Barbara Cleverly (33 page)

‘Tell me, Troop, why is the Zalori Pass so important?’

‘Ah, I forget you know so little about local politics! It marks the southern extreme of Rheza Khan’s tribal territory. His princedom – I suppose you could call it that – has never been an easy neighbour for the British. Rheza’s father, the rajah, is ambitious. Oh, he pays lip-service to the Raj, he enters into treaties, plays polo with the military top brass, his wives have entertained the Vicereine and all that. His son gives every appearance of being Westernized – Rugby-educated, suits from Savile Row, all the charm in the world – but underneath all this surface gloss they’re on the boil! The old rajah broke out a few years ago and it looked for a moment as if he had it in mind to try conclusions with the army. Just after Amritsar, so everybody put it down to an upsurge of righteous indignation and merely banned him and his men from making an appearance – other than on a courtesy call, of course – south of the Zalori Pass. Very generous reaction when you think about it. Some might have thought a more punitive riposte was called for, considering what he owes the British.’

‘Any particular reason for owing them special allegiance?’

‘No doubt about it. This part of the world was in considerable uproar when the British decided to settle in Simla. Gurkha Wars, you’ve heard of that? When this pushy tribe edged its way down from the north-west, aiming to fill a vacuum it found hereabouts, the British went along with it. Signed treaties and all the usual stuff.’

‘And what was in it for us?’ asked Joe.

‘ “Divide and Rule” of course. The other tribes around here are mainly Hindu. Rheza’s mob are Muslim. The theory is they’ll be so busy watching each other it won’t occur to them ever to join forces against the British. Seems to work. And so long as they do as they’ve been told and stay north of Zalori, no problems.’

‘So we pick them up before they’ve a chance of acquiring an escort?’

‘Right. And, Sandilands, if we fail to do that we must abandon the chase altogether. Any welcoming party, and I’ve no doubt that’s what they’ve got arranged, will be well-armed and hostile.’

‘Well-armed?’ Joe’s suspicions were beginning to crystallize. Drip by drip the information was filtering from Troop and none of it was pleasant.

‘Up to the minute service rifles. Best Europe has to offer. In huge quantities.’

‘And are you going to tell me how they get their hands on this armament?’

Troop snorted. ‘If you are running the country’s largest trading company with access to all its logistical arrangements there’s no problem. ICTC convoys are on the roads everywhere. Most of them are carrying legitimate goods, carpets, brassware, spices, Western imports, but a percentage of them going north are carrying arms. .303 rifles mainly.’

‘But how do they get their hands on them in the first place?’

‘I tracked them down to source. Chap called Murphy. Armourer-sergeant and quartermaster. Crooked as they come! Condemns a batch of rifles as faulty and sends them away to be disposed of. Paperwork looks good. Only thing is – the rifles aren’t faulty. And they find their way on to an ICTC mule train before they can be destroyed. One or two Murphies about, I should imagine.’

‘He’s been using Alice as a front for all this. Was she aware, I wonder?’

Troop shrugged. ‘How can you ever tell with Alice?’

‘It must have been a shock for Rheza Khan when Lionel Conyers turned up on his way to Simla to take over the business,’ said Joe slowly. ‘I assume he wasn’t quite ready to move aside. Half-way through his operation – no time to be welcoming a new boss who might start looking into the accounts. Lionel was an older man, an ex-soldier, experienced and not (for all Rheza Khan knew) prepared to take what he found at face value. No. Rheza had every reason to stop him getting to Simla.’

‘Right,’ said Troop and added mildly, ‘Feller smokes Black Cat cigarettes, you know. Heard you were enquiring.’

While they had been speaking, with unerring and steady speed Troop had begun to wind his way through the thickening forest, now following the course of a roaring mountain stream, now turning aside to follow a forest track over a spur of the advancing hills, now pausing on the saddle to look back at Simla and forward into the mountains.

‘The road’s over to our right,’ said Troop after they’d ridden for about an hour, ‘behind that hill. It sets off in quite a loop there. We can make up a bit of ground. They say in these parts, “Follow the bowstring, don’t follow the bow,” and that’s just what we’re doing. And we can afford to spare the horses, indeed, we must spare the horses. We’d look an impressive pair if we ended up with a lame horse on our hands.’

