Free Jack Higgins - Chavasse 02 by Year of the Tiger Page B

cup which Kurbsky held to his lips.
    He folded his arms inside the sleeping bag to keep them from shaking and managed a smile. “I feel as if I’ve got malaria.”
    Kurbsky shook his head. “In the morning, you’ll feel much better.”
    He went outside, leaving Chavasse staring up through the darkness and reflecting that you learned something new every day of your life. The last Russian with whom he’d had any direct physical contact had been an agent of SMERSH just before Khrushchev had disbanded that pleasant organization. It hardly seemed possible that he and Kurbsky had belonged to the same nation.
    But there was no real answer—no answer at all—and he closed his eyes. Whatever was in the pill, it was certainly doing the trick. His headache was gone and a delicious warmth was seeping slowly throughout his entire body. He pulled the hood of the sleeping bag around his head and, almost immediately, drifted into sleep.
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    The morning sky was incredibly blue, but the wind was cold and standing by the jeep watching the two soldiers strike camp, Chavasse felt ten years older and drained of all his strength.
    Even Kurbsky looked different, his eyes solemn, his face lined with fatigue as if he had sleptbadly. When they were ready, he turned to Chavasse almost apologetically and made a slight gesture towards the jeep. Chavasse climbed into the rear and sat on one of the spare seats under the swivel gun.
    The rolling steppes stretched before them, the short golden grass beaded with frost as the wheels drummed over the frozen ground.
    Within half an hour, they came to the great highway which the Chinese had built in 1957 to facilitate troop movements from Sinkiang to Yarkand when they had been faced with an uprising among the Khambas.
    â€œSomething of an achievement, wouldn’t you say?” Kurbsky asked.
    â€œDepends on your point of view,” Chavasse said. “I wonder how many thousands of Tibetans died building it.”
    A shadow crossed Kurbsky’s face. He barked a quick order in Chinese and the jeep moved forward across the steppes, leaving the road, desolate and somehow alien, behind them.
    He seemed disinclined to engage in any further conversation, so Chavasse leaned back in his seat and examined the countryside. To one side of them, the Aksai Chin Plateau lifted into the blue sky; before them, the steppes seemed to roll on forever.
    Within half an hour they had come down onto a broad hard-packed plain of sand and gravel,and the driver put his foot down flat against the boards.
    The jeep raced across the plain and as the cold wind lashed his face, Chavasse began to feel some spark of life, of real vitality, returning to him. The driver changed down as they came to the end of the plain and slowed to negotiate a gently swelling hill. As they went over the top, Chavasse saw a monastery in the valley beneath them.
    The shock was almost physical and as they went down the hill, excitement and hope stirred inside him. He turned to Kurbsky and said casually, “Are you stopping here?”
    Kurbsky nodded briefly. “I don’t see why not. I’m doing a series on Buddhism and this is one of the few monasteries still functioning in this part of Tibet. A couple of hours won’t make much difference.”
    For one insane moment, Chavasse almost blurted out his thoughts, for this could only be one place—the monastery of Yalung Gompa, according to Joro the centre of resistance for the entire area. It was the last place on earth for a Russian and two Chinese soldiers to be visiting, and yet fate had laid out the path for Kurbsky and there could be no turning back. With something strangely like regret in his heart, Chavasse sat back and waited.
    The lamasery consisted of several flat-roofed buildings painted in ochre and built into the sideof the valley. The whole place was surrounded by a high wall, and great double gates stood open to the courtyard