Kingdom Page 10

  Clearly wanting to distance himself from Herzog’s strange interests, Jack Adams continued. ‘Listen, Anton had some kooky ideas that I don’t go in for. We didn’t really discuss them . . . Sometimes, the way he talks, he sounds more like a lama than the lamas themselves. He brought bones to me and asked me to date them or he brought ancient prayer wheels or other sacred objects. I’m always glad for the evidence and he wanted me to check to see if he was looking in the right parts of the Himalayas. He wanted to know if he was on the right track, archaeologically speaking. In order to find what he was looking for he needed to be near the areas of oldest human habitation. The termas that he was looking for dated from many millennia ago; they were vastly old.’

  Nancy was thinking out loud. ‘It’s all extraordinary. It just sounds so crazy and I don’t understand it. Everyone says that he was such an intelligent man.’ Her brow was knitted in incomprehension. Adams answered curtly.

  ‘He is. Listening to him speak is a pleasure in itself. No one knows as much as he does about Tibet, but he’s equally knowledgeable about dozens of other subjects. He’s an old guy; he’s read a lot and thought a lot. He’s a polymath – it’s really pretty incredible.’

  ‘But he really believed he would find these “termas” in Tibet?’

  ‘Sure in Tibet. He’s not the first intelligent man to go hunting for secret paradises or lost founts of knowledge up there, and I’m sure he won’t be the last . . . Tibet’s got a great tradition of explorers who’ve had esoteric interests: Sven Hedin, Aurel Stein, even the Nazis sent expeditions to Tibet, looking for God knows what.’

  ‘I see. And that’s all you know?’

  He answered without looking her in the eye:

  ‘I told you: we hardly ever spoke about the details. I hunt for old bones and worked flints and the locations of ancient settlements, things like that. That’s quite different from Anton. He’s not interested in proving anyone wrong – in looking for evidence that ancient man existed. He takes that as read. He needs to locate the lost kingdoms because he believes they will lead him to his ultimate goal. And he doesn’t give a damn what other people think.’

  Suddenly Adams laughed. ‘And you wouldn’t bet against him, he’s the cleverest person I’ve ever met.’

  Nancy sighed unhappily.

  ‘Thanks for your help.’

  She stood up. Adams scrambled to his feet.

  ‘And the bone? May I borrow it?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  A change had come over Jack Adams. He was beginning to look desperate. He didn’t want the conversation to end. How the tables had turned, she thought, from when she first walked in to his strange office, overflowing with antiques and pieces of human and animal skeletons.

  In what was clearly a bid to sound relaxed he said, ‘So where is Anton anyway? Gone off with Maya to a hill station for a few days’ R and R?’

  Out of the corner of her eye Nancy saw Krishna blanch guiltily. She tried to stay composed and not to let on that she had no idea who Maya was. She looked at Adams and replied as flatly as she could, ‘No – he’s just out of town. Doing a story.’

  She walked over to the doorway.

  Adams was shadowing her every move, and now he even put his arm on her shoulder, too heavily for her liking, and made a last attempt: ‘Listen, I’ll do the trip to Pemako for $10,000, all in, if you let me examine the bone and tell me where Anton got it.’

  ‘I’ll think about it and call you later,’ Nancy stuttered, pulling herself away from his heavy grasp and slipping through the doorway into the sweltering Delhi night.

  17

  ‘The Cave of the Magicians.’

  With a glint of triumph in his eyes, Colonel Jen prodded the Chinese military map with his finger. The Captain craned his neck – they were alone in the old library. On the map, the Himalayas ran from left to right. In between the majestic mountains flowed the river Tsangpo, rising near the Holy Mountain of Kailash in the west and then winding its way eastwards through the high valleys, filling with glacial meltwater as it went. Halfway along the Himalayan chain, the river turned abruptly south and crashed down through the cliffs of the Tsangpo gorge, gushing out into the valleys of Pemako. It fell from 17,000 feet to 5,000 feet in eleven miles. In Pemako, it continued at a more sedate pace through the forest until it disappeared again down into another impenetrable gorge. Twenty miles further south, and 3,000 feet further down, it transformed itself into the sacred Indian river, the Brahmaputra.

