Moro wants on the next trip? If I have them delivered to the railhead at Juma by next weekend can you pick them up?'
Tm flying down tomorrow with Major Hamid,. Drommcndsaid. 'Hg's taking a week's leave. He thought he might enjoy it more if I went along. Why don't you join us?'
Cheung shook his head. Td like to, but Fve been getting behind with the paperwork and I'm supposed to be dining with the old Khan on Saturday night.'
"Suit yourself,' Drummond said.
Another two thousand. That brought the total standing to his credit in the Bank of Geneva to œ23,000. Two more trips plus the money Ferguson owed him and he'd have a straight œ30,000. After that, he was finished. Time he had a rest. He leaned back in the seat, humming to himself and concentrated on his instruments as he took the Beaver slanting across the glacier and into the pass.
Moro galloped alongside the packhorses, whistling, slashing their bony rumps with the heavy leather riding whip. He urged Ms mount forward and entered the village first, clattering over the loose stones and dismounted outside his house.
The children had disappeared and the street was quite deserted as he stood there listening to the sound of the Beaver in the distance, drawing happily on the English cigarette Drummond had given him.
Doors opened in the houses along the street and one by one soldiers emerged in peaked caps and drab quilted jackets. As Moro turned, the door to his house opened and a young officer emerged. He wore a beautifully tailored riding coat with fur collar and the red star of the Army of the People's Republic gleamed brightly in his cap.
1 did well?' Moro said.
The young officer took the English cigarette from the Tibetan's lips and inhaled deeply. A sunny smile appeared oa his face.
'Excellent. Really quite excellent.
Moro nodded, the eager smile still firmly in place and together they stood there, listening to the sound of the Beaver fade into the pass.
House of Pleasure
DRUMMOND emerged from the hot room, dropped his towel on the tiled floor and dived into the plunge bath, swimming down to touch the brightly coloured mosaic face of Kali, the Great Mother, staring blindly into eternity through the green water as she had done for a thousand years.
He surfaced and one of the house girls moved out of the steam and squatted at the side of the ancient bath, holding a tray containing a slender coffee pot and tiny cups. Drummond swam towards her and she handed him down a cup as he floated there in the water.
She was like all the rest of them, startlingly beautiful, with delicate features and great kohl-rimmed eyes. Her green silken sari was saturated with steam, outlining to perfection the firm body, the curving breasts.
As Drummond sipped his coffee, he heard a harsh laugh somewhere near at hand and Hamid's great voice boomed between the walls. He was singing the first stanza of Zukhmee-Dil, a ballad immensely popular on the North-West Frontier, at one time the favourite march of the Khyber Rifles.
Wullud sureen shuftauloo-maunind duryah, Ufsose! mun n'shinaah.
Drummond handed his cup back to the girl and threw the song back at the Pathan, translating into English.
There's a boy across the river with a bottom like a peach, but, alas, I cannot swim.
Hamid bellowed with laughter as he moved out of the steam, a towel about his waist. He was a Pathaa of the Hazara tribe, dark-skinned, bearded. A handsome buccaneer of a man of six feet three with broad muscular shoulders.
He smiled hugely. 'Feeling better, Jack, headache gone?'
'Ready for anything,' Drummond replied.
'Me, too.' The Pathan ran his fingers through the long hair of the girl who still squatted at the side of the bath. 'A good song, that, but where love's concerned, I'm the old fashioned kind.'
He pulled the girl to her feet and the
Tm flying down tomorrow with Major Hamid,. Drommcndsaid. 'Hg's taking a week's leave. He thought he might enjoy it more if I went along. Why don't you join us?'
Cheung shook his head. Td like to, but Fve been getting behind with the paperwork and I'm supposed to be dining with the old Khan on Saturday night.'
"Suit yourself,' Drummond said.
Another two thousand. That brought the total standing to his credit in the Bank of Geneva to œ23,000. Two more trips plus the money Ferguson owed him and he'd have a straight œ30,000. After that, he was finished. Time he had a rest. He leaned back in the seat, humming to himself and concentrated on his instruments as he took the Beaver slanting across the glacier and into the pass.
Moro galloped alongside the packhorses, whistling, slashing their bony rumps with the heavy leather riding whip. He urged Ms mount forward and entered the village first, clattering over the loose stones and dismounted outside his house.
The children had disappeared and the street was quite deserted as he stood there listening to the sound of the Beaver in the distance, drawing happily on the English cigarette Drummond had given him.
Doors opened in the houses along the street and one by one soldiers emerged in peaked caps and drab quilted jackets. As Moro turned, the door to his house opened and a young officer emerged. He wore a beautifully tailored riding coat with fur collar and the red star of the Army of the People's Republic gleamed brightly in his cap.
1 did well?' Moro said.
The young officer took the English cigarette from the Tibetan's lips and inhaled deeply. A sunny smile appeared oa his face.
'Excellent. Really quite excellent.
Moro nodded, the eager smile still firmly in place and together they stood there, listening to the sound of the Beaver fade into the pass.
House of Pleasure
DRUMMOND emerged from the hot room, dropped his towel on the tiled floor and dived into the plunge bath, swimming down to touch the brightly coloured mosaic face of Kali, the Great Mother, staring blindly into eternity through the green water as she had done for a thousand years.
He surfaced and one of the house girls moved out of the steam and squatted at the side of the ancient bath, holding a tray containing a slender coffee pot and tiny cups. Drummond swam towards her and she handed him down a cup as he floated there in the water.
She was like all the rest of them, startlingly beautiful, with delicate features and great kohl-rimmed eyes. Her green silken sari was saturated with steam, outlining to perfection the firm body, the curving breasts.
As Drummond sipped his coffee, he heard a harsh laugh somewhere near at hand and Hamid's great voice boomed between the walls. He was singing the first stanza of Zukhmee-Dil, a ballad immensely popular on the North-West Frontier, at one time the favourite march of the Khyber Rifles.
Wullud sureen shuftauloo-maunind duryah, Ufsose! mun n'shinaah.
Drummond handed his cup back to the girl and threw the song back at the Pathan, translating into English.
There's a boy across the river with a bottom like a peach, but, alas, I cannot swim.
Hamid bellowed with laughter as he moved out of the steam, a towel about his waist. He was a Pathaa of the Hazara tribe, dark-skinned, bearded. A handsome buccaneer of a man of six feet three with broad muscular shoulders.
He smiled hugely. 'Feeling better, Jack, headache gone?'
'Ready for anything,' Drummond replied.
'Me, too.' The Pathan ran his fingers through the long hair of the girl who still squatted at the side of the bath. 'A good song, that, but where love's concerned, I'm the old fashioned kind.'
He pulled the girl to her feet and the
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