. ‘You know, I really think it’s time we went back to the hotel, don’t you?’