  Colonel Jen acknowledged that the route would be arduous. Mountains, a river and a green patch that marked Pemako jungle. The rest of China, even the rest of Tibet, was well mapped by comparison. There were roads, villages, possible landing sites for helicopters and so on. But this map of Pemako was hopeless – it might as well have come from a children’s fairytale book. Colonel Jen shook his head.

  ‘The monk tells me that they are heading with the stranger for the Cave of the Magicians – the entrance to the cave system is supposed to be here.’

  He prodded at an area on the map close to where he had marked the location of Litang gompa.

  ‘If we do not get there before they do then we’ve lost our chance of catching them. I cannot tell you how frustrating this is. We only missed them by a few hours.’

  The Captain said quietly, ‘Sir, I have thirty-one men ready to go. And as you requested, I have told the army officer that you want him to stand guard here at the gompa, so we should have no more interference from him. I have ordered the men to leave all their kit here. We can move quickly. The monks only have a six- or seven-hour start at most on us. We will soon catch them.’

  Colonel Jen shook his head again and stared in dissatisfaction at the map. The little that was on it was inaccurate. On the way down the river to the gompa from the Su La pass, they had followed the east bank of the Tsangpo, heading for a rope bridge. It had long since collapsed into the raging torrent. They had had to rely on a single rusted steel cable that wasn’t on the map at all and that was a further eleven miles further downstream beyond the gompa. If the rope bridge had still been intact, they would have reached the monastery before the soldiers had swarmed in and ruined everything.

  These sorts of unlucky and unpredictable events made Colonel Jen very nervous. He looked up and said, ‘Monks travel fast. They do not need to eat and rest as much as our soldiers. I have seen lone monks travelling in the high Himalayas with nothing but a satchel of barley flour to sustain them. I have seen them perform feats of endurance that would make Olympic marathon runners wince. They can move at high speed for two or three weeks, day and night, without sleeping. Anyone else would freeze to death up there, or die of exhaustion, but these monks can generate their own heat and energy through their knowledge of yoga. Do not doubt their powers. We have to get to the caves before they do, or we will lose them for good.’

  The Captain did not see the problem.

  ‘But can’t we follow them into the caves? We can take dynamite, or smoke them out . . .’

  Colonel Jen looked up at the Captain – his face was grave.

  ‘Captain, no one knows where those caves go. The Himalayas are riddled with tales of whole cities that exist below ground. Once, in Shigatse, in western Tibet, I met an Old Believer from Moscow, one of those Russian Christians that wear black robes and have long beards. He told me of the lost city of the Chud. Do you know about the Chud?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘The Old Believer told me that you can still hear them singing in their underground cathedrals – you can hear their bells at festival time under your feet . . . Mark my words, Captain, we know little of the Himalayas – it is our job merely to steal into Shangri-La and take what we need. We are burglars and that is all. We do not want to disturb the sleeping kings – if we do, we will never get out alive. No dynamite, no smoke. We must catch the monks, force them if necessary to show us the way, and then leave as silently as possible.’

  The Captain looked doubtful. Colo
nel Jen pushed the useless map to one side.

  ‘You are sceptical, Captain. But I have seen things up here in the mountains and in the wild west of China that would astound you. I have ridden across the steppes of Sichuan and heard the horseshoes echo through the tunnel systems beneath. I have seen strange figures at the bazaars in Kashgar – figures who have walked right out of the depths of the Gobi desert, dressed in clothes from long ago, carrying unrecognizable coins from the days before Duke Chou. I have approached them, with all the skills that I was taught as a young intelligence officer, and I have seen them literally vanish before my eyes. Don’t underestimate the monks – they may not have weapons or army trucks but they have other knowledge . . .’

  Decisively, the Colonel put his peaked cap on and folded up the map.