As he spoke the track took a dizzying plunge down into a jungle-clad rift in the hills. The ravine stretched straight as a die for over five hundred yards and Joe followed Troop as he made his way along a forest path formed by the tramp of herds of chital deer which made a glancing appearance as they passed. Joe thought he caught sight of a band of langur monkeys and the tall trees were alive with the spring songs of birds. The hidden valley as they descended had a climate all its own. On a southern slope of the foothills, it retained the day’s heat and Joe breathed gratefully the wafting sharp scent of the white star-shaped flowers of the box bushes. At the end of the valley he heard the plashing sound of a waterfall. His horse pricked up its ears and danced a few steps sideways.

Troop’s eyes were alternately scanning the ground and looking on ahead. With a gesture to Joe he called a halt and silently leaned low in the saddle, examining fresh pug marks in the mud along the edge of the track. Still without a word he slipped the sling of his rifle over his head and cradled it in his arms. ‘Leopard,’ he said. ‘It’s his lucky day! We have bigger fish to fry’

A chital hind appeared on the path ahead of them and turned in their direction calling urgently. The cry was taken up by many others; jungle fowl joined in the chorus. ‘We’ve been spotted!’ said Joe.

‘No,’ said Troop. ‘That’s a warning for us! They’re telling us that there’s a leopard ahead. Listen again!’

The chital began to call again on a different note. Troop smiled with satisfaction. ‘And that’s their “beware man” call so now the leopard knows we’re here. Good! Wouldn’t want to take the old bugger by surprise. Not much danger from him – leopard prefer to do their hunting at night and lie up during the day.’

They walked on, the horses not quite at ease with the scents they were picking up. At last they arrived at the waterfall. A stream burst from the cliff above and cascaded down into a rocky basin from where it overflowed into a large and steel-blue pool at their feet. As clear as gin and constantly renewed by the torrent fresh from the mountain, Joe thought he had never seen water so inviting. As he bent to drink and immerse his hot forehead he caught the reflection of Edgar Troop’s red face looming over his left shoulder. At once he straightened to face him and wave him towards the water. He was for a moment shocked that he could so far have let his guard slip as to offer his unprotected neck to a man who might yet prove to be his enemy. One blow, two strong hands holding his head under water and that red face would have been the last thing he ever saw.

Troop grinned, understanding his swift movement, and bent to drink.

The insecurity of the moment impelled Joe to reflect on his situation. He was miles from civilization in the company of a self-confessed ‘gun for hire’, a man who was in his own element and who knew the terrain and the dangers it presented. Joe began to work out the number of different ways in which Troop could kill him off and dispose of his body. And perhaps the only thing restraining Troop from doing just that was the note Joe had hurriedly written out and handed to one of Carter’s sowars before leaving. And the fact that Troop needed his back-up when they eventually caught up with Alice and her escort. Joe calculated that he was probably in little danger until they embarked on the return journey with Alice and her jewellery.

With refreshed horses they pressed on, going always, it seemed to Joe, against the grain of the country. He began to appreciate the sturdy, tireless legs of the two horses as they alternately climbed up and slithered down slopes, steadily gaining altitude. Joe looked anxiously at the height of the sun. The valleys behind them were already in darkness but ahead on the uplift of land towards which they were headed he calculated they had roughly three more hours of full sunlight. Whatever the outcome of this insane dash into the mountains they would be spending the night outdoors.

A deep valley opened before them, the ground beyond it rising to a rocky outcrop.

‘That,’ said Edgar Troop, ‘is where our routes converge. We follow this track down into the valley and up to the rocks and you see the road coming in on our right. I should think they’re planning to break their journey here, spend the night and make a push for the Zalori at first light. Now, the question is – who got there first, Sandilands and Troop or Rheza and Alice? Further question – Rheza and Alice, are they alone?’

Joe strained his eyes to sweep the ground ahead, saying at last, ‘Is that a building, there amongst the rocks?’

‘Was,’ said Troop. ‘Was. Long abandoned. There’s the remains of a fort there. It hasn’t got a name as far as I know. We just call it the Red Fort. It’s a useful landmark and overnight shelter. Used a fair bit by hunters and merchants but it’s not much more than that.’

He set his horse gingerly to negotiate the rocky defile. ‘Couldn’t have done this earlier in the spring,’ he said. ‘When the snows melt it’s a raging torrent but it makes a useful track at this time of year.’