  ‘We must leave at once. If anyone falls behind they will be left to the mercy of the jungle.’

  18

  Neither Nancy nor Krishna said a word to each other until they were both sitting comfortably in the back of the Herald Tribune’s chauffeur-driven car. The Bazaar was too noisy for conversation and Nancy had had to keep her wits about her to avoid being knocked over by passing camels or robbed by mischievous smiling street children, and in any case she was too busy trying to work out the implications of everything that she had just learned.

  Herzog was clearly on to something, something that he had been working on for years, she suspected, and Jack Adams was being economical with the truth. He had a far better idea of what Herzog was up to than he was letting on, and Nancy was convinced that he recognized the letters on the mouthpiece of the bone trumpet. She had clearly intuited that he was not telling the truth and she was sure that it had something to do with his initial hunch that the trumpet might come from as far west as Europe and not from Tibet at all. However, what was even stranger was that once he had learned that Herzog had sent the bone from Tibet, he had suddenly dropped his price just so that he could find out more. And then, of course, there was Maya.

  Nancy had navigated her way through the scrum in silence, following Krishna back to the main street. Goodness only knows what he was thinking. Perhaps he was now even more worried about her plans, she thought. ‘So who’s Maya?’ she asked as soon as the car pulled out. Krishna turned to look out of the window:

  ‘Nancy, please. I think we’ve done enough for one day.’

  ‘Krishna, why are you being evasive?’

  She was beginning to get angry. Why did no one want her to find out anything about Anton Herzog? She was frustrated with Krishna and furious with Dan Fischer for giving her Indian colleague carte blanche not to cooperate. That was obviously what had happened. And yet she suspected that any display of her true feelings would only succeed in alienating Krishna even further.

  ‘Listen, Krishna, you have to help me. Maya is Anton’s fiancée isn’t she?’

  He turned back to look at her, but he said nothing.

  ‘Then she must be worried too. I know that you don’t want me poking my nose into Anton’s affairs but I really think you should be less secretive. We’re colleagues, remember, and all I want to do is help Anton.’ She studied the expression on Krishna’s face – was there any sign of him softening?

  ‘We should help her if we can. She must be very worried too. Have you been in touch with her?’

  After a pause Krishna stirred from his silence.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, perhaps we should. We might be able to reassure her. Who else has she got to talk to?’

  Keenly she waited for him to open up and give her a little more information, their body language mimicking their respective attitudes: Nancy alert, poised and receptive, Krishna hunched over, his eyes narrowed with worry. Then suddenly his reserve broke down.

  Speaking hurriedly, he said, ‘I don’t know what to say to her. That is why I haven’t returned her calls. I don’t know what to tell her.’

  Poor woman, thought Nancy. And poor Krishna too. He was entirely the wrong person to act as a counsellor to a grieving loved one.

  ‘She called the office?’

  Krishna shrank again into himself and muttered, ‘A couple of times.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter, we can call her back now . . . it’s not too late.’ Then she had an idea. ‘Or visit her. Do you know where she lives?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘Krishna, she must be worried sick and terribly isolated. What’s her address? Do you know?’

  Silence again. Nancy pressed on urgently. ‘Krishna, Anton would have wanted you to help her, wouldn’t he? Surely he would hope that you would at least reassure her and console her? We don’t need to take things any further. I agree, let’s forget about Tibet and Jack Adams and the bone trumpet – but we really can’t just leave her to grieve alone.’

  She held her breath as Krishna continued his own private debate, until finally he sighed and looked up.

  ‘Rumeli Street in Old Delhi. She lives on Rumeli Street. But this is the end of our investigation isn’t it? No more playing the detective. We will go to help her and that is all.’

  Trying hard to look as if she meant it, Nancy nodded her head.

  19

  Nancy stepped back from the low doorway and glanced up and down the deserted street. Still no answer. Krishna was waiting in the car twenty yards further down the street; he had declined to come to the door with her. They had hardly spoken after she persuaded him to visit Maya. She assumed that he was very worried about everything, and for her part she was terrified that if she opened her mouth he might change his mind about taking her to Maya’s address.

  At last, she heard a noise, then the door opened a fraction. She could see a woman’s face peering out at her from the gloom within. If this was Maya then she was younger than Nancy had expected; in her mid-thirties, she guessed, with soft features and beautiful dark eyes. But she looked afraid. Nancy stuck out her hand.

  ‘Hello, my name is Nancy Kelly, I’m from the Tribune, I’m a colleague of Anton’s. Are you Maya?’

  The woman said nothing, and did not extend her own hand. Nancy fumbled in her pocket for her Trib ID and held it up so that the woman could read it and see her picture. But did she speak English? thought Nancy suddenly. Did she even know what Anton Herzog did for a living? Faced with the woman’s silence, Nancy realized that she was making a whole series of assumptions. Perhaps the woman knew nothing of Herzog’s professional life, perhaps they conversed in Hindi, or an Indian dialect. Perhaps Krishna’s instincts were entirely right and it was better to leave her alone in her grief. Or perhaps even, she wasn’t grieving at all, and was used to long periods alone whilst Herzog indulged his love of adventure – perhaps she even knew exactly where he was. For the first time Nancy feared that her eagerness to find Herzog had become presumptuous – and then the woman spoke.

  ‘What do you want?’ Her voice was soft and sad.

  ‘I’ve come to see you about Anton.’

  ‘What do you know of him?’ she asked, her voice cracking with emotion.

  Suddenly, Nancy felt quite sick. What on earth did she think she was doing intruding on this woman’s life, a woman she knew nothing about, with her own private hopes and dreads?

  ‘I think he’s in Tibet. I am worried about him.’

  Maya – Nancy was certain now it must be she – hesitated and then she said, ‘Come inside.’ She threw open the door, and Nancy followed her. As soon as they were inside, Maya turned and locked the door behind them. Nancy saw her hands were trembling as she turned the key. Then she saw something else, which made her gasp with surprise. Maya was pregnant.

  ‘Please, take a seat in here,’ she was saying, moving slowly into the house.

  They entered a darkened living room. The blinds were drawn. The room contained two chairs and a sofa. Awkwardly Nancy sat down on one of the chairs. Maya perched on the edge of the sofa, waiting for Nancy to speak.

  ‘I’m sorry to surprise you like this . . .’ she began. ‘
My colleague told me to leave you in peace. But I couldn’t.’

  ‘Is he dead, are you here to tell me that?’ Maya said sharply, her face contorted with what Nancy assumed must be fear. Quickly, Nancy shook her head.

  ‘You have not heard anything from him?’ Maya asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why have you come?’

  Nancy took a deep breath.

  ‘Because I am trying to find him and I thought you might know why he went to Tibet.’

  Maya looked crestfallen. She must have expected some news either way – that Herzog was alive and well or that he was in hospital in Tibet, or that he was dead. Any news was better than nothing and Nancy knew nothing at all.

  ‘I’m sorry, we didn’t have your phone number . . .’

  Maya was staring dejectedly at the floor, one hand gently massaging her belly. She must be six or seven months pregnant, thought Nancy: but was it Anton Herzog’s baby? Now Maya looked up at her.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said, her voice so full of misery that Nancy could not stop herself from getting up and putting her arm around her.

  Of course it was Herzog’s child. And now that he was gone how would this woman support the baby? As Nancy stroked Maya’s back and muttered soothing words, she glanced down to see if the woman was wearing a wedding ring, but her fingers were bare. She did not even stand to gain a newspaper pension.

  ‘Don’t give up hope, I’m sure he will be OK,’ Nancy said helplessly.

  Maya shook her head, her face unchanged despite Nancy’s expressions of hope.

  ‘No. He’s not coming back.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Tears were rolling down Maya’s cheeks.

  ‘He said it was the biggest story of his life. The biggest story the world has ever known – but most probably he would never make it back. He said he had to try. He said the world has to know the truth . . .’ She stopped, overwhelmed.