Carefully the horses picked their way through the stones and down to a brawling stream crossed by a slab of rock and on the far side their path led upwards once more until, rounding a corner, they came on the Red Fort. Edgar Troop reined in sharply and gestured to Joe to stay back. ‘Hello?’ he muttered in a puzzled voice. ‘Someone’s been doing a bit of make and mend! That’s curious.’

‘What can you see?’ said Joe.

‘The gate. Somebody’s repaired the gate. As long as I can remember this has just been an open archway but somebody’s repaired the gate and repaired it well, too. Now who can that have been? Rheza, I guess, or Rheza on Alice’s behalf. It looks to me as though we’ve stumbled on an ICTC staging post. And why not? No law against it, after all. Wonder if there’s anybody at home?’

He searched the building ahead with his binoculars saying as he did so, ‘The mast or flagstaff or whatever you care to call it – that wasn’t there last time I came this way

What’s going on, I wonder?’

‘Only one way to find out,’ said Joe.

They moved forward cautiously, Troop in the lead, listening intently, even sniffing the air.

The building before them with its small window openings, its crenellated parapet, its watchful tower, its newly repaired gate suddenly seemed a strong place. The westering sun struck colour from the ancient walls and the building became a red fort indeed.

‘Useful place, this,’ said Joe. ‘You can see for miles!’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Troop. ‘These forts in the mountains are always well placed. Nobody’s going to take it by surprise. When the British cleaned it up

oh, about fifty years ago

they didn’t want to leave a convenient roosting place for malefactors on their back doorstep.’

‘Well, that may have been their intention,’ said Joe, ‘but it looks about fifteen all at the moment. The British dismantle, the malefactors reassemble. Isn’t that about it?’

‘Yes, that’s about it, I suppose.’ Troop spoke slowly, his attention only half on Joe, his expression thoughtful. ‘Some while since I was last here

last spring, I’d guess. A year in which things have been happening, it seems.’

‘What sort of things?’ Joe asked.

‘Well, rather hard to tell but there is something. A difference between deserted and not deserted. If a place is deserted the grass grows but if it’s in use the grass gets trampled. The grass has been trampled. And there – look. That’s not, as you might suppose, horse shit, that’s mule shit. Don’t ask me how I know but I do. And if you’re going for a leisurely ride through these hills you don’t come riding a mule. And there have been quite a few mules. Recently. I’d guess we’re ahead of Rheza and Alice but how far ahead I don’t know. If anybody’s going to get a surprise from this encounter I’d sooner it was them than us. First thing is to put the horses out of sight. Can’t keep them silent – wish we could – but we can at least keep them concealed.’

‘Is there anywhere in this battered caravanserai where we can conceal them?’

‘ “Think, in this battered caravanserai,” ’ said Edgar Troop, surprisingly,

‘Whose portals are alternate night and day,

How sultan after sultan with his pomp

Abode his destined hour and went his way.’

‘Omar Khayyam,’ said Joe, much surprised.

‘As you say,’ said Troop absently, busily scanning the building ahead of them with his binoculars. ‘Stand here, Joe, and cover me while I go and take a look.’

He disappeared into a narrow staircase which corkscrewed its way downwards and Joe heard him moving about and exclaiming from below. He was gone for what seemed a long time and Joe had a moment of anxiety. ‘How little I know about this man,’ he thought, ‘and how I put myself into his hands. And come to that how many miles I am from anyone and anything that might reassure or be familiar.’ Finally thinking, ‘I’ll count up to a hundred and then I’ll go and see what he’s up to.’

But on a count of ninety, dusty and perspiring, Troop re-emerged. ‘Interesting! Interesting!’ he said.

‘Why? What have you seen?’

‘Well, in the first place there are capacious cellars down there and somebody’s taken the trouble to clean and sweep them out recently. Secondly, the cellar door was locked with an elaborate padlock. A sensible precaution, you’d think, but someone – presumably not Rheza Khan (he’d have more sense) – carefully left the key (quite a handsome one incidentally) hanging on a nearby nail. Bloody place is full of packing cases. All marked with ICTC lettering. All containing not – as you might expect – trashy Indian artefacts for the European market but far from trashy European rifles